Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN
 
 LETTERS OF 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 

 
 LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED BY HER SON 
 
 BERNARD HOLLAND 
 
 LONDON 
 
 EDWARD ARNOLD 
 
 37 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND 
 
 1898
 
 As night the life-inclining stars best shows, 
 So lives obscure the starriest souls disclose. 
 
 CHAPMAN.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 THIS selection from letters has been made in order to 
 embody in a permanent form a memorial of a nature 
 of rare distinction. No books have a charm more 
 great, or of more permanent value, than collections of 
 letters written, with no thought but to please, convey 
 affection, help or console, by persons gifted with 
 sympathy, reason, and the seeing faculty, if and this is 
 essential the writer has also the power of style, the 
 inmost soul of expression. 
 
 Mr. Walter Pater has spoken of " the impress 
 of a personal quality, a profound expressiveness, 
 what the French call ' intimite/ by which is meant 
 some subtler sense of originality, the seal on a 
 man's work of what is most inward and peculiar 
 in his moods and manner of apprehension ; it is 
 what we call expression carried to its highest 
 intensity of degree. That characteristic is rare in 
 poetry, rarer still in art, rarest of all in the abstract 
 art of sculpture ; yet, essentially perhaps, it is the 
 quality which alone makes work in the imaginative 
 order really worth having at all."
 
 vi LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 
 
 Possibly this characteristic is less rare in letters ; 
 yet rare it is in them also, when carried to a high 
 degree. It is this which gives their exquisite value 
 to the letters of the poet Cowper, and yet more to 
 those of Edward Fitzgerald, quiet and uneventful as 
 were these two lives passed, one on the banks of the 
 Ouse, and the other in the homely Suffolk countryside. 
 It exists, also, in the letters of Dorothy Osborne, and 
 its presence will, I think, be recognised in those 
 contained in this volume. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe my mother. The 
 letters speak for themselves and show how beautifully 
 blended in her were the qualities of heart and mind, 
 how seeing was her eye, how quick, tender, and 
 abundant were her sympathies. Children may err in 
 estimation of their mother, and in their case to err is 
 most pardonable, but it is impossible to mistake the 
 impression which the writer of the letters made upon 
 many persons of widely varied position and character, 
 age and class, both those who had known her for 
 years, and some also, now and then in unexpected 
 quarters, who had never seen her but for a few days. 
 One thing, however, her own letters cannot give, the 
 impression made by the visible self, eyes, voice, and 
 manner. Beauty, in the ordinary sense, my mother 
 did not possess, but her look was very distinctive and 
 striking. In her an ardent spirit was united with a 
 high degree of intellectual and reasoning power, and a 
 heart full of love and pity. The inner combination of 
 spirit, reason, and love was manifested in her strong
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 forehead and her dark eyes, now lit with the fire of 
 rapid thought and feeling, and now again abstract in deep 
 contemplation. Her voice was soft, moving, and clear. 
 With it, in the minds of her children, the best English 
 poetry Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, Wordsworth, Keats, 
 Tennyson, and Matthew Arnold must remain for ever 
 inseparably associated. 
 
 The letters contained in this volume may, perhaps, 
 on the whole, give the impression of a spirit rather 
 melancholy than cheerful. Yet this impression would 
 not be altogether just. No doubt a certain element of 
 melancholy must enter deeply into the nature of those 
 who, like the writer of these letters, have a lively sense 
 of the transient and precarious existence in this world 
 of all happiness and beauty, and an imagination living 
 as vividly in the past as in the present. Yet my 
 mother derived happiness from many sources. A 
 lovely day, or a beautiful book, the company of 
 children, or the presence of a friend, could yield her a 
 higher pleasure than such things do to many who 
 feel sorrow less keenly. Certainly, when she was 
 there, our home was always cheerful with laughter 
 and lively imaginative talk. Her mind represented 
 the humorous and amusing as well as the serious and 
 tragic side of things. No one could tell a story 
 better, or with more delicate rendering not only of 
 the manner but of the essence of character of its 
 heroes. 
 
 If space and the principles on which this book is 
 compiled had allowed, I should have liked to include
 
 viii LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 
 
 a study of my mother's peculiar genius in the education 
 of children. Her own children owe to her an endless 
 debt of gratitude for her devotion to them of all the 
 best years of her life. Her influence constantly biassed 
 their minds towards all that was most beautiful in 
 nature, noble and chivalrous in art, literature, history, 
 and essential in religion and morality. If, far off, they 
 follow at all in these ways, it is due to her teaching 
 and example. They can only say 
 
 Sed longe sequere, et vestigia semper adora. 
 
 On her father's side my mother was a Lyall, a 
 name common along both sides of the north-eastern 
 part of the English and Scottish borders. Her 
 ancestors had long lived as yeomen near Berwick 
 until commerce had brought them south. 1 Alfred 
 Lyall, her father, was born in 1795, the youngest 
 son of a large family. 
 
 He went to Eton and Trinity College, Cambridge, 
 and afterwards lived for some years at Findon, in 
 Sussex, with intervals of travel. In 1829, at the age 
 of thirty-four, he took orders and worked, at first, as 
 Curate at Findon. 
 
 My grandfather is described in the Dictionary of 
 National Biography as a " philosopher and traveller." 
 In 1827 he published an observant book called 
 Rambles in Madeira and Portugal. In 1830 appeared 
 
 1 George Lyall, my mother's eldest uncle, became Governor of the 
 East India Company, and was also for some years a Tory member for 
 the City of London.
 
 PREFACE ix 
 
 a small work by him entitled Principles of Necessary 
 and Contingent Truth, and in 1856, his chief work, 
 Agonistes, or Philosophical Strictures. His genius was, 
 perhaps, rather of the critical than the constructive 
 kind. A silent and meditative man my own childish 
 recollection is of him pacing round the garden walk 
 of Harbledown Rectory after breakfast on far-away 
 summer mornings, abstract in thought, his gray and 
 weighty head bowed a little forwards. 
 
 In 1832 my grandfather married Mary, a daughter 
 of James Tschudi Broadwood of Lyne in Sussex. The 
 Broadwoods originally came, like the Lyalls, from the 
 Northern Borders, but they had also Swiss blood 
 derived from the Tschudis, and Highland blood from 
 the Stewart clan. My mother's maternal grandfather, 
 James Broadwood, married Margaret Stewart, of the 
 Stewarts, once of Glenbuckie, in Western Perthshire. 
 The violent and mysterious death of this Margaret's 
 great uncle, Daniel Stewart, chief of Glenbuckie, when 
 on his way to join Prince Charles Edward, is narrated 
 in Chambers' History of the Forty-five. 
 
 My grandmother, Mary Broadwood, was young, 
 about twenty, when she married. She was of a quick, 
 lively, practical disposition, with a high ideal of life and 
 conduct, swift to think and see, and also to feel, and 
 capable therefore at times of deep depressions. She 
 had, perhaps, rather the realistic or artistic tempera- 
 ment, her husband the abstract or philosophic, two 
 dispositions which may combine well in marriage, and 
 produce something remarkable in the children.
 
 x LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 
 
 My grandfather in the year 1839 became Vicar of 
 Godmersham, a small and very quiet Kentish parish 
 about eight miles from Canterbury, in the most 
 beautiful part of the Stour valley. The church and 
 vicarage lie beneath the rise of a splendid deer-park, 
 crowned with beech-woods, where the river, skirting the 
 churchyard and vicarage garden, ripples swiftly over 
 its gravelly bed, through a steep opening in the chalk 
 downs. In the year 1 848 he moved to the rectory of 
 Harbledown, a much larger and more important parish, 
 situated upon the London Road, just outside and above 
 the city of Canterbury, where his brother, Dr. William 
 Lyall, was then Dean of the Cathedral. I remember 
 my mother saying that Harbledown in spite of the 
 adjacent and large tangled forest of Blean seemed 
 most tame to the young Lyalls after the wild and free 
 life of Godmersham, and that they felt surprised to 
 hear their father admire the view from Harbledown 
 hill, with the low -lying, red -roofed old city in the 
 foreground, dominated by the great mass of the 
 Cathedral, the Stour valley widening down to the 
 Thanet marshes, and, beyond them, the long white 
 line of the North Foreland chalk cliff, visible some 
 sixteen miles away. 
 
 My grandfather's family was a large one, eleven in 
 all, of whom five sons and four daughters attained to 
 maturity. Two of the sons rose to the highest dis- 
 tinction in the Indian Civil Service. One of them, 
 now Sir Alfred Lyall, ended a brilliant Indian career 
 as Lieutenant-Governor of the North- West Provinces,
 
 PREFACE xi 
 
 while his brother, Sir James Lyall, became Lieutenant- 
 Governor of the Punjab. 1 My mother, the eldest 
 of the daughters, was born on the I4th March 
 1836. She spent her girlhood at Godmersham and 
 at Harbledown, and was married, at the age ot 
 nineteen, in October 1855. My father was at that 
 time Vicar of St. Dunstan's, a parish in the western 
 suburb of Canterbury, immediately adjoining the parish 
 of Harbledown. Here at St. Dunstan's, in a little 
 house on the edge of the town, looking out over wheat- 
 fields and hop-gardens, they lived till the end of 1861, 
 and here their first three children were born. 2 
 
 These selections from letters begin in the year 1861 
 when my mother was twenty-five years old. She died 
 at the age of 5 5. By far the greater part of these letters 
 were written during the last ten years of her life, but 
 I have been able to include a few earlier ones, at 
 irregular intervals. It is hoped that, with footnotes and 
 some observations later on, the letters will make her 
 way of life sufficiently intelligible to those who may 
 read them without having known her at all. 
 
 1 For some months in the early part of 1887 the Lieutenant-Governor- 
 ship of the elder and younger brother coincided. It is worth observation, 
 as a sign both of the greatness and character of the Empire, that these 
 two vast adjacent Provinces, containing all the high places of the old 
 Mogul Court Agra, Delhi, Lahore and having a total population of some 
 sixty million people, should for a time have been subject to the supreme 
 administration, under the Viceroy, of two brothers issued from an obscure 
 Kentish rectory. 
 
 2 In all they had six children, four sons and two daughters, born in the 
 following order, Bernard, Agnes, Alfred, Lucy, Francis, Michael. Two 
 of my mother's children, Alfred and Lucy, died before her.
 
 xii LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 
 
 My mother hardly ever prefixed the date of the 
 year to her letters, and as often as not omitted the 
 date of the month and day. In the case of most of 
 the letters the dates given have been collected from 
 post-marks on envelopes, or otherwise, and there are 
 probably a few errors in them.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1. LETTERS, 1861 TO 1865 ..... i 
 
 2. LETTERS, 1869 TO 1876 . . . . .13 
 
 3. LETTERS, 1877 TO 1882 ..... 43 
 
 4. NOTE AS TO THE LIFE OF THE WRITER OF THE LETTERS 
 
 AFTER THE YEAR 1882 ..... 72 
 
 5. LETTERS, 1883 TO 1885 ... .84 
 
 6. LETTERS OF 1886 . . . . 112 
 
 7. LETTERS OF 1887 . . . . . .136 
 
 8. LETTERS OF 1888 . . . . . .159 
 
 9. LETTERS OF 1889 . . . . . .195 
 
 10. LETTERS OF 1890 ...... 237 
 
 11. LETTERS OF 1891 ...... 278 
 
 12. CONCLUSION ....... 298 
 
 LINES BY A FRIEND . . . . . 301
 
 LETTERS OF 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 
 
 ERRATUM 
 
 P. 290, lines 1 8 and 19. For mourons and moura read mourrons and 
 
 mourra.
 
 LETTERS OF 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND
 
 LETTERS 1861 TO 1865 
 
 To her Sister 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S (CANTERBURY), ^th January 1861. 
 
 ... I have not been up to Harbledown since you 
 went away, 1 and was almost glad I could not go there 
 this evening. I so dread the silence of the house. It 
 has just begun to rain heavily. I hear the drops on 
 the leads outside. How often you and I have heard 
 that sound and said, " How shall I get up the hill." 
 Oh ! my Cathy, to the end of our lives that hill will 
 be peopled with dearly loved images, some familiar foot 
 and face going up or coming down. How I sympathise 
 with James's dream of tramping unrecognised up that 
 dusty hill and turning with a beating heart into the 
 drive. 2 While I write it seems as if the old life were 
 over for me too, so vividly do I realise what it will be, 
 what I shall feel one day. 
 
 Good-night, my darling child ! You can never be 
 more or less dear to me than you are now. I love and 
 embrace you with my whole soul. 
 
 1 This sister had just been married and had left Harbledown Rectory 
 to live at Cavendish in Suffolk. 
 
 2 The dream of her brother James, then a young Indian civilian. The 
 hill is from St. Dunstan's up to Harbledown. 
 
 B
 
 LETTERS OF [1861 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, 6th January, 
 
 . . . Annie L. goes to-morrow, and with her dis 
 appears the last of the gay company who have been 
 more or less with us since your wedding. With her an 
 episode closes. While faces and voices are yet fresh 
 in my memory I con over and over again this little 
 chapter in our lives, so insignificant to others but so 
 interesting to ourselves ; especially do I pause in my 
 story when I come to the place where you and I look 
 out of the window at Winchester, and see the old close 
 changed into enchanted ground, like a garden in a fairy 
 tale. Do you remember how the little tree bent and 
 shook, and sprang up freed from the weight of snow? 
 But if I begin " do you remember," I shall never stop, 
 and besides, do I not know that you remember it all 
 well enough ? Annie L. and I went to the Cathedral 
 yesterday afternoon and heard " As pants the hart " not 
 very well sung, but still most lovely and exquisitely 
 devotional. And now good-night, darling, sleep well in 
 the windy old house in which for a while your tent is 
 pitched. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, zyd January. 
 
 ... So we shall live near the old nest for a while, 
 and I cannot be sorry. 1 I have a dread of breaking this 
 calm in which we have lived for five years and more, 
 although I sometimes feel, with the old heathens, that 
 some sacrifice will soon be necessary, or the Gods will 
 
 1 There was a rumour of my father's appointment to London work, 
 slightly premature.
 
 1861] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 3 
 
 be envious of our bliss and send a thunderbolt into our 
 quiet dwelling. If living in a small and ill-built house 
 would appease their wrath, how willingly would we 
 occupy St. Dunstan's Terrace for ever. But who can 
 look into the future ? Do you remember Egmont's 
 speech to the effect that we can indeed stand in the 
 chariot and hold the reins, but that it is beyond our power 
 to guide the fast wheels or restrain the fiery horses ? 
 After all there is but one future into which we should 
 desire to look, and it is only Jacob's dream that we 
 should desire to realise, the near presence of God and 
 His angels. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, Saturday, zf>tfi January. 
 
 I wonder what you are doing this lovely bright 
 spring-like day. If you were here perhaps we should 
 be taking a walk together. As it is, having despatched 
 all the children, I shall sit out the afternoon in this 
 sunny little room with the window wide open. It is 
 hard to believe that we are still in January ; the air is 
 soft and balmy, and the sun very warm and light. The 
 corn is springing fast in the field under the window, 
 and, from the field beyond, the rattling of the plough as 
 it turns and the cry of the little scare-crow boy sound 
 very pleasantly. I do hope that we have got over the 
 very severe weather, though of course a continuance of 
 this mildness is out of the question. We have all our 
 east wind to come. 
 
 To tJte Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, Monday Evening. 
 
 ... I feel so impatient when I think of your 
 solitary walks at Cavendish and mine at Canterbury,
 
 LETTERS OF [1861 
 
 and of the impossibility of our walking together an 
 impossibility too of our own making, so to speak, for 
 I could at any moment take the train to London, and 
 from thence to Sudbury, and from Sudbury to Caven- 
 dish. The whole journey would not occupy one ot 
 my half-wasted afternoons which slip by without my 
 marking their flight, and yet I don't take the train, nor 
 do you. In a certain sense it is not possible. There 
 seems no reason for going, every one would say and 
 yet what better reason does one want than that which 
 we both have. Well, Cathy, the time will come some 
 day, and we shall sit near each other again. I shall 
 hold your hands, how well I know their feel and shape, 
 and the look of each finger and nail, and I shall look 
 into your face, every expression of which is so dearly 
 familiar. The days in our life in which we shall be 
 together we will really live and enjoy and remember. 
 Speed, speed the day ! I cry, from the very bottom 
 of my heart. When I think of you I feel as steady 
 as a rock in my affections for you. I feel it so impos- 
 sible that anything can alter or diminish it in the 
 smallest degree. It is part of myself. If you ever 
 find me wanting in this matter you may feel comfort- 
 ably sure that I am going out of the little mind it has 
 pleased God to give me. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, February. 
 
 ... It has come at last. 1 Yesterday morning 
 when I came down stairs, Frank, with a face a yard 
 long, handed to me a letter and rushed out of the 
 
 1 My father's appointment to work in London.
 
 1861] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND . 5 
 
 room. I knew what it was, and sat down till the sick 
 feeling which came over me went off. In those few 
 moments I seemed to say good-bye to all my past 
 happiness. Oh, my dear Cathy, I go about with such 
 a dead pain in my heart. ... Of course it is not yet 
 absolutely settled, but I see no shadow of hope none. 
 And so, as the days grow long and the primroses 
 begin to bud, I must strip this poor little house and 
 go with my children to live in a London street, 
 and their pleasures must be limited to the worn grass 
 and dirty trees of the squares and parks. It does 
 seem so hard upon them, just when they are beginning 
 to understand the delights of the country. How 
 happy they would have been this year in the farm and 
 orchard and in the dear, dear old garden at home. 
 And what shall I do with myself, shut up in a London 
 house, without even a carriage to get about in, and an 
 immense way off from every one. I feel now as if I 
 could not go. When I think of London as our home 
 for perhaps the next ten years my life seems a blank. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, March. 
 
 I thought of you this morning as I was blown 
 violently across the street after morning church to Mrs. 
 Streatfield, and stood on her doorsteps vainly trying to 
 hold up my umbrella and keep down my petticoats. 
 I knew you must still be in church listening to the 
 sermon and the roaring wind, and I so often think of 
 the chancel and of the poor men who look out of the 
 window while the Belief is said. What rough weather 
 we have and how delicious it is when the lull comes, 
 as it does every two or three days, bringing us such
 
 LETTERS OF [1861 
 
 warm bright days. The garden at Harbledown is 
 beginning to look pretty with crocuses and daffodils, 
 and the beds under the window are blue and white 
 with the sweet violets. Barbara and I sat there on 
 Thursday morning and were almost too hot in the sun. 
 The four little ones played about so happily with their 
 spades, carts, and wheelbarrow, and made a little dirt 
 garden in the bushes, into which they stuck crocuses 
 and hypaticas. The carriage took down my three 
 monkeys, who went off singing a hymn at the utmost 
 pitch of their loud voices and to the most extraordin- 
 ary tune, the proud Tomlin smiling with pleasure at 
 this public exhibition of their learning and piety. 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, zotk April. 
 
 . . . Agnes looked so pretty the other day as she 
 came down the road on the donkey, her brown curls 
 blown about, and her little straw hat pushed back from 
 her flushed face and ornamented with a great bunch of 
 ferns and celandines. In both hands she clasped a 
 perfect faggot of anemones, primroses and lady-smock. 
 Bernard and Mary 1 ran by the side and behind whip- 
 ping Jenny with long palm-branches. The other day 
 we went up to Miss Webb's wood, where we sat 
 on the sunny bank, while the five children played 
 with the little stream of water. The children, the 
 lambs, the water, the flowers and the chorus of birds, 
 filled the picture with pleasant, dreamy sights and 
 sounds. At such times, my Cathy, I would have you, 
 and you only, with me. I know no one who can so 
 
 1 Mary Lyall.
 
 1861] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 7 
 
 fully sympathise in my admiration of a green grassy 
 bank with the sun on it, and other people's remarks 
 and exclamations produce in me a sombre smouldering 
 irritation ; I cannot quite say wherefore. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, April. 
 
 It is half-past seven and yet I have plenty of light 
 whereby to begin a letter to you, sitting at this window 
 with my writing book on the ledge and my ink-pot in 
 the flower-stand outside. The strong east wind has 
 also departed from us, glory be ! and the south-west 
 breeze, which you doubtless have been enjoying all day, 
 blew before it reached Suffolk over the primroses and 
 budding bells in the woods of Kent. If it only could 
 blow me to Blacklands ! It has been a lovely day, but 
 with these spring days a melancholy fastens upon me. 
 I alternately hang my depression upon your absence 
 and our approaching change, but I well know that 
 without these real causes my spirits would flag. Spring 
 is more melancholy to me than autumn. I am always 
 full of self-reproaches and longings for I know not 
 what. I long to be and to do better, but I have no 
 courage to begin. I know too well what is right and 
 wise, but I am unstable as water and cannot excel. 
 My resolution is as weak as my standard is high. I 
 am happy in my pleasant pottering life, and at the 
 same time angry with myself for being happy. A 
 squirrel born in his comfortable little cage, and used to 
 it, and with plenty to eat and drink, is stupidly happy, 
 but, at times, my Cathy, he must have dim instincts 
 and yearnings for the tops of the trees and the open 
 sky. And, at times, I too seem to have a glimpse of
 
 LETTERS OF [1861 
 
 heaven opened, so to speak, but it is but for a moment, 
 and I rattle round and round in my cage again. 
 
 I know what it is. It is this sleepiness, this leprosy 
 of indolence which sticks to and grows upon us all, and 
 upon me above all. And one day I am convinced it 
 will be a body of death to me, for to me it is like 
 some dreadful body clogging me, from which I cannot 
 escape. And it is not my real body which is at fault. 
 That is well worked and little indulged. Indeed I 
 think I could make my body submit to any discomfort 
 if only that something which is neither my mind nor my 
 heart nor my soul but which is me myself > could be left 
 at peace, to dream and to sleep, and at last to die, 
 nothing attempted and nothing done. Wretched state, 
 and yet true. And in London things will be worse 
 there I shall live in a dream. I daresay you will think 
 all this morbid and depressed, but it is not It is the 
 result of honest reflection. Do not try to argue with 
 anything I say unless you really feel as I do. Your 
 friendship will be and is so precious to me, and I desire 
 with all my heart that it should be sincere. It is 
 possible to have the closest intimacy with independence 
 of thought. Both of us, I think, are too apt to try to 
 agree with other people. One ought to try to see 
 what truth there is in what things they say, but not 
 try to warp one's own clear conviction for the sake of 
 agreeing. . . . The woods are charming now, the cutting 
 down this year at Faulkner's has thrown open the 
 prettiest views. When you get to the end of the deep 
 lane, and stand at the point where the old pilgrim's 
 road emerges from its copse, the whole rising ground 
 to the right hand is a blue mountain of blue bells, blue 
 already, though they are not fully out. Yet I agree 
 with you that the cowslip is by far the most delightful
 
 1 86 1 ] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND g 
 
 flower to pick. There is something so pleasant to 
 touch and eye in the shape of the fragrant and delicate 
 clean stalk and then to shut one's eyes and bury 
 one's face in a great bunch is a joy indeed. I wish 
 there were more here. 
 
 Two days ago, I walked into the wood beyond 
 Mount Ephraim, where there is a pretty little clearing 
 and faggots piled up like little houses. There I sat 
 by the tiny brook, among the anemones and lady- 
 smock, and for the last time leisurely lingered gather- 
 ing up the threads of my past life and retracing many 
 scenes and sensations. By next spring we shall be 
 quite gone, and the place will know stranger's feet and 
 voices. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, May. 
 
 This is old May-day, and my thoughts revert to 
 the many pretty pastimes in which old England used 
 to indulge. It is as warm as any May-day need be, 
 and a delicious down-pouring shower is just now falling, 
 which would have refreshed the drooping garlands. 
 All last night it rained hard, and the day began with a 
 thick steamy vapour rising out of the earth, which 
 made the whole atmosphere feel like a steamy green- 
 house. On going out at half-past two I was astonished 
 to find myself much too warm. The wind is slowly 
 veering round to the blessed south, and I hope and 
 believe warm days are coming at last. As I sit and 
 write in this open window, the rich odour of the lilacs 
 and sweet briars in the neighbouring gardens and the 
 growing smell, that indescribable odour, rather essence, 
 of life and spring, are almost oppressive. . . . Ever since
 
 io LETTERS OF [1861 
 
 I last wrote to you the trees and flowers have burst out 
 in a wonderful manner as if they knew this rain was 
 coming. The old Cathedral is standing in a garland 
 of beeches and limes, you know how pretty it looks. 
 ... I went to the Cathedral on Ascension day, in 
 the afternoon, but coming in very late did not go into 
 the choir, but sat in the south transept on a bench 
 which was exactly placed so as to catch a view of the 
 Black Prince's tomb and St. Anselm's chapel. I could 
 follow the whole service perfectly, and drank my fill of 
 gazing upon the Norman arches and mediaeval iron- 
 work gates of the little chapel. In the anthem the 
 sweet boys' voices asked over and over again, " Who is 
 the King of Glory ? " and the crash of the organ and 
 men's voices replied, " The Lord God of Hosts ; He is 
 the King of Glory." I do not generally like repetitions, 
 but in this anthem it is so very beautiful. As though 
 one side could never weary of asking the question, or 
 the other of giving the joyful answer. It is very 
 singular, and, I am sure, very wrong, that one should 
 feel more devout when alone in a church, or with a very 
 small company of worshippers, or in the dark, or even 
 in a strange congregation. It is surely contrary to the 
 true Christian feeling, but it is so with me. At Win- 
 chester, for instance, I generally have felt more struck 
 than at Canterbury, and I am sure it is simply because 
 I do not know the people or the priests. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S, May 1861. 
 
 . . . Oh, my Cathy, what weather is this ! I am 
 sitting, it is true, with the window open ; but the dull 
 white face of the wind- mill is turned due to the east,
 
 1 864] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND n 
 
 and the dull thick evening air is raw and cold. The 
 Cathedral bells are ringing, a sound which fills my soul 
 with vain, uneasy longings, and which certainly gives 
 me as much pain as pleasure. Nevertheless, I am 
 sorry when the sweet jangling stops. You need not 
 imagine that we are doing anything more in woods 
 and fields than you are. May-day was the last fine 
 day, and even that evening was cold and black. May 
 " comes dancing from the east " this year with a 
 vengeance. Are we to begin again this life of sullen 
 clouded skies and bitter chill wind. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 LONDON, Christmas Eve 1864. 
 
 My darling Cathy My whole heart goes out to 
 embrace you, and nothing written or spoken can ex- 
 press the love and longing that makes me shed tears 
 of, I don't know what, when I begin to write to you. 
 It is the remembrance of you, and you only, that 
 makes Christmas sad to me. No thought of any one 
 else affects me in the least ; but I know that our hearts 
 beat to the same time. . . . Ber held his little revels 
 yesterday, and had a happy day. What a glamour 
 there is in childhood, and how glorious do the most 
 simple preparations seem to their innocent, unworldy 
 eyes. These three children have just the simplicity 
 and imagination that makes it a pleasure to do any- 
 thing for them. On Monday is our tree. Good-bye, 
 my dear, dear Cathy. In spite of four children my 
 heart-strings all pull towards Cavendish in a marvellous 
 way.
 
 12 LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND [1865 
 To the Same 
 
 LONDON, rst December 1865. 
 
 I should have written to you from Harbledown, 
 where I thought of you every minute of the day, but 
 for the extraordinary amount of business to be done 
 which prevented any one from sitting down to write 
 anything like a letter. It is impossible to realise that 
 Harbledown is standing empty, and that we have 
 no longer any right or possession in our old home. 1 
 I almost feel it now more than I did when there. At 
 Harbledown the feeling that papa was gone surpassed 
 every other, and, while most things went on as usual, 
 one did not take in at all vividly that everything was 
 being done for the last time. Very few things in my 
 life have been so painful as going round with mamma 
 to say good-bye to some of the poor people. On 
 Sunday, just as it grew dark, she and I slipped across 
 the road to the Mint, and went to old Bishop's, 
 Partis, Streeter, and others. We were only a few 
 minutes in each house, and did not sit down. Indeed, I 
 went no further than the doorway ; but the little fire-lit 
 rooms, the broken prayers and blessings, the burst of 
 tears from old Partis and Bishop, and our dear mother's 
 wan face and tearful eyes have left a peculiar and 
 strong impression on my mind. The whole village 
 feels deeply, and there was a sense of dullness and 
 loss which was quite remarkable. In Canterbury also, 
 where I went to pay all the bills, the tradesmen ex- 
 pressed universal and strong regret, and earnest hopes 
 that mamma should return. 
 
 1 In consequence of the death of her father, the Rector.
 
 II 
 
 LETTERS 1869 TO 1876 
 To her Sister 
 
 Fox HOLM, 1 4/A August 1869. 
 
 MY DEAR CATHY This is your birthday, a blessed 
 day for me, and I almost wish that just for the time 
 we could all be children again going over to God- 
 mersham to keep the feast on the top of the breezy 
 hill. On those rare days, at least, the hearts of father, 
 mother, and children beat in happiest unison. We all 
 felt and re-echoed the cheerful and poetic spirit in my 
 father's manner, and sighed and yearned with my 
 mother as eyes and footsteps turned to the corner of 
 the little churchyard. 2 Should your birthday return for 
 a thousand years, my only Cathy, it could never bring 
 with it such a length of golden hours as those God- 
 mersham afternoons contained. And the drive back 
 to Canterbury between the hedges, bringing chance of 
 glow - worms, and the wonder of rattling over the 
 
 1 Till 1867 we had spent the late summer and early autumn months 
 at different places in the country, three of those holidays at Freshwater, 
 in the Isle of Wight. After that year we went annually to Fox Holm, 
 near Cobham, in Surrey, a house built for us by my father's brother- 
 in-law, Charles Buxton, on a clearing in a wood on his property. We 
 went there every year in April, and returned to London about the end of 
 October. 
 
 2 Where two of her mother's children were buried.
 
 14 LETTERS OF [1869 
 
 St. Margaret Street stones, and the glories of the shop- 
 lighted High Street, and the sympathising manner of 
 Becky, softened by a flower from the babies' grave. 
 Where the governess was on those days I cannot 
 imagine, but my memory holds no trace of her. 
 
 B. stays till Monday, and her company is a pure 
 pleasure. She is looking very well, and as usual con- 
 tents herself with all she finds. She possesses in a 
 high degree the good manners of always appearing 
 perfectly happy and pleased. . . . 
 
 On the 24th August 1869, my mother saw her 
 second boy, Alfred, alive and well in the morning and 
 a few hours later lying dead by the bank of the river 
 Wey. He was in the tenth year of his life. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, ist September. 
 
 . . . Miss Pepys has just been over, her poor dear 
 old face all swelled with crying. I feel so much calmer 
 than other people, and have hardly shed one tear for 
 the loss of the dearest of all my children, and the one 
 who loved me the most. And yet it is not that I do 
 not know what I have lost. He has always been most 
 precious. Indeed, had I known how few were to be 
 the delightful years in which I was to enjoy his presence, 
 I could hardly have done more to make him happy 
 and certainly I could not have loved him more. 
 
 To Mrs, Stephen 1 
 
 Fox HOLM, yd September. 
 
 Thank you very much for your letter, and please 
 
 1 Now Lady Stephen.
 
 1 869] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 5 
 
 thank your husband for his. It was very kind of him 
 to write, and I shall keep his note. 
 
 Just as I wrote these words an answer came to our 
 telegram saying that Frank l will be here on the 2Oth of 
 this month. It is an unspeakable comfort to feel that 
 he is safe, for I had felt as if he and Alfred had dis- 
 appeared together. It has been a terrible time, and at 
 first I could think of nothing rightly for the longing 
 that all could be as it had been, and then he was my 
 dearest child of all. Looking back upon his life I can 
 remember no serious fault, neither had I ever occasion 
 to be displeased with him about little things. He was 
 the soul of truth, and had a most fine temper. But 
 God fulfils his purposes, and we shall one day see all 
 clearly. And we struggle up again into something like 
 happiness even after the most beating storm. 
 
 My brother Alfred 2 writes with great eagerness 
 about Mr. Stephen coming out, and has been reading 
 his book, and hopes great things. I wish that Mr. 
 Stephen would promise to know him and to like him. 
 He will go through his ground on his way from Bombay. 
 He is Commissioner of Berar, and lives at Alkola, a very 
 curious place. But he will surely meet him at Agra. 
 
 Pray thank dear Miss Martin for her kind note. I 
 knew that she would be sorry, and that she would write. 
 Ever your most affectionate SlBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To lier Sister 
 
 Fox HOLM, Sunday utA October. 
 
 ... I have been at both services at Hatchford. 
 This afternoon walking alone through the woods I 
 
 1 My father, who had been in America. 
 2 Now Sir Alfred Lyall, K.C.B.
 
 16 LETTERS OF [1870 
 
 wished for your company with a strong wishing. The 
 walk is so lovely there these still autumn days. Up to 
 Fox Warren, and along the terrace drive, and through 
 the Deacon's Woods, and out into the old mossy farm 
 meadow, and again through the woods, and then under 
 the great chestnuts and elms into the little churchyard. 
 This is eminently an autumn country, as you know ; I 
 noticed this afternoon how heavy the morning dew still 
 lay on the moss along the deep roadsides, and how 
 wonderful are the colours of the fungi, and how thick 
 lay the acorns and chestnuts along the wood-paths. 
 The children, going to church in the morning, counted 
 fifteen squirrels. These lovely days and nights seem to 
 me a sort of mercy. They linger out Alfred's summer. 
 Even his sweet peas and pansies still bloom, and all the 
 flowers are still alive on which his eyes rested. Some 
 morning we shall come down to see them lying burnt 
 by the frost, and my last illusion will be gone. 
 
 The children put a cross and crown of flowers on 
 his grave every Sunday morning. Mrs. Deacon sends 
 me the loveliest creamy roses and large lilies. I put 
 moss between each flower and the dew keeps them alive 
 for days. But I wind and twine and arrange the 
 flowers in a dream, my Cathy, out of which I awake to 
 unspeakable anguish. I could never have imagined 
 how sharp and terrible would be the pain of mere 
 absence, for I certainly would not bring the child back, 
 nor do I struggle against God's decree. . . . 
 
 To Mrs. Stephen (in India} 
 
 BOULOGNE-SUR-MER, zot/t April 1870. 
 
 . . . Will you for me thank Mr. Stephen for writing 
 to me after he met my brother. I thought it so very
 
 1 870] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLA ND 1 7 
 
 kind of him, but I was not surprised, for I begin to 
 understand the sort of person he is. Whatever happens 
 you are a very happy woman to have such a husband 
 tenderness like the great deep, and faithfulness 
 reaching to the clouds. . . . 
 
 Boulogne would be unbearable in midsummer. Even 
 now the sun beats down with a sort of white heat, and 
 the Quai is almost impassible for dust and glare. Nor 
 does the sea send up any cool breeze. I rather long 
 for the cool side of a well-watered London street. The 
 great miracle of spring is beginning again, though very 
 slowly. If a few showers of rain would fall, all the 
 world would be green, but the hardly perceptible east 
 wind that accompanies this scorching sun prevents pro- 
 gress. I have often felt such impatience at this sort of 
 pause in nature while the days grow long and time 
 passes, but this year I don't mind. A few dry leaves 
 and flowers in my drawer are dearer to me than the 
 whole of the coming splendour. 
 
 To her Sister 
 
 Fox HOLM, 2otA May. 
 
 I wish you could see the deep peace of my Alfred's 
 resting place at Hatchford. The little churchyard is 
 bosomed round with great lilacs in full bloom and 
 rhododendrons coming into flower, and in the old 
 orchard behind the apple blossoms almost sweep the 
 top of the long grass, which is full of cowslips and blue- 
 bells, and one can look down into the pretty neglected 
 gardens of Hatchford House, where no one is living. I 
 sat there a long time and there was no sound of any 
 human being, but such a wonderful fulness and sweet- 
 ness of nature. There are only two other graves there, 
 
 C
 
 i8 LETTERS OF [1871 
 
 Charles Fulke Greville and his wife. The place is all 
 lovely, but it half kills me to know that my boy's bright 
 hair is under the turf. 
 
 To Mrs. Stephen l 
 
 37 SUSSEX GARDENS, 1871. 
 
 My dearest Mrs. Stephen This is only just to wish 
 you good-bye once more. I would come over for one 
 more embrace, but that it would be foolish to take a 
 minute of your time from your nearer friends and 
 children, and I have nothing to say, at least nothing 
 which for me would be speakable. 
 
 I seem to have an actual pain in my own heart at 
 the thought of your parting with your children, but the 
 moment you have turned your back on them your face 
 will be towards your husband, and great comfort lies in 
 this. We shall think of you often and with some 
 degree of anxiety till we hear that you and little 
 Rosamond are in his arms again. Farewell and believe 
 me always your loving SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To the Same. 
 
 Fox HOLM, $th June. 
 
 ... I quite agree with you as to the impossibility 
 of going through the groundings again with one's 
 youngest children. I began reading " Markham " with 
 Lucy and Frank this summer and found it too sicken- 
 ing. The utter banalite of children's history books 
 wearies one to death. And the horrid stupidity of the 
 descriptions! do you remember in "Little Arthur" 
 
 1 Who was returning to India to rejoin her husband, the Legal Member 
 of Council.
 
 1871] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 19 
 
 " The Druids, my dear boy, were a kind of clergymen ? " 
 Franky's simple comment on this was, " Like papa 
 with no clothes on," for he had not yet come to the 
 robes and mistletoe. 
 
 We have been here since the end of April. Frank 
 has not been able to come down much, as he has been 
 short of a Druid or Curate, but the children occupy most 
 of my time, and I garden and teach and dawdle about 
 the bowery lanes. Little Michael too seems to fill up 
 all spare half hours, and I like the weight of his soft 
 little body on my arms as I go about the house and 
 garden. He surveys the blooming world about him 
 with a kindly eye, and stretches his white round arms 
 towards the flowers and children and animals among 
 whom he lives. Why should a Druid be ever forced 
 upon his mind's eye through the medium of the 
 abhorred Mrs. Markham ? I hope that you are not 
 teaching my sweet god-daughter anything at all but to 
 love and be happy. She seemed to me wondrous intelli- 
 gent, and, if you only don't stupefy her with facts about 
 the Druids, she will be the most charming little girl in 
 England. 
 
 Every one's attention here is divided between the 
 French news and the Tichborne case, which is really 
 very interesting ; one does not quite see why, for he is 
 certainly an impostor. To-day's papers say that the 
 Legitimist Party are pledging themselves to restore the 
 Pope to his rights should the Orleanists be re- 
 established. It is impossible to believe in such mad- 
 ness, and if there is any truth in the rumour, one sees 
 no hope of any settled government in France. France 
 might greatly gain by a religious reaction, but then it 
 must be a religion with a dash of Puritanism, not a 
 priest's religion. Druids will not suffice just now. . . .
 
 20 LETTERS OF [1872 
 
 To her Sister 
 
 Fox HOLM, June. 
 
 ... I have just come back from a pilgrimage 
 through the woods to Hatchford for the sake of sweet 
 St. John, but found no service. . . . 
 
 ... This place is like some dream of greenness, 
 and the creepers on the house have flung long sprays 
 in every direction. Every window is the greenest 
 bower, and we look out on green beyond green of 
 waving boughs and brake. But the fulness of summer 
 beauty here is for ever and ever associated in my 
 mind with the fulness of mortal anguish. The 
 thunderbolt came out of the blue that struck both 
 this house and Emily's. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, nth April 1873. 
 
 ... I have been at Hatchford with poor Emily. 
 The fields and woods and orchards thereabouts are 
 in parterres of primroses and cowslips and anemones 
 and all the other pretty growth of spring. The sides 
 of the little lane leading up to the church are covered 
 with primroses and dog violets, and the birds sing all 
 round. The pansies are out on Alfred's grave, and 
 the rose-bush at his head has put out tender leaves ; 
 but when I stood by the little marble cross all the 
 joy of the spring seems to go out. I cannot under- 
 stand why the pain should be so lasting and sharp, 
 for I do not wish him here again, in this poor 
 world.
 
 1873] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 21 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, 2gtA October. 
 
 Ever since you and Robert drove away together 
 on the 6th December 1861 (I think), it has seemed 
 strange to me that days and days should go by and 
 that you should not know how my hours go by, nor I 
 how you are spending yours, or perhaps how yours 
 spend you and spare not. And this feeling grows 
 upon me more every week of my life. Yesterday I 
 wished you could know that, in the absence of Jellis, 1 
 I spent the morning on a ladder training the creepers 
 myself ; not always on a ladder either ; as often stand- 
 ing outside on the window ledges, gay as a lark, as I 
 have always felt when on an enterprise of danger and 
 folly. Also I planted all my bulbs, a pleasing task, 
 giving some hope of coming life amid this dying 
 nature. But what lovely death ! As I drove slowly 
 along the Hatchford lane in the donkey chair this after- 
 noon the woods were a dream of lovely colour. Gold, 
 and the deepest russet, and the brightest Christmas 
 green up to the top of the high banks, and as far in 
 every direction as one could see. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 CHURCH HOUSE, KNUTSFORD, May I8/4. 2 
 My dear Mary . . . Time goes very slowly in 
 
 1 The gardener, etc. 
 
 2 In these years my mother paid an annual visit to two old aunts of my 
 father's long ago dead now Miss Mary and Lucy Holland, who lived 
 on at Knutsford. This town, not then much altered by the vicinity 
 of Manchester, was the model for Cranford in Mrs. Gaskell's novel. It 
 was sometimes, indeed, alleged that the two Miss Hollands served as 
 the models of Miss Matty and her sister. Sir Henry Holland was their 
 brother.
 
 22 LETTERS OF [1874 
 
 this little old-world place. The aunts are so worn out 
 and feeble, and the talk is of such far gone matters, 
 that my own affairs bear an air of unreality. Aunt 
 Lucy forgets Michael's existence, but still laments that 
 Aunt Mary would add two feet to the wall on which 
 she used to perch Michael's father, in order that the 
 people on the London coach might remark his fair long 
 curls ; and Aunt Mary still blames Lady Holland for 
 dressing the boys in jackets, instead of the green velvet 
 coats, with gold buttons and wide frilled collars, in 
 which they looked so handsome. And Aunt Lucy 
 says that there were many more birds' nests before the 
 Reform Bill, which taught the farmers to trim the 
 hedges so close, and wonders that I have never heard 
 of Romper Low, the highwayman, who lived on the 
 Heath here and had an underground passage to Old 
 Tabley, and who was so civil to the Miss Rumbolds 
 when they met him and asked him to take care of 
 them over the Heath to Church House, and how Dr. 
 Holland met him afterwards and thanked him. It is 
 so strange to hear all this, and the very primroses and 
 lambs look as if they were only a remembrance too, 
 and they are not real to the old aunts, they only re- 
 mind them of the real lambs of fifty or sixty or seventy 
 years back. . . . We breakfast here at eight o'clock, 
 eat a biscuit at twelve, dine at four, and a tray at eight 
 o'clock. Aunt Lucy said to me this morning, " Don't 
 take ginger wine to-night, Sibyl, love ; there's not much 
 left, and Mary will not like another bottle opened, as 
 there is no company but you." 
 
 This evening we are to read old letters Edgeworth's, 
 Barbauld's, Aitken's, Darwin's, Wedgewood's, all that 
 old set. Sir Henry Holland always figures as the 
 fashionable young man in the vortex of London Society.
 
 1874] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 23 
 
 Miss Edgeworth's letters are charming, and there are 
 drawers full of them. . . . Well, good-bye, and God 
 bless you, and your husband, and Mrs. Scarlett, and 
 Pillicoddy, and Fatima, and the bereaved water-wag- 
 tail, and the partridge's eggs, and the rosebuds, and 
 the asparagus, and every other creature in and about 
 Poynters. Your always faithful 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 KNUTSFORD, May. 
 
 My dearest Lucy Thank my Agnes for her delightful 
 long letter, which gave great pleasure to her father this 
 morning as well as to me. It is so pleasant to have 
 daughters who write long bright letters, and who are 
 sorry when we go away and happy when we return. 
 These things make the happiness of life to the poor 
 papas and mammas. ... I am rather sorry that you 
 have to pick 300 bunches of primroses it is almost 
 too much work. You must get the whole school to 
 help you, and any maids of ours that can be spared. 
 
 The woods near Old Tabley are a miracle of beauty. 
 The old, old crumbling Hall and Church, and the 
 quiet mere and old boathouse, and the lovely budding 
 beeches and limes, and the carpet of wild flowers below, 
 and the blue sky arching over all make up a splendid 
 harmony. And it is such a pleasure to know that all 
 over England, all over Europe, there are thousands and 
 thousands of hearts to enjoy the beauty. Thousands 
 of girls of twelve years old, and thousands of boys of ten 
 and boys of four years old, and thousands of mothers 
 
 1 Then aged twelve.
 
 24 LETTERS OF [1874 
 
 enjoying the happiness. " We praise Thee, O God, 
 we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord. All the earth 
 doth worship Thee, the Father Everlasting." How 
 many times have I cried this aloud when I was a 
 young girl, and felt the beauty of the world! And 
 now I can say it with a deeper feeling still. Ever thy 
 loving mother, SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To her Sister 
 
 Fox HOLM, June. 
 
 . . . My flowers are lovely the tall lilies are just 
 coming out in the long border, and the lavender and 
 pink geraniums and lobelia make the prettiest border 
 in front of them. The house is again a ridiculous 
 mass of leaves, and there is a quiet glory over every- 
 thing. Then the birds are innumerable, and there is 
 for ever a sound of young wings about the windows. 
 There are nests of wrens, flycatchers, robins, tomtits, 
 chaffinches and sparrows and water - wagtails in the 
 creepers, and the doves have built their second nest 
 in the clematis of the pent. The roses are not what 
 they were last year, and yet they are better than 
 they promised to be, at any rate there are plenty, 
 and very few grubs, owing to the vast army of little 
 birds. 
 
 Mamma is very angry with the Ritualists, but this 
 movement reaches far behind the mere Ritualists. 
 Such men as Carter and Furse and others of that 
 stamp are not Ritualists. What do you understand by 
 " Objective Presence " in the Sacrament ? It surely 
 means more than a special spiritual presence. Miss 
 Macrae says that she understands by it a spiritual
 
 1874] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 25 
 
 presence beyond that in the heart of the worthy 
 receiver, which would be merely subjective. Is this 
 correct ? and does our highest doctrine of the Sacra- 
 ment differ so materially from that of Rome ? 
 
 To her brother-in-law, Sir Henry Holland^ 
 
 Fox HOLM, August 1874. 
 
 I have been thinking of nothing but Margaret all 
 these days, and yet I cannot write to her. I remember 
 so well that when she came to Fox Holm in the midst 
 of all that trouble in 1869, the first thing she said to 
 me was, " There is nothing to be said." This is so true 
 of a great grief ; there is nothing to be said. One can 
 only wait till the wave goes over. 
 
 And your loss is so irreparable, for Lady Trevelyan 
 was her children's dearest chosen friend as well as their 
 mother. I always liked to think of the immense affec- 
 tion between them such a pure and perfect bond. 
 
 This grief will make you feel as if Pinewood had 
 long been yours. No joy binds one to a place quite as 
 much as a sorrow does. 
 
 To her Sister" 
 
 SALISBURY, August. 
 
 . . . We got here about 9.45, went to the Cathedral 
 service, and at 2.30 set out for Stonehenge. We sat 
 a long time gazing at the strange great stones and wide 
 
 1 Now Viscount Knutsford. 
 
 2 My mother was in constant correspondence with this sister throughout 
 her life, but after this date it has seemed best to give rather her letters to 
 other people.
 
 26 LETTERS OF [1874 
 
 plain over which the masses of white cloud drove, as 
 they have driven ever since the men who sleep in the 
 innumerable barrows were fighting or worshipping or 
 camping there. A large picnic and various small ones 
 were going forward, a photographer had set up his 
 shabby travelling apparatus, and a well dressed grocer 
 was standing on one of the fallen masses explaining to 
 his dull-faced womenkind his ideas as to the " horigin " 
 of its existence. Flys and carts were drawn up round. 
 Every soul there but ourselves would have been more 
 suitably entertained at Sydenham or Battersea. The 
 only living creature proper to the place was a pretty 
 shepherd boy of twelve years old, with the felt cap and 
 gabardine, holding a wallet and crook over his shoulder 
 and a beautiful collie in a leash. He stood silent and 
 motionless the whole hour we remained there, leaning 
 on a great boulder and watching the picnic, his dog as 
 quiet as the great Trilithon over his head. We came 
 down by a lovely road under the great Roman Camp 
 at Old Sarum. The thought of the skilled dark- 
 browed Romans who had traced these curves and lines 
 succeeded well in my mind to the idea of the mute 
 rude strength which had piled up Stonehenge. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 LONDON, November. 
 
 My dear Mary Thank you for all your kindness 
 and hospitality. The only thing I regret is that the 
 nature of things obliged me to sleep away seven of the 
 eighteen hours spent under your roof. It is very 
 egotistical and boring when one makes unnecessary 
 statements about oneself and then comes wanting to
 
 1874] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 27 
 
 retract and explain, but yet I could not bear you to 
 think that I wish my condition were other than it is, 
 only that I am horribly conscious of my imperfection in 
 it, and of a strong natural crying out for things in which 
 I have no concern, here or hereafter. It is your wish 
 for a common, for a wilder and wider outlook, and it 
 was this expression of your wish that made me mention 
 mine. So that it was your fault, and this conviction 
 brings with it the usual relief. 
 
 You will let me have a line in a day or two to say 
 that H. is better. I am so sorry for their pain. In 
 this cold weather they will think of the dear little 
 cherished body for which they can do nothing more, 
 and this sort of pain is the less endurable because it is 
 unreasonable. I remember that I could not see without 
 such anguish the bright hearth and closed rooms, nor 
 can I think of it now without terror. Good-bye, my 
 dear Mary, your affectionate SlBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 KNUTSFORD, 6th December. 
 
 My dearest Mary It is long past midnight and I 
 have been buried alive in the feathers of the old four- 
 poster with drab curtains for more than an hour. Two 
 hot water-bottles were interred with me to make up for 
 the want of fire in the outer world. Such a storm of 
 wind roaring round this old house, and the rain slashing 
 against the window that commands the churchyard 
 where the grave-stones all lie flat and close together. 
 I cannot sleep or read, and I have been lying staring 
 into the dark till my head aches. Below this room is 
 the surgery, to which a long stone passage leads. I 
 can quite well hear the two old doctors moving about
 
 28 LETTERS OF [1874 
 
 and rattling their medicine bottles, making up drugs 
 for the people who have long since been in the church- 
 yard. The two old aunts are just the same as when 
 I saw them last, only more weak and weary of life. 
 They are wheeled off to bed about nine o'clock, but then 
 comes the moment of the companion, who brings out an 
 acrostic of her own making, so vague that there is not 
 the slightest clue to the meaning, and I have to puzzle 
 over it till ten. The evening begins at five, and is 
 only interrupted by the tray of Oswego and bun-loaf. 
 You cannot imagine to what a low ebb of mind and 
 body it brings one. . . . However, I have written away 
 my ghosts, and am so cold that the hot-water bottle 
 lumps look not unfriendly under the quilt. 
 
 To tJie Same 
 
 37 SUSSEX GARDENS, idth December. 
 
 My dear Mary . . . Christmas draws near, doesn't 
 it, with its usual burden of preparation. Pleasing and 
 yet toilsome. Hampers of evergreens, balls of string, 
 blankets, toys, coal tickets, red-nosed and dirty and 
 clean sickly faces, holly-pricked fingers, wax candles, 
 and wire that won't twist, parcels of all sizes, and 
 innumerable secrets always being talked about, boys 
 and their friends, and the servants' relations, crowded 
 London churches, and solemn country churches where 
 the lights shine coldly in the green branches while the 
 parson hurries a little in his afternoon discourse and 
 the children think of nothing but that it is Christmas 
 day. And this I see whenever I shut my eyes. 
 
 Don't you sometimes long for the time when the 
 days, the high days, shall succeed in stately splendour, 
 and none of this brown paper, and string, and holly
 
 1 8 7 5] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLA ND 29 
 
 sprigs shall be required ? And then I shall find again 
 the fair faced boy who haunts me for ever here, and 
 whose presence elsewhere makes all these things seem 
 so unreal. Will you put some little flower for me on 
 his grave on Christmas morning? . . . This will be 
 rather a sad Christmas for your poor coachman with 
 his pretty boy gone. But it must be borne and there 
 is no way out of it. Your very affectionate, yes, really 
 your very affectionate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 Fox HOLM, Thursday, 1875. 
 
 My dear Mary We did not get home yesterday 
 till 6.30, and Frank would not then let me go on to 
 Poynters. Indeed it was rather too late and too dark. 
 And then, after dinner, when we thought of a pilgrimage 
 through the soft darkness of your woods, rain began to 
 fall, so I thought of the Palm Branch all the evening, 
 and dreamt strange dreams last night. 1 
 
 The very thought of seeing that Palm and of your 
 having brought it here yesterday gives me a sort of 
 shock. It is curious to feel how great is really the 
 difference between imagination and reality. I often 
 wonder whether the eye of the mind or that of the 
 body is the true one, and what in the next world will 
 be the face to face vision, without the old dark glass to 
 which we are so well accustomed ? . . . 
 
 1 The palm branch was that same which was laid on the breast of 
 Bishop Patteson by the natives who murdered him. They pushed his 
 body out to sea in a canoe with hands clasped over this palm.
 
 30 LETTERS OF [1875 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CAVENDISH, SUFFOLK, May. 
 
 My dear Mary ... I had half a mind to ask 
 you to befriend Lucy during my absence in some such 
 simple way as asking her to tea, but forbore, not from 
 mistrust of your kindness, for you are always more 
 ready to hear than I am to pray ; but because an 
 unfulfilled request haunts your too-gentle spirit, and 
 because it is sometimes as difficult to arrange a very 
 small matter as a very great one. 
 
 On Thursday last 600 of the villagers spent the 
 afternoon up here. They are a poor, worn race, but 
 with easy, unsuspicious manners and quick tongues. 
 We processioned from the school to the church, Agnes 
 leading the way and bearing the great banner; tall, grave 
 and meek, and steady as a rock under the weight. 
 Behind her walked the little girls, then the village 
 band and choir, then the boys and then the mass of 
 women and babies and the very old men and women, 
 half laughing and half crying and blessing the Lord, 
 and the weather, and themselves, and Mr. and Mrs. Peter. 
 Among these I walked, and felt for the moment the 
 burden of the poor man's life, which is only bearable 
 because it is so simple. Towards the close of the 
 evening, while the young people were dancing and the 
 children swinging and running races, I proposed to a 
 company of elderly village matrons a game in the 
 meadow. We played " hen and chickens," " drop the 
 handkerchief," and other well-known games, and with 
 extraordinary spirit. Our wit, agility, and good humour 
 were surprising, and our laughter rent the air. " Rin, 
 Loiza, rin, Lor ! the poor ouddare's legs fare stiff,
 
 i875l MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 31 
 
 and the lady's more nor a match for she. Save us ! 
 that's the best play a'se seen yet. Fare round the 
 ring, stiddy Myra, and give we oud widders a turn. 
 Mussy-a-be, a'm wally fully o' pine, what with the cake 
 and stuff and lefring," l and more and more laughter. 
 In short, we had a very good day of it. ... Write me 
 a line, my dear Mary. It will only cost you a queen's 
 head and a quarter of an hour. 
 
 To t/te Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, Sunday Evening, August. 
 
 My dear Mary You must be at this moment on 
 some heathery knoll watching the splendours, the first 
 splendours, of the sunset that is just over here, leaving 
 the house and garden in a sort of gold green shadow, 
 while the broad lights still linger on the Fox Warren 
 fields. I do humbly trust that you are not at dinner 
 eating hot grouse. 
 
 We have had some very hot weather, and this 
 morning the sun smote sore on the heads of the poor 
 pilgrims to Byfleet Church. I did long to have a little 
 camp meeting with Frank and Luce under the big 
 trees by the Manor House wall, but we endured on, 
 and heard a sermon about Naaman, and felt surprise 
 that in such weather he could have objected to dip in 
 the Jordan. . . . 
 
 .... The Cuckoo died that night. It sat on the 
 perch after its supper and went to sleep, the cage placed 
 on a table. Next morning, very early, I found it dead 
 at the bottom, its pretty wings outspread and its eyes 
 
 1 I am informed that this is not a very accurate representation of Suffolk 
 dialect, but I leave it as written.
 
 32 LETTERS OF [1875 
 
 open. Luce is persuaded that it was wrong to cage it, 
 and quotes poetry to prove that a cuckoo has a wild 
 mysterious existence, and that it is hardly right to try 
 and see it, even. . . . Have I thanked you kindly, 
 ma'am, for a basket of plums, of very good plums, 
 which came from Poynters some days ago, and of 
 which the boys ate too many ? I often think that 
 gifts should always consist of fruit or flowers. I don't 
 mean charities, but gifts. You smell them, or eat them, 
 and are pleased, and it is all over. A permanent gift 
 is a sort of torment in the long run. 
 
 My dear Mary, I have been quite alone since Friday 
 morning, which is my excuse for prating on, and to 
 write to you staves off painful thoughts. I wish that I 
 could bear it all, and that other mothers were all happy. 
 But I think much of Mrs. Bertram Currie, and I know 
 the terror which comes in the lovely summer afternoon 
 when the sunlight seems empty. But these dear children 
 will never feel the pain of parting 
 
 Full short his journey was, no dust 
 Of earth unto his sandals clave ; 
 The heavy weight that old men must 
 He bare not to the grave. 
 
 He seemed a cherub who had lost his way 
 And wandered hither ; so his stay 
 With us was short, and 'twas most meet 
 That he should be no delver in earth! s clod, 
 No need to pause and cleanse his feet 
 To stand before his God. 
 
 Is not that pretty ? and true of those sweet lost boys 
 and girls ? Good-night, my dear, and God bless you. 
 Your affectionate SlBYL HOLLAND.
 
 1 875] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 33 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, \\th October. 
 
 My dearest Mary It is very disappointing that 
 you cannot go to Winchester on Thursday. I should 
 so love to pilgrim in your company. Perhaps in 
 another life there will be long joyful pilgrimages 
 through wondrous landscapes to noble shrines, where 
 choirs of angels will sing, and Paul himself will preach 
 and expound things unimaginable, and p'raps and 
 p'raps, as children say, I shall meet you there ; and 
 the time will neither be short nor long, but the fulness 
 of life and joy. And with these imaginings I shall 
 console myself as we fly along on Thursday through 
 the dim October fields towards the old stones of Win- 
 chester, and I shall leave the scene of the Conference, 
 
 and the heavy pratings of on " elderly married 
 
 members " and hie to the great Church to the tomb of 
 William Wykeham, where I will make a humble prayer 
 for myself, and for you. But could you not possibly 
 so arrange that I might have one little walk with you 
 next week ? Could you be put down here in one of 
 your rounds, and let me walk you home through the 
 woods ? Is this quite impossible ? Is an " elderly mar- 
 ried member's " life (I speak of myself) to be for ever 
 
 spent in arranging for other people ? Before 
 
 decides that it is, do let me arrange for one little bit of 
 pure pleasure. If you will do this for me I will expect 
 nothing more till next October, but will remain all 
 through the year, and through all mortal years, your 
 true and loving friend, SlBYL HOLLAND.
 
 34 LETTERS OF [1875 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, October. 
 
 My dear Mary With the greatest pleasure I will 
 be ready any time after two o'clock to-morrow. 
 
 Agnes and I came here on Tuesday night Nature 
 greeted us with a surprising burst of tears, and still 
 sobs amid her faint smiles. Let us hope that to-morrow 
 autumn's deep smile may be here again. 
 
 The soft October days are with us, Mary ! 
 
 Broad lies the sunshine on the quiet land, 
 Autumn's deep smile is here, and fingers faery 
 
 Flushing the woods that wait for death's chill hand. 
 
 I cross the lawn and gain the upland meadow, 
 Lingering, I turn, and turning linger still ; 
 
 The warm light floods the vale, and the deep shadow 
 Rests on the southern slope of George's pine-clad hill. 
 
 The local poet, who is apparently on his way to take 
 tea with a friend, proceeds to describe the various 
 emotions, patriotic and domestic, aroused in him by 
 the distant prospect of Windsor Castle and the near 
 view of his own humble abode. He describes his 
 further walk, the moor, the wood, the farm in a little 
 lonely meadow, the old gate into the home field, until 
 " once more he stands beside the friendly door." He 
 remarks upon the peculiar form which a friendship takes, 
 contracted between persons of middle age, ignorant of 
 the childhood and youth of each other. He supposes 
 that this friendship is, in consequence, of a loftier nature, 
 and that the one common object of the friends (as of 
 travellers who meet half way on a pilgrimage) must be 
 the end of their journey. The past is past, the present 
 is a waking dream ; they have learnt to take little
 
 i875] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 35 
 
 pleasure in the mere incidents of travel. Therefore the 
 life which will be after travelling days are done forms 
 the staple of their discourse. This is all set forth in 
 two or three stanzas of more or less merit. The friends, 
 having taken their tea together, separate, and the poet 
 makes the best of his way home. Unseen, he meets 
 friendly wheels steadily moving towards the house he 
 has left, and utters an unspoken greeting. He reaches 
 the wicket gate of his own garden, where he pauses 
 awhile and sees many ghosts. He feels a wondrous 
 peace and gratitude, looking upon the roof which covers 
 so much love and innocence. " My heart's own temple, 
 my Jerusalem," and he ends by exclaiming 
 
 And I am grateful ! oh, my Lord, Thou knowest 
 My heart's glad throb before Thy throne doth pass, 
 
 Clear as Archangel's song, or as the lowest 
 Faint hum of insect in the trodden grass. 
 
 I am sure you long to see the whole poem. You 
 will get this farrago at breakfast, and I laugh to think 
 how you will try to hurry through it, while Mr. Deacon 
 is wondering at your puzzled absent look. I am sup- 
 posed to be making up my accounts, and am sitting 
 surrounded by weekly bills. I tear myself from Wood- 
 bury's red book to answer your note. " L esprit de 
 detachement is the great thing," Fnelon says. There 
 is no more writing paper in the house, hence these 
 scraps. Ah, madame, la sainte pauvrete. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM. 
 
 My dear Mary Here is the book, and on the back 
 of this sheet is the prayer as nearly as I can remember.
 
 36 LETTERS OF [1876 
 
 It comes out of Bishop Andrews, and Greek collects, 
 and Solomon's prayer, and I don't know what else. 
 Words run so much in my head, and I don't always 
 know how they came there. There is nothing more 
 than you could find yourself; but you are pleased to 
 like anything your friends do, and this spoils your 
 judgment, although, no doubt, it adds to your enjoy- 
 ment. On the whole, however, I am disposed to think 
 that the truth brings the most pleasure, and I hate 
 illusions and interchange of compliments. . . . 
 
 To the Same 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, 6th January. 
 
 My dearest Mary At this time of year we have 
 generally exchanged salutations, and I hardly know 
 how I have allowed Christmas to slip by without writ- 
 ing some sort of greeting to you. The thought that 
 some good fortune might bring us face to face while 
 I was at Fox Warren made writing seem unneedful, 
 but I got no nearer to you than your seat in church 
 on New Year's morning. Lucy came flying to show 
 her pretty book and note, " Look what Mrs. Deacon 
 sends me," and she kissed both book and note. " Mr. 
 Deacon, you stupid thing," says wiser Agnes ; and 
 Lucy, acknowledging her mistake, renewed her kisses 
 with fervour. I wish that you could have seen the 
 play that the girls acted for the amusement of the 
 servants, etc. 
 
 We nearly killed ourselves with laughing ; the chil- 
 dren did astonishingly well, and the audience roared 
 applause. ... I hope that the New Year will bring 
 you nothing but good good days and nights, good
 
 1876] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 37 
 
 friends and books, good health and thoughts, good 
 songs and sermons and shooting, and good roses, and 
 a few good talks with your loving poor friend 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To her daughter Lucy 
 
 CHURCH HOUSE, KNUTSFORD, May. 
 
 My dearest Luce You will not really want a letter 
 on Sunday morning. You will be as happy at Poynters 
 as a cowslip ; but I said that I would write, and you 
 shall have my only spare half- hour. Aunt Lucy is 
 lifted into the pony chair every morning at 1 1.30, and 
 I drive her about the lanes. These lanes are all cob- 
 bled, that is, they are paved with round stones. The 
 hedges on either side are planted on the top of banks, 
 which banks are covered with primroses and wood- 
 sorrel and mosses, and June will see them adorned with 
 thousands of lofty fox-gloves and many kinds of ferns. 
 
 The roads are broad and beautifully kept, and are 
 mostly bordered with great beeches, whose branches 
 sweep over the wide footway. The cottages look like 
 small homesteads, and many of the labourers keep a cow 
 in the little croft which is nearly always added to the 
 garden of the cottage. The hedges of the crofts and 
 gardens are full of plum and damson trees in full bloom. 
 The older women wear short petticoats, wooden soles 
 or clogs, a little plaid shawl pinked across, and a large 
 white frilled cap. They stand knitting at their garden 
 gates, and laugh pleasantly when you speak to them, 
 answering with a loud voice and with the strong clipped 
 accent of the country. I do so love this loud voice, 
 which gives one the feeling of independence. You
 
 38 LETTERS OF [1876 
 
 would not understand the children a bit, if you listened 
 to them talking and playing, nor can I understand 
 what the maids say among themselves, unless I pay 
 great attention. 
 
 There are a great many Irish in the town, all very 
 poor and very merry. Just at Easter the Roman 
 Catholic priest died. He was quite a young man, and 
 very well educated, but no one in Knutsford knew him 
 or had ever spoken to him except his own poor people. 
 He was ill for one week, and died in his lonely little 
 room, with an old Irishwoman sitting by his bed. His 
 body was taken over to Ireland; all the Irish here accom- 
 panied it to the station with loud lamenting, and all the 
 village in Ireland came out to meet it, carrying his poor 
 old mother with them. When the respectable Protestants 
 of Knutsford heard all this, they wished they had done 
 something for Father Casey ; but it was all too late. 
 
 A few days ago an Irish boy died who belonged to 
 the Society of Good Templars. The priest performed 
 the service for the dead in the Catholic Chapel ; then, 
 as he was to be buried in the churchyard, the body 
 was brought, and Mr. Barnacle, the clergyman, read 
 our service. Before the grave was filled up, a man 
 rang at our gate and asked leave to stand on our wall 
 and read a prayer and make an address in the name 
 of the Good Templars. Aunt Mary gave leave or 
 rather her old maid did and so the Good Templar 
 talked away, while the clergyman walked crossly off, 
 and the priest, who had come to look on, leant against 
 the churchyard gate with rather a melancholy face. I 
 watched it all from the window, and could hear every 
 word, and I thought how fat* away the boy's spirit was 
 while his poor little body was carried about. The 
 grave was soon filled up, and the people clattered away.
 
 1876] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 39 
 
 Bernard comes here on the loth, and then goes 
 with his two friends via Harwich to Amsterdam, and 
 then to Rotterdam, Brussels, Waterloo, Ghent, and the 
 Forest of the Ardennes, on the French and Belgian 
 frontier, where they will fish and talk for three weeks. 
 Bernard used to know all about that country when he 
 was a little boy of seven, and he and I used to read 
 Froissart together. 1 Won't it be delightful ? 
 
 Farewell till we meet, dear girl of my heart. Give 
 my love to the dear lady of Poynters. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 KNUTSFORD, zznd May. 
 
 You said, my dear Mary, that on the 2pth you should 
 leave home. Can we meet before that day. I must 
 thank you with a living voice for all your kindness to 
 little L. V. She has written me such a happy letter 
 from Poynters. 
 
 Shall you be driving in our direction on Friday, or 
 may I come over on Saturday to the Verandah. Only 
 I am half dead, and feel as if none of us would survive 
 the thunderstorm which is crashing over the town at 
 this moment. Aunt Lucy neither hears it nor sees. 
 She is recovering from a fit of choking into which I 
 sent her, me miseram ! by a mild little joke at tea, and, 
 as has often been remarked, the disturbance of the 
 
 1 My mother read to me in those early years, before I was ten, the 
 whole of Froissart, De Commines, De Joinville, Herodotus, Plutarch's 
 Lives, besides a great deal of poetry. I think she read to us as children 
 the whole of the Iliad in Lord Derby's translation, most of Chaucer, all 
 Spenser's Faery Queen, and Milton's Paradise Lost, besides much else. 
 At a rather later time she read to me the whole of Gibbon's Decline and 
 Fall.
 
 40 LETTERS OF [1876 
 
 inner man is more terrible than all the convulsions of 
 nature. 
 
 I thought of you all on Sunday morning. The old 
 ladies, though dissenters, 1 and even on bad terms with 
 the parson, keep a rigid hold on the house pew, which 
 is situated in the N.-E. aisle of the church, under the 
 great ten-tiered gallery, and in a line with the Three- 
 decker. It was re-lined with baize in 1801. Date in 
 brass nails on the door. The corners are wide and the 
 hassocks large, and I am ashamed to confess that the 
 seclusion was not uncomfortable. Not a soul could I 
 see save the parson himself. I think that these sur- 
 roundings made me quicker to remark the virile and 
 Protestant character of the cvi. Psalm and the vi. 
 Deuteronomy. A family religion, in which the master 
 of the house is the teacher, and where each man fights 
 his own way out of his own Egypt. Nothing mystic 
 is here. I wonder who is right ; but I think that real 
 English Protestants are rather like the old Jews. That 
 is a blessed text, " If any man do My will, he shall 
 know of the doctrine," and we had that too. 
 
 Are the rhododendrons out, and the azaleas in 
 the woods ? Lord love them ! You can't imagine 
 how glad I shall be to go home. I think I could run 
 all the way and not be tired. Yr. loving 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 P.S. It is so difficult to get paper here, for one 
 cannot stir without waking an aunt, and then one has 
 to talk or read. I was ten minutes trying to hook this 
 piece of paper noiselessly on to my knee. 
 
 1 Unitarians.
 
 1 876] MA R Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 4 1 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, 31^ August. 
 
 M My dear Mary . . . The weather here has com- 
 pletely changed, and the golden days seem already at 
 an immeasurable distance. Rain has fallen in floods 
 all day and the wind is roaring in the trees. I have 
 been since yesterday on that old red sofa upstairs, but 
 am all right again and enjoying this quiet room below. 
 I am writing on the sofa in the corner the air is 
 sweet with the fragrance of the wood fire and the last 
 bunch of roses and the leather of books. Bernard is 
 leaning against the sofa reading Daniel Deronda, in 
 which he sees a thousand deep things ; Lucy absorbed 
 in Boswell's Johnson, Agnes harassing the company by 
 reading aloud bits of Madame d'Arblay, the two boys 1 
 at chess, and Michael above sleeping as though he 
 would never awake. I feel a deep content. One 
 advantage, among many disadvantages of having a 
 sensuous nature (don't mistake the word) is that out- 
 ward harmony of things soothes so much. In no con- 
 ceivable circumstances of life could I fail to be influenced 
 by the weather. Is this the case with you ? 
 
 Mrs. Kingsley 2 has been making me read her hus- 
 band's life in the proof sheets. It is extremely 
 interesting, and of course all the more so from reading 
 it in this way chapter by chapter and talking it over 
 with her. The public will think it rather too long. 
 She puts in too many of his youthful productions, and 
 it is curious but true, that the youthful productions 
 of a man of genius differ very little from those of 
 other clever boys. Byron did not write better poetry 
 
 1 One of them Digby Lyall, a cousin. 
 2 The widow of Charles Kingsley.
 
 42 LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND [1876 
 
 at sixteen than many clever boys do. I almost 
 wonder how, with her intense feeling about him, Mrs. 
 Kingsley can go through it. There would be some- 
 thing to me so awful in the gradual resuscitation of the 
 past, the slow building up of the figure of the lost until 
 the whole man appears must be given to the public, 
 himself and not himself. But, perhaps, in the case of 
 an already public character, the strong desire that he 
 should be known would perfectly overcome this. What 
 do you think ? 
 
 But you won't answer you see other things in the 
 moors and in the wild eyes of your Highland girl. 
 Fair fall you all ... Vale. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 November. 
 
 I read your stanzas and the note which accompanied 
 them with indescribable feelings, and at the end found 
 myself suddenly blinded into tears. Idle tears, per- 
 haps, for I don't know exactly what they meant. 
 What you write must always give me a peculiar 
 pleasure, for, in some respects, you are the very echo of 
 my own mind ; no, echo does not do, for you sub- 
 stantiate in words, thoughts, and feelings that have 
 hovered disembodied in my mind. I have never felt it 
 to be the least generally necessary to salvation to 
 dwell upon the doctrine of eternal punishment. At 
 the same time I do believe in the downward tendency 
 of the soul of man, and, as also I believe in the im- 
 mortality of the soul, I cannot put away the thought 
 that many souls may wake to a sense of misery and 
 with a clear recollection of neglected opportunities, and, 
 as Dante says in his famous lines, there can be no 
 greater misery . . .
 
 Ill 
 
 LETTERS 1877 TO 1882 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, 8tA January 1877. 
 
 MY DEAR MARY Tis not my wont, you will allow, 
 to leave any note of yours unanswered, but I do not 
 like to write to you otherwise than cheerily, and 1877 
 has opened rather gloomily to us. On Christmas Eve 
 some subtle poison errant in this heavy air caught 
 Michael by the throat and laid him low with an attack 
 of diphtheria. Then the doctors say that Lucy's kind 
 and eager little heart is radically diseased, and the 
 whole way of her life is to be altered. No running, or 
 dancing, or riding, or excitement. This is hard on her 
 whose very life is motion. Then we have had every 
 sort of disaster at the hospital, where everything is dis- 
 organised by the division of opinion. This culminates 
 to-day in a great Governor's meeting, in which our 
 side is likely to be smitten hip and thigh, our virtue 
 availing nothing against the crafty and unscrupulous 
 foe. . . . Fair fall your roof this year, and long may it 
 cover your dear heads, and long may your memory 
 abide there after we are all gone to the place where we 
 shall verify whether indeed " the sayings learnt on this 
 dark earth be true."
 
 44 LETTERS OF [1877 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, February. 
 
 Write me a good long letter to-morrow to give a 
 change to my ideas. All this week we have had 
 frightful illness in the hospital, and such scenes of 
 bodily and mental distress that I feel quite stupid 
 about other matters. I seem to hear and see and 
 smell nothing but sick and dying people. But it is 
 quite impossible to say how much one learns in going 
 through these things. I always feel that these poor 
 people teach me so infinitely more than I can teach 
 them. The power of religion is certainly great, and 
 the soul seems in some cases to cling to the idea of 
 God as though to some actual tangible help. The 
 decaying of the outward man and the living brightness 
 of the inward spirit is often quite wonderful. 
 
 . . . Oh ! yesterday morning we went to Holland 
 House. It is of quite extraordinary interest and beauty. 
 I longed for you, but you will see it one day. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, zoth February. 
 
 Thanks for your letter and for the very pretty, more 
 than pretty stanzas. The ring and the rhyme, and, to 
 a certain extent, the reason of them make an impression 
 on one, just about the impression you intend no doubt. 
 But I have not the feeling which lies at the root that 
 our faith is dead, nor do I believe, nor do you I am 
 sure, that the mind of man, however developed, can 
 ever form a fairer or more perfect scheme of peace on 
 earth and goodwill than is contained in the Gospel. 
 What is dead, and certainly a good deal lias died since
 
 1 877] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 45 
 
 the Middle Ages, is the belief in such doctrines as the 
 essential sanctity of the priesthood, with its peculiar 
 power of binding and loosing, and the efficacy of cer- 
 tain acts of devotion as separate from the spirit of the 
 inner man. But then I do not seem to find these 
 things insisted upon in the Gospels, or in the Epistles 
 either, nor does the hand of Science clash to any 
 serious extent with our Scriptures, and to Christians 
 the Gospels suffice. I begged your uncle Alfred to 
 mark me out a course of reading, which, if I followed, I 
 should track the way by which the intellectual men of 
 this younger generation have arrived at the point 
 whence they perceive that the old creed is lifeless. He 
 replied that it would be very difficult, etc. But why 
 should it be difficult ? I have an entire desire for the 
 truth, and I am not afraid to enquire. If prayer and 
 a firm belief in God and a future state is no longer of 
 avail, why should not a woman of average understand- 
 ing be enlightened if she can be enlightened demon- 
 strably? It is this reluctance or difficulty in giving 
 grounds for unbelief that makes so many women sus- 
 pect that the true reason for the leaving of the former 
 ways is a dislike in the minds of men to the exercise 
 of prayer, and to the irksomeness of trying to live by 
 spiritual rule, and it is irksome. Also to a certain 
 pride which has overflowed men's hearts in consequence 
 of the progress of science. But we may be wrong ; 
 only I should think there ought to be some explana- 
 tion which I could be made to understand. 
 
 I should think you were a Benthamite, at the same 
 time I should be sorry to think that you could not 
 understand the other side of the question, and as I 
 have no great faith in intuitive knowledge but think 
 that all knowledge is imparted I will send the Coleridge.
 
 46 LETTERS OF [1877 
 
 It would also comfort your poor mother did she know 
 that you read every day half a page in the Book of 
 Books. I think the happiest part of my life was when 
 I could hold my Father with one hand and my son 
 with the other, and so it is with our ideas. Let us 
 hold our new ideas, the children of our youth, without 
 letting go the author and guide of our own childhood. 
 In any case I love to know your mind, and may God 
 in His mercy keep you from the slough of materialism 
 in which a man is given up to follow his own heart's 
 lusts and left to his imagination without a sting of 
 conscience. This, and perhaps this only, would break 
 my heart ; in all other courses I should find much in 
 which to hope and to rejoice. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 DOVER, -yd May. 
 
 My dearest Mary With all the desire in the world 
 to see you before I left London, I could not do it, but 
 there is a " Broad-stone " 1 of happiness in the knowledge 
 that you will presently be at Poynters, and that I shall 
 find you in the verandah some sweet May afternoon 
 when the thorn is white with blossom. But I begin to 
 feel rather old and grizzled under the hawthorns, and 
 I am conscious of a horrid dependence on an armchair 
 and a teapot in enjoying natural beauties after a long 
 walk. " The outward man decayeth," is rather a heavy 
 sound in the spring light. Strengthen us so much the 
 more continuously in the inner man. These are our 
 " waters of Jouvence," my dear, which as a child I did 
 long to find, not knowing how near the fountain was. 
 
 1 Kenelm Digby's book is called The Broad-stone of Honour.
 
 1 87 7] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 47 
 
 Have you read your Harriet Martineau, and did you 
 read Florence Nightingale's letters ? And have you 
 ever read St. Beuve's Port-Royal ? I have been reading 
 it for the second time, and cannot find any one to talk 
 to about it. Luce was confirmed last Friday. She and 
 Meta Holland knelt together, and the Bishop laid his 
 hands on two very innocent heads. She makes her 
 first communion on Whit Sunday. I am here till the 
 roth, and the rest is very pleasant. My mother is fairly 
 well, and Barbara full of ideas and laughter. Bernard 
 is very happy at Cambridge. I write to him, and he 
 sometimes takes what his poor mamma says, and weaves 
 it into sweetest verse, and returns it, to her great 
 pleasure. . . . 
 
 Farewell, my only Mary. Heaven send we may 
 soon meet and all may be well. 
 
 To tlie Same 
 
 Fox GHYLL, AMBLESIDE, i6M August. 
 
 My dearest Mary A vast budget which I saw Agnes 
 despatching to Miss Mildred will have contained any 
 possible news that there was to give you. But you 
 desired me to write, and my pen, after hovering un- 
 certainly over this sheet of paper, has turned north like 
 the needle of a compass. 1 Frank and my sister Mary 
 arrived on Tuesday evening, and Miss Macrae and her 
 pupil are lingering on, so that we are a large party. 
 The house is full of laughter and chatter from morning 
 till night. The country is perfectly lovely, quite beyond 
 my expectations, and it is quite delightful to be in 
 Wordsworth's part of it. I stood long by his grave 
 yesterday. He lies with his wife and sister, the eager- 
 1 Towards a Highland moor.
 
 48 LETTERS OF [1877 
 
 hearted, wild-eyed Dorothy, under the yews of Grasmere 
 church. He was such a true poet of the Lakes, born 
 and bred here, and living out his whole life. He has 
 always been my favourite poet, and every turn of the 
 road, every rock and bush, seems to expound him and 
 his writings. If you have his poems in the house, do, 
 for my sake, read again his lines written at Tintern 
 Abbey. There is no Wordsworth here, so we have to 
 fall back on our recollections. The Matthew Arnolds 
 arrived yesterday, but we have only just seen them. 
 The Miss Arnold of Fox How is very pleasant very 
 unworldly, very little luggage of any sort to go through 
 the world with. I like her much, and I like the swift 
 Rothay which runs below the garden, and the little 
 stream which rushes from the hill above to join it, and 
 the soft green mountains which surround the house on 
 every side. The garden runs up into the Fell and is 
 full of flowers. It is like a jewel hung on the mountain's 
 breast. Yesterday we had a lovely long day out among 
 the hills by Easedale Tarn. Lucy wept as we returned. 
 " It is so beautiful and we shall perhaps never see it 
 again." 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox GHYLL, AMBLESIDE, $rd September. 
 
 My dear Mary It is delightful to hear that you 
 are going south about the I2th. So are we, and in 
 my heart I have already bade a cheerful " farewell to 
 the North, the birthplace of valour, the country of worth." 
 To me these virtues avail not where the sun never 
 shines, and hitherto we have subsisted on gleams, 
 occasional gleams. To-day is dry, with a very cold 
 wind, and Frank, Bernard, my sister Mary, and Agnes,
 
 1877] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 49 
 
 have set out to walk over Grisedale to Ulleswater. 
 This sort of exercise is very pleasant, and we have 
 made several, but I cannot share the long walks. It 
 is about twelve years since we were all together away 
 from home in this way. It does not seem so very long 
 ago, and yet, when I remember that I was then twenty- 
 eight years old and our eldest child eight, and that I 
 used to scramble down the cliffs with Agnes on my 
 back and Bernie in one hand, and that I ran and rowed 
 and swam, and went into places where Frank did not 
 dare to follow, it is certain that no other twelve years 
 can make so much difference again either to the children 
 or to me. Now I am glad to be left at home to read 
 and write and to join Mrs. Matthew's teapot. 
 
 Lucy and Nelly Arnold are the most amiable girls 
 possible, with plenty of sense and decision, and the 
 more we see of them the better we like them. There 
 is an overflowing tenderness in the whole family. It 
 is lovely to see Edward Arnold, in whose eyes there is 
 already " the light that never was on sea or land," with 
 his brothers and sisters and son and nieces. There is 
 an expressed tenderness which would be too much to 
 be borne, so like it is to the tenderness of parting, were 
 it not the outcome of a whole life of goodness and 
 affection. The Poet l was talking of you the other day 
 and said, " If you see them first give them every message 
 of affection you can think of. He is the dearest man 
 and she the dearest woman in Surrey." He said this 
 so suddenly and heartily. We see very little of him, 
 nor do we go much to Fox How. They are plagued 
 by an incessant stream of visitors, who call on the 
 faintest possible pretext of acquaintance, and to avoid 
 this, he shuts himself up, or goes out fishing. 
 
 1 Matthew Arnold. 
 E
 
 50 LETTERS OF [1877 
 
 Mildred Whitmore wrote Agnes a quite beautiful 
 little letter about her brother's death. I do so wish 
 that she could have been spared such a grief. There 
 is something so particularly melancholy to the young 
 imagination in a death alone and far-off, and a girl 
 may so reasonably hope to have her brother's friend- 
 ship all her life. It is a great loss. 
 
 Nothing interests me more in this country than 
 Grasmere Churchyard, where Dorothy and William 
 Wordsworth lie side by side, exactly as they chose to 
 lie, having lived their whole life out in the place dearest 
 to them on earth. Did you ever read her Tour in 
 Scotland? It has long been a favourite of mine. 
 Their spirit seems to dwell on everything here, and, 
 after all, the change since their time is not great. A 
 few more hotels and lodging-houses, and public vehicles. 
 You might sweep them all away in a day, like the 
 tawdry ornaments in some great cathedral. 
 
 I wish that we were within hearing of your preacher 
 on Sundays. Here the church privileges are few. The 
 seats are agony, the singing miserable, and the sermons 
 long, much too long. Matthew Arnold sits facing the 
 whole congregation, in a small square pew under the 
 pulpit. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, \st November. 
 
 My dear Mary Barbara tells me that you are laid 
 up with a bad cold, while we have been imagining you 
 at Lythe Hill. . . . Shall I come and take the night- 
 school for you on Monday ? Shall I ? 
 
 Frank has been wanting me all the week to fix to 
 go down with him to Fox Holm on Monday to see what 
 Umney is doing, and after sitting a while with the
 
 i877] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 51 
 
 guinea - pigs and musing with the donkey, I could 
 lunch at Fox Warren and drop in upon you about five 
 o'clock with a bag. Then, if you were well enough, I 
 could night-school with you ; if not, I could read you 
 a sermon, say one of South's or Butler's. All this is 
 only supposing that you are at least thoroughly con- 
 valescent and alone with the man of your heart, and in 
 the humour for it, and fifty other supposings. There is 
 nothing really to do at Fox Holm, so that any other day 
 of any other month would do as well, only distance 
 never lends enchantment to my view. So, Mary, send 
 me a post-card. Mary, Mary, send me a post-card. 
 
 We have a fog this morning, and probably there 
 will be' one to-morrow. Last Sunday was what words 
 can't tell. The thickest smoke imaginable. We felt 
 our way to church. Inside the sacred edifice a dense 
 fog, all the gas lit and flaring through it, everybody 
 there because they could not sit at home, seal-skins 
 and woolly veils exhaling a miasma. Quite a little 
 purgatory below, as Dr. Watts says. Let me know 
 how you are in any case, and believe always that I am, 
 your affectionate SlBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To the Same 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, Sunday Night, November. 
 
 My dearest Mary It is cold to-night, and the 
 horses' hoofs ring on the road outside with a frosty 
 sound. Here it is very warm and silent, the girls are 
 reading under the lamp, and I have been sitting at 
 least twenty minutes in this armchair, pen and paper 
 in my lap, trying to think of any more reasonable 
 excuse for writing to you than that I hope to get a
 
 52 LETTERS OF [1877 
 
 note in return. Next Sunday is Advent how the 
 year swings round how short all time is, and yet how 
 far we seem already from the sweet lost summer of 
 1877. But Agnes avers that a touch of its fragrance 
 still hangs about the houses and gardens, and she 
 brought me a handful of mignonette and violets and 
 leaves to show that she said true. The poor little 
 sprays looked wistful, and I thought of the pencils, and 
 half-written notes, and bits of work which a child or a 
 servant will collect in the room of some dear soul that 
 is gone, and bring to one with an awe-struck face. 
 
 This is very sentimental, but we are a sentimental 
 family. ... I am very busy all day with one thing or 
 another. Schools this winter rather than hospitals. I 
 have been going about to some of the great High 
 Schools to see their system of teaching. The whole 
 education question is excessively interesting. When 
 one has acquired a certain practical knowledge of a 
 subject, it is delightful to theorise, and it is so much 
 more satisfactory than getting the theory before the 
 practice. And one distinct consolation in growing 
 older is that one makes fewer mistakes we act with 
 more certainty, and have no need of that eternal going 
 back in our minds about things which used to occasion 
 such loss of time. We have settled how much we can 
 carry, and we have humped the burden on to a com- 
 fortable place on our back. It is this, or perhaps it is 
 that it is so long ago since we stood on the threshold 
 of life and cast a " level glance at pleasure flying from 
 afar," l that we have forgotten the lovely dawn. . . . 
 
 1 From a poem of W. Johnson, the Eton master.
 
 1878] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 53 
 
 To tJu Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, June. 
 
 My dear Mary Before we had left your gates yes- 
 terday Barbara's weak spirit failed at the thought of 
 playing lawn tennis, and she has persuaded me to tell 
 you how infinitely she would prefer to assist at the 
 tournay from the heights of the verandah. ... I do 
 feel so extraordinarily happy in this weather. I wish 
 that there were not always the feeling that perhaps this 
 perfect sense of enjoyment is not quite right. On a 
 fine summer's day I cannot help feeling that all is for- 
 given. I wish we could spend seven or eight hours on 
 the downs all together. B. and I would meet you at 
 St. Martha's chapel at any hour mentioned. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 Fox HOLM, igiA July. 
 
 ... I think you are right in the main as to the 
 unadvisability of making the Old Testament so much 
 a part of religious education as Protestants are inclined 
 to do. At the same time the Old Testament has done 
 very good work. Some years ago it was the history, 
 geography, and poetry in one, of all the English poor, 
 and I have often been struck, in talking with old 
 people, to find how deeply they have meditated the 
 stories of Joseph and David and Ahab and Ruth. Too 
 much has often been said, as you remark, for the pur- 
 pose of palliating the crimes of the Old Testament. 
 But, on the other hand, those crimes, as of Jacob and 
 David, have been too triumphantly pointed at by
 
 54 LETTERS OF [1878 
 
 anti-religionists. I own that I am always irritated by 
 the way people speak of Jacob and David. They seem 
 to miss the point altogether. No one could palliate 
 David's crime, but to a mind at all experienced in 
 spiritual life it is a distinct comfort to know that even 
 such a sin can be repented of and fully forgiven. It is 
 almost impossible to teach religion as a separate part 
 of education. It is like poetry. Children learn what 
 poetry is by being with people who truly feel its influ- 
 ence, and in whose nature it forms an important part, 
 and so also they learn religion. Only, as few people 
 pretend to poetic sentiment, the world is spared a mass 
 of false sentiment and inconsistencies, and there is con- 
 sequently no active opposition. 
 
 I think that we ought to be able to do something 
 for our schoolgirls by selecting a set of really cultivated 
 and high-toned schoolmistresses. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 Fox HOLM, July. 
 
 My dear Mary Do not fail us to-morrow, for I 
 must talk to you about the Guild before you go. . . . 
 Do come early and stay as long as you can, so as to 
 give time for some serious discourse with me as well as 
 for a laugh with Barbara. I cannot bear to think how 
 near the time is for your departure to Scotland, and 
 when you return the summer will have gone for ever. 
 However, my dear Mary, beyond all summers and 
 winters, and in whatever state of existence, while 
 memory and feeling last, I shall love you. Your 
 affectionate SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 1878] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 55 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, zgtk August. 
 
 My dear Mary Thrice has your coachman left a 
 basket of superb fruit at this door. It is so good of 
 you to think of us when far away in this manner. 
 
 There is little news stirring. . . . The Frosts came 
 over to tea last week and brought a very sharp Down- 
 side babe to lead the donkey. He looked at our gray 
 parrot, who was standing on one leg on the top of a 
 chair eating a lump of sugar, and observed, " That ain't 
 a howl as sets there ? " I liked this cautious and 
 masculine manner of asking for information. We have 
 rain off and on, and there is a premature whiff of 
 autumn in the early morning air. We lead a quiet 
 life, neither grave nor gay. Miss Macrae is with me, 
 and we teach the children, walk and botanise, and read 
 much and talk a little. Good-bye, dear, and very 
 dear Mary. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM. 
 
 Dear Mary . . . The sight of you did me a 
 world of good, and I had such a pleasant walk home, 
 owls hooting and pheasants chicking and chestnuts 
 bobbing down through the soft darkness. I thought of 
 the many poor, honest men and women trudging back 
 to their old doors with tired backs and thinking of 
 nothing particular, and, with my waterproof, which 
 seemed as heavy as a faggot or a peck of potatoes, I 
 felt quite like one on 'em, and a thought about the 
 Squire's lady as ad been a talking to, and a nice lady 
 she is, bless her heart, and that were a pertikler good
 
 56 LETTERS OF [1878 
 
 cup o' tea, that were, and a injaed it too, a did, but 
 lor, a never let one of my childer stan' and pick the 
 peel out o' the cake. Take an' eat it, an' eat what's 
 in it, or let it be ; what's the odds whether ye eats cake 
 or no ? but, heart alive, talk o' eddication and give 'em 
 a knife to pick out the good peel ! That's a laming 
 on 'em wrong. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM, October. 
 
 My dear Mary ... It was so pleasant to be at 
 Poynters last night, and I wish the minutes were to 
 come over again. Is it not delightful to have this 
 cheer of beauty and sunshine before we enter the dark 
 cavern of winter ? You must let me come to you one 
 of these afternoons. 
 
 I do not like to think of Mrs. C. going back to town 
 when fogs have begun already. Why should she not 
 sun herself a little longer in the sweet air? I often 
 think how eager people are for some things, and how 
 chary, even to themselves, of pure leisurely enjoyment. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, 301/1 October. 
 
 My dear Mary I cannot let this evening pass 
 without sending you one word to say that I shall 
 remember you, together with many other blessed ones, 
 living and departed, at the early service to - morrow 
 morning. I know that you feel exactly as I do about 
 All Saints' Day, and that to us it is more, perhaps, than 
 to many who keep stricter vigil and more solemn Feast.
 
 1878] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 57 
 
 Most dear and blessed you have always been to me 
 since I first knew you. 
 
 I could say many things, but that it is not easy 
 to write in bed. A catarrh, which is, I suppose, an 
 aggravated cold, caught me two days since. My 
 intellect is completely submerged, but my affections 
 survive. . 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, ist November. 
 
 My dearest Mary The day comes round again, 
 and with the day comes the special remembrance of 
 the saints above, " the solemn troops and sweet 
 societies, that sing, and singing in their glory move." 
 May we and ours in the end of all things be numbered 
 with them in glory everlasting ! 
 
 But as there is a great gulf fixed between us and 
 those blessed spirits, and as we must spend our mean- 
 while on the " firm opacous globe of this round world," 
 I long for fuller communion with the saints below, and 
 feel it hard and strange that a few damp meadows and 
 misty autumn woods should so completely cut me 
 ofif from your dear presence. Agnes brought a 
 pleasant breath of Poynters air back with her, and I 
 listened with understanding ears to her exact and 
 detailed account of how every quarter of an hour had 
 been spent. She had " never been so happy in her 
 life," and this is really saying much, for her life has 
 flowed serenely enough. 
 
 To-morrow she and I mean to go to All Saints' early 
 service. Last year it was lovely with white and scarlet 
 flowers and long processions of holy women, really end- 
 less files, black and gray and disembodied-looking in the
 
 58 LETTERS OF [1878 
 
 twilight, the November twilight, of the church. We have 
 unpacked and settled ourselves among the four million 
 of neighbours, and I have run round to the hospitals, and 
 seen the site of the new school, and undergone the con- 
 gratulations of the principal parishioners on our safe 
 return. It is pleasant, but tiring, and I always feel so 
 tired and tender from the parting at Fox Holm. The 
 little house looks so desolate the last few days, so in 
 harmony with the decay and death going on in the 
 woods and garden. The play is over, the lights going 
 out one by one, and the house left at last dark and 
 empty, the voices of the actors gone as though they 
 had never been. 
 
 This afternoon I went into the old flower shop in 
 Crawford Street for a flower. " Indeed, ma'am," said 
 the girl, " you cannot have one, we want them all for 
 All Saints." I said "Your flowers were lovely last 
 year there." " Oh, ma'am, you should see them this 
 year, it's splendid, and we have done it all. The great 
 cross is magnificent." " Well," I said, " you must give 
 me a church flower ; my saint is alive but dying, and 
 your saints must spare her one." " Oh," said the girl, 
 " and to think how I've been complaining of my legs 
 aching all day, and she never to get up again ; you shall 
 choose what you like, ma'am." There were tears in 
 her pretty eyes, and I kissed her smooth cheek as I 
 took the flower. Many of these London girls are so 
 quick-witted and generous. If I had nothing to do I 
 should take a large house and look after a hundred of 
 them. And they are so pretty. 
 
 When I saw you last week I did not know of Mr. 
 Deacon's kindness about the school. Frank is much 
 cheered on his way, and I have hopes that the school 
 will do much. It is such a great undertaking, so much
 
 1878] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 59 
 
 greater than anything else I have had to do with that 
 I have never had courage to talk to you fully about it. 
 I have the responsibility for the idea, and this rather 
 weighs upon me. . . . My dearest Mary, yours always, 
 and at all times, and in all places, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, 2nd December. 
 
 I have been thinking of you all day and am glad to 
 know that at this moment, 7.30 P.M., you are not at 
 work. I shall be glad when next Friday is over and 
 you out of it all. I particularly enjoyed my quiet two 
 hours with you at Cambridge, and had a very easy 
 journey home to the Wen, 1 flying steadily through the 
 flat fields, over which the darkness was softly falling. 
 There is a sort of attraction in the very desolation of 
 the country at this time of year. I suppose it is the 
 seasonableness that half pleases one. I thought of 
 Milton's sonnet about the dark afternoons and miry 
 ways. 
 
 Yesterday, in London, was too terrible, really a day 
 of wrath, a dreadful day. Fog and drizzle, and thick 
 rnud and dinginess indescribable. This was our Advent 
 portion to drink. The sound of the Advent Collect 
 was the only cheer. From my earliest days the words 
 " now in this mortal life " have stirred my heart, and 
 the "armour of light," and the "great humility." In 
 thousands of children's minds these words have been 
 associated with the deepening into winter, and the light 
 and mirth of Christmas seen afar off. 
 
 1 Cobbett's name for London. See Rural Rides, passim.
 
 60 LETTERS OF [1879 
 
 I am sorry that Mr. Gladstone has spoken so long 
 and so vehemently. I often think of the lady who said 
 that he made her weary of the cardinal virtues. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 Fox HOLM, z^th June. 
 
 My dear Mary The blessing of Saint John be with 
 you, and may many midsummer days shine and burn 
 themselves out on dear Poynters, and many midsummer 
 night moons look down on the cigar of its master, and 
 what I want to say is, will you send that Downside 
 maiden to see me as soon as possible. . . . Have you 
 heard that M. our good and brave M., is seriously ill. 
 The oculist fears congestion of the brain, and has sent 
 her away to-day to Brighton. The good Priest sits 
 with all his feathers drooping. 
 
 Emily and I went to see her yesterday. She was 
 most sweet and cheery, thankful for all the years oi 
 hard work she has done, and ready to conform her will 
 to the good pleasure of Heaven. She is a good, good 
 woman. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CAVENDISH, SUFFOLK, 23^ August. 
 
 My dear Mary The time seems long since I heard 
 of you. . . . There is no news stirring, at least nothing 
 of interest, and when I try to think of anything I can 
 only remember that Frank is gone to America. We 
 came up to town together on Saturday morning, and 
 he jumped out of the cab and disappeared, bag in hand, 
 among the crowd of people at the Oxford Circus, and
 
 1 879] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 61 
 
 I came on here, stopping by the way at Cambridge, 
 where Bernard met me. We had six quiet hours to- 
 gether in his rooms, and among the old chapels and 
 libraries and gardens. The place was so solitary and 
 silent that it almost seemed to exist only in the mind 
 and eyes of the tall low-voiced boy at my side. He is 
 penetrated body, soul, and spirit, with the feeling of the 
 place. . . . 
 
 . . . Oh for Paul of Tarsus ! If one could preface 
 the word of rebuke with his full and tender recognition 
 of all, and more than all, that is well done in others, 
 how great would be the increase of faith, hope and 
 charity ! The older I grow the more strongly I feel 
 how much happier one ought to be, and how far happier 
 we could make each other. The troubles that God 
 sends are certainly not those that spoil one's life. 
 Farewell, your loving SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 My dearest Mary ... I can think of nothing but 
 Cabul. In Barbara's last letter she said that she had 
 had a long letter from Cavagnari describing his friendly 
 reception and his beautiful house and garden. He has 
 been all the time with them at Simla, and went off in 
 joyful spirits. It stirs one's whole being to imagine 
 the Englishmen charging out of the burning house and 
 among the masses of dark faces in the court. I think 
 there must be a sort of joy in such a death. I cannot 
 pity them. But we are in a fine mess. My brother 
 Alfred will feel it keenly. 
 
 When are you coming home ? You have been away 
 an enormous time, Mary !
 
 62 LETTERS OF [1879 
 
 To the Same 
 
 Fox HOLM. 
 
 My dear Mary We shall be charmed to come. . . . 
 D. really has a kind heart. She is more elfish than 
 selfish. What a jest ! 
 
 Hers is a nature that would all turn to gold if once 
 she could be touched by the " folly of the Cross." You 
 will know what I mean. No other words seem to 
 express it. I envy her her visit at Poynters. Your 
 loving, your very loving SlBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To tJu Same 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, November. 
 
 Dearest Mary ... I took Mildred to Sandroyd 
 on Tuesday. How splendid the great stretch of woods 
 looked from the top of Fair Mile, and, as we drove 
 along the road between Silvermere and St. George's 
 Hill, the air was full of myriads of softly falling bright 
 leaves, though not a breath was stirring. The hoar 
 frost lay like silver in every shady corner, and the spruce 
 firs were of an astonishing vigorous green. Their 
 Scotch brothers of a deep blooming blue. You are 
 living in the midst of this sunset of the woods, but I 
 want you to know that I saw it too. It made me 
 happy on Tuesday morning to be sure that you were 
 somewhere out and about seeing and feeling the same 
 things. It is a superb autumn and winter country. 
 
 Gertrude Frost died quietly on All Saints' Day, and
 
 i88o] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 63 
 
 was buried last Saturday. The church was full of the 
 innocent tears and sobs of her pupils. Your loving 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 VEYTAUX, zoth April. 1 
 
 . . . This afternoon we walked to Glyon, on the 
 road to the Col du Jaman. We came down through 
 loveliest pastures in which the crickets were chirriping 
 madly. Mrs. Chave says that May is the month for 
 Switzerland, and that the spring is three weeks earlier 
 than usual this year. The blossom of the fruit trees 
 will be over, I fear, when you come on the 3rd May. 
 I can hardly believe that a fortnight hence the country 
 can be so charming as it is now. And the weather 
 is like summer, only with more vigour in the air. 
 Yesterday we spent the day at Lausanne, and saw 
 the Cathedral, which is considered the finest in Switzer- 
 land, and it is in good repair. It is never used. 
 Within is neither altar, nor font, nor pulpits, nor seats. 
 It seems to me that there is no sort of sign of outward 
 worship to be discovered in this country. Anything 
 more miserable than the afternoon service which we 
 attended in the " Stattliche Kirche " of Montreux can- 
 not be imagined, a sort of service so much better suited 
 to a white-washed meeting-house, in which it certainly 
 finds its natural expression. . . . 
 
 1 My mother went to Switzerland to be with her daughter Lucy, who 
 had spent the winter at Algiers for health, and could not return to England 
 till May.
 
 64 LETTERS OF [1880 
 
 To Lady Stephen 
 
 VEYTAUX-MONTREUX. 22nd April. 
 
 My dearest Mary I can hardly believe that in the 
 full tide of the London season and the coming and 
 going of people and things you will have time to read 
 a letter from me, but you made me promise to write. 
 I had not seen Paris for twenty years, and it looked to 
 advantage about six o'clock on a fine April evening, the 
 streets crowded with merry, well-dressed persons, and 
 the trees on the Boulevards just bursting into leaf. 
 We went on to Lyons next day, and I did not find the 
 nine hours' rail too long, so absorbed was I in looking at 
 the country as we flew along. I never imagined such 
 cultivation. The whole country is like a hand-cultivated 
 kitchen garden. England is a wilderness in comparison. 
 France certainly gives one the idea of an immense 
 prosperity. 
 
 At Lyons I waited a day and a half for Lucy, 
 whose ship had been driven out of her course towards 
 the coast of Spain. On the second night she arrived 
 just at dawn, when I had given her up and gone to bed. 
 She is looking very well, eats and sleeps and is for 
 ever talking and laughing. We came on here about a 
 week ago, and have hitherto had the most perfect 
 weather. 
 
 This hotel is a few hundred yards above the lake, 
 and the view is much the same as that from Vevey 
 the blue lake below us, the mountains opposite rising 
 straight out of the water, the little gay bays and 
 villages, with the soft circling line of the Jura to our 
 right. On our left, the head of the lake and the 
 gigantic snow-clad Dent du Midi, filling up the opening
 
 r88o] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 65 
 
 of the Rhone valley. Behind the hotel the pastures and 
 wooded heights rise above 2000 feet. Beyond these we 
 see the granite and snowy peaks of the Dent du Jaman, 
 over whose green " Col " I hope to see Bernard descend- 
 ing on the 3rd of May. Little paths zig-zag gently 
 up through the pastures, which are knee-deep in lovely 
 grass and flowers, and the wild cherry throws its 
 garlands of blossom in every direction. Chillon sits 
 solemnly in the blue lake below. 
 
 Yesterday we took our work and book and sat the 
 whole morning on the slabs of gray stone on which the 
 Castle of Chillon is built. The water lapped all round 
 us ; shoals of fish, great and small, swam to and fro, and 
 beyond the blue shadow of the castle the lake glittered 
 like silver. The afternoon we spent high up under the 
 cherry trees, where the grass is full of cowslips, and 
 orchises, and large blue forget-me-not, and the large 
 grasshoppers chirrup quite madly in the warm sun. 
 I enjoy it, but I am a little too old for many of these 
 idle, happy hours. 
 
 The company in our hotel is vulgar, but of a passing 
 away sort. It serves to whet the blade of Lucy's 
 criticism. She is severe, as only youth, with its as yet 
 unlowered standard, can be. Later on in the day we 
 waste fewer blows, and live and let live far more easily. 
 
 My little Michael goes to school next Saturday, 
 and I cannot think of his departure without tears. 
 The older I grow the more I feel partings of all kinds. 
 I seem to understand more fully what they really 
 mean. Partings are a dead loss, however much one 
 may accustom oneself to live without the creatures 
 who are so dear. 
 
 Our newspaper arrives here in an uncertain manner. 
 There is much political talk at one end of the table 
 
 F
 
 66 LETTERS OF [1880 
 
 (fhdte. It is very funny to hear six quite ignorant 
 people talking confidently and arrogantly of great 
 affairs. They are all exactly on the same level, and 
 so cannot detect one another. Always, dear Mary, 
 your very affectionate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 Please give my love to Kate, and remember me 
 with respect and affection to Sir James. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET i^th. November. 
 
 My dearest Mary Please thank Mr. Deacon for the 
 goodly gift of game. A brace of birds has gone on to a 
 family more friendless and remote from pheasants than 
 ourselves. Luce has come home, and when I told her 
 of Mr. Deacon's contribution to the school library, of 
 which she is to be librarian, she exclaimed, " Oh 
 mamma, mamma ! He will be clothed about with 
 glory." 
 
 This weather is an enormous gain upon the winter. 
 One forgets how near he is* at hand, in this beautiful 
 smiling departure of all that made summer and autumn. 
 On Saturday morning I went down to Mortlake, and 
 took Micky out of the large cage where Mr. - 
 keeps him along with 122 other small English singing 
 birds. We went into Richmond Park, and struck 
 across the grass among the herds of deer and the old 
 trees till we came to Richmond Hill, above the Thames, 
 and not a soul did we meet all the way. From the 
 terrace we went down to the water-side, and sat on 
 some large clean stones to eat a provision of white cake 
 and grapes. And at this point I had resolved to open 
 a conversation with Michael on his besetting sins, of
 
 i88o] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 67 
 
 which his schoolmaster had sufficiently warned me. 
 But the design was hindered by a party of geese, who 
 were balancing and bobbing against the current, and 
 who at once landed expressly to join us and to partake 
 the meal. Micky wore a little gray coat with a large 
 hole in each elbow, a small red cap on his fluffy 
 head, and a pair of odd socks. Cake in hand he 
 crouched easily on his flat stone, and sat motionless all 
 but the wild look of pleasure in his eyes, and sur- 
 rounded by the noisy geese who wobbled and screamed 
 in stupid agitation, while the shining, flowing river 
 threw it all into good relief. Afterwards the sun set 
 so splendidly from Richmond Hill. The river was like 
 steel inlaid with gold flakes, and the immense landscape 
 drowned in purple softness. We drove back to Mort- 
 lake station, and then poor Mick said good-bye with a 
 sudden blanching and trembling, and in twenty minutes 
 I was at Vauxhall, with all my reproof unspoken. This 
 was feeble. 
 
 I always remember a story your brother Maynard 
 told me at Canterbury, years ago, of an old woman in 
 his parish who used to say to him, " Ha-a ! nice adwice, 
 nice adwice" 
 
 We went to St. Paul's on Sunday. They sang 
 " Rock of Ages " and " O God, our help in ages past." 
 An immense sound of voices rose under the dome, as 
 the vast congregation heaved themselves slowly and 
 firmly into the tune. I suppose there is no congrega- 
 tion in the world like that. It is London worshipping, 
 and worshipping in its own way. My dear Mary, I 
 have given you no news. I always seem to write to 
 you about nothing at all, and desperately to post my 
 letters. That Lady Alice Fortescue, who died on 
 Saturday, was for some time with her sister at the High
 
 68 LETTERS OF [1881 
 
 School. Such a tall, beautiful, spirited girl, and as 
 kind and simple as possible. She was hardly ill three 
 weeks, and has been broken off just like a flower in a 
 wintry storm in spring. Ever your loving 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 Fox HOLM, 2nd October. 
 
 Your Venetian letter was welcome as flowers in 
 spring. ... I have been reading the Mendelsohn family 
 memoirs. There are many letters from Florence, Rome, 
 Venice, and all those places. Did you go through 
 Monselice between Padua and Venice ? F. Mendelsohn 
 calls it " lovely Monselice." Write me more and more 
 descriptions of what you see. Nothing gives me more 
 pleasure than your descriptions. Some day I may see 
 those places, and I shall see them with the thought of 
 you uppermost in my mind. 
 
 In reading about the Mendelsohns it strikes me that 
 music, sculpture, or painting does more for a man than 
 poetry. I think a great musician or painter is a 
 happier man, and makes others happier, makes a much 
 more lovely life for himself and others than a poet 
 does. 
 
 I suppose a poet is a more solitary person, or that 
 the expression of his talent is more difficult than that 
 of a musician. There is less joy about it. Then a 
 musician or painter forms a school and takes delight in 
 his disciples, while a poet always dislikes his imitators, 
 rather unjustly, I think. A poet in the long run gives 
 incomparably more pleasure, and his work is more 
 immortal, at least in his own country, and this must be 
 his consolation.
 
 1 88 1] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 69 
 
 We are pushing forward our winter preparations in 
 Gloucester Street, but we may be detained in these 
 woods till all the leaves have fallen but those of the 
 oak. Those oaks that were cut off in the early spring 
 have contrived to cover themselves with a supply of 
 large, vigorous, dark green leaves, which may remain on 
 till after Christmas. 
 
 To Rosamond Stephen (her god-daughter} 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, Christmas Eve. 
 
 My dear Rosamond Tis true the jug is small, the 
 smallest of small jugs. 
 
 But it holds as much cream as mothers allow to a 
 little maiden while she dwells in her father's house. 
 
 And if my Rosamond should marry to please me, I 
 swear by the font of her baptism to give her a noble 
 silver jug, that shall hold a good pint English of English 
 cream. 
 
 Meantime the years will swing round, and the 
 Xmas Eves, and you will grow tall and blooming to 
 behold, and within, like the King's daughter, you will 
 become all glorious with the wrought gold of wisdom 
 and kindness and pure and precious thoughts. 
 
 I rarely see you, but I hear of you, and remember 
 all I hear ; besides, I know the rock whence you were 
 hewn. You will wonder some day to find how well 
 your god-mother understands you, and how easy it is 
 to get on with her. 
 
 Our whole family salutes your family with good 
 wishes for 1882 and, my dear Rosamond, believe, that 
 all thro' the year, and thro' all mortal years, I shall 
 ever remain your loving god-mother, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 70 LETTERS OF [1882 
 
 To the Same 
 
 2 GLOUCESTER STREET, z^th February. 
 
 My dear Rosamond I am delighted with my sun- 
 flower and with all the neat little sketches in it, which 
 I examine with pleasure. I shall keep it for ever on 
 the sofa in my own room, and I shall have many 
 thoughts about you when I look at it. It makes quite 
 a cheerful appearance on the old striped cover. I like 
 the bud and the empty calix and the two large blossoms. 
 Ever your loving god-mother, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 I have this moment come back from twenty-four 
 hours at Fox Holm. The daffodils and primroses are 
 coming out and the birds are singing as if their 
 hearts would break. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 Fox HOLM, zotk September. 
 
 . . . We are having lovely weather, only too ad- 
 vanced for the time of year. The Virginian creepers 
 are blood-red and already dropping. The mornings 
 and evenings are extraordinarily mild and the mid-day 
 sun very hot. On Sunday not a breath was stirring, 
 and the air was quite transparent. I had a strong 
 sense of the great change beginning ; the beauty was 
 like the beauty that slowly settles in the face of a 
 beloved friend after life has ceased. I hope that there 
 is a future for the fine Italian race, but it may be that 
 some peoples will never be able to fit themselves to the 
 modern civilisation, at least never for themselves so as
 
 i882] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 71 
 
 to become great in it, just as England was nowhere at 
 all in the days when art of every kind exalted a nation. 
 I am sure that what you say of town and country life 
 in Italy must be perfectly true. No doubt all the 
 delight of life there has always been in towns. I think 
 that before many years are gone by, things in London 
 will alter, and a Boston or Weimar will form itself 
 somewhere in our provinces.
 
 IV 
 
 NOTE AS TO THE LIFE OF THE WRITER OF THE 
 LETTERS AFTER THE YEAR 1882 
 
 IN the year 1882 my father was appointed to be a Canon 
 of Canterbury, and gave up both his work and his house 
 in London. For a time, however, he kept his Surrey 
 house, and, till the end of 1885, my mother continued 
 to live there for three or four months in the later 
 summer and autumn. The rest of the year she spent in 
 the Precincts of Canterbury Cathedral. In this age of 
 perpetual motion, it may seem strange that, except for 
 a few days now and then spent on the coasts nearest to 
 those of England, my mother was only abroad three 
 times in her life. Her first journey was to Switzerland, 
 in the early days of her marriage, her second to the 
 shores of the Lake of Geneva in the spring of 1880, 
 her third was with me to Italy in the autumn of 1885. 
 We went to Milan, Bologna, Florence, Orvieto, Rome, 
 Subiaco, Siena, Pisa, and thence drove along the lovely 
 road from Spezia to Genoa, staying two days at Sestri 
 Levante on the way. Between Spezia and Sestri the 
 road winds to a considerable height, and then descends 
 again to the sea. At the summit we made the carriage 
 pause, and I went to the edge of the slope to pick 
 some arbutus berries. As I turned to the carriage I
 
 LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 73 
 
 saw my mother gazing backward, southward, toward 
 the beautiful outline of the Carrara mountains which 
 would, in another moment, be lost to sight for ever. I 
 know not why her look struck me so much, but I see 
 it now. It seemed an eternal farewell to that southern 
 land of which she had thought so much and seen so 
 little. 
 
 Returning over the Mont Cenis we drove from 
 Chambery to the monastery at the Grande Chartreuse. 
 Here I spent two nights, while my mother lodged at 
 the adjacent hospice, where ladies are entertained. On 
 our way homewards in October, we stayed two or 
 three days at Paris. Thence to Fox Holm for, as it 
 proved, the last days she was ever to live there. 
 Among the following letters a few relate to this 
 journey. 
 
 In the following year, 1886, my mother had to meet 
 the great sorrow of her life. Every tender tie of the 
 deepest affection and most intimate sympathy had 
 intertwined her whole being with that of her younger 
 daughter, Lucy Verena. I need say little of this 
 singularly sweet and beautiful relationship of mother 
 and daughter the letters speak for themselves. In 
 1876, when Lucy was fourteen, it was discovered that 
 her heart was diseased, and her gay and active nature 
 was condemned to a life of restraint. In 1879 she 
 all but died of a severe attack of rheumatic fever. 
 This time, however, she recovered and lived to be for 
 seven years more the charm and delight of her family. 
 Lucy was by nature wholly free from worldly ambitions, 
 and her malady still more concentrated her affections 
 to her home. Her life was always precarious she 
 knew this and so did her mother, and this knowledge 
 gave to their love the pathetic charm attached to all
 
 74 LETTERS OF 
 
 that is most beautiful and most transient. My elder 
 sister went to India in the autumn of 1883 and stayed 
 there till the summer of 1885, and Lucy became during 
 this time my mother's sole constant companion. Be- 
 tween her first illness in 1879 and her second illness 
 in 1886 the winters were mild. But in January 
 1886 a winter began which proved as severe as that 
 of 1878-79. With it returned my sister's illness, and 
 in the middle of February she was again attacked by 
 rheumatic fever. Her native vitality was great, and 
 my mother had to watch her darling fighting against 
 terrible sufferings for more than six months. At the 
 end of June the life of Lucy was altogether despaired of, 
 and she received the last sacraments. She rallied, how- 
 ever, in a wonderful way, and towards the end of August 
 she was moved to Harbledown Lodge, two miles from 
 Canterbury, a house, then empty, taken for the purpose. 
 Here she seemed better, though very weak, and for ten 
 days she was able every morning and evening to lie 
 out of doors, in the fields or garden. But on the after- 
 noon of the 3rd of September, as she was being taken 
 out, she became insensible, and died two hours later. 
 She was buried in the lovely churchyard at Godmersham. 
 Lucy was twenty-four years old when she died. 
 
 After this we went no more in the summer to 
 Fox Holm, in Surrey, and that long chapter in my 
 mother's life, so full of her joys and sorrows, came to 
 an end. At the beginning of 1887 my father bought 
 Harbledown Lodge. Here, every year till her death, 
 my mother came from Canterbury in June and stayed 
 till the middle of October. The house stands on a 
 southern slope, with fields above and orchards below 
 and around it. On the north, at the top of the hill, 
 begins the forest of Blean ; below, the undulating
 
 MA R V SIB YLLA HOLLA ND 7 5 
 
 depths of the valley are rich with fruit plantations and 
 hop-gardens. Shakespeare makes Lord Saye and Sele 
 say of Kent 
 
 Sweet is the country, for 'tis full of riches, 
 a line one thinks of in the valley of Harbledown. 
 
 On the further, southern, side of the valley is a 
 steep wooded hill, along the top of which runs the 
 ancient " pilgrims' road," whereby the pilgrims from 
 the southern and western shires used to travel to visit 
 the shrine of Thomas a Becket To the south-east, 
 beyond the opening of the valley, rises the chalk range, 
 yellow in July with wheat-fields, expanding at this point 
 into the wide, rolling, open country of East Kent. In 
 this part of England the air is pure, strong, and clear, 
 and the skies are usually of a peculiar pearly blue, thus 
 mirroring, as my mother used to say, the pale seas 
 which lie north and south and east around the Kentish 
 peninsula. Here, and in the Precincts, she spent her re- 
 maining days, in the sweet country of her childhood and 
 girlhood, and the early years of her married life. 
 
 Ah ! that hamlet in Saxon Kent 
 
 Shall I find it when I come home 
 With toil and travelling well nigh spent, 
 Tired with life in jungle and tent, 
 
 Eastward never again to roam ? 
 
 Pleasantest corner the world can show, 
 
 In a vale which slopes to the English sea, 
 Where strawberries wild in the woodland grow, 
 And the cherry-tree branches are bending low, 
 No such fruit in the south countree. 
 
 So her brother, Alfred Lyall, wrote in the days of 
 his youth on the dusty, sunburnt Indian plains. 1 
 
 At the end of June 1889, my sister married and 
 
 1 See " Verses written in India," by Sir Alfred Lyall.
 
 76 LETTERS OF 
 
 departed to live at the other end of England, in Corn- 
 wall. All my mother's children had then left the home. 
 In the following August my mother was received into 
 the Roman Catholic Church. This was a step towards 
 which she had for many years been tending, led by her 
 innermost nature. 
 
 Cosi vuolsi la dove si puote 
 
 Cio che si vuole, e piu non dimandare. 
 
 It would, perhaps, be enough to use these words of 
 Dante, but I will mention some circumstances relating 
 to this great venture of her life. Her father was a 
 philosophical and learned clergyman of the older school. 
 Her mother was a sound English Churchwoman, but 
 always had a strong taste for the great French religious 
 writers. This she transmitted to her daughters, and 
 my mother all her life was a great student of the French 
 divines, especially those of the seventeenth century. 
 In history she was much influenced by Bossuet and 
 the great work of Fleury. At one time she was ab- 
 sorbed in the controversies connected with the Port 
 Royal movement. Newman ascribed to the novels of 
 Walter Scott the first impulse which started him upon 
 his line of mental development. This and the like 
 literature, especially the romances of La Motte Fouqu, 
 appealed strongly to her young imagination. My 
 mother told me that once, when, as a girl of fifteen, she 
 was staying at the house of her uncle, the Dean of 
 Canterbury, she stole down to his study one night when 
 the house was asleep, took possession of his cathedral 
 key, fearfully let herself into the dark, empty, vast and 
 mysterious church, and passed almost the whole night 
 prostrate before the altar. At another time, half in 
 play, half seriously, she horrified her most respectable
 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 77 
 
 North German governess by informing her that, in 
 consequence of a vow, she must walk barefoot up the 
 long and dusty ascent of Wingate hill, on the London 
 road, and carried out her resolve in spite of remon- 
 strances. In the earlier years of her marriage, however, 
 she made, I believe, a serious intellectual effort to 
 adopt what is called the " evangelical " view. On 
 one occasion, at St. Dunstan's, she rebuked her sister 
 for turning eastward during the Creed, on the ground 
 that the ceremony was not justified by sufficient reason. 
 My mother was not at any time, I think, in very real 
 sympathy with the modern " High Church " party, 
 although she may at times have thought that she 
 was one with them. Perhaps she was never at any 
 time free from doubt as to the claim of the Church 
 of England, and it may be said, in one sense, that 
 a doubt is a suppressed or resisted conviction. Those 
 who knew her best, about half-way between 1870 
 and 1880, think that she then found it difficult to 
 resist the conviction that the Church of Rome was 
 justified in its claim to the allegiance of the Christian, 
 or, at any rate, of the whole western world. 
 
 About the same time, however, she turned her at- 
 tention towards the question of the higher education, 
 on strong and decided Church principles, of girls in the 
 upper and middle classes. Her interest in this matter 
 had first, I believe, been inspired by the study of the 
 foundation and history of " St. Cyr," the creation of the 
 sensible and practical Madame de Maintenon. 
 
 The rapid progress of the " undenominational " high 
 schools for girls had made it necessary that something 
 should be done if the Church of England were not to 
 lose all hold upon this immensely important branch 
 of education. At my mother's suggestion, my father
 
 78 LETTERS OF 
 
 organised a Church School Company, which founded, 
 in 1878, the very successful school in Baker Street, 
 and, some time later, a second school in Graham Street, 
 near Eaton Square. My mother was extremely inter- 
 ested and occupied in the creation and start in life of 
 these schools, and became also one of the chiefs of a 
 guild or association founded in order to combine 
 teachers and others interested in the education of girls 
 on Anglican principles. This office she held until she 
 resigned it nearly a year before her change, in conse- 
 quence of her growing conviction that she must join 
 the Roman Church. These affairs, added to her con- 
 stant labour for the poor and sick, so much for a time 
 occupied her mind that they delayed, perhaps, the step 
 which she finally took. 
 
 The change from London to Canterbury in 1882 
 made a great alteration in her way of life. An intimate 
 friend who knew her mind on these subjects better than 
 any one else, writes, " From the time she went to Canter- 
 bury in 1882 I felt it" (the change) "to be only a 
 matter of time." The Cathedral was a great pleasure to 
 her, and no one at Canterbury more constantly attended 
 its daily services, or more deeply felt their beauty. She 
 delighted in the constant hearing of the English Psalms 
 and Lessons, and, after she had joined the Roman 
 Church, spoke sometimes of the loss which she felt in 
 this respect. But Canterbury is a place very especially 
 associated for many pre-reformation centuries with a 
 form of worship and doctrine in substantial accordance 
 with that of the present Roman Church, and very un- 
 like that of the three and a half hundred years of the 
 reformed Anglican Church. The Cathedral and City 
 are full of relics of the " old Religion," and must pro- 
 duce a singular impression upon an imaginative soul
 
 MA R Y SIB YLLA HOLL AND 79 
 
 haunted, as my mother's so long had been, by the idea 
 that the Roman may be, what it claims to be, the true, 
 or, at least, central Catholic Church, to which is paid 
 perpetual homage in the Creeds. Whether she was 
 right or not, certainly she was led to the Church of 
 Rome by a most ardent desire for reality. 
 
 In addition to its historical associations, Canterbury 
 had in those years a modern Roman Catholic atmos- 
 phere derived from other circumstances. About the 
 time of our return there in 1882, the Jesuits, driven by 
 recent laws out of France, had bought as a school for 
 French boys a large country house, called Hales Place, 
 on the outskirts of Canterbury. The boys were numerous 
 and belonged to the best families in France. During 
 these years many French people of distinction visited 
 Canterbury, and several took houses or lodgings in the 
 town. Among these came from time to time the elo- 
 quent and chivalrous Catholic leader in the French 
 Assembly, the Comte Albert de Mun, 1 who had two 
 boys at the school. Occasionally he dined at our 
 house. The Jesuit Father at the head of the College 
 was himself a gentleman of good birth and noble 
 breeding, the well known Pere du Lac. For some 
 reason the school was closed in the year 1890, much 
 to the grief of the people of Canterbury, who had 
 good cause to like their French guests. The building 
 is now used as a seminary for French and Belgian can- 
 didates for the order. It was bought by the Jesuits 
 from the mortgagees of Miss Hales, the last repre- 
 sentative of a very ancient, and once great, Kentish 
 Roman Catholic family. Miss Hales herself had retired 
 to a house called Sarre Court, amid the Thanet marshes, 
 
 1 Better known perhaps to some English readers of the Rlcit cfunc 
 Sceur as the son of Eugenie.
 
 8o LETTERS OF 
 
 about nine miles from Canterbury. As a girl she had 
 been a friend of the Lyalls, and after our return to 
 Canterbury my mother frequently went to see her at 
 Sarre Court, or entertained her at the Precincts. Mary 
 Hales died at Sarre Court, at the age of forty-five, in 
 April 1 88 5, and was buried in her father's vault under 
 the Chapel of Hales Place. The presence of the French 
 School and of the Jesuit Fathers lent a certain splendour 
 to the ceremony, due to one who was the last of an 
 ancient and honourable race. 
 
 I have mentioned the Roman Catholic elements in 
 Canterbury life, but I do not think that any one person 
 had much to do with my mother's step. Her own 
 nature had long been leading her to Rome. The speed 
 with which she moved towards her destined goal was 
 much quickened by the illness and death of her daughter 
 and circumstances connected with this. A subjective 
 reaction attends the sudden cessation of a long fight 
 against death ; a soul-solitude follows a great loss ; and 
 she had, besides, a doubt as to the long continuance of 
 her own life, or rather a firm belief that she would not 
 long survive her daughter. Yet it was a hard thing 
 for one in her position to take the step. It is a difficult 
 pass that leads from thought to action. She had also, 
 perhaps, the " Lyall repugnance to decisive action," of 
 which she speaks in one letter. She waited till August 
 1889; then, on the 2Oth of that month, saw a Father 
 Gordon, whom she knew by name only, at the Brompton 
 Oratory, and on the following day made her profession 
 of faith. 
 
 A few days after her change some one at Harble- 
 down sang the touching old Jacobite song beginning 
 " Farewell, Manchester, noble Town, farewell." She 
 listened with emotion, and said, afterwards, that the
 
 MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 8 1 
 
 words expressed her feeling. Did she feel, for the 
 moment, as she listened, that she too, after all, might 
 have departed " shadows to pursue " ? It was her 
 venture. I remember that she said once, after her 
 change, " Well, if the Roman Church is not the true 
 Catholic Church, there is at any rate none truer." She 
 often said that Roman Catholicism was Christianity 
 au grand complet. This view does not deny, of course, 
 that essential, or fundamental, beliefs are held in other 
 Churches. Those who hold it feel that, for themselves, 
 the Roman Church offers the most complete or adequate 
 expression of Christian devotion. 
 
 It is possible, I hope, neither to condemn nor to 
 praise beyond others those who find in the Church of 
 Rome that which satisfies their reason and feelings. One 
 result of the long and undecisive religious contests of 
 this century is that there is now more tolerance in 
 opinion. Certainly, people are not condemned so 
 severely now as they were fifty years ago for choosing 
 the form of religion most in harmony with their mature 
 disposition. It is impossible that there should not be 
 some modification in relationship to other persons for 
 one who has crossed a gulf so wide, or rather, perhaps, 
 so deep, as that which separates the Church of England 
 from that of Rome. To a disposition so sensitive in 
 regard of friendships as that of my mother such modifi- 
 cations were painful, but she found, I think, that they 
 were not nearly so great as she had at first apprehended. 
 
 A change of this character, even by one who leads 
 a private life is, in a sense, a public act of importance, 
 and requires explanation. For this reason I have 
 given rather numerous extracts from letters relating to 
 it ; a few also from a journal kept by my mother. 
 It will be seen that she took the step by no means 
 
 G
 
 82 LETTERS OF 
 
 lightly, but most reluctantly, under an irresistible con- 
 viction or attraction. 
 
 After August 1889 my mother became a faithful 
 attendant at the Roman Catholic church of St. Thomas, 
 in the Burgate at Canterbury. It could not be said 
 that any mere external allurements attracted one who 
 exchanged for this very humble place of worship the 
 stately aisles and beautiful chantings of Canterbury 
 Cathedral. Yet still sometimes, on a dark winter 
 afternoon, she might pass with her quick, decided step 
 across the Precincts, enter by the little south door into 
 the dim transept of the Cathedral nave, and, from below 
 the steps, listen to the English psalms and anthems, so 
 delightful to her, chanted in the choir above. She gave, 
 at this time, as a gift to the Cathedral, psalm books to 
 be kept in the nave, and in the beginning of each she 
 wrote words of deep meaning from some divine author. 
 
 My mother had always devoted much of her time to 
 the service of the poor and sick, and, after she had 
 become a Roman Catholic, her zeal in this direction 
 seemed even to increase. Naturally, in these last years, 
 she gave special regard to the Roman Catholics in 
 Canterbury, mostly Irish, and the poorest of the poor. 
 By these, and by many others, she is still remembered 
 in Canterbury with gratitude and affection. 
 
 I do not think that, in these closing years of her 
 life, she could be better described than in words used 
 by Mrs. Craven l in her account of the later years of 
 Lady Georgiana Fullerton : 
 
 " Sa charit^ deja si vive devint plus tendre, plus 
 ardente, plus e'galement distribute entre ceux qui r- 
 clamaient ses aumones et ceux qui demandaient ses 
 
 1 Pauline de la Ferronays, better known as the writer of the Rdcit 
 (fune Sceur.
 
 conseils, son appui et sa sympathie. Elle avait toujours 
 compati aux peines d'autrui ; elle en avait toujours 
 ecoute le recit avec attention, avec intret, avec patience. 
 Mais plus elle avanc_ait dans la vie, plus cette patience 
 devenait tendre, pnetrante, sage pour conseiller, habile 
 pour comprendre, puissante pour soulager. II est 
 presque permis de dire que ces grands cceurs unis a 
 Celui qui est 1'Amour lui-meme participent a sa puissance, 
 et obtiennent le droit de dire comme Lui ' Venez a moi, 
 vous tous qui souffrez et qui etes charge's, et je vous 
 soulagerai.' " 
 
 It remains to say that she found in the Roman 
 Catholic church the full satisfaction and consolation 
 which she sought. 
 
 The following letters extend from her return to 
 Canterbury at the end of 1882 to her death in Septem- 
 ber 1891. In 1882 she was in the 46th year of her 
 age.
 
 V 
 
 LETTERS 1883 TO 1885 
 To Rosamond Stephen 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, CANTERBURY, $th January. 
 
 MY DEAR ROSAMOND I have never written to thank 
 you for your good little letter, which pleased me quite 
 as much as the silly little sugar-bowl can have pleased 
 you. 
 
 You see my words were true, the year has swung 
 round, and the great clock of the world has struck once 
 more. 
 
 You are taller and wiser, I am older and not more 
 foolish. You are climbing merrily up the hill with the 
 sunshine on your face, while I have rounded the top 
 and have turned my face to the shadows. There is a 
 long distance between us, but I shall always send back 
 a cheery voice to my god-daughter once a year until 
 my trudging ends, and I disappear into silence and 
 darkness, and you will say, my poor old god-mother is 
 gone. 
 
 This sounds gloomy to you, but not at all to me, so 
 much I hope to join the great company of happy souls 
 elsewhere. 
 
 I wish very much that you and Dorothea would 
 come to see us here. You would like the ancient
 
 1 88s] LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 85 
 
 places, Becket's Shrine full of splendid old windows, 
 and the great High Altar in front of it, and you would 
 like to see the Black Prince with his fine Plantagenet 
 face carved in bronze and his coat of mail and helmet 
 hanging above him, and the cloister door where the 
 four knights burst in to murder the Archbishop, and 
 the Pilgrim Inn, and then to go to the top of Bell 
 Harry Tower, and to see Archdeacon Harrison come 
 into Church with one eye open and one eye shut, and a 
 nose just like the beak of the jackdaws who fly for ever 
 round the towers, and are almost as regular at Church 
 as he. All this you shall see if you will come next 
 week. 
 
 Michael salutes you. 
 
 Greet the mother of Ajax with a holy kiss. 1 
 
 Lucy salutes Helen. 
 
 Salute Katharine the elder sister, Agnes's friend and 
 mine. 
 
 Salute the Judge ! 
 
 Salute Herbert, James, and Harry, the beloved 
 brethren. 
 
 Be wise unto that which is good. Your loving god- 
 mother, SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Miss Arnold Forster 
 
 CANTERBURY, iZth March. 
 
 I had quite forgotten my own birthday until your 
 kind note and Agnes's warm embrace reminded me of 
 it, at the same instant. Forty and six years have I 
 wandered in this wilderness, and returning to this par- 
 
 1 Reference to the part of Ajax, taken by James Kenneth Stephen in 
 the Greek Play at Cambridge.
 
 86 LETTERS OF [1883 
 
 ticular spot in the desert has made me feel the times 
 past so far off that I should hardly be surprised were I 
 to discover that I was born a hundred and six years 
 ago. I think this is partly owing to the fact that all 
 my contemporaries have left the place, and that those 
 friends who remain are indeed between eighty-five and 
 a hundred years of age. They welcome me warmly 
 and treat me as an equal in years and in wisdom, and 
 this gives me a strange decrepit sensation. 
 
 Bernard came down yesterday to our great pleasure. 
 We sat round him and asked him a hundred questions 
 as to people and things in London. You cannot 
 imagine how little interest the Canterbury folk take in 
 public affairs. The blowing up in Westminster Street 
 is never mentioned, nor have I heard the names of 
 Gladstone or Forster once since we have been here. 
 They are really dead to the world on the side of politics. 
 I sympathise much with Mr. Forster's speech, but you 
 see that all the world has gone mad about Mr. Glad- 
 stone ; whoever opposes him is thought wrong ; people 
 have ceased to consider the subject on its own merits, 
 and it will be the same thing with every other question. 
 I begin to understand the mingled fear and dislike with 
 which many persons regard the Prime Minister. 
 
 I rejoice that F. looks so fair and happy. This will 
 go far to reconcile you to the step she has taken. Cer- 
 tainly the one thing we desire for our beloved ones is 
 that they should be happy, and this at whatever 
 enormous cost to ourselves, and in this noble and 
 natural desire we can trace the great image in which 
 man was created. 
 
 We think constantly of you all. Our own changes 
 make us realise other people's changes. My dear 
 Frances, all these changes and chances of mortal life
 
 1 883] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 87 
 
 are figures of the great change that must come to us all. 
 There is a wonderful sense of awe and love and hope 
 when one fixes one's thoughts thereupon. 
 
 To Lady Stephen 
 
 CANTERBURY, ^th May. 
 
 My dearest Mary This is good news indeed ! 
 solid, pure, good news, without spot or wrinkle or any 
 such thing, and I rejoice with you from the bottom of 
 my heart. 
 
 My brothers have often talked of Sir Robert 
 Egerton, and I now marvel that nothing ever prompted 
 me to ask what he was like ; why did I never inquire 
 as to his height, his voice, his hair, or want of hair ; 
 his temper, turn of mind, and a hundred other particu- 
 lars which are now of deepest interest ? 
 
 What a pleasant shifting of the scenes . . . But this 
 was the way of the wilderness by which your sister was to 
 be led ; by doubtings and murmurings and plagues and 
 serpents and rocks and streams and manna, she was to 
 be led into a land flowing with good things, and there 
 may she dwell for ever, and may God bless her and 
 keep her. This is my hearty good prayer. If she is 
 now with you, embrace her for me. I have always 
 loved and admired her since the time I first saw her 
 a great many years ago. 
 
 We are looking forward to seeing your James on 
 Saturday, and we hope that Harry will come also. 
 The weather is perfect, and the stately old church rises 
 finely from among the young green of the trees into 
 the transparent air.
 
 LETTERS OF [1883 
 
 But life in these ancient places is other than else- 
 where. One either dreams or wakes to a sort of pain, 
 an " aching void " as it were. Perhaps it is the old 
 life that is gone and is not replaced by the new. Ever 
 your affectionate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Miss Cunningham 
 
 Fox HOLM, COBHAM, iqth July. 
 
 My dear Miss Cunningham It was very good 
 of you to write to me. I had thought that letters 
 would be troublesome, which was the reason I wrote to 
 your sister and not to yourself. I do approve your 
 marriage theoretically and actually. I like the idea of 
 the strong and solid alliance of friendship and large 
 common interests into which you are entering with 
 Sir Robert Egerton, of whom I have long heard a 
 thousand good and charming things. You should 
 have burned the old letters without reading them. It 
 was with a shock that I remembered (Sir James's face 
 seemed to appear to me with a menacing expression) 
 that I had ever advised you to become a Roman 
 Catholic. 
 
 The step is never, in my opinion, a wholly illogical 
 and unprofitable one, but as matters have turned, it 
 would have been a false step for you, for whom other 
 good things were laid up in the days that were 
 coming. 
 
 All the kind things that you say of remembrance 
 and affection I fully return, nor could I possibly cease 
 to think tenderly of you as long as memory lasts. I 
 wish that it were possible to you to come and spend 
 an evening and morning with me here before you go
 
 1 884] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 89 
 
 away. You know we are only half an hour from 
 Waterloo. You could come down in the cool of the 
 evening, and go back before the day grew hot. There 
 are many days when no one is here but the two girls 
 and myself. And it would be such a pleasure, just 
 " as though one put a rose in my hand," as the 
 Germans say. In hope of this I do not say farewell, 
 but God bless you. Believe me, always your very 
 affectionate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CANTUAR, zjth November. 
 
 ... I am reading Carlyle's letters drop by drop, 
 and learn much from him every way. He satisfies me 
 about many things more than any one. He is the 
 finest of all pessimists. But I find it very difficult to 
 imagine what, on the whole, he would have the mass of 
 ordinary human beings to do. If a hero were to arise, 
 then they must clearly follow and obey him ; but, if no 
 such person is anywhere to be discerned, I suppose 
 then we must all do our day's work as well as we can ? 
 He is not a teacher, but a prophet and a seer, speaking 
 only to those who have ears to hear, and multiplying 
 the deafness and blindness of those who think they see 
 already. My soul conforms to his remarks on dull Mill 
 and his " wooden set." 
 
 To Miss Arnold Forster 
 
 CANTERBURY, i6tk March. 
 
 . . . The real sorrow felt for the babe that dies as 
 soon as it breathes shows what a world of love and joy
 
 90 LETTERS OF [1884 
 
 and hope belongs to the very idea of motherhood. It 
 is a wonderful thing. There is all this idea of mother- 
 hood, and then there is the love for the individual child, 
 and then there is the noble sense of bringing up a soul 
 in the faith and love of God. All this love and high 
 purpose is now broken, and we can only say it is the 
 will of God that it should be so. 
 
 . . . The loss of children has been much in my 
 mind for the last week. I went with Bernard to Fox 
 Holm on Saturday week and found our man there and 
 his wife in the deepest distress, their only child, a lovely 
 little girl of four years old, dying of sudden inflamma- 
 tion. I went again on Monday, and the child was dead ; 
 the beautiful little body lying on a bed upstairs with 
 some primroses and violets on its innocent little breast. 
 The grief of the poor parents was terrible ; the child 
 was all the world to them. It is hard to see these 
 buds and blossoms perish so untimely ; just too when 
 all the world seems so full of life and promise. 
 
 These warm spring days are pleasant here, and I 
 wish you would come down and see us. As I write, 
 the Cathedral is standing bathed in sunshine from end 
 to end; the rooks are building and quarrelling. Bernard 
 and Lucy are slowly walking across the grass towards 
 the south door, and I hear the boom of the organ, 
 which warns me that I must stop writing and put on 
 my cloak and bonnet. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 Fox HOLM, 8fA September. 
 
 My dearest Mary I ought to have written to you 
 long ago to offer thanks for excellent grouse. . . .
 
 1 884] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 91 
 
 . . . Yesterday, Barbara, Luce, and I went to 
 Hatchford. All the quality being away there was 
 plenty of room, and we enjoyed the service in spite of 
 the astonishing clanging, crashing, and whooping made 
 
 between Miss at the organ, the choir, and the 
 
 congregation. I was in an exalted frame and felt 
 above it all. B. suffered a little. Mr. Benham preaches 
 very well, and there is something touching about his 
 manner. The wind blew so soft from the south-west 
 as we jogged along to church. The lanes, the common, 
 the woods all seemed so lovely, and so well-known. 
 Something in this country at the turn of summer into 
 autumn goes to my heart. It is partly that I have 
 gone through such things at this time of year, and the 
 rerriembrance of them gives expression to the landscape, 
 and in this there is nothing melancholy. It is like the 
 face of some well-beloved friend with whom one has 
 passed through good and evil days, and who has always 
 been faithful and kind. 
 
 Bernard is in the Shetland Isles with a man who 
 lives there all the year round, shunning human inter- 
 course and weaving the most wonderful dreams. I 
 knew him as a romantic youth years ago at Canterbury. 
 Bernard writes extraordinarily well, and his letters seem 
 to come from fairy-land. When we meet I must tell 
 you about the dreaming Laird of Burravoe. The two 
 Franks have been away in Norway these five weeks, 
 and are coming home to-day. They have been very 
 happy together. . . . Ever, my dearest Mary, your 
 loving SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 92 LETTERS OF [1884 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, i8tk November. 
 
 Do bring me the Carlyle. I long to read it. The 
 lines 1 are very beautiful and, as you say, they express 
 all that can be said by reason or emotion alone. St. 
 Paul's teaching of striving to become worthy of this 
 nobler existence by communion with the mind of God 
 in Christ consolidates the natural idea. I must be- 
 lieve in another life. That we do not live by bread 
 alone, that the life is more than meat and the body 
 than raiment, is a belief to which my whole soul 
 adheres. . . . 
 
 It is strange that Kent should have as much hold 
 on you as it does on me almost. You are the child 
 of my youth. Years and years ago I used often to 
 dream of nights that I was an active young man lightly 
 descending the slopes of some lofty mountains towards 
 a sunny plain, which I took to be Italy. Now for some 
 time I perceive that it was not myself but you of whom 
 I dreamed. And I dreamed it long before I married. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, zgth November. 
 
 Our letters crossed. . . . The dinner at the Club 
 was rather brilliant. Oakley is an interesting person, 
 but, looking at the way in which our country is arrang- 
 ing itself, I doubt whether any satisfactory career lies 
 before him. Certainly more lies are taught than were 
 taught fifty years ago. The Radical sham, which Carlyle 
 thought the greatest sham of all, is in full bloom and 
 
 1 Lockhart's lines, beginning, "It is an old belief."
 
 1 884] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 93 
 
 has yet to produce its fruit. I wish I knew why Carlyle 
 was so convinced that all Catholic worship, as a true 
 thing, is completely and hopelessly dead. If he had 
 thought that it never had been a true thing I should 
 not be surprised, but, in his remarks about the churches 
 abroad, he says that it died 300 years ago. What was 
 there more real in it then than now to the common 
 half-educated priests and poor good women and did 
 it then have any more hold on minds like Carlyle, and 
 Froude, and J. F. Stephen, than it has now ? I should 
 so like to know this. I was extremely touched by 
 Carlyle's almost break-down of feeling in the majestic 
 silence of Ely Cathedral. That, and a thousand other 
 things, was so honestly and beautifully felt and ex- 
 pressed. . . . Our old country town here has worn a 
 cheery look these mild winter days Harbledown and 
 St. Thomas's hill peering clearly over the old gables, 
 and Kentish village people coming in to buy and sell 
 for Christmas. ... G. C. P. 1 came back for a night to 
 procure a relay of books, but retired again to Folkestone 
 next morning. " Master is forced to go away," says 
 Stickels, " because he can't take any fresh air in Canter- 
 bury. If he goes out he meets ladies and they will 
 stop him so he has to set indoors till it's dark. At 
 Folkestone, bless you, he's out all day long, amusing 
 hisself by hisself." 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, 2yd December. 
 
 If you do not come home to-night here is a word 
 of greeting for your 28th birthday. I see more and 
 
 1 A cousin of my mother's, much older than her, who lived at Canter- 
 bury, and died in 1894.
 
 94 LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 more, as time goes by, how different a mother's love is 
 to any other in the world, how abiding and without 
 possibility of shadow or change, and yet how hardly 
 necessary to the children as they grow beyond early 
 youth. 
 
 I often think of my mother's words the last day of 
 her life as I held her head against my shoulder. She 
 said, " It seems strange that I have no more to say " ; 
 and I answered, " It has been a long friendship and all 
 has been said " ; to which she replied, " That is quite 
 true, all has been said." 
 
 And I feel this in writing to you. It has been a 
 long friendship, and there is no more to say. I could 
 never put into words all that you have ever been to 
 me, nor can I cease to hope and believe that the God 
 and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ will keep you all 
 your days, and guide you whither you go. My prayers 
 will follow you as long as I live. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, "jth February. 
 
 I cannot wish you at the Nile to share in our disaster. 
 What a strange thing is the desire of quiet souls to be 
 present at scenes where, at any moment, the whole 
 being may be blotted out for them. I have no doubt 
 that this, like many other strong instincts of the soul, 
 might be traced to the eager anticipation of death, 
 which is really the desire of more life. Because I sup- 
 pose that a man is never so much alive as when all, 
 care and anxiety for his living body ceases, as it must 
 do, in battle. . . . Gordon makes a wonderful figure 
 just now, whether he is alive or dead ; his joy no man
 
 1 88s] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 95 
 
 can take from him. '< He has overcome the world, and 
 is of good cheer. His little book on Palestine pleased 
 me. He is like the centurion in the Gospel. He knew 
 what it is both to command and to obey, and has 
 absolute faith in his Master's word, and such a soldierly 
 simplicity as never was. His whole career redeems the 
 life of the " so-called nineteenth century." After all, 
 at no time of the world have such men been anything 
 but very rare indeed. It is a comfort to feel that they 
 are still possible. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, zotA April. 
 
 I have only time for a word to you to wish you 
 many many happy returns of the day. I went to 
 London on Thursday, and came down on Saturday, 
 and went straight to Sarre Court, where I found poor 
 Miss Hales dying. She died a little before midnight 
 on Saturday, and I and Lucy had to perform all the 
 last offices for her. I came home an hour ago, and 
 have to go back again to-morrow, and am so tired 
 that I can hardly see. The last few days have been 
 so tragic and strange. Miss Hales is the last of a 
 great Kentish family, and there are many curious and 
 unnormal circumstances, of which I will one day tell 
 you. 
 
 [The following letter is one 'written, not by my 
 mother, but by my sister Lucy. I insert it because it 
 relates an incident which many people at Canterbury, 
 and some in France, may remember with interest : ]
 
 96 LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 Lucy Holland to Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, z6th April. 
 
 ... I can hardly believe it is only a week since 
 last Sunday ; it seems at least three. My thoughts 
 have been ever of Mary Hales. Nor can I ever forget 
 this week. Mamma and I left Sarre Court on Tuesday 
 evening about seven o'clock ; and, for the first time, 
 neither she nor I were in that house. We drove all 
 the way home, arriving after dark. Next morning we 
 drove first to take up G. C. P., who wished to go to 
 the funeral with us. He got in, and we drove on down 
 the High Street ; but, before we reached the Westgate, 
 
 cousin G began to mutter something about " not 
 
 going on," " a long service," " getting out," etc. We 
 took no notice of these mutterings. Mamma told me, in 
 a whisper, this was always his way at family funerals. 
 As we turned into North Lane, we saw close in front 
 of us the hearse, followed by a single carriage ; we had 
 arrived exactly at the right moment to follow it down 
 the road to St. Stephen's. At every house, all down 
 North Lane, the people were standing at their door- 
 ways ; the men all with their hats in their hands, silent 
 and interested. Arrived at the gates of Hales Place, 
 the hearse stopped outside, and a messenger was sent 
 up to tell Pere du Lac that it was there. The bell of 
 St Stephen's Church was tolling, and we heard the 
 boom of the Cathedral bell in the distance, but there 
 was no feeling of gloom ; there could not have been a 
 more lovely spring morning ; everywhere " green were 
 the leaves, and sweet the flowers," and the warm bright 
 sunshine over everything. All at once, after we had 
 waited about ten minutes, down the drive from the
 
 i88s] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 97 
 
 house came a long procession of boys and priests- 
 Twelve of the senior boys, clad in scarlet cassocks> 
 white surplice, scarlet shoes, and broad black sashes, 
 headed the procession, carrying the Cross and candles. 
 Behind them walked all the rest of the boys ; then 
 came all the Fathers in surplice and barretta ; and, 
 lastly, some of the Benedictines from Ramsgate. Never, 
 as long as I may live, can I forget that which I saw 
 then. " How strange to be here," mamma said to me ; 
 and, indeed, it did seem strange. At the gates the 
 procession turned, formed again in perfect order, and 
 preceded the hearse up the avenue to the chapel, the 
 Fathers chanting psalms as they walked. The coffin, 
 followed by Father Ephraim, 1 Mrs. Trueman, mamma 
 and I, was carried up the aisle, and laid on trestles, 
 close to the altar step ; round it stood six great silver 
 candlesticks, with lighted candles, and on the coffin 
 mamma and I put a beautiful cross and wreath of white 
 flowers we had brought with us. The mass was sung 
 by Father Swithbert, the Superior of the Benedictines, 
 and a great friend of Mary's. Besides us, the few 
 intimate friends, there was no outsider at all in the 
 chapel, only the French boys. As mamma said, they 
 know nothing of Mary Hales's troubles and difficulties ; 
 they only thought the former owner of Hales Place was 
 come back to lie where her father was buried before her. 
 After the mass the coffin, covered with flowers and 
 incense, was carried round to the back of the chapel, 
 and was lowered gently and carefully into the vault, 
 the Fathers chanting the last sentences. I threw into 
 the open grave some lovely white pea blossoms that 
 had been gathered the night before out of the walled 
 garden at Sarre Court. Some one put into my hand, 
 1 Miss Hales's chaplain, a Benedictine. 
 H
 
 98 LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 as I stood there, two white flowers, and told me they 
 came from the wreath Mary had worn the day she 
 became a Carmelite. 1 . . . Father Ephraim wished 
 very much that I should go back to Hales Place, after 
 lunch, to go with him into the vault, " to have one last 
 look." So we drove back to Hales Place, and went 
 right down into the vault, where, by the light of a 
 candle, we saw the three coffins lying there ; an old 
 looking crucifix lay on that of Sir Edward Hales. 
 Afterwards we walked a little in the woods. Pere du 
 Lac was walking up and down a path in the woods 
 reading his breviary. I thanked him as best I could 
 for all he had done. He turned quickly away, his eyes 
 full of tears. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 Fox HOLM, $th July. 
 
 ... I agree with you about Mrs. . She is 
 
 the most charming young woman I know, save for her 
 ill health. This, perhaps, adds an interest, but takes 
 away a charm. I wish I could see more of her. She 
 is very sweet to me always, but, perhaps, she is so to 
 all elder women whom she likes, and she must know 
 so many. If I were sure that to know me better would 
 give her anything like the pleasure it would be to me 
 to love her and her little children more freely, I would 
 take a good deal of trouble. As it is, I never can 
 believe that people care for me as I care for them. It 
 does not seem likely. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 Fox HOLM, i8tA July. 
 
 I missed you much in returning here on Tuesday, 
 
 1 Miss Hales had once belonged to this Order.
 
 1 885] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 99 
 
 after a tiring day in London. My visit to 
 
 was very pleasant. She is serenely content with her 
 lot, and I really think that she has done very well with 
 her life. After much variety, amusement, travel, and 
 freedom, she finds herself exactly where other fortunate 
 
 women of her own age are. I like Mr. . He has 
 
 all the ease of a perfectly unpretending gentleman 
 born in fairly good circumstances. There is much 
 more interest in country life when the country is not 
 treated as a toy, but where good or bad land, fair or 
 foul weather, health or sickness among beasts, is a quite 
 serious matter affecting an owner's pockets, and those of 
 his poorer neighbours. The house and grounds I like 
 particularly. No odd turns or surprises, or artful points 
 of view within or without, but everything very com- 
 fortable, and exactly what one expects. Lofty rooms, 
 large high windows, thick walls, polished doors shutting 
 off passages and staircases, an excellent temperature 
 and solid quiet, frightful ancestral portraits. A great 
 yew hedge and long sunny wall enclosing a garden full 
 of fruit and flowers ; plenty of books, new and old. 
 Witley steeple and Black Down visible, so that you 
 know whereabout you are. We are going on here in 
 the ordinary way Arnolds, Leafs, Tennysons, 1 Buxtons, 
 Miss Blunt, and so forth. Herbert Stephen comes 
 to-day, likewise Ellen Macrae. Herbert and L. V. are 
 to dine at F. W., where are Christine Fane and the 
 Sydney Buxtons, and E. O. Bouverie. Bernard and 
 Agnes dine with the Egertons ; the Tennysons with 
 the Arnolds. We are all going to tea at Pain's Hill 
 this afternoon and to float on the lake with Walter 
 Leaf. To-morrow the Tennysons come to tea and 
 
 1 Lionel Tennyson and his wife had taken a house near there this 
 summer.
 
 ioo LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 supper, bringing with them Miss Maud White and Mr. 
 Dawkins. 
 
 Michael is happy with the Dreaming Laird. 
 Bernard is rather sad at heart and so am I. Agnes is 
 as usual " nor grave nor gay." Luce goes about 
 particularly untidy and cheerful reads all day and 
 wanders through the " long gray fields at night," 
 bringing back from the river bank faggots of purple 
 loosestrife and ladies' bed-straw. The garden is drier 
 than ever, but the tall white lilies brave the sun 
 and throw back the light from their petals in quite a 
 dazzling manner. " They too must die" I may come 
 to Cavendish in the first days of August. Will you 
 be at Cambridge ? Is Mr. Goodhart l there, and how 
 does he fare ? We miss him in the accustomed seat. 
 There will always be a place for him under our roof as 
 long as I cumber the earth, and this, should he appear 
 to-morrow, or next summer, or not for twenty summers. 
 
 To Agnes Holland 
 
 LOCARNO, "jth September. 
 
 . . . The valley began to widen and chestnuts 
 appeared, and then vines, and then maize and vines and 
 mulberries planted together, and enormous pumpkins 
 lying in the green meadows, each with its own little 
 heap of manure devoted to its special use. The 
 churches are countless, high up on the loftiest but- 
 tresses of the mountains and on the lower ledges and in 
 the valley itself. Also many little shrines and tiny 
 chapels, with great wooden porches larger than them- 
 selves. Everywhere women labouring the earth, poor 
 mothers of children who must be fed. I feel a sym- 
 
 1 The late Harry Chester Goodhart.
 
 1 885] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 101 
 
 pathy with the peasant life, hard though it is. What 
 days of toil and nights of deep, dreamless sleep ! But 
 think what Sunday is to these people. One day in 
 seven in which they all forbear to work, and when 
 other ideas are suggested to them, ideas of life, and 
 death, and rest, and Christian charity and sacrifice, and 
 consolation in trouble and warning in prosperity. I 
 believe that we often measure church work wrong. It 
 is too much to suppose that people will be improved 
 visibly by going to services, but we may fairly hope 
 that what they already hold of good and true may be 
 preserved to them. There is a tradition of Christian 
 conduct which is learned at home and confirmed by 
 religious teaching and offices. The idea is preserved 
 in the minds of the people, however short they may 
 come of it. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 SUBIACO, 2jtk September. 
 
 We left Rome yesterday at 3.50, and went by 
 tramway twenty miles across the ^Campagna, to 
 Tivoli, where we arrived at sunset. The last half-hour 
 the road winds up through fine old olive gardens, and 
 the views over the Campagna, with the dome of St. 
 Peter's in the distance, are very striking. We walked 
 in the twilight to the bridge on the other side of the 
 town and saw the Anio leaping over the rocks, and the 
 little circular temple of Sibylla on a point of rock 
 overhanging the stream. There are winding walks and 
 grottos all the way down, but it was too dark to go. . . . 
 Next morning we went to the D'Este gardens. The 
 entrance is through the courtyard and flight of steps 
 belonging to the Villa D'Este. The garden is on the
 
 102 LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 steep slope of the hill and commands a wide view of 
 the Campagna, with Rome in the distance. The garden 
 is really not very large, but produces a great effect. 
 It is artfully terraced and planted with cypress and 
 bay and tall box hedges, and everywhere clear water 
 falls or springs up in jets, or lies quietly sleeping or 
 gently trickling in huge stone tanks and circular basins 
 a real pleasaunce for the great people of the place. 
 At i o. i o we left Tivoli for this place, and drove for 
 about twenty-five miles, arriving here at 5.30. The 
 road runs all the way along the banks of the Anio, and 
 for the first two hours it reminded us much of some 
 parts of Scotland bare strong hills on either side 
 with very little cultivation. There are no enclosures 
 and no scattered dwellings, but every six or seven miles 
 one sees little towns perched upon the very summits of 
 the hills, the houses so much the same colour and 
 material as the rock on which they are built that it is 
 sometimes difficult at first to perceive that a town 
 stands there at all. As we drew near Subiaco the 
 valley became fruitful, and the hills richly wooded, 
 and there are plenty of picturesque figures, men riding 
 on asses and mules women too, astride. The women 
 walk barefoot and carry heavy loads on their heads. 
 They are beautiful people, so well shaped and well 
 featured. 
 
 Subiaco stands at the end of the long valley, and 
 the mountains close softly in behind the town, fold 
 over fold, leaving only a deep wooded gorge of 
 wonderful beauty, through which the Anio comes 
 rushing headlong. This is the gorge where St. Bene- 
 dict, as a boy of fourteen, hid himself in a cave, and 
 afterwards where the great monastery of St. Scholastica 
 was built, and still stands. It is the cradle of all the
 
 1 885] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 103 
 
 monasteries of the West. If you and Luce will look 
 back in Fleury, to the middle of the fifth century, you 
 will see about it. The streets are as steep as those at 
 Clovelly. At the very top stands the Palace which 
 used to belong to the Popes. We walked through the 
 main street of the town, and over the high bridge, and 
 along a beautiful road shaded with ilex, and by a 
 rough but not fatiguing path which led off the road 
 and up the side of the gorge, and past Nero's villa, 
 and up again till we came to the gates of the first 
 monastery. There we sat a long time, and we 
 both agreed that, taking the extreme beauty of the 
 scene and the historic interest together, it was worth 
 all Switzerland and America and Scotland. About 
 three hundred yards to our right, and below us, lay the 
 ruins of Nero's villa, on a rocky promontory overhang- 
 ing the river and commanding both sides of the gorge. 
 A hundred yards to our left, and above us, lay the 
 monastery with its Norman tower and soft-sounding 
 bells ; from our very feet the broken precipitous ground, 
 planted thickly with old olives, went down right to the 
 Anio, of which we could see the glittering moving line, 
 and opposite us the mountains rose soft and majestic, 
 with groves of beech and ilex, and green lawns to the 
 very summit. . . . 
 
 To E. M. 
 
 SIENA, ist October. 
 
 My dearest E. M. You will be at your work again 
 to-day, and I hope in a good vein, in spite of a some- 
 what troubled holiday. I am sure that you are right 
 in determining next holiday not to suit yourself to other 
 people. There are some forms of self-sacrifice that
 
 104 LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 seem to lead to no useful result, and among these may 
 be classed that of helping other people to amuse 
 themselves. 
 
 I wish that you were with us here to see the superb 
 Cathedral. It is full from end to end of marbles and 
 pictures, even the very floor is all inlaid with beautiful 
 figures of Sibyls and prophets. Much the most 
 religious place that we have been in was Florence. 
 There is a sort of life and affection in the expression of 
 the Florentine religion that does not seem to exist at 
 Rome or anywhere else that we have been in Italy, except 
 perhaps at Subiaco, where we spent last Sunday. It is 
 the most beautiful little old town on a steep hill, quite 
 away from railways, and almost untouched by the stream 
 of time since Benedict first took up his abode in the 
 neighbouring mountains. We did not much like Rome, 
 although one learns there more than in any place in 
 the world, but the weather was very hot and the air 
 languid. St. Peter's I cannot like, and the Colosseum 
 and Forum are melancholy. 
 
 The truth is, that at Rome the old Pagan world 
 still clashes with the Christian. In all the churches 
 the most beautiful columns and marbles are of 
 ancient Rome. They were the most beautiful, also 
 the newest looking, things in the churches. What I 
 liked best at Rome were some of the little ancient 
 Christian basilicas, and the gardens on the heights 
 round the town, from which one gets the most 
 beautiful wide views of the Eternal City. The 
 Campagna spreads like a sea all round Rome and 
 gives one an. isolated feeling. . . . The weather is quite 
 splendid, and here the air is cool. I am glad to have 
 seen Italy in the autumn. The vines and figs and 
 mulberries and peaches are in full beauty, the vintage
 
 i88s] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 105 
 
 just beginning. Large white oxen drawing low carts 
 laden with purple grapes. We drove this afternoon 
 about four miles out, through the vineyards, to a large 
 old Palazzo which the Government school of Siena has 
 bought for 400 as an occasional country home for 
 the boys. It was such a nice place, on the side of a 
 hill, with great pillared winding staircases, stone floors, 
 and great loggia, or open verandah to the upstairs 
 rooms. Woods of chestnut and beech stretching away 
 behind, and an untidy old garden full of rosemary and 
 lemon and orange trees. No furniture except some 
 beds stuffed with beech leaves, and some chairs and 
 tables for the boys to dine. One old man to look 
 after it. A little church with campanile tower close 
 by. . . . Ever, my dearest, dearest dear E. M., your 
 loving SIBYL. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 SESTRI, Sunday, f,th October. 
 
 You will have thought that I was never going to 
 write to you, but at first you were away, and this last 
 week I have had several letters to write besides those 
 to Fox Holm. I cannot remember whether I wrote 
 to papa or Agnes from Siena. We took one pretty 
 drive there to an old chateau called St. Colombo, 
 about five miles from the town. A large old house 
 with marble winding pillared staircase and great loggia 
 to all the front rooms, standing in an old garden and 
 surrounded by vineyards. The municipal school of 
 Siena have bought it as a country resort occasionally 
 for the boys, and only gave 400 for it. The views 
 from the ramparts at Siena are extremely beautiful, 
 just such as you see in Poussin's landscapes. Fine un-
 
 io6 LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 dulating and broken foregrounds of vineyard and olive 
 gardens, and then soft lines of mountains, fold beyond 
 fold, into the farthest distance. Into this beautiful 
 valley we descended on Friday, and were soon in the 
 fat Pisan plain not so far from the sea, the Apennines 
 pearly blue in the morning light all the way on our 
 right. Pisa is a walled city standing in a dead flat 
 six miles from the sea. The Cathedral, Baptistry, 
 Leaning Tower, and Campo Santo lie all close together 
 in a quiet open green space in the north-west corner of 
 the enclosure. All of white marble, glittering in the 
 clear air as though fresh from the sculptor's hand. The 
 Cathedral and Campo Santo are filled with pictures and 
 frescoes. The Italians may know their whole Bible by 
 eye and by heart if they take the trouble to look at 
 their pictures. The Old Testament is painted from 
 end to end at Pisa and everywhere else. While we 
 were in the Baptistry, admiring the immense marble 
 font, carved as fine as if of ivory, two babes, twins, of 
 good family, arrived to be baptized. They were held 
 at the font by their elder sisters, girls of thirteen or 
 fourteen, and went off afterwards covered up in white 
 silk chrism robes embroidered with gold and flowers. 
 We stayed four or five hours at Pisa, and then went on 
 to Spezia, the bay whence Shelley sailed to his death. 
 . . . Spezia is now a large port and a busy place. We 
 took a carriage there yesterday morning and drove up 
 and through the Apennines here. Such a heavenly 
 drive. The road is the old high road from the pro- 
 vince to Rome. Julius Caesar used to do the distance 
 in eight days, riding and dictating to his secretary as 
 he went along. The views of the Carrara mountains 
 looking back towards Italy are most lovely. We were 
 sorry to pass the summit and come down the northern
 
 1 885] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 107 
 
 sides among fir-trees instead of the charming myrtles, 
 rosemary, lavender, arbutus in full fruit and flower, rue 
 and many other sweet smelling plants. We shall find 
 all these again in our drive towards Genoa. This place 
 is so pleasant that Ber wishes to stay till Tuesday. 
 Sestri is on a large bay. The town runs along the 
 shore and out on to a narrow promontory terminat- 
 ing in a rocky hill with castle, church, and cypress. 
 Our hotel is built on the narrow neck of the promon- 
 tory, and the sea comes up to the garden from which 
 a little flight of steps descends to a narrow strip of 
 sand, so that bathers can walk out of their rooms into 
 the sea. A little Franciscan church and convent 
 stands prettily on the first platform of the hills on the 
 mainland and commands a view of the whole bay. . . . 
 We have this large hotel entirely to ourselves as far as 
 visitors go. The proprietor is a rich old gentleman 
 who lives on the first floor with his daughter, an 
 officer's wife, and her children. Cats, doves and 
 pigeons live harmoniously in the court among the 
 orange trees and geraniums. We hear no sound but 
 the short plunge of the waves, and see little but sea 
 and mountain and sky, and the peasant women climb- 
 ing up the winding path to the little church at the 
 sound of the bell. It is as quiet as Guernsey, but with 
 more colour in everything, in language, manners, and 
 religion, as well as in sea and sky and growth. 
 
 To Agnes Holland 
 
 CHAMBERI, 8tA October. 
 
 ... I stayed some while in the Cathedral, 1 
 and was pleased to see the women come in, hot and 
 breathless from their work in the market, and give 
 1 At Genoa.
 
 io8 LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 themselves truly to their prayers. I think that I shall 
 never forget the figure of one elderly woman who knelt 
 on the step of the altar rail, her face bowed on her 
 hands, quite motionless and absorbed from the be- 
 ginning to the end of the Mass. A sweet girl of seven 
 or eight years old stood on the step, and leaned on the 
 balustrade, her soft eyes attentive to every movement 
 of the priest, but not otherwise joining. The beautiful, 
 careless, and not irreverent attitudes of the children in 
 the churches are so evidently the origin of the groups 
 of cherubs introduced by the great painters into their 
 sacred pictures. We went up to the top of a high 
 church in Genoa to get a true idea of the city. I 
 thought of my dearest mother sketching it years before 
 I was born. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 Fox HOLM, zyd October. 
 
 We ended our journey at Paris, where we spent two 
 pleasant days at the Hotel Voltaire. Certainly nothing 
 can be gayer than the view from the upper window. 
 There was the excitement of the elections going on 
 while we were there. I was struck in Paris by the 
 way in which the Republic has effaced every trace of 
 its kings and its ancient government. Except the 
 statue of Henry IV. and that of Napoleon I. they have 
 erased every line of royalty. Paris is a most beautiful 
 city, but I could hardly keep back my tears as I 
 walked in the Tuileries gardens and remembered the 
 terrible things that had been done there. The innocent 
 blood seemed to cry out from the ground.
 
 i88s] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 109 
 
 From Lucy Holland to Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, yd November. 
 
 ... I took the white chrysanthemum wreath to 
 Hales Place yesterday. Pere du Lac was in the 
 chapel when I went in, showing it to a French parent; 
 so I had no difficulty, and he let me lay the flowers 
 exactly where I wished. I was glad they were white 
 flowers, for there before the altar was laid a small 
 coffin. It was such a beautiful, bright, sunny after- 
 noon, with a sky as blue as in summer. 1 remem- 
 bered, as I came away down the long avenue, that the 
 yellow and red leaves lying on the ground were the 
 same as I saw in their first tender green loveliness last 
 April. Then, and yesterday, Hales Place looked very 
 beautiful, but spring is the best. I think Admiral 
 Maxse is right. Come as soon as you can. Your 
 loving sister, LUCY VERENA. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, 6th November. 
 
 The weather here is cold and dampish. I often 
 think of Italy, and, like Digby, 1 have a difficulty in be- 
 lieving that it is not heaven. There is certainly a great 
 pleasure in remembrance, and I can see in my mind's 
 eye nearly every place we visited, especially the points 
 where we stood or sat and gazed at the prospect. I 
 often sit on the low wall of the Casale Rotondo and 
 look towards Rome, and see Soracte in the distance, 
 and the aqueducts striding across the Campagna. Also 
 I haunt Nero's villa, and the ilex grove by the Bene- 
 1 Kenelm Digby, in Mores Catholici.
 
 I io LETTERS OF [1885 
 
 dictine monastery, and the little terrace of the Fran- 
 ciscan church at Sestri, and St. Columba in its vine- 
 yards. I only regret the crowd of little affairs which 
 prevents me from fixing my mind more frequently on 
 these ideas ; and I fear lest they may fade. The 
 more I think of Rome, the more I feel how much less 
 cheerful it was than Florence and other places. It 
 would never suit my temper of mind. I like neither 
 ancient, nor mediaeval, nor modern Rome. Neither the 
 Colosseum, nor St. Peter's, nor the railway station. 
 What is really pleasing in Rome is to be out of it, as 
 one was at the Casale Rotondo, and at St. Pietro Mon- 
 torio, and in the Medici Villa. 
 
 To Rosamond Stephen 
 
 PRECINCTS, CANTERBURY, zyd December. 
 
 You see, my dear Rosamond, that what I foretold 
 has come to pass. The years have rolled on, and you 
 have become taller and wiser and more loving and be- 
 loved. 
 
 I also have become older and more grizzled, but 
 not, I hope, more foolish. We are both bound on the 
 same journey, but you are stepping lightly up the hill 
 in the sunshine, while I have rounded the crest, and 
 am plodding downwards. 
 
 'Twere sweet to pause on this descent, 
 To wait for thee and pitch my tent, 
 But march I must, with shoulders bent, 
 Still farther from my prime. 1 
 
 For I must still keep far ahead, and all that I can do 
 is to send you back now and then a cheery voice till 
 the day comes when I shall disappear altogether in the 
 
 1 From " lonica."
 
 1 885] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 1 1 
 
 deep shadows of the valley, and you will say, " Ah ! 
 my old god-mother who gave me the sugar-tongs is 
 gone poor old dear" 
 
 This sounds melancholy to you perhaps, but not in 
 the least to me, for I hope to join a great company on 
 the other side and to see again many dear persons 
 from whom I have long been separated. This I hope 
 to do, and, even if this were uncertain, yet it would 
 make no difference to me now, for I see nothing better 
 to do in this world than to lead a Christian life. But, 
 in my belief, it is not uncertain. 
 
 I should like to hear how you get on at school, and 
 whether you like girls more or less now that you see so 
 much of them. Tell me also whether the lessons are 
 dull, or hard, or too long. 
 
 Will you take some notice next term of two little 
 girls, Margaret and Edith Furse ? their father is a new 
 Canon of Westminster. Their mother was a very good 
 and beautiful woman, and she died four years ago when 
 their youngest brother was born ; they are very spirited 
 children. Michael is come home from Eton. He 
 arrived soon after eleven in the morning, having left 
 very early, and entered playing Home Sweet Home upon 
 an instrument called a zither. It was quite the exile's 
 return. 
 
 The household here salutes you. Lucy salutes 
 Helen. Greet the mother of Ajax with a friendly 
 kiss. Salute Katharine, Agnes's friend and mine. 
 
 Michael sends greeting to Dorothea. Salute Herbert 
 and his brothers. 
 
 Salute the Judge. 
 
 The Canon salutes you. Your affectionate god- 
 mother, SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 VI 
 
 LETTERS OF 1886 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, ^th January. 
 
 A kind note and carriage came down on New Year's 
 evening to take us to Hales Place, that I (especially) 
 might see the boys act their French play for their 
 parents. It began at seven o'clock, and was a pretty 
 sight. All the French papas, headed by Comte de Mun 
 and Pere du Lac, entered together and were saluted 
 with salvos of cheers. The orchestra, composed of 
 boys, masters, soldiers, and one or two cathedral men, 
 and conducted by a Father, was excellent, and the 
 acting was fair. The second piece was Gringoire, a 
 little altered, and was rather touchingly rendered. 
 Pere du Lac received an address at the end, and- made 
 a serious but charming speech on the situation of 
 things, family life, etc. He and Comte de Mun came 
 round to speak to us, and it was altogether pleasant. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 i%tA January. 
 
 I have also sometimes regretted a very little that 
 we did not see the Pope, but only a very little. I wish
 
 1 886] LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 113 
 
 that we could have got into his gardens, and have 
 surveyed him from an upper terrace. Sestri does 
 appear like a dream, but it is pleasant to know that 
 it does lie there in that lovely fold of shore, and that 
 by an effort of will we could arise and go to Sestri. 
 I often think of Kenelm Digby's words " Beneath 
 Ausonian skies all these deeds of love are practical, and 
 Catholic manners as of old, and this I know to be so 
 true from what I saw and heard that, at this distance 
 of years, long separated, I feel there is danger of mis- 
 taking Italy for Heaven." 
 
 I also have seen and heard, though we visited Italy 
 too late to receive Digby's whole impression. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 PRECINCTS, CANTERBURY, z^th January. 
 
 My dearest Mary I am very much shocked to see 
 
 in to-day's paper the death of Mrs. . It is 
 
 terrible to think of the young girls and their poor 
 father. They all seemed to take such delight in one 
 another that there was a pleasure in seeing the group. 
 She always surprised me. Such a full tide of life, 
 project, and talk ; no silence, reflection or isolation of 
 spirit, but a sort of joyful worship of the ideal they had 
 themselves attained. To such souls death must come 
 indeed as the " pale King of Terrors," and the desolation 
 of their grief does not bear thinking of. One can only 
 hope that God, Who made His creatures, will in some 
 way comfort them. There is as much help in the thought 
 of His justice as of His mercy. 
 
 We have been anxious about Luce, who went ten 
 days ago to her aunt's in Brook Street, and had to go 
 to bed at once with rheumatism and fever. She has 
 
 I
 
 ii4 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 just come home looking very shadowy, and says she 
 will make no more feeble attempts after pleasure. . . . 
 Tell me if Mr. Deacon is well, and if you are. The 
 last Sunday when we all came over to Hatchford, and 
 the service went so well, and we said good-bye to you 
 at the gate, is as clear in my mind as though it were 
 yesterday. The autumn woods and sunshine, and the 
 kind eyes and voices. Ever your loving friend, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, znd February. 
 
 What touches and excites R and others like him 
 
 is politics, and literature with a political aim. They have 
 a sort of sentiment about this, but otherwise are of 
 adamantine bowels, no romance, no silence, no isolation 
 of spirit. I have been amusing myself, as I go about 
 the house and city, with imagining the effect on various 
 minds of a very prolonged existence which should not 
 at the same time decline but rather increase in force. 
 Give Gladstone another fifty years, and one's imagination 
 dares not follow him. Give Carlyle fifty years and he 
 would wear a halo round his fine old head. Give the 
 
 same to or to and they would be found 
 
 uttering words full of sound and signifying nothing. 
 
 Give it to and he would be found with eyes 
 
 hermetically closed, a mutter on his lip, and a half- 
 sarcastic smile fixed for ever. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, iztk February. 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw's death is a great shock, and will be 
 such dreadful pain to Mrs. Oxenden. Will you, my
 
 1 886] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 115 
 
 darling boy, do this for me ? Will you write me a good 
 letter telling me anything you hear about his death or 
 his last days or the feeling manifested in his University 
 anything in short that I may send to his sister abroad, 
 Mrs. Oxenden, who is a great friend of mine ? She 
 loved her brother with extreme tenderness, but knew 
 very little of his Cambridge life, and I know that every 
 word about him would be precious, and like a cordial 
 in the midst of her deep pain. 
 
 To Miss Arnold Foster 
 
 CANTERBURY, zyd March. 
 
 . . . All my time is taken up with Lucy, but I 
 must send you a word of thanks for your dear letter. 
 Your sympathy and affection are very much to me. 
 I do think that young friends are one of the greatest 
 pleasures of the autumn of life, and to feel that one's 
 children's friends include oneself in their affection 
 consolidates one's position. . . . What months of 
 anxiety you have had ; there is something so exhaust- 
 ing in the concentration of one's thoughts on a sick 
 person. Whatever else one is doing, one's thoughts fly, 
 and wheel, and settle round that one person, and there 
 is the perpetual effort to recall and resume. I have 
 thought so much all along of your mother and her 
 beautiful patient face. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, 8t& April. 
 
 I wish, indeed, that Lucy were with you, to gather 
 primroses and taste the sweet air that blows so lightly 
 over the wide wolds. I sometimes feel here, as though
 
 ii6 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 she would never be well and out again. And yet Luce 
 is better rather stronger eats a little more, and is 
 lifted in her blankets every day on to a couch for a few 
 hours. But her progress is very slow and it is still 
 entirely a bedroom life. I have been unwell also with 
 neuralgia, but am better again now. 
 
 PRECINCTS, zoth April. 
 
 Many, many happy returns of your birthday. I 
 can hardly believe that my " little Frank " is twenty- 
 one years old. The years roll back and show me the 
 fine April day on which you first saw light in Sussex 
 Gardens. You were a great pleasure to me as a babe 
 and at twenty months old you showed a sort of 
 serious vivacity that gave me great pleasure. The 
 summer after you were born I brought you and all 
 the others down to Harbledown for three weeks, just 
 in the hay time, and I used to carry you up to the 
 high meadows behind the Rectory, and sit by my 
 father on the hay-swathes, looking down over Canter- 
 bury. Thence we went to Lyne to a charming old 
 farmhouse Uncle Henry lent me. Papa and his father 
 went to Norway and I was alone there with you all 
 except that Cathy came for a bit. Thence we all went 
 on to the Isle of Wight, and I was summoned to 
 Llangollen, in North Wales, to my dear father's death- 
 bed, and came to Harbledown for his funeral. Then 
 we all assembled for the last time in our old home. 
 The year after that we spent at Hatchford, and the 
 following 1867 at Freshwater, where Lucy fell ill 
 of her first rheumatism and laid the foundation of her 
 present illness. The year after that we went into
 
 1 886] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 1 7 
 
 Fox Holm in the month of May. You were a darling 
 boy of three, Lucy was six, Alfred nine, Agnes ten, and 
 Bernard eleven. I am so glad that you enjoyed your 
 time at Porlock Weir. I must go there some day. It 
 is an immense gain to be able to derive so much 
 pleasure from nature. . . . This is the first Easter in 
 all your twenty-one years that I have not had you by 
 my side on Easter Day. I hope you will not desert 
 the altar whence your mother and father draw all their 
 consolation and hope. One we all are, however widely 
 separated, while we eat of one bread. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, yd June. 
 
 . . . How difficult it is to hold the balance between 
 the over-powering feeling of the nothingness of life 
 below, and the feeling which is really almost as vivid 
 of everything being of importance. It is one of the 
 difficulties of the religious life, that, while one is minutely 
 to attend to every detail that affects one's neighbour's 
 comfort and well-being, one is to regard the whole 
 spectacle as nothing. I suppose it is really best to do 
 as well as one can, and not to think too much about 
 the eternities and infinities. . . . 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 PRECINCTS, i6M June. 
 
 My dearest Mary Thank you much for your little 
 word of kindness. I often and often think of you, and 
 always with unchangeable affection. There is now no 
 hope that Lucy will ultimately recover. A dreadful 
 enlargement of the heart has set in, and this must
 
 Ii8 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 sooner or later be the end. She suffers not much pain, 
 but her weakness and emaciation are very great. She 
 has had 120 days of fever ; never six hours without it. 
 She is very courageous and steady, and has, I think, 
 had the great parting in view all along, but the length of 
 time tries one's resolution. She is invariably gentle, as 
 all my children are. This is all I can tell you, my 
 dear. Your too tender heart will easily guess all the 
 searching, essential pain, and also the thousand con- 
 solations of which the greatest is the firm belief that all 
 that happens is the will of God for Luce and for us, 
 and that all that happens now, and will happen as long 
 as she draws breath, was known to Him and designed 
 by Him with regard to her from the moment of her 
 birth. There is a sort of comfort to me in writing this 
 down. At these times how great and healing are the 
 commonplaces of religion ! 
 
 Lucy asks to whom I am writing, and says, " Ah, 
 send my love and say how I wish I were walking to 
 Hatchford, and could see her in church." Her mind 
 has always run upon Fox Holm and Hatchford. Ever 
 your loving friend, SlBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, zoth June. 
 
 I am glad that your suspense is over. Your degree 
 is almost what I expected it to be, taking all things 
 into consideration. I should not have been surprised 
 if it had been higher, because one always hopes for the 
 best as regards one's children. I should have been 
 vexed had it been lowest, and I shall be delighted to 
 see my dearest boy when he comes home. Luce is a 
 little better these two days. . . .
 
 1 886] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLA ND 119 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, HARBLEDOWN, z-$rd August. 
 
 We are fully established here, and Lucy has been 
 lying out of doors on the couch the greater part of the 
 day. She enjoys it, but is very feeble, and Mr. Reid 
 says that she has not yet got over the move of Satur- 
 day. We moved desperately, for she was very ill on 
 Thursday, partly from the check upon her great longing 
 to get away. Mr. Reid took the greatest care and 
 trouble. She was laid upon a hospital stretcher in my 
 room at 6.20 A.M. by him and the hospital porters, 
 carried down stairs, and out into the old street, lifted 
 high in the air and put into the open brake. Mr. Reid 
 sprang in by the fore-wheel and took her head on his 
 knees. I jumped into my brougham, and off we went 
 Lucy lay in her brown and white Carmelite dress and 
 little parted hood, exactly like a pale nun on a bier, 
 only her large eyes moving. I looked out now and 
 then and always saw her face, and the young, grave 
 doctor's bent over it, intently watching. We drove out 
 of the silent town into the fields. Agnes and Amy 
 were on the " perron " watching for us, and Lucy was 
 soon in the house, and on a couch eating some break- 
 fast. This place is perfect for us. I am thankful to 
 God for giving us this pleasure, and hope whatever 
 may be His blessed will for us hereafter . . . 
 
 To the Same 
 THE LODGE, UPPER HARBLEDOWN, ^\st August. 
 
 I am sitting on a hassock beside Lucy, whose wheel- 
 couch is drawn up outside the garden fence in the airy
 
 120 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 meadow, overlooking the flower-beds first, then the 
 orchard, then the hop-oast, and then the pretty stretch 
 of hop and wood beyond. There is a splendid shadow 
 from the house and great elms all the afternoon, and 
 we have our tea here, and watch the broad lights 
 lengthen, and drink in the pure air, which is most de- 
 lightfully sharpened by the smell of the hops. Lucy is 
 drinking her new milk, and quietly looking out under 
 her white hat. I hardly dare count on her, but there is 
 such a blessed repose in this cessation of pain and sick- 
 ness, and I am thankful for the present moment. The 
 place is pleasant in my eyes, and I wish it were ours. 
 I should like to own this southern slope. 
 
 Your letter from Limerick came this morning and 
 gave great pleasure. I am so glad that you are keeping a 
 few days for us here, but I wish you had had more time 
 for Ireland. I agree with you about religion. I could 
 not live in Ireland or in Italy without being a Roman 
 Catholic. It is something also to be of the religion that 
 you find at Nemi and again at Limerick. We are of 
 the same religion really, but are so cramped in some 
 directions and so unbridled in others that it don't seem 
 to be the same. . . . Lucy sends her dear love and 
 says that she is very happy and comfortable. We hear 
 from where we sit the tumultuous voices of the hoppers 
 returning and assembling near the Plough. 
 
 To Lady Holland^ 
 
 THE LODGE, HARBLEDOWN, \otk September. 
 
 ... I felt sure that the next great assault would 
 break down the already shattered citadel of Lucy's frail 
 
 1 Now Viscountess Knutsford.
 
 j 886] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 2 1 
 
 body, but it might not have come for many weeks, she 
 was so wasted and worn out. But, after death, her dear 
 little face recovered its soft oval, and she lay with such a 
 careless grace, her head a little turned, a smile upon 
 her lips, and her eyes quite bright under the half-closed 
 lids. She looked careless of all things here, but smiling 
 and attentive to something else. One could hardly 
 look long upon her without smiling also. Her hair had 
 never been cut, and was drawn loosely to the top of her 
 head, and a little just waving on her forehead. I wish 
 that Meta and Sybil could have seen her. The Warden 
 of St. Augustine's, who often visited her while she was 
 ill, came and looked at her, and wrote afterwards to 
 the old Archdeacon, " It is not possible to imagine 
 death more beautiful." 
 
 I did not go to her burial, but Bernard drove me 
 next day eight miles through the woods to the place 
 where she lies, close-cradled against the south chancel 
 wall of the old church which my father served about 
 fifty years ago. She, and I, and Bernard, and Richmond 
 Ritchie spent a long afternoon there last year, at Whit- 
 suntide. Lucy sat trimming her hat with the flowers 
 she pulled from the long grass, and said, " Ah, Ber, 
 here will I be buried ; promise to bring me here " ; and 
 she reminded him of this several times lately. He was 
 passionately fond of her, and wrote when she first fell 
 ill, " I have long known that Lucy is the dearest thing 
 I have on earth." Indeed, we all adored our sweet, 
 sprightly girl. She was made for her home, and her 
 home for her. I am comforted by many things in spite 
 of the searching grief. Your dear words are a great 
 pleasure to us. All my children love you truly.
 
 122 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 To Sydney Holland (her nephew) 
 
 THE LODGE, UPPER HARBLEDOWN, i-jtk September. 
 
 It is indeed a true, solid pleasure to hear that dear 
 Mary's pain and peril is over, and that you have a 
 sweet little daughter, who will one day trot by your side 
 and call you " Father." We all think that Mary will 
 make a delightful mother, and I quite long to see her 
 and the babe in her arms. It will be such a deepening 
 and widening of life for you both. All the hope of the 
 world lies in the children. They are not, thank God, 
 born Radicals, or agnostics, or worldlings. They are 
 born fresh and fresh, the precious little souls and 
 bodies. Every new-born child is a new chance for the 
 world to be better and brighter. 
 
 It was good of you to write to me about Lucy. She 
 fell in love with Mary and would always have loved 
 her and understood her. It will always endear Mary 
 to me more than ever that she liked Luce. I cannot 
 write of my loss. Lucy and I were, perhaps, too 
 passionately attached to one another, but we all loved 
 our sweet girl, and all expressed our love. 
 
 She was so gentle and courageous in her long illness. 
 We had often talked of death, but neither she nor I 
 had ever imagined that we should have to face it for 
 so many months, and to make what we knew were such 
 vain endeavours to avert it. Yet such was God's will 
 for her, and for us, and I believe that what He wills is 
 not only good, but best, the very best. 
 
 Give my dear love to Mary. I shall remember her 
 and the darling babe in my evening prayers.
 
 1 886] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 123 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, z^th September. 
 
 It is one of those perfectly still autumn mornings 
 rather peculiar to England a light mist and gossamer 
 flying in every direction hop-pickers making their 
 way down through the woods to the gardens, a squirrel 
 leaping noiselessly across the lawn, and a wood-pecker 
 in the elms breaking the silence. What a different 
 scene from the ceaseless gaiety of your brilliant metro- 
 polis ! 1 I like to think of you there. . . . Agnes is 
 going to write to you on Sunday, and will give you 
 any news that there may be ; I have none though I 
 feel as if events were taking place. It is six weeks this 
 morning since we brought our sweet Luce here, and 
 looking back the days seem crowded with great 
 events: so much does life consist in the emotions of 
 the mind. 
 
 To Sydney Holland 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, 26th September. 
 
 Tell your dearest Mary that it will be a real pleasure 
 to me if she calls her little daughter after mine. I 
 shall take a particular interest in the darling babe, and 
 will never forget her in my prayers. I can really wish 
 nothing better for Mary than that this child should be 
 the same source of joy and love to her as Lucy was to 
 me ; that there may be the same willing obedience and 
 docility as long as childhood lasts, and the same tender 
 love and friendship on either side as years go on. . . . 
 
 1 Paris.
 
 124 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 To the Lady Mary Holland 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, Sunday. 
 
 We all thought of you and your darling babe, and 
 of dear Sydney, on Saturday. With us it was a pour- 
 ing wet day from dawn till dark, but I hope that you 
 had a gleam of sunshine among your Welsh hills 
 and meadows. Sunshine in your heart I am sure 
 you had, notwithstanding all the pain and peril you 
 have gone through, and notwithstanding your present 
 bodily weakness. What a shifting of the scenes it 
 all is for you ; you have always been so active and 
 well, and are now obliged to make a long pause. And 
 now, too, you will lay aside some of the sweet careless- 
 ness of youth, and must ever bear in mind and heart 
 the little child whose life is for ever interwoven with 
 your own. I shall think so much of you and of her ; 
 we are all so much pleased that she is "Lucy," and we all 
 like " Katharine " also. What you say of your feeling 
 about our Lucy gives me much pleasure. I am quite 
 sure that you would have loved Lucy more the more 
 you knew of her. She had so much courage and 
 gentleness and originality. 
 
 I am sure that you will let your little Lucy lead a 
 free life, and that you will plant good and noble ideas 
 in her mind, as soon as she can understand anything. 
 I am sure that she will be a charming little girl. Do 
 you know Wordsworth's " Three years she grew in 
 sun and shower " ?
 
 i886] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 125 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, Michaelmas Day. 
 
 You were good to your poor mother, and may God 
 from whom descends all fatherhood in Heaven and 
 earth receive you, and bless and reward you a thousand 
 and a thousandfold for it. I have had so much more 
 than I deserve of all good things. It is quite right 
 that our sweet Luce should go. The world could do 
 nothing for her. I loved her passionately and so did 
 you, and she returned our love. It was Heaven to me 
 to see you together, and when, that morning, I heard 
 her voice and yours mingling in the Confession and 
 Gloria in Excelsis my heart overflowed with sad joy. I 
 had longed for that so often, and it came as things 
 longed for do, only in far different ways from what we 
 imagine. Lucy was the heart of the family. She was 
 the living expression of all that is truest and best in us. 
 You are all dearer to me when I think of her, and God 
 knows with what unspeakable tenderness I carry her in 
 my heart, and how gladly I would suffer all things 
 could I spare you suffering. You must suffer, but 
 your life is before you, and more kinds of happiness than 
 you think are to be found. Lucy was the charm and 
 solace of your early manhood ; she loved you and loved 
 everything you said and did, and your very name was 
 delightful to her ears and lips, but nevertheless her 
 heart was drawn above. She walked with God, and is 
 not, for God has taken her. It is not for nothing that 
 souls have early in life so strong a hold on things in- 
 visible. My sweet girl ! it is not at all surprising that 
 she is not here ; what should she do here much longer, 
 and why should she grieve, and suffer partings and loss ? 
 she was fit for other things, and has them. . . .
 
 126 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, 8tA October. 
 
 I began a letter to you on Wednesday, but my pen 
 and spirits failed. I have felt so unwell all this week, 
 and begin more and more to miss my darling girl. 
 
 Then the plan about makes me rather melancholy. 
 
 But she is literally wild with pleasure. I suppose that 
 always in service people look towards ultimate inde- 
 pendence most old servants seem glad to go if they 
 are sure of means of support. 
 
 All change is painful to me, I think. I wish you 
 were here for some of these quiet October days, dim 
 dewy mornings, broad sunny middays and afternoons, 
 and, towards evening, a delicate mist partly formed of 
 the motionless cottage smoke, lying across the dis- 
 mantled hop-gardens and woody slopes. But I doubt 
 not that in Paris, beautiful blood-stained Paris, the days 
 are also beautiful. I should like to wander with you in 
 the solemn avenues of Versailles. We shall go back 
 to Canterbury in the last week of this month. I often 
 think of Lucy's saying, " Oh mamma, never take me 
 back to Canterbury ; take me further on." And we did 
 take her further on ; through the woods and by the 
 clear stream. That road seems to me now a sort of 
 via sacra. The railroad crosses it just opposite to 
 Chartham. . . . The Due d'Alencon has taken a house 
 in Canterbury, and there is considerable going and 
 coming across the water. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 HARBLEDOWN, 8/A October. 
 
 Your verses touch me very much. I seem to miss 
 my sweet girl more and more. I have often in the
 
 1 886] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 127 
 
 last few years considered with a sort of astonishment 
 what Lucy was to me, every hour of every day, from 
 week to week, from year to year. Sometimes I 
 thought it was too much, then again I remembered 
 that she certainly would not live for many years, and 
 I abandoned myself to the dear delight I have often 
 wept, knowing that I was destined to weep this darling 
 child, and she has often with smiles declared that she 
 gladly believed that she was not destined to weep me. 
 
 All that remains for us now is to enter into God's 
 design and to carry it out. Lucy preserved her 
 baptismal innocence, and lost it not, for God took her, 
 as He took Alfred. He speaks to you also in a 
 thousand ways, my dear son, and it is the wish of my 
 heart that He may speak with the efficacious voice of 
 grace to your deep, tender, and faithful soul, and then 
 you must hear and follow for ever. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, i^th October. 
 
 The mist drew up at 10 A.M. yesterday, and re- 
 vealed a lovely day of still warm sunshine. Mrs. Reid 
 and her little boy to lunch, and G. C. P. afterwards, 
 occupied the golden hours, so that I hardly got out 
 till after tea, when I mounted the hill to the little 
 group of Scotch firs. The air was perfectly warm and 
 still, though the dew of the night before was yet in the 
 grass. There was a streak of light lingering in the 
 west otherwise the landscape was wrapt in soft 
 October darkness. The nibbling of the sheep, and the 
 cough of one afflicted in the flock, and the occasional 
 deep sighs of Sandy 1 stretched at my feet were the 
 
 1 A collie dog.
 
 128 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 only sounds that broke the silence. In Surrey, at that 
 season and hour, I should have heard the acorns and 
 chestnuts patter to the ground, and the uneasy move- 
 ments of the game in the covers or on the trees. 
 Long I remained there, leaning against the centre tree, 
 as against a pillar in a little unroofed temple. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, 29//& October. 
 
 Yes, dear Ber, that is so. When I think of Alfred 
 and Lucy I can say with poor Cowper 
 
 Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he, 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 
 Every one follows his own temperament or humour. 
 This nothing ever really changes. So hearty, practical 
 people remain cheerful and doing through tremendous 
 reverses (except here and there a very practical person 
 shoots himself), and people with whom ideas and affec- 
 tions hold the foremost place receive a deep impress of 
 a melancholy sort. Not melancholy, quite ; but of 
 course, if your turn of mind is such that you cannot 
 see anything beautiful or beloved without at the same 
 time remembering that tout passe, then, when it does 
 pass, the thought is a hundred times deepened, and so 
 one proceeds loving and weeping from loss to loss, 
 from shore to shore, till at last it all ends. And yet I 
 would not be the hearty person. I think I see deeper 
 and truer than they do, and that I am far more capable 
 of mentally stretching forward, and almost laying hold 
 on things out of sight. But I am not so useful to my 
 neighbour as the hearty one is. 
 
 I drove this afternoon round by Thanington, and by
 
 1 886] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 129 
 
 Chartham Hatch. The line of bronzed woods against 
 the clear, pale blue sky was very pretty. Plenty of 
 Kentish men and boys at work in the fields, filling 
 sacks with large potatoes, or burning bines, and the 
 plough going steadily from hedge to hedge. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, $th November. 
 
 The reason that I have not written is that I have 
 been very unwell with neuralgia, etc., and also that 
 Agnes and I have been engaged upon the uninterest- 
 ing, and, this year, the sad work of resetting ourselves 
 in this house. And there has been more to do than 
 usual, because for so long before I had neglected all 
 my household concerns, and had left in a hurry in 
 August, thinking of nothing but our sweet girl. Agnes 
 and your father went to Godmersham on Tuesday, All 
 Souls' Day, taking some flowers. It was a day of still, 
 broad sunshine, and they said that the beautiful beech 
 woods along the high park and down the steep side of 
 the hill looked like a glory. The ash tree that hangs 
 over the stream was also pure pale gold, and Lucy's 
 grave lay warm with the full sunlight on it against the 
 old chancel wall. Your uncles in India write that they 
 are so glad that we have lain her there. 
 
 To Lady Stephen 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, 8tA December. 
 
 My dearest Mary Thank you for your kind words. 
 I have often thought of you, and wished to write or 
 speak ; but then again I have thought, why should I 
 renew her old grief by recounting mine ? And it 
 
 K
 
 130 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 seemed easier to be silent. The thing that has been 
 all along in my mind to say to you is that I shall ever 
 remember all the kindness which your elder children 
 always showed to Lucy. Herbert and James were as 
 kind in word and manner to her always as if she had 
 been their sister, and she was always so delighted to see 
 them arrive. She was disappointed that I would not 
 let her see Herbert when he was last here, but she was 
 too ill. And one day in August she said to me, " I 
 should so like to see James, he has always been so 
 good to me. How happy I was to sit by him, or walk 
 about at Fox Holm with him ! " And I wished, as she 
 spoke, that James could have seen her sweet face, so 
 pale, pure, and bright " like a spirit," as Bernard said. 
 . . . Will you give my love to Herbert and James ? 
 the thought of them is bound up with the memory of 
 so many pleasant days ; the like of which can never 
 come again. I am sure that they will always re- 
 member Lucy among the friends of their quite early 
 youth. 
 
 And my love to Rosamond, and even to the Judge. 
 He always makes a great figure in my mind, as of a 
 person without whom the world would be ever so much 
 poorer. Long may he live and judge mankind ! 
 Your very affectionate friend, SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, \$th December. 
 
 Pere du Lac wrote me a note on Monday (St. Lucy's 
 Day). In my reply I referred to the day, to which he 
 made answer, "j'ai pri6 pour Miss Lucy toute la journ6e 
 d'hier ; nous faisions le si bel office de sa douce et 
 vaillante patronne. Puisse-t-elle 1'avoir rec_ue au ciel."
 
 1 886] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 131 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, i^th. December. 
 
 I should love to hear you arguing with the Decadent. 
 I suppose he would be a sort of Pater ; I own to a 
 profound dislike for that turn of mind, and I should 
 shriek with the majority were I seated at your dinner- 
 table. I do not wonder that Notre-Dame seized you. 
 So it did me when I read it. It is the most powerful 
 of Victor Hugo's novels ; but there is great power also 
 in Les Miserables, which is his longest book. I quite 
 agree with you about historical novels ; next to them 
 comes the philosophic novel, which I always like also. 
 I think that poets are generally inclined to write a 
 novel or two vide Goethe, Victor Hugo, Alfred de 
 Vigny, Cervantes, and many others. In most poets 
 this inclination finds its expression in drama. Shake- 
 speare would have been the greatest novelist ever created 
 if he had not written plays ; and this, perhaps, goes to 
 support Matthew Arnold's definition of poetry as the 
 " criticism of life." Victor Hugo is a seer, like Carlyle ; 
 he really seems to reproduce the past, and he tears 
 down a good many shams. I do not know whether I 
 ever remarked on your observation as to your reluct- 
 ance to express great admiration for established triumphs 
 of art, such as the Venus of Milo. I am sure that you 
 ought not to have that feeling, any more than one 
 should resist saying what has pleased one, even if no one 
 else has admired it. Nothing can be more hackneyed 
 in poetry and description than the Vevey end of the 
 lake of Geneva ; but when I had been there a short 
 time, I felt all the force and beauty of Byron's lines, 
 and Coleridge's, and was pleased to feel as they felt.
 
 132 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 ... I shall be glad to be over Xmas, though I 
 linger in mind in these days when I can say, This 
 day, last year, Lucy did this or that with me. When 
 February comes I shall be forced to begin again the 
 sad round of her illness. Sometimes I wonder how I 
 could have gone through all those things. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, 2ist December. 
 
 Do you remember our conversation at Harbledown, 
 in the high meadow, on the Sunday evening before you 
 went to Switzerland, about immortality and the death 
 of the body and the resurrection ? I have often thought 
 of it since, and of the Communion in Lucy's room. 
 Only ten days later we again gathered in that room for 
 Communion ; Lucy's sweet face was hid for ever in this 
 world, and Bernard was with us instead of you. . . . 
 
 Our weather has been rough, and so piercingly cold. 
 I feel as if Lucy were well out of it ; her spirit moving 
 and living in some regions of peace and light ; her 
 delicate body turning indeed to dust, close cradled 
 against the south wall of the old chancel. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, zznd December. 
 
 Your father says that you are coming down to- 
 morrow, which is good news ; but, in case you do not 
 come till Christmas Eve, I write this word to say that 
 if, thirty years ago, your future was all the vaguest 
 dream to me, I could not have dreamed of a dearer son 
 than you have been to me. I could have wished
 
 1 886] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLA ND 1 33 
 
 you stronger, merrier, and more buoyant, but then my 
 son would have been less tender, compassionate, and 
 meditative. 
 
 Thirty is a middle point thirty years' back I was 
 ten years younger than you are now ; thirty years 
 hence I shall have gone elsewhere, long gone, and 
 perhaps in some still region shall be waiting again for 
 you. And, if the joy to a woman of her first-born is 
 unspeakably great, how much greater would it be to 
 see him again new-born to a greater life and light. 
 
 You have shared the sorrow of this year with me. 
 You would have felt it much less had you been mar- 
 ried ; but, although the pain has been hard for you, 
 yet I cannot be sorry that you are still ours mine, 
 and no one else's. But I hope that this year may bring 
 you pleasure and prosperity, and no more pain. 
 
 To Rosamond Stephen 
 
 CANTERBURY, Christinas Eve. 
 
 My dearest Rosamond Such a stupid gift this 
 Christmas Eve, only another little jug! but from a 
 stupid and rather melancholy god-mother you must 
 expect stupid and melancholy jugs and letters. 
 
 I believe that I ought not to feel sad, remembering 
 what a sweet daughter lived close to my side for twenty- 
 four years ; so gentle, merry, compassionate and con- 
 tented ; so loving to her poor mother, and so adored 
 by her brothers and sisters ; so detached from this 
 world, and yet pleased and interested by many things 
 in it ; so cheerful in company, and yet such a born 
 lover of solitude and solitary places. 
 
 It is a great thing for me to have had such a
 
 134 LETTERS OF [1886 
 
 daughter, and that she should have lived long enough 
 to be entirely known to us ; and entirely loved. She 
 was so long ill that we had time to talk over many 
 things ; we knew that we must part, and we believed 
 that we should meet again, and that wherever we met 
 there would be Paradise. So there it is, my dear 
 Rosamond. 
 
 Tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse^ except love and 
 work ; this is all we have to do in this wonderful world. 
 Ever your affectionate god-mother, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, ^otk December. 
 
 Many, many happy New Years to you. I begin to 
 feel what Byron did when he wrote, " There's not a joy 
 the world can give like that it takes away." Still, with 
 three sweet sons and a dear daughter, I am still rich ; 
 and, indeed, should a thousand woes betide, I have had 
 much more happiness than falls to the lot of most 
 women. ... I am very sorry, indeed, that you did not 
 go to the midnight mass, and were only at the stupid 
 charades instead. I have always wished to be present 
 at that service, and I know how ancient and touching 
 it is. I agree with you, on the whole, about the Roman 
 Catholic services. I am quite satisfied with our own 
 services, when they are given with all the fulness allowed 
 by the Church of England ; and when I was abroad I 
 often longed for some service which should answer to 
 our daily evensong and matins. But constantly, in 
 deference to the general Protestant or Puritan feeling, 
 our services are heaped together, so as to make them 
 tedious and unmeaning, and stripped of their real beauty
 
 1 886] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 135 
 
 by total negligence of ritual. I think that the Anglican 
 Church, as she might be, could hold her own against 
 the world ; and I still wish that I could see you a 
 priest in her Communion a fair and free career in 
 my opinion.
 
 VII 
 LETTERS OF 1887 
 
 To Miss Arnold Forster 
 
 CANTERBURY, i8iA January. 
 
 ... I do not know how this note may find you, 
 and whether, even while I write, our Father may not 
 have broken down His child's frail earthly tabernacle, 
 and set the radiant spirit free. But any way, whether 
 the sweet boy is here or elsewhere, I feel that you are 
 firm and ever firmer in faith and hope and love, holding 
 fast to the absolute certainty that all that happens is 
 the particular will of God, and that His will is not only 
 good but the best the very best. I do feel for all 
 your pain from the bottom of my heart ; for great pain 
 there is and must be, notwithstanding the deep and 
 true consolations of religion. The comfort is that He 
 knows. I so often think of the words, " And Jesus 
 groaning in Himself cometh to the grave." 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, 22nd February. 
 
 I will keep good care of the pretty, melancholy lines, 
 but do not read Leopard! any more. He is too beauti-
 
 1887] LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 137 
 
 ful and sad, and will draw you down under the waters 
 when you might mount into the sunshine. 
 
 I wish you had been here this fine, clear February 
 day. The Cathedral towers looked as if drawn in fine 
 lines of air against the pale, clear blue this morning 
 early, and the rising sun just flushed Bell Harry, 1 
 giving a warm tint to the gray stone. We have been 
 for the last day or two entertaining a gentle English 
 Jesuit, staying at Hales Place, out of health, and in- 
 terested in archaeology. I like the company of the 
 S. J. Fathers. They have a finish that is wanting in 
 the modern Benedictines and the secular priests. They 
 all seem to know much of men and things, and are 
 quiet and observant, and therefore humorous. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, izth March. 
 
 We are through the mission, and have not yet re- 
 covered our equilibrium in household and other matters, 
 and I have a mass of correspondence to get through. 
 . . . Papa was at the levee yesterday, in gown and 
 bands and three-cornered hat under his arm, and met 
 Uncle Harry 2 in velvet and star and sword. Rather 
 comic, although satisfactory. Imagine meeting Michael 
 under similar circumstances. We have a storm of wind 
 and snow this morning. The wind has gone right 
 round from south to north in half an hour. These are 
 the sudden gusts and whirls that wreck sailing vessels. 
 Yesterday the Brines brought an Exeter paper, which 
 had copied Mick's Jubilee verses from the K. Gazette, 
 referring to the author as a gentleman residing in the 
 archiepiscopal city. 
 
 1 The central tower of the Cathedral. 2 Lord Knutsford.
 
 138 LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, 28t& March. 
 
 The Archdeacon * is to be buried at Thanington to- 
 morrow, at one o'clock, by his own request. He has 
 been a friend to our family to the third generation. I 
 never remember the Cathedral without him, and I 
 remember it for forty-five years. He has said to me 
 since we came back this winter, " I miss Lucy's light 
 figure hurrying across the Oaks every morning." I 
 shall never forget his voice in church, nor his look and 
 way when he came up and stood by Lucy's fair corpse, 
 and blessed her, and went to the spot in the meadow 
 where her breath failed, and looked silently round, and 
 wiped away a slow tear, and went quietly away without 
 speaking. 
 
 There is a very great and quite unanimous feeling 
 in Canterbury about him. 
 
 I feel very much interested in Henry Dillon. 2 He 
 has done wisely to slip his shoulder from the coil and 
 burden of things which he could not remedy, and to be 
 born (as Gregory the Great said of himself) naked into 
 the monastic life. I should like to see him again. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, y>th March. 
 
 Yesterday was a proper Canterbury day bright 
 sun, sharp wind, and every one on foot and astir about 
 
 1 Benjamin Harrison, Archdeacon of Maidstone. 
 2 A friend of mine who had recently become a Franciscan.
 
 1 887] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 139 
 
 a matter of local interest, the Archdeacon's funeral. 
 There was much to be done, because the determination 
 to bring him once more into the Cathedral had only 
 been reached in the afternoon of the day before. The 
 shortness of the notice given, the day altered from 
 Thursday to Tuesday, prevented any very large 
 assembly of diocesan clergy, and at Matins none 
 but the usual two or three gathered together. About 
 twelve o'clock people began to collect in and about the 
 Cathedral, clergy were hurrying round the old corners 
 bag in hand, King's School boys in surplices standing 
 about in groups, and choristers running across the Oaks 
 after a hasty dinner. A great number of wreaths and 
 crosses were sent to our house, and at 12.15 Agnes 
 went up the Lane to fetch the little Blue girls who 
 were waiting ranged round their school-room, saying 
 the burial psalms to pass the time. They looked very 
 demure and nice in their black ribbons, ties, and crepe 
 bows on their little shoulders, and Agnes marshalled 
 them, and made them carry across all the flowers. I 
 watched them from the window as I had watched them 
 last May, and then Lucy was kissing her hand to them 
 through her tears, and the old Archdeacon and his wife 
 were waiting on the grass to walk with them to the 
 bowling green. Then, also, they carried flowers. 
 
 When every one had gone through, I followed, and 
 went into the Cathedral my usual way, coming out on 
 the top of the nave steps. The children were seated in 
 rows on the steps, the Cathedral families were on the 
 nave floor at the foot of the steps. A wide lectern 
 dressed with black, and a bier, were placed in the 
 centre of the first bays. The middle was kept clear, 
 and the people lined the aisles. I went with Agnes 
 and stood at the corner of the gate to the Martyrdom,
 
 LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 on the lower landing. This commanded the whole 
 centre of the nave. 
 
 The clergy came in procession down the North 
 Choir aisle and North Nave aisle, and stood grouped 
 at the West end till the coffin arrived at Christ Church 
 gate, where the Mayor and Corporation and King's 
 School were waiting. When it arrived they went out 
 to meet it, and we soon heard the sweet strains of the 
 psalm. Then they re-entered, the whole body together, 
 and came up the middle nave in good order, and so 
 ranged themselves on either side while the purple- 
 palled coffin was settled on its lofty bier. Then the 
 Dean read the lesson, then came an anthem, a prayer 
 and a hymn, and then, as the march out began, the 
 choir sang softly the Nunc Dimittis, at the close of 
 which the organ broke into Chopin's Funeral March. 
 
 Nothing could be more beautiful than the effect of 
 the moving mass of people, the splendid south sunlight. 
 the scarlet robes of the Corporation, the purple of the 
 Mayor and his officers, the long line of pure white 
 robes, the strains of music, and, high above all, on the 
 men's shoulders, the coffin, with purple and silver pall. 
 With my whole heart I said, " Farewell, farewell to 
 him, " and it seemed as if he replied, " Ah, yes ! fare- 
 well, farewell to Canterbury to the Cathedral, to the 
 priests, the friends, the choristers, the children, the old 
 houses and gardens and flowers and budding trees 
 and building birds, to the sun and the air and all that 
 makes up this mortal life." At his hands I have 
 received nothing but good, and his memory shall ever 
 be dear. Canterbury truly mourns for him. For forty- 
 five years he has gone in and out among us, and 
 among those who were before us. His little youngest 
 friend, who saw things with something of his eyes and
 
 1887] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 141 
 
 mind, and who would have wept for him yesterday, has 
 gone before him. We shall never find any one again 
 in the world like the Archdeacon. There was no one 
 (as it says in Chronicles) who kept the law of the 
 Lord, and walked in the ways of his fathers all the 
 days of his life, like unto Benjamin the Archdeacon. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, zist April. 
 
 Many, many happy returns of the day to you, 
 and a thousand blessings on your dear head and 
 kind heart. There is no earthly blessing that I do 
 not wish for you, but more than all I wish you a 
 heart above the world. This I think you have by 
 nature, and may God preserve it to you by grace. 
 Spring seems come at last, and a light veil of green 
 begins to show itself in the old gardens. A few 
 more showers would change the face of the world. 
 . . . Mr. Pearson, the architect, has been spending the 
 day here planning the improvements in St. Anselm's 
 Chapel. Darling Luce would have taken such interest 
 in all this. These soft spring days make me miss her 
 cruelly but the time must come for us all. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, 2nd May. 
 
 ... I think that you are right about Fox Holm, 
 and that it is time to part, but oh, my Bernard, what 
 has not that little house been to me. It would be 
 ungrateful were I to part from it without a deep pang. 
 You see it was the frame in which my children's lovely
 
 142 LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 childhood was set. I see you all there in cold early 
 springs, in splendid Junes, and, above all, in the broad 
 autumn sunshine. But so I could never see you again 
 were I to live 100 years at Fox Holm, so I am con- 
 tent ; and I think myself happy to be at Canterbury, 
 where we have some other links beside your father's 
 Canonry. And no place is home like Kent. 
 
 To Sydney Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, ^rd May. 
 
 I do not see my way to coming to you this month. 
 . . . Bernard will be very angry with me. He wants 
 me so very much to see " how lovely Llangattock is, 
 how kind and easy the hosts, and how sweet the little 
 new Lucy." But I cannot come, dear Sydney. I 
 don't think that I can go anywhere at all this year. I 
 feel much more inclined to hide myself away from 
 everybody till I have been a year without my Lucy. 
 I am cheerful enough at home, but directly I go away, 
 and my occupation ceases, memory brings up her hosts 
 remorselessly. 
 
 You don't know what this is, and I hope you never 
 will. You never need feel it, if God is merciful to you, 
 as I pray Him to be. ... 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, I2/A May. 
 
 Your letter from Fox Holm affected me very much 
 too much. I saw you standing lonely in the horse- 
 shed, and my Lucy there too, her little brown shawl 
 wrapped round her shoulders, and her sweet dim face 
 in the spring twilight. Sometimes I can hardly believe
 
 i88;] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 143 
 
 that she ever lived ; sometimes I cannot believe that 
 she is gone. No one can imagine what my girl was 
 to me every hour of every day really no one could 
 believe it. I often used to say to her that it was too 
 much ; and now often when I think of her I feel as if 
 my heart would break or my head go. Still I have 
 many things left, and nothing seems more certain to 
 me than that beyond this life there is another, and 
 that not in vain do we love. Perhaps, after a few 
 more years, I shall look back to my life up to 1885 at 
 Fox Holm as one looks back upon a long happy day. 
 I used to think that the wound of Alfred's death would 
 never heal. Perhaps it is best to come away. The 
 place is sweet, but it was the life that we led there 
 that was the sweetest. I, too, have spent thousands of 
 delightful solitary hours in those woods and fields. 
 When all my little children were in bed, I used to 
 wander out in the twilight, and remain long on the 
 high ground, within sight of the house, " my heart's 
 own temple, my Jerusalem," and I have felt such an 
 overflowing tenderness and love and thankfulness. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, zznd June. 
 
 I have been sitting absorbed in the decorated 
 columns of the Times, and have missed the midday 
 post. London must certainly have been a wonderful 
 sight yesterday. 1 
 
 Here we had a fine service in the Cathedral at 1 1 
 
 A.M. the whole building filled with soldiers. The 
 
 standard-bearers, veterans, grouped high up on the 
 
 steps in front of the altar, surrounded by drawn 
 
 1 Queen's Jubilee of 1887.
 
 144 LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 swords held upright. The Cross, flanked by clusters 
 of roses, appearing beyond. This seemed to symbolise 
 all that we have to live and die for. Handel's corona- 
 tion anthem was very well sung, and " God Save the 
 Queen" was sung in excellent time by soldiers and 
 choir and organ, producing altogether a great rolling 
 volume of sound. In the evening I took a carriage, 
 and went with little Bruce Barter and a school friend 
 who is also here, and Mrs. Trueman and her children 
 who had been spending the day, to a meadow at the 
 top of Tyler's Hill, the opposite side of the road to 
 Hales Place. On this spot a large bonfire had been 
 erected. All was soft darkness when we arrived, but 
 presently the hill above Chartham lit up. Then a wide 
 ruddy glare opened all along the sky in the direction 
 of Dover ; then St. Martin broke out opposite to us ; 
 then we fired on Tyler's Hill. Then a blaze of rockets 
 went up from the dark woods behind Hales Place (the 
 friendly and cautious Jesuits have held services, waved 
 flags, and sent up feux-de-joie these two days). Then 
 a great fire showed itself above Fordwich, as far as we 
 could guess. Then we saw the Boughton rockets go 
 up behind the ridge of forest which lay between us and 
 Herne Hill. Then five great flaring spaces of sky 
 were discernible towards Reculver, Margate, Ramsgate, 
 Deal, and some other place. One of these, towards 
 Deal, shone with great splendour, and at the same 
 time Minster began, like a great distant steady burning 
 lamp. And the whole time the great flare at what 
 we took to be Dover continued. Charles Trueman 
 strode about over the hay swathes, eagerly trying to 
 settle exactly where every blaze arose, and interrupted 
 and put out every moment by the screams and wrong 
 guesses of his wife and children.
 
 1 887] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 145 
 
 The deep little lanes were full of Blean natives, and 
 the clergy orphans were careering round their bonfire. 
 No one really tried to see all that could be seen but 
 Colonel Charles and myself, both old natives. We 
 counted thirteen bonfires all at once, and thought of the 
 crowds in London, and of the thousands and thousands 
 of English faces all over England lit up on the high 
 grounds in the midsummer night. 
 
 One feels that it has all happened very well, with a 
 good Conservative Government in, and no war any- 
 where in Europe, and the loaf very cheap, and perfect 
 weather and plenty of roses, and only another six weeks 
 of Parliament sitting. We illuminated this house very 
 prettily for both nights ; rows of small lamps and tall 
 candles in each window, a big flag across the street, and 
 little ones disposed about. Mercery Lane was really 
 beautiful, and the High Street good, everybody out 
 and in good humour. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, z6thjuly. 
 
 Everything looks brilliant this morning, and all 
 beyond the immediate dark green of the garden is of a 
 pearly gray. This is the prevailing tint of East Kent 
 distances, and it is a sort of reflection of the pale Channel 
 colours, clear but pale. The sea, the chalk, the wide 
 cornfields, the great open sky above the northern waters, 
 all combine to produce it. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, $th August. 
 
 Your letter from the Bains du Lavez has just come 
 to hand. You may imagine with what emotion T read 
 
 L
 
 LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 of those places which in all their loveliness are indelibly 
 imprinted on my memory. 1 I am glad that we were 
 there. I often regret that I have not made more ex- 
 cursions with my children since you all grew up. One 
 remembers nothing so pleasantly and distinctly as 
 expeditions with those one loves. I wish we had taken 
 our sweet Lucy to Italy with us. But all this is 
 nothing to her clear spirit now, and almost nothing to 
 me at times. " That immense sad charm," which you 
 so truly describe, is shed over these lovely earthly 
 scenes by the mind of man, and would be terrible and 
 intolerable did our stay end here. 
 
 I God who hath power to put our love asunder 
 (Also hath power to re-unite us all. 
 
 This is my Rock and Refuge ; in these ideas I rest, and 
 am a little comforted. ... I am reading Evelyn's Diary 
 because of the large print. How well he describes 
 sweet Wotton, with its woods and watered park and 
 old church, in the porch of which Evelyn learnt " his 
 rudiments of one Friar." I like also his account of 
 one John Wall, an Irish Friar, who had become a 
 cavalier, and was going to serve in the German Horse, 
 whom Evelyn met in Paris, and whose delight was to 
 go and argue in public with the Jesuits and other 
 ecclesiastical doctors, and overthrow them in argument. 
 Of quite surpassing powers and eloquence, Evelyn says. 
 This is the sort of character whom a clever novelist 
 introduces with such effect 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, z$th August. 
 All goes quietly here. The days slip along in blue 
 
 1 The shores of Lac Leman.
 
 1 88;] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 147 
 
 and gold and purple and the fine white linen of the 
 hour before dawn. The roses are coming in again and 
 the mignonette holds out. Last night, after dark, the 
 firwood balcony sent forth an astonishing aromatic 
 perfume, which filled the dining-room when I opened 
 the window. G. C. P. drove up on Thursday evening 
 with a bag and stayed the night. He fenced cheerfully 
 all the evening with Aunt Emily, betraying much 
 activity and knowledge, some of it surprising, such as 
 a minute acquaintance with the butterine question, and 
 the exact derivation of a slang word, and the genealogy 
 of some fashionable lady ; easily, also, unrolling to us 
 the position of the Jesuits with regard to the Orleanists 
 since Egalite, and their quarrel with Charles Xth.'s 
 ministers. Every one's information appeared so hazarded 
 by the side of his. He took some trouble to talk well, 
 and never said " more or less " or " waste paper basket " 
 at all. He explained very neatly all about buck- 
 jumping horses, though he had not seen Buffalo Bill. 
 He sat all yesterday morning in the garden with a 
 book, and says that the place is perfectly delightful. 
 He likes the house and garden and meadows and 
 everything. 
 
 St. Anselm's Chapel is begun. We must very soon 
 get the designs for the windows. I wish you would 
 read his life and see what comes to you of it, and go 
 on considering in what form we should commemorate 
 him, and in what our blessed Lucy. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, 2ist October. 
 
 . . . The woods are in full autumn colouring. I 
 walked with Frank this afternoon to Chartham Hatch
 
 148 LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 and then along the brow to the right, and down through 
 a very pretty wood by a path which brought us out at 
 that solitary hop-oast at the foot of the " camp." The 
 fruit gardens are not at all deserted ; men and boys 
 tying and cutting, and burning the " evil " trees and 
 unfruitful branches in heaps outside the grounds. Hop- 
 poles are quickly stacking, and ploughing is begun. It 
 is all good and quiet and touching in the still autumn 
 air. One feels the circling of the seasons in this 
 country. All our walnuts are thrashed and the boughs 
 spread naked against the sky. One of the elms, on 
 what Chaney calls the " hanging level " of the park, is 
 brilliant pale yellow, and the beech and wild cherry are 
 burning red in the Halhed woods. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, z-jtk October. 
 
 I did read Lord Randolph's speech and admired the 
 ending. It is a fine peroration, but he has not been 
 idle and ill-behaved for nothing, and although he may 
 turn a period like Burke, yet his words carry immeasur- 
 ably less weight than if they had been conceived and 
 uttered by that man of pure and heroic heart. Burke 
 touches one so deeply because his word is himself. 
 Lord Randolph sees what he says, but I doubt whether 
 
 he really feels it. Still he is far beyond and Co., 
 
 " who neither hear nor see, rolled round in earth's 
 diurnal course." 
 
 I am glad that you agree with me that the real 
 worker wants little positive amusement. All the world 
 over theatres exist for the comparatively idle classes, 
 or for those who have not family life. I think the 
 Germans wisest with their music, beer and pipes.
 
 1 887] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 149 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 CANTERBURY, jth November. 
 
 My dearest Mary Barbara wrote me such a delightful 
 letter from Poynters, but it made me shed many foolish 
 tears, just to think of past days. It is not that they are not 
 always in my mind, but when some one else puts one's 
 thoughts into words, all the freshness of sorrow revives. 
 I wrote to you when you lost your brother, but my 
 letter seemed so melancholy to myself that I burnt it. 
 I have thought of him and of you a thousand times. 
 I shall never forget him. I remember quite distinctly 
 each time that I ever saw him, and something that he 
 said or did. I think that his must have been one of 
 those characters whose natural gifts grow into virtues. 
 Some people have delightful qualities, but let them 
 float and waste, but your brother's kindness grew into 
 love, and his good taste and love of art into zeal for 
 the House of God, and so on and this seems the best 
 and happiest thing that can come to a human soul, and 
 it must come only to those who are pure in heart, and 
 can see and follow the lead that God gives. 
 
 And how happy for him, and for my Lucy, and for 
 many other sweet souls to be taken while their whole 
 being tends to God and to the work He has set. But 
 what an unspeakable loss to us ! 
 
 Often and often in spirit I traverse those woods and 
 arrive at your door, and cross the quiet dark hall, and 
 open the drawing-room door, and find you at your tea- 
 board with one friend. One day I shall come in body. 
 If only I could see your sweet face without bursting 
 into wild tears that is what I fear. Your loving 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 ISO LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, 2^/1 November. 
 
 We were very much amused by your account of 
 your Sunday in Trafalgar Square. The circumstances 
 hardly justified calling out the constabulary, I think, 
 and I doubt whether the moral effect was needed, for it 
 must be clear even to the most deluded section of the 
 mob that there is more spirit in the classes than in all 
 the masses put together. Their gymnastic training is 
 not given for nothing throughout our great schools. 
 
 Canterbury is as usual. The stream of affairs is 
 narrow, but runs full 'to the banks and contributes, I 
 suppose, its contingent to the great ocean of things, and 
 also to the " waste paper basket " about which G. C. P. 
 is for ever muttering and murmuring. 
 
 As I write I see the three backs of Archdeacon 
 Smith, Harry Austen, and a " Cathedral Chap " survey- 
 ing the porch of the Archdeaconry where, perhaps, a 
 spout is gone wrong. Papa, with trenchered head, is 
 hurrying up the path with a Receiver's book under his 
 arm. Mark is arriving from Harbledown with a load 
 of wood and vegetable produce. Bell Harry and all 
 the rest of the vast building is shining white in the 
 southern sun against a black leaden northern sky. We 
 sang just now " In Jewry is God known, the shield, the 
 sword and the battle " very well rendered. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, gth December. 
 
 I like our weather, the south wind always blows, 
 and this morning at six, opening my windows, the dark
 
 1887] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 151 
 
 soft air blew in quite warm. The Cathedral reared 
 itself huge in the light of a low waning moon, and all 
 the constellations looked as if they had wheeled over 
 and were plunging westwards. A blackbird sang, 
 perhaps the same " Early bird, early bird," that John 
 Starr heard, for birds live long. Deus, Deus meus, ad 
 te de luce vigilo. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, lytA December. 
 
 The morning is charming here a south wind and 
 bright ascending sun, which, as I write at 9.30, 
 illuminates the whole Cathedral east and south. We 
 have had many such mornings lately, and also beauti- 
 ful clear evenings. Yesterday, at evensong, I observed 
 the great west window of the nave's south transept, 
 which I can see from my seat, shining like pale amber 
 in the gloom of the great church, and, coming out, saw 
 the wide west clear as crystal, while the south wind was 
 driving up the clouds in masses from the left. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, St. Thomas' Day, 2isf December. 
 
 This is the shortest day of the year the very 
 point of entrance of the deepest cavern of winter, 
 and we really have arrived at it without feeling much 
 of the hardships of the journey. No winter ever seems 
 really very hard or long if we reach Christmas mildly. 
 We have had a sharp north wind these last two days, 
 but bright sun and blue sky, and starlight nights as the 
 watchman has duly informed us. The middle and 
 lower population of Canterbury has been stirred by the
 
 152 LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 report that the Star of Bethlehem has re-appeared in 
 the east. This turns out to be the planet Venus, who 
 rises most fair and effulgent just before dawn and still 
 shines beautifully long after the eastern sky is rosy with 
 the rising of the sun. . . . Sarah Bernhardt's im- 
 mense gains are surprising. That an actress should 
 make so much money seems rather to equalise things. 
 The world certainly pays good salaries, and He who 
 said My kingdom is not of this world, also pays His 
 servants, but in quite other fashion. And I am sure 
 that it is a fact that not one woman in a thousand 
 envies Sarah or would change lots with her. Hardly 
 would she excite a moment's envy in a poor cottager 
 or little maid-servant. Things are so much more equal 
 than they appear. 
 
 To Rosamond Stephen 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, CANTERBURY, Xmas Eve. 
 
 My dear Rosamond I do not know whether the 
 ugly little tea-caddy with a sliding top will yet have 
 reached you. It was chosen in a great hurry between 
 the trains, and I have a decided impression of having 
 sent a frightful object to be engraved with your pretty 
 name. But I know that Rosamond will receive it 
 kindly as a sign of tender remembrance on the part of 
 her god-mother. 
 
 I hear of your dancing at Eton, dancing on the 
 very brink of womanhood, which is wonderful when I re- 
 member the tiny bright-eyed girl I first saw fresh landed 
 from India. And I hear that you dance very well. 
 
 And from another person that you learn very well, 
 and from another that you talk very agreeably, and 
 from another, a very small person, who appears to
 
 1 887] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 153 
 
 speak the exact truth, that " Rosamond Stephen is 
 such a kind girl." All this news of you has reached 
 me within the last week, and I feel that such a 
 sweet god-daughter deserves more than an ugly caddy. 
 So she shall have besides it her god-mother's love and 
 blessing and prayers, which last either are worth nothing 
 or are worth more than all the gold and silver of this 
 poor world. In haste, dear girl, yourmost affectionate 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 In December 1887 my mother began to keep an 
 irregular journal, and from time to time continued it 
 until the spring of 1889. The following extracts are 
 taken from the beginning of it. A very few more will 
 be inserted later on. 
 
 Extracts from Journal 
 
 ist December. On beginning a work. Far be it 
 from me to will, and much less to undertake, anything 
 whatsoever in this mortal life that has not Thee, oh my 
 Lord and Master, for its first motor, promoter, centre 
 and circumference. Thou art my all, both by what Thou 
 art, and by what I am, by condition of nature, by election 
 of understanding, and by choice of determinate will. 
 Accept then the total oblation of this which I am about 
 to undertake, for I protest that I expect and intend 
 nothing in it but the performance of Thy Glory, the 
 performance of my duty, and the carrying out of Thy 
 most blessed will. 
 
 Orate Dominum Jesum, ut mihi ignoscat, quia im- 
 plere non potui quod volebam. 
 
 $rd December. Finished reading Pater's Marius the
 
 154 LETTERS OF [1887 
 
 Epicurean ; curious book, original and not original, some 
 faint re-echo all through of the author's early life and 
 schooling at Canterbury. 
 
 1 5 th December. Drove to Bishopsbourne. . . . The 
 country as we drove along this afternoon looked wet 
 and wild ; heaps of brown leaves raked together and 
 rotting. Big calves huddled under the trees. The 
 streamlet swelled and running fast. Masses of drifting 
 clouds in a yellow west sky. We are going down into 
 the darkest caves of winter there lies our road, where, 
 two years ago, my Luce fainted by the way, chilled to 
 death in that long six months' winter of 1886. We 
 had to leave her as Jacob left his darling wife. She 
 died in the way and we had to journey on, as we do. 
 
 \'jth December. I thought to-day about the influence 
 of the Cathedral on people living, as we do, close to it, 
 and often in it. It is the influence of the actual 
 building itself, quite apart from services, and more than 
 services ; Lucy soon felt this. I remember her saying, 
 " Mamma, it holds me, it is like a spell." 
 
 And some there are whom God hath set to dwell 
 In such old places. 
 
 This I find written in her little Apocrypha. They are 
 dear John Starr's words. 
 
 St. Stephen's Day. Lisa to dinner. She ran back 
 across the deep snow at I o P.M. looking like a phantom. 
 There is a peculiar effect about old buildings in snow. 
 The silence, the muffled hurrying figures, the white 
 mass half-disguising the buildings, the dim uncertain 
 lights, all seem to obliterate the marks of the present
 
 1 888] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 5 5 
 
 time. The bell strikes eleven as I write, and I hear the 
 watchman crying " Past eleven o'clock, and a moonlight 
 snowy night. All's well." Deo gratias, I reply in my 
 heart of hearts, and still and always I think of my 
 sweet Luce, so passionately loved and lamented. 
 
 St. John's Day. Deep dazzling snow lying thick on 
 earth and old buildings and bare trees. . . . Pretty 
 ragged girl came to the door after breakfast with little 
 pup in her arms. She made a pretty picture in the 
 door with the winter background. Bernard will re- 
 member this. He looked at the child and spoke kindly, 
 and Agnes brought her tea. The girl's look and 
 manner, as simple as an Italian peasant, and yet only 
 old civilisation can produce the type. 
 
 New Year's Eve. It has just struck twelve on the 
 last night of the year. ... I had a pretty letter from 
 Mrs. Harrison to-night. She always strikes the right 
 chord with me. We and they understood each other and 
 felt alike about a thousand things. The year is gone that 
 took the Archdeacon, and young Loosemore, and young 
 Edward Blore all familiar faces in and about these old 
 buildings where God hath set us to dwell. He only 
 knows who will be here and who gone when this year 
 also ends. Lord have mercy. 
 
 gth January. E. M. to London. This is her last 
 visit to our house before her voyage to Japan. May 
 God bless her and reward her for all her service and 
 long kindness to me and mine. I can truly say that I 
 have no more faithful friend in the world than she is, 
 nor is there any family where she is so loved and 
 understood.
 
 156 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 2$tk January. Cette petite figure pale comme la 
 mort, avec ses gros yeux noirs et cette voix tremblante 
 qui disait d'un accent navrant, " c'est vous, vous seule 
 que je ne sais pas quitter." How much love, tenderness, 
 and service have I and mine received from the faithful 
 friend. If we never meet again here we shall meet 
 elsewhere. May God bless and reward and keep her, 
 and bring her home again. 
 
 26th January. West wind rose in the night. I 
 have heard the wind and waves all day, as Luce and I 
 did in the autumn of 1883, after Agnes sailed for 
 India. The wind used to make me restless all day and 
 night, tossing the branches of the little wild wood with 
 a sound like the waves dashing. How long it seems 
 since that autumn, and yet it is only four and a half 
 years. I have felt low in soul all day. 
 
 ist February. At 2.30 to Cathedral. No one in 
 Crypt All the floor filled in again, except stone coffin. 
 Beautiful S.-W. light across the west portion of Crypt. 
 I stayed for an Ave Mary in the Lady Chapel all 
 forlorn and deserted. Saw Canon Routledge taking 
 people up to transept. Went into St. Anselm's Chapel, 
 and sat a little at the end of nave. All was perfectly 
 empty and silent and beautiful, till a verger came clatter- 
 ing in at south door. 
 
 Candlemas, 2nd February. Early celebration with 
 Agnes and Sophy. The altar beautiful with great 
 arums and pampas grass. Such splendid tender lights 
 behind the screen from the south-west rising sun and 
 the stained windows. All that we need is more dignity, 
 reverence and unity in the celebration of the mysteries.
 
 1 888] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 157 
 
 As it is, the place and the manner contradict each 
 other. 
 
 %th February. . . . Afterwards I went to the Cathe- 
 dral, and into Trinity Chapel while the choir sang 
 " Lord ; Thou hast searched me out" I spent the 
 time there till the light faded outside and every one 
 had left the church, and then went to the Crypt, and 
 stayed a while in the beautiful desolate places. Then 
 prayed for Michael at the gate of the Angels' Chapel, 
 and went home. 
 
 2Qth February. Snowstorms all afternoon. Agnes 
 got out of the box my brother James' old letters, and 
 some of mine in 1858-61. Oh, the freshness of that 
 time ! Some of my mother's letters also, one describing 
 Alfred's first return from India. My father's emotion 
 at meeting him in Paris. He was their darling son. 
 
 Letters of my mother also about . How quiet she 
 
 sleeps now ; all that at an end. Eternal rest grant 
 them, O Lord ; and let perpetual light shine on them. 
 
 i st March. . . . Went into St. Peter's for quarter 
 of an hour's private prayer ; considered the great ques- 
 tion. Thought of my dream of the golden net. . . . 
 
 . . . At 7. i 5 to St. Peter's. Subwarden was very 
 good on the pure in heart, following truth wherever it 
 may lead. What he said struck in with my vein of 
 thought. 
 
 i$tk March. Very fine day. With Agnes and 
 Frances to Matins. Heard the Psalms very dimly. 
 Thought much of my darling Luce while we sang the 
 Psalm. I remember at this very time of the year hold-
 
 158 LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND [1888 
 
 ing her dear hand in mine while the Psalm was singing, 
 on the morning we heard of little Edith Selfe's death. 
 We let our tears fall together. Now hers are wiped 
 away, and mine still flow. 
 
 March. Cold and damp. Fall of snow at 
 nightfall. Mr. Reid to see me. Deafness better some- 
 what, but full of aches and pains in my poor ruinous 
 body. This has been an idle day for me. Miss - 
 called. Voila tout. Tried to write letters but did not. 
 Tired am I of all mortal things. When shall we flee 
 as a bird unto the hill ?
 
 VIII 
 LETTERS OF 1888 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, $rd February. 
 
 IT is bitterly cold here, colder than ever. Little 
 
 creeps close to the fire but cannot keep warm. 
 
 She is always scribbling, and her poetry runs upon la 
 grande passion. Not that I believe love to be la 
 grande passion. Other passions take a far more last- 
 ing hold of the human heart. Science, once she seizes, 
 never lets go her slave, and ambition " that last infirmity 
 of noble minds." Go to St. Paul's Cathedral on Sun- 
 day and tell me what you think of the new Reredos. 
 You will also get an excellent sermon if Liddon or 
 Holland's " learned sock be on." You ought to arrive 
 before 3 P.M. a little. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, qth February. 
 
 I believe that if I were talking of you instead of to 
 you I should say that you can produce stanzas, because 
 you have the poetic temperament and are well trained 
 mentally in that direction, and that some day, under 
 press of true deep feeling you might produce something
 
 160 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 very good in its kind like Lockhart's little poem liked 
 by Carlyle, or Stanley's one or two lovely things and 
 really that sort of jet of pure deep feeling, taking ex- 
 pression in a classically cultivated mind, is a great con- 
 tribution to the general stock. But there is no doubt 
 that composition in all the arts, as composition, injures 
 the critical faculty. This is clearly seen even in great 
 poets. They do not know when the fire is out. . . . 
 I set the critical faculty higher than the power of 
 writing even very pretty verses. . . . God bless you, 
 my dearest boy, and prosper you and preserve your 
 going out and coming in, now and ever. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, 2$rd February. 
 
 You were quite right to go to Lady S 's recep- 
 tion. If you are going to lead a London life, you had 
 better go everywhere and see everyone that is worth 
 seeing. The best London society is the best in the 
 world, and it is something to see it. And besides one 
 can always get out of society, but one cannot always 
 get into it. I am quite happy about you now that you 
 are out of the gloomy little No. I o. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, 25^ March. 
 
 What are you doing this evening, my Bernard ? I 
 have been reading your " Sir Justinian " with pleasure 
 and some admixture of pain. It strikes a chord in my 
 heart, at least, and past voices reverberate, and sweet 
 shapes and scenes flit by. 
 
 I am still deaf and ill, and will not pretend to do
 
 1 888] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 161 
 
 more than send thee a salutation. To-morrow we 
 enter into Holy Week, and into the nearer contempla- 
 tion of suffering willingly borne. 
 
 What a noble army certainly has followed the way 
 of the Cross ! 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, 2jtk March. 
 
 I send you Mr. Scoones' letter. I think that you 
 will win anyhow you have worked well, and if you do 
 not get this I shall say, " It is plainly the will of God," 
 and shall know that you are destined for something else. 
 You will go to a service on Good Friday, I am sure, in 
 remembrance of the death and passion of our sweet 
 Saviour, Christ, and will, with the whole of believing 
 Christendom, make your communion on Easter morning 
 in trust of our Resurrection to Life immortal. If my 
 son does this, then is he close at my side though half the 
 world lie between. You and Lionel are children of one 
 font. I kissed the bright baptismal drops on his tender 
 brow as well as on yours. Carry this note in your 
 bag, or better still, carry my word in your mind to 
 Porlock by the Sea. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. LEONARDS, jth April. 
 
 It is very cold here but I feel somewhat braced. 
 Aunt C. and I have just come back from Holmhurst, 
 where we have been taking tea with Mr. Augustus 
 Hare. I really enjoyed this very much indeed. It is 
 a house about the size and shape of Poynter's, and 
 
 M
 
 162 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 stuffed full of pretty and interesting things. We 
 rambled about it and saw a great many pictures, and 
 heard a great many stories. He was very kind and 
 agreeable, and I should like to spend a week there 
 among his books and sketches. 
 
 Extracts from Journal 
 
 HASTINGS, Sunday, %tk April. To Christ Church 
 for High Celebration and Matins and Sermon. Cer- 
 tainly this is a great development of the Anglican 
 Liturgy. /If this rite and the doctrine it presents is 
 really ours, it is enoughj But if it is not ! I can find 
 or hear no answer to one or two questions that are 
 continually before me. I have just read in Miss 
 Hare's letters the following, which strikes me : " The 
 mistake of my life has been to take God's gifts instead 
 of himself." 
 
 Monday, th April. 
 
 Ecce sub vite 
 
 Amoena Christi 
 
 Ludit in pace 
 
 Omnis Ecclesia tuta in horto ; 
 
 Resurgens, Christe, 
 
 Hortum florentis 
 
 Paradisi tui 
 
 Obstructum 
 
 Diu reseras, 
 
 Domine, 
 
 Rex regum ! 
 
 " Creatures were created by God for man, in order 
 that they may aid him to attain his proper end. Thus, 
 then, creatures are for us but means, as we have already 
 said. What other consequence can be drawn from this
 
 1 888] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 163 
 
 truth except that we must accept all which leads us to 
 our proper end, and reject all that keeps us from it ; we 
 must take that which carries us to God, and leave that 
 which separates us from Him. 
 
 " Thus in all which takes place, in all that happens 
 to me, I reflect before God. Yes, this trouble, this 
 sickness, this act of obedience, this cross, it comes to 
 me from the hand of God, it leads me to God. 
 
 " Then I take it. On the contrary, this self-seeking, 
 these memories, these affections, keep me from God. 
 I leave, let go. 
 
 " Desirer, la est la vie. 
 
 " Dieu doit etre desire, car desirer c'est cette tendence 
 de Tame qui attend, qui appelle, qui prie, et, compre- 
 nons le bien, prier cest vouloir. Desirer, vouloir, prier 
 c'est done la meme chose." 
 
 Tuesday, loth April. La messe, 7 A.M. Break- 
 fasted alone in great parlour. Talk with M. M. 
 Anastasie. Went round the schools at 1 1 A.M. with 
 her. Dined alone. Went into Church " Notre Dame 
 du bon Conseil." Long talk with Mother Aloysius 
 about her family history. Reception of her sister 
 Bertha, etc. Prayed long in chapel. Benediction. 
 Bed, 9.30. 
 
 Wednesday. La messe, 7 A.M. Breakfasted alone. 
 At 8.15 took my leave of the kind mothers. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, lotA April. 
 
 Last night I dreamed of you so vividly that I awoke 
 and struck a light, and looked at my watch, and found
 
 164 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 that 'twas but 1 1.30 P.M. This was at the convent at 
 St Leonards, where I went on Monday, and was most 
 hospitably entertained till this morning. 
 
 Among other rules, all lights are extinguished at 
 9.30, and this caused me to be dreaming of you before 
 midnight. I dreamed only that you came and sat on 
 the floor and leaned your head on my knee (this you 
 do not out of dreamland) and told me in a trembling 
 voice that you were ill and tired. What you said and 
 what I replied was so vivid that when I awoke I got 
 up and prayed for you, and not only to the Lord of 
 life, but to His Mother and all the Saints, whose altars 
 stand in the pretty adjoining church. Then I slept 
 again, and this time I dreamed that Lucy, Agnes, and 
 I were in our usual places in the Cathedral, and the 
 office going forward, when the choir began to sing 
 false, and the organ gave a wrong chord, and the music 
 was ending in a harsh confusion, when Luce took up 
 the strain in a note of thrilling sweetness, and sustained 
 the melody till the choir recovered its footing, and 
 the congregation clapped and made loud applause, and 
 I thought who has ever been applauded here beside 
 Luce ? and awoke very cheerful. 
 
 On Saturday Aunt Caroline and I drove over to see 
 Augustus Hare, and had tea, and saw his house and all 
 its interesting contents. Here he is really seen to ad- 
 vantage. It is a pretty, low-built house with a broad 
 ivied verandah running all round it. His sketches of 
 Rome and Italy generally are exquisite. 
 
 Rye and Winchelsea looked very pretty rising out 
 of their campagna, as we steamed across it under a 
 brilliant blue sky. Thousands of lambs, shining white, 
 with their dowdy woolly mothers, and flights of sea- 
 gulls gleaming like silver. Nothing else but the sluggish
 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 165 
 
 little river taking its time to the sea, and a sulky old 
 fort in the distance. 
 
 Extract from Journal 
 
 Sunday, \^tk April. Beautiful day. . . . This 
 evening Lisa told Agnes of her great project 1 She 
 has simply made the sacrifice while others stand con- 
 sidering. This determination on the part of Lisa in 
 the midst of a year of marrying and giving in marriage 
 touches and lifts one like a pure death, the thought I 
 mean of a pure death, i.e. another life. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 CANTERBURY, \>th April. 
 
 My dearest Mary What terrible, overwhelming news 
 Emily Buxton sends us this morning. I cannot believe 
 it. It seems impossible that Mr. Arnold 2 is gone, gone 
 in the moment of meeting, as he was hurrying back to 
 meet, his little gay Lucy. 
 
 All his kindness and goodness and genius, his 
 general love and good-will, and his faithful and par- 
 ticular friendship rises up before me. I weep for him, 
 and for his darlings left without him. The thought of 
 their pain is almost intolerable. God alone knows 
 what they must suffer, and that He does know is the 
 one comfort and stand-by. What a journey for Nellie 
 through the long night, and what an arrival. 
 
 I wish that I could see you. I have not felt any- 
 thing so much since I closed Lucy's sweet eyes. You 
 
 1 Of entering the Kilburn Sisterhood. 
 2 Matthew Arnold.
 
 166 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 will be one with them in this great grief, and I do not 
 like to imagine that you also are suffering. It is a 
 great thing, however, to accompany a friend step by 
 step through these dark places. It is the work of 
 Christ and of His angels, weeping, strengthening, 
 ministering. 
 
 From pain to pain, from woe to woe, 
 With bleeding heart and footsteps slow. 
 To Calvary with Christ we go. 
 
 These old words, from the Stations of the Cross, used 
 to go drumming through my head, as I went down 
 step by step with Lucy in my arms, to the very gate 
 of death. These events are our Calvarys, our Cruci- 
 fixions. How well Mrs. Arnold knows it. Her sweet, 
 suffering, pale face is before me. Write me a word to 
 say how all is with them, and with you. I feel much 
 love to them all, but I can do nothing but pray for 
 them, and that I will do as long as I live. Your ever 
 loving SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 ijtfi April. 
 
 I daresay you have heard more by now. Mr. 
 Arnold fell as he was walking towards the tramcar 
 with his poor wife. She raised his dear head and 
 cried out for brandy, but there was none, and none in 
 the doctor's house into which they carried him. 
 
 Yes, the emperor is dying. All these things cast 
 the soul on God alone. We accept His gifts instead of 
 Himself; hence our despairing tears.
 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 167 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, zoth April. 
 
 I think you had much better shut up all your books 
 and take Sunday and Monday in the country. I feel 
 sure that it cannot be a good thing to go on working up 
 to the last minute. Do take my advice and come down 
 and have a good ride or a walk by the sea-shore you 
 will get a spring in your mind which will make you do 
 everything better. . . . You are twenty-three to-morrow. 
 It seems to me a wonderful thing. Twenty-three 
 springs have your eyes looked upon. It seems to me, 
 however, much longer than that since you were born. 
 Everything now seems to me so long ago. I do not 
 know exactly why this is so. I will say nothing more, 
 my darling boy. You know all my love for you. I 
 turn away my thoughts from the Exam., because I feel 
 as if my anxiety would add to yours. I wish that you 
 were not anxious. 
 
 To Miss Arnold-Forster 
 
 CANTERBURY, -zoth April. 
 
 . . . Mr. Holland desires me to return to you with 
 his love and thanks these stanzas on Arthur Stanley. 1 
 How well the four last lines of stanza eight suit your dear 
 uncle himself. I thought so when I first read them. 
 . . . My dear Frances, how people suffer! What a 
 crucifixion this life is ! I have been reading Gordon's 
 letters to his sister ; his clear faith, and insight, and 
 light touch on life are very helpful and animating. 
 
 1 Matthew Arnold's poem.
 
 i68 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, gi& May. 
 
 You may think how pleased we are. Agnes flew 
 out into the clear dusk of the Precincts ten minutes 
 ago where I was walking with a party of High School 
 
 girls and little , and gave me your telegram. 1 I 
 
 lifted up my heart and opened it, and there was just 
 light enough to read your two words. Is not success 
 a strange quiet feeling. Things seem to fall into 
 another perspective as soon as one has what one wants. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CAVENDISH, SUFFOLK, ist June. 
 
 I wonder if you are meditating any serious measure 
 while you are yachting, or whether you are wholly 
 given to the winds and waves. . . . 
 
 ... I came here on Wednesday, and yesterday 
 made a long excursion with Aunt Cathy to see churches 
 Bures, Nayland, Wissington, Stowe, Kersey, Gifford's 
 Hall (which still belongs to the Mannock's, who held 
 it 400 years ago), Bosford, and Assington. The 
 country is rich and well-watered, and the villages all 
 look prosperous. The children all well shod and 
 plump. The smell of the bean-fields delicious " the 
 smell of a field which the Lord hath blessed," the 
 pastures all gold and silver, the copse woods crimson 
 and blue with blue bells and sweet campion, immense 
 tufts of laylocks peeping over all old walls and out of 
 all old gateways. Gifford's Hall is a wonderful old 
 house lying buried in tall pastures and beech, a long 
 
 1 As to winning a clerkship in the House of Commons.
 
 i888] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 169 
 
 old small avenue of elms running to it and out of it. 
 The laylocks in full bloom blowing about the fine old 
 red gateway of the little quadrangle. 
 
 These are just the sort of places mentioned in John 
 Gerard's Life and Edward Campion's. I wish that you 
 had come down here instead of yachting. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CAVENDISH, $th June. 
 
 I should so much like you to see a beautiful old 
 house called Gifford's Hall near here. Aunt Cathy and 
 I went by train last week to Bures, and drove thence to 
 see a number of churches. At Stoke, by Nayland, 
 there is a splendid church, and in a side chapel the fair 
 alabaster monument of Sir Gilbert Mannock. Further 
 on, at the bottom of a green chase, and standing knee- 
 deep in waving pastures and lilacs blowing about the 
 old doors and windows, we came upon the ancient Hall 
 a red brick gateway, and within a small old quad- 
 rangle. All was perfectly silent, but, as we looked 
 through the tall arch, we saw the figure of a young girl 
 flying past the long low window in the upper storey. 
 The place still belongs to the Mannocks, but is let to 
 the Arnolds. 
 
 Extracts from Journals 
 
 Wednesday, 6th June. Canterbury is a beautiful 
 place to return to, but oh ! for a little more leisure. 
 " Que rien ne te trouble. Que rien ne t'effraie ! Tout 
 passe. Dieu ne change jamais. Tout re"ussit a la 
 patience. Rien ne manque a qui possede Dieu. Dieu 
 seul sufBt." St. Theresa.
 
 170 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 2gth June. 1 Bishop of Minnesota staying with us ; 
 also Bishop of Grahamstown and Bishop Bickersteth 
 of Japan. The first of these three is one of the most 
 striking persons I have ever seen. 
 
 une. Fine morning. Large luncheon party 
 from 12.30 to 2 P.M. Knutsfords by special train with 
 the mass of Messeigneurs. Reception of Bishops by 
 the Primate in the Cathedral a very fine sight. 
 
 To the Lady Knutsford 
 
 CANTERBURY, July. 
 
 ... It was so good of you to come here, and I was 
 so sorry to see you go. 1 am sure that, if you are right 
 and that the measure of affection is to be taken in the 
 absence of friends I am sure, then, that I must adore 
 you, such a charming and interesting figure of you 
 shapes itself ever in my mind. 
 
 All the things I left unsaid seem so much more 
 important than anything I said to you. What a large 
 part of oneself are the things unsaid and undone. Ever, 
 in scecula s&culorum, affectionately yours, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, gth July. 
 
 I am always so sorry to see you go. Everything 
 that you like I like, and my pleasure is always doubled 
 by your presence. It was in this part of the world 
 that we began to be friends, and hereabouts we shall 
 
 1 The Bishops of the Lambeth Conference were at Canterbury.
 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 171 
 
 probably end, only, I hope, to begin elsewhere. What 
 I write to you about at this moment is merely to say 
 how pretty it is to sit at my window and watch the two 
 mowers who began at eleven o'clock on the other side 
 of the terrace fence, and are now just finishing their 
 seventh swathe. At twelve they stopped, ate and drank 
 just this side of the Bigareaus, 1 and then lay in the sun 
 by the old orchard gate on their faces like dead men 
 for an hour. Then they rose and silently resumed their 
 scythes, bowing their strong backs to the rhythmical 
 toil. They are good bearded creatures, and keep on. 
 The seventh swathe is just in a line with the Bigareaus. 
 Now the short mower is beginning the eighth, and I 
 see his straw hat and red handkerchief at his belt 
 moving under the low boughs. Chancy, with a foolish 
 expression of authority, is advancing with more beer. 
 The wind has gone to the south-west and is blowing 
 the elms about. All the hop-oasts are testifying to the 
 truth of this statement There is something fascinating 
 in watching the ridges of grass fall. Do you remember 
 the wonderful chapter in Tolstoi where Levine mows 
 with the mowers ? 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, i$th July. 
 
 We have such a splendid morning after the cold 
 whirling storms of yesterday and the day before. The 
 dashing rain, and waving elm branches, and scattered 
 roses, and sodden earth made a most melancholy 
 picture. Now the sun is come rejoicing out of his 
 chamber, and is running his course like a giant, and 
 
 1 Cherry trees so called.
 
 172 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 all is warm and tranquil and fragrant. The hay- 
 makers, who will presently be reinforced by the maids, 
 are raking the long swathes into lines at right angles 
 with the garden fence. The mowers are bending to 
 their work at the top of the hill by the firs, and the 
 air is full of humming and singing. All the storm is 
 over and forgotten. ... I have read but little as yet 
 of sweet Dorothy Osborne. What an odd thing it is 
 that there should not be more letters like those. I 
 suspect that thousands of collections of family letters 
 have been burnt in past times, exactly as Mrs. Harrison 
 burnt the mass of the Archdeacon's correspondence to 
 save herself the trouble of looking through and sorting 
 out. It is a pity, but one sees how it comes about. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, 17 th July. 
 
 We have just come to the end of a long fine summer 
 day. Yesterday the rain kept off, and, towards midday, 
 the wind rose, so that the hay dried fairly well, and 
 the afternoon was very fine. This morning I woke at 
 4.30 to the diabolic cries and clapper of the child whom 
 we have hired to drive the birds from the cherries. 
 You never heard such a child. We have fed him twice 
 from our own table to-day in order to keep him quiet, 
 but he begins again more than ever. We can hardly 
 hear ourselves speak. The birds make angry retorting 
 whistles and squeakings from the elms. Agnes and I 
 have been gathering black currants ; they are as big as 
 grapes, nearly. At 12.30 Ida Field and her mother 
 appeared to lunch, and early in the afternoon Lisa 
 drove up with a friend, then Canon Routledge, and 
 then B. Battye. So the yard was full of vehicles ;
 
 MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 73 
 
 quite a garden party. We gathered cherries and straw- 
 berries, and carried our tea into the hayfield, near the 
 old Bigareaus ; every one seemed to enjoy it. After 
 the company was gone, we resumed our currant gather- 
 ing, and old Hearn made himself neat, and came up 
 to converse, and to propose a bargain for our " surplus 
 fruit." Three half-pence a pound is the market price 
 of cherries. The French people say that fruit is much 
 cheaper here than in France. Hearn's outline against 
 the sky, as he stood on the highest point of the garden 
 path, was very finely curved. There was a glow in the 
 west which set it off. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, zotk July* 
 
 I am glad that Gordon had his wish, but then 
 he goes as close up to the line that lies between life 
 and death as a soul can live. The clause in the 
 Litany really means " sudden " in the sense of " unpre- 
 pared " death, or unfortified by the Sacraments, but I 
 think that in the Latin it runs " a morte perpetua libera 
 nos, Domine." The thought of Gordon is so sweet to 
 my mind ; and still I think his desertion the worst 
 stain on that Government, and the endeavour to lessen 
 in the eyes of the people the brightness of his glory the 
 worst thing the Liberals allowed themselves to do. It 
 was all so false. Gordon with his pure eyes saw it all, 
 and disdained it, but forgave it. 
 
 On Tuesday Agnes drove me to Goodnestone and 
 Graveney. We came back through the hamlets and 
 superb orchards that cluster at the foot of the hill 
 between the sea marsh and the London road. It is 
 all really beautiful, and unlike, both in its wildness and
 
 174 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 in its cultivation, the ordinary English rural scenery. 
 Troops of sturdy children were making their way 
 from school to the old doors of their old homes, calling 
 to one another, and scattering over the bye-paths that 
 run everywhere through the gardens and orchards as 
 they do in Italy. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, z6tfi July. 
 
 I have ended Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle, and 
 think that I understand Charles Lamb's feeling about 
 the book and its author. Her description of herself 
 and her own bringing up at the end of the book is 
 very good. It is a pleasure to read of a singular 
 person, who felt herself to be singular, and singularly 
 blessed, and who watched her own life and its adven- 
 tures and developments. There is more than enough 
 of such introspection nowadays, but in former times 
 it was rare. The charm of Montaigne chiefly consists 
 in his account of himself what he did, thought, read 
 and wrote, and in his way of tracing back to the 
 fountain head all that he observed in himself. And 
 there is much of this in Charles Lamb also, don't you 
 think so? 
 
 Now I am entirely engrossed in Shelley's charming 
 letters. The force of language can no farther go than in 
 some of his descriptions. I read slowly and savour 
 every page, as the French say. Will you get for me 
 from the London library Parkman's Montcalm and 
 Wolfe, or if that is " out " any one of Parkman's books 
 except Frontenac, which I read at Milford ?
 
 MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 7 5 
 
 To Miss Arnold- Forster 
 
 HARBLEDOWN, yzth July. 
 
 . . . The story of the doll does please me. It 
 came like a fresh little voice out of the past, and 
 though, as I write, tears blind my eyes, yet I am 
 pleased. How happy we all were in your pretty 
 house. I seem to remember every flower in the border 
 round the house, and the fair mountains all about, and 
 the Rotha brimming to his banks and flying and 
 gleaming like a swift silver smoke. How all these 
 things must speak to your mother and your aunt ! 
 
 To E. M, (in Japan] 
 
 THE LODGE, is/A August. 
 
 ... I send you a note of , which will make you 
 
 see where I am as to a subject of the deepest importance. 
 I don't want to write about it, and, if you were at home, 
 darling E. M., my dearest and most faithful friend, I 
 should not speak to you of it. I have nothing to say, 
 but if things are made clear to me I shall act, be the 
 cost what it may. And it is no light thing to take 
 one's life and all that one has, and cast it, as it were, 
 into the deep, and to turn, old and solitary, into a life 
 which makes the greatest demands upon the human 
 soul. Do not make a trouble of my trouble ; the time 
 is short and the only thing to live for is the will of 
 God. You once said to me in reply to a question of 
 mine, " I should never speak to you again," and so has 
 said another person, or as good as said it. But I shall 
 not mind if you never speak to me you would not 
 refuse to embrace your poor friend, and that would be
 
 176 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 enough. . . . How often August has found me thus 
 alone the warm summer wind filling the quiet house, 
 and bringing in all manner of rich scents and soft 
 country sounds. The children have set up doves and 
 guinea-pigs again. This is Bernard, who for ever recurs 
 to the pleasures of his childhood. It is just about this 
 time two years ago, my E. M., that you were with us 
 at Canterbury, and for the last time your Lucy threw 
 her arms about your neck, and you kissed her pale 
 cheeks and brow. Often and often I think that were 
 you and Agnes and Lucy with me in Paradise the joy 
 would be too great it is too great to imagine. There 
 are other dear, dear souls of yours and mine, but some- 
 how my dream is of just this. Ever, my own dear 
 loved friend, yours till death and after, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 Extracts from Journal 
 
 HARBLEDOWN, Saturday, 1st September. I looked 
 out of my window about 3 A.M. this morning, and 
 saw the wondrous brightness of the moon waned 
 to a crescent boat, and riding high in the south. 
 Orion brilliant, and the Great Bear wheeled about and 
 plunging towards the fringe of the dark northern woods. 
 This has been a lovely autumn day, a fine light mist 
 hanging about and a warm sun. 
 
 Sunday, 2nd September. We all drove over to 
 Godmersham for morning service. All looked so 
 lovely and unchanged. 
 
 Green swell the hills, the woods wave fresh as ever. 1 
 1 A line from some verses written about Godmersham by her father.
 
 MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 177 
 
 Godmersham, as one comes down the slope from the 
 Temple woods towards the post-office, making always 
 the same effect. It is a sort of peculiar untouched 
 soft beauty. Something in itself entire and perfect, 
 like a pearl ; and there lies my pearl, my lost pearl ; and, 
 away south-west of London, against the south side of 
 another chancel wall, lies my sweet Alfred. The 
 thought of St. Lawrence, his martyrdom, his bliss, his 
 possible power of intercession came overpoweringly 
 into my mind as I knelt at the end of the Communion 
 office. 1 
 
 Monday, ~$rd September. This is the second 
 anniversary of Lucy's death. Day of grief and 
 mourning for us for her, sweet soul, the beginning of 
 everlasting joy. 
 
 Monday, iQth September. Fine day. At 7 A.M. in 
 the hop-gardens with Bernard. Everything so fresh 
 and lovely, and such a soft multitudinous sound of 
 women's voices coming up from the steep sloping 
 grounds. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 HARBLEDOWN, iStA September. 
 
 I remember my one flying sight of Isola Bella, with 
 the mountains beyond. I felt a passionate desire to 
 remain on the lake and to visit those isles, but we 
 pushed on over the pretty low hills and down upon 
 Milan. The beauty and prosperity of Milan, Florence, 
 and (perhaps) Turin, take one by surprise. Bernard 
 says that the Swiss hotels are generally the cheapest 
 and civilest. We were horribly fleeced at Turin. . . . 
 
 1 Godmersham church is dedicated to St. Lawrence. 
 
 N
 
 i;8 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 The Italians are not at all honest and truthful, which I 
 suppose the Romans were ; at least I think that Gibbon 
 says that in the matter of truth the English more re- 
 sembled them than any other nation does. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, igth September. 
 
 Your description of Sirmione made my tears flow. 
 I don't quite know what touches me so much unless it 
 be the thought of my young son looking upon that 
 ancient beauty, as so many young and ardent souls 
 have looked before, gazing and gazing, but unable to 
 grasp the whole of its perfection. What a priceless 
 gift it is, my Frank, to be able to feel the deep living 
 loveliness of nature and art. I do so rejoice in your joy, 
 and I am glad that you can travel alone ; some people 
 can't. Everything in Italy attracted me. The scenery, 
 people, art and religion, for that religion, with all that 
 can be said against it, is the one religion to me and 
 I shall go a stranger all the days of my life in hac 
 lacrymarum valle unless I find my way into it. ... 
 Besides all the pleasure to me and others, letters are 
 far the best form of journal, particularly when they are 
 written to the mother who bare you, who nursed you, 
 and taught you, and loved you and loves you with 
 passionate tenderness. 
 
 To Rev. W. H. Bolton 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, 2$th September. 
 I have read the paper 1 through several times and 
 
 1 A paper on the Athanasian Creed, written in reply to a Latitudinarian 
 clergyman.
 
 1 888] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 179 
 
 with much profit and pleasure. I think that it is the 
 reverse of " poor." It is full, solid, and clear. I should 
 like to talk with you about it, or rather to hear 
 you talk. Some parts of the paper I particularly 
 appreciate. 
 
 With regard to Mr. I am sure that you 
 
 would find that, if you brought your controversy with 
 him to a plain issue, it would be brought to a speedy 
 end. You and he do not agree in first principles, and 
 therefore really have no common ground. You will 
 find that you differ from him in the belief in the 
 existence of God. So from what can you start? 
 Newman says something to this effect We need not 
 dispute ; we need not prove ; we need but define. 
 At all events let us if possible do this first of all ; and 
 then see who are left for us to dispute with, what is left 
 for us to prove. 
 
 Controversy in this age does not lie between the 
 angels of heaven on the one side and the powers of 
 evil on the other ; but it is a sort of night battle, where 
 each fights for himself, and friend and foe stand to- 
 gether. I think that is so true about going on defining 
 instead of disputing. 
 
 I like all that you say in the beginning of your 
 paper about the first business of the Christian being to 
 hold the Catholic Faith. Certainly the ordinary diffi- 
 culty felt about the Athanasian Creed is that people 
 don't understand that it applies simply to Christians 
 whose first business it is to hold the Catholic Faith ; 
 and then I think they imagine that the whole creed is 
 a sort of call upon their Reason and not their Faith 
 and that it fails of its object.
 
 180 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, HARBLEDOWN, yd October. 
 
 We have had bitter cold weather since you left, and 
 have begun morning fires. Yesterday was excessively 
 cold and gloomy. Agnes and I gathered all the 
 scarlet and white dahlias in Mount's piece and took 
 them into Canterbury for the churches. This was in 
 anticipation of the frost, and we were right. This 
 morning all the plants are drooping under the icy 
 touch laid on them last night At 6 A.M. I looked 
 out of my window and saw the sun rising well south 
 of west ; in a lovely barred and flecked sky, but the 
 whole earth white with hoar frost, and a pale blue mist 
 floating behind the hop-oast and all across the valley. 
 The horizon clear against a clear whiteness. A blue 
 mist was also rolling up the hill behind the park elms. 
 Chancy is exercised by a delay in putting up the 
 greenhouses. Mount has not worked for two days, 
 and all Chaney's plants are unhoused. Old Potts has 
 cut down, and bound together for burning, the two 
 apple-trees, and pruned the third. When I went out 
 to speak to him after you had gone on Monday, he 
 was recovering the wounded roots and said : " I humbly 
 beg your pardon, ma'am ; I thought I was doing right 
 in having of her down. I'll take and cover her up 
 and comfort her a bit, and, by the blessings, let's hope 
 she'll take no harm." I do not look upon these people 
 as rude. I gave the old man a jug of Irish stew at 
 night, with which he made his way home through the 
 dim woods to Rough Common, where he has an old 
 wife with a bad leg. He is now engaged in planting 
 the young trees. He remembers your grandfather and
 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 181 
 
 grandmother very well, but has nothing at all to 
 remark about them, except that he "can see Muster 
 Lyall coming along the road plain enough." Yester- 
 day I lunched in the Precincts and had a long talk 
 with Uncle Alfred. 1 He is a person from whom one 
 can differ without a shade of bitterness. He does so 
 like the study, and particularly my room, and says that 
 he shall be so sorry to go. He wants to write about 
 Warren Hastings. Mr. Reeve has asked him for an 
 article, and he means to write it ; but meanwhile 
 " can't help reading about the gnosticism of the third 
 century." This comes from the repugnance to decisive 
 action that lies in the Lyall disposition. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, October. 
 
 is here, nice and clever but rather dry, advo- 
 cating cremation and prayer-book reform, etc., etc., 
 not at all " retrogressive." She has missed something 
 which would have made her perfect. Perhaps she has 
 never drunk of the fair fountain of religious truth 
 Catholic truth, the only true " waters of Jouvence," and 
 which lie away behind suffering and isolation of spirit ; 
 and so straight and narrow is that path that few there 
 be (comparatively) that find it But she is a dear 
 person, and dutiful and generous. 
 
 We had a piercing cold wind yesterday and to-day 
 also. It abated towards evening, and I walked up the 
 park to superintend my path. Old Potts is a good 
 workman, and reached the rise of the hill before sunset. 
 It shall be called " Pott's path." 
 
 1 Sir Alfred Lyall, then occupying for a space our house at Canterbury.
 
 1 82 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 Then we walked round the meadows and entered 
 your walk, and went by the way that we went with 
 Margaret and Dorothy, through the dim tranquillity of 
 the woods, and by the moist cart track, and out upon 
 the right of way ; when we saw all the little valley 
 alight with the bine and bush burning, the blue smoke 
 hanging in the air, the red glow of the after-sunset, 
 and a lovely crescent moon. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 Fox WARREN, 241/1 October. 
 
 This country is looking at its best. When the 
 white morning mists roll away, the colour, the dry- 
 ness, and the warmth of the whole district make them- 
 selves felt Yesterday at 3 P.M. I was set down at 
 the gate of the little Hatchford Park. I went to the 
 churchyard and then into the church, which is always 
 open. Then I went to Poynters, and finding the 
 house empty I sat a long time in the sunny verandah 
 reading Mr. Arnold's poems and waiting for my friend 
 to return. This she did, but only in time to give me 
 a cup of tea and a quarter hour's talk. Then I walked 
 home down the lane, and across Chattley, and in again 
 under the dry warm woods all was dark, and soft, and 
 silent, and I thought of many things of my own young 
 days in those places, and of your sweet childhood. I 
 looked back upon the long road I had travelled, and 
 forward to the short way that yet remains, and to the 
 narrow door through which we must pass alone, one 
 by one. What a mystery it all is !
 
 1 888] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 183 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CAVENDISH RECTORY, zgth October. 
 
 You cannot think what pleasure your last letter 
 gave me. There is someting very delightful in a true 
 correspondence. I take the greatest care of all that 
 you write and some day you will have your letters 
 back and will recall vividly what you and I were 
 thinking and feeling in the mild autumn days of the 
 year 1888. Here the country still looks pretty. The 
 elms are the purest pale gold, and the pear and cherry 
 trees burning red. Something in the air and look of 
 things reminds me of Cambridge. I wish you were 
 there under the clock and opposite the plashing 
 fountain, and then I could go and see you and walk 
 with you down that avenue, and see the yellow leaves 
 flying across .the gray buildings, and hear the soft 
 chimes. But your image is gone from those old courts 
 like the leaves of a past autumn. " Dies mei sicut 
 umbra declinaverunt, tu autem idem ipse es et anni tui 
 non deficient," says King David. . . . How dear you 
 all are to me God alone knows, and there is Lucy, 
 who died here, and who lives to God, and with her I 
 think that some of us died to some things, and with 
 her we more live to God than had she been still with 
 us. What an unspeakable hope I carry in my heart 
 that some day no, not some day, but when all days 
 are gone I may be able to say, Here am I and the 
 children Thou gavest me. Montaigne is right, but 
 there is more behind.
 
 184 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, All Souls' Day. 
 
 . . . Yes, Sir James Stephen strikes as hard for a 
 friend as he would against a foe. There is no one like 
 him, and if ever I live to hear of his death I shall feel 
 the pain while I breathe. And I believe that so just 
 and true a man cannot but be pleasing in the sight of 
 the God of strength and justice ; in short, just as he is, 
 I am very much attached to him, or to my idea of 
 him. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 PRECINCTS, Advent Sunday. 
 
 ... I am so glad to get into Advent. Far off 
 down the darkening ways we can see the lights of 
 Bethlehem shine. We are deep in snow here. Roofs, 
 and trees, and bells, and old ivied walls, from which 
 the fluffy half-starved birds noiselessly alight on the 
 frozen ground. The clock has just stuck fast, likewise 
 the weathercocks. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, jth November. 
 
 My dear Agnes Your Sunday letter caught me on 
 the wing, and yesterday I was too busy to reply. We 
 are plunged into all the horrors of a double bazaar, 
 and, until this is over, neither our time, or our house, 
 or our hands are our own. Coming back into Canter- 
 bury is incomparably more arduous than our old 
 return to London used to be. There is a sort of 
 luxury in the first few weeks in London, a tacit agree- 
 ment on the part of one's friends to ignore your
 
 1 888] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 185 
 
 return, and to conceal their own. But here every one 
 rushes at you at once presenting threads, and requiring 
 you to take them up and to fall to work. But there 
 the threads may lie ; if I drop my Epiphany Guild- 
 thread, I will take up none other. I wrote to Canon 
 Furse a week ago and asked him to decide for me, 
 and he writes back clearly and without the smallest 
 hesitation that I had better give up the headship of 
 the Guild. 1 So that is done, and with all my heart I 
 beg that you will forgive me for going against your 
 opinion, and that you will continue to regard me 
 friendly, for I must always love you. Never in all my 
 pilgrimage have I found in any one more generous 
 affection and ready and intelligent service to a cause 
 in hand than I have in you, and now I will stand 
 aside and see what you do, and everything that you 
 can tell me will be of the greatest interest to me. 
 
 Canon Furse wrote most kindly. He says that 
 he does not in the least wish to give up the Guild 
 Wardenship (I sounded him as to this) but that he 
 would always " without the smallest jealousy give up 
 in favour of dear Scott Holland whom I love." Ever 
 am I, dear Agnes, your affectionate and grateful friend, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, loth November. 
 
 I am glad you are at Wherstead ; write me word 
 thence. We have sun this morning after a week of 
 piercing wind blowing under a gray sky. I hope you 
 will have a fine Sunday, and will see the sun shining 
 
 1 On account of her doubts as to Anglicanism.
 
 1 86 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 on the Orwell, and the last yellow leaves of the elms in 
 the park ; for I imagine a park with elms. . . . There 
 is really much more in the ordinary person than meets 
 the eye. I have often been surprised at what very 
 commonplace (seeming) persons can receive and give 
 out if any one gives them the lead, and the " fine 
 gentleman " or fine lady is often at bottom a very 
 simple person, who is really rather dejected for the 
 want of other gifts. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. LEONARDS-ON-SEA, 18 1 'A November. 
 
 G. C. P. is in a sarcastic vein, but is completely 
 established here, au premier, with plenty of books, and 
 all the sun that shines, and a fine sea rolling up just 
 across the road. The only persons I know within reach 
 
 are and my friends at the old convent, but I shall 
 
 not go to look for any of them. This large gay place, 
 with its broad white pavement and bright shops, and 
 plenty of good-looking people about, is very pleasant 
 after the dark, sticky little Canterbury streets, but I 
 shall go back to-morrow night. I am going to read 
 Montaigne. I like reading after you ; and perhaps 
 his esprit positif will be bracing. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, z^rd November. 
 
 I think that in reading the classic authors it must 
 repay you from every point of view to read slowly and 
 to master the whole idea. I wish that I had had a 
 classical education. It really would not have been 
 thrown away. I should have taken delight in Greek
 
 MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 87 
 
 and Latin. ... I went down with Mr. , and we 
 
 talked over his sermon. 'Twas Browning's Ben Ezra 
 that he read at the end. He owned to having felt a 
 little discomfited by an elderly gentleman walking out 
 half-way through the poem. " Didn't go to church to 
 hear Browning," I am sure he will have said. 
 
 Extract from Journal 
 
 PRECINCTS, 26th November. On the whole the 
 summer and autumn have been wet and cold, but I think 
 that I am less sensitive than I was to the influence 
 of the weather. Partly it is my constant preoccupation 
 of mind that shelters me. ... I have given up the 
 Institute, the Middle Schools, and the teaching of the 
 Blues. Also I have given up the Epiphany Guild. 
 This has been very painful in many ways . . . but it 
 is done. I continue to go to the Warden's lectures, and 
 the daily service at the Cathedral is dearer to me than 
 ever. I feel an extreme tenderness to all my friends ; 
 every common person seems so dear to me. E. M. has 
 written twice since she knew my intentions. Once 
 very severe, once passionately tender. . . . On Friday 
 evening in last week poor Meredith died after sixty- 
 seven hours of incessant convulsion. I was a long time 
 in the room on Thursday morning. His poor sick wife 
 sat rocking and moaning at the foot of the bed, and 
 
 Mrs. M stood by his head watching him with that 
 
 intent, firm, experienced look one sees only on the 
 faces of those women who are always assisting at 
 death-beds. No man ever has that particular expres- 
 sion. It is the look of the mother, and yet is almost 
 stern, a look such as I imagine the Fates wore, such an 
 intense and certain expectation of what must come.
 
 1 88 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 CANTERBURY, zgth November. 
 
 I think the Flying Leaf is so good. It begins to 
 fulfil my ideal of a magazine full of what one wants to 
 know and nothing besides. I wish I could embrace 
 you for all you are doing. I have so many things in 
 my mind to say to you. I do say them in my mind, 
 for you are dear to me, and always will be, whatever 
 befalls. 
 
 Mr. always rather tries one by that way he 
 
 has of talking all round ; he wheels round so many 
 subjects, then he draws his circles closer and closer, and 
 settles down upon himself, and then, if there is time, 
 from that point he may come to you and your affairs, 
 and is very much indeed all there. He is one of those 
 quite truthful and really artless strong men who can 
 assume nothing, and can only work just in their own 
 way. 
 
 How different from the strong-winged eagle, who 
 dwells on the top of the high rocks, whence he can 
 descry all the dwellers upon earth, and, taking a direct 
 course, tears your soul out of your body before you 
 know where you are. . . . 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 PRECINCTS, 30^ November. 
 
 My dear Mary . . . Yes. I am busy and ever 
 busier, "as the rapids of life shoot to the fall," but 
 I intend this winter to draw out of it all. There 
 are things I want to do at home. I begin to 
 detest the sight of my bonnet and cloak except as a
 
 1 888] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLA ND 1 89 
 
 means of appearing in the Cathedral. Our music is 
 very good, and the sweet music of the Psalms and 
 solemn canticles and anthems hold me more and more. 
 No one else goes but a few cracky persons. I was 
 rather touched to read in Fleury that there was always 
 room in the early churches for les posstdes, only they 
 were walked out before the Eucharist proper. I often 
 think that I am one of them. Ever, my dearest Mary, 
 your affectionate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 CANTUAR, $th December. 
 
 ... I am very busy with all sorts of things, chiefly 
 friends, who run after me for one thing or another. As 
 I came out of the Cathedral after evensong this after- 
 noon into the clear twilight, the lovely crescent moon 
 was sinking in the due south, where the sunset still 
 lingered. The crescent looked largely curved, and one 
 could perfectly see the whole disc of the moon " in its 
 arms." To the left the evening star was throbbing 
 quite brilliantly. 
 
 Last night they gave Spohr's Last Judgment in the 
 Cathedral. I had gone across to the rehearsal, and, 
 sitting at the far end of the unlit nave, listened to the 
 storm of music which represented the multitudinous 
 cries of the souls bidden to depart. Then, after a 
 pause, came the song of the blessed. It is an exquisite 
 piece of music. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, December. 
 
 I suppose that in all action there is that which goes 
 beyond reason, which is faith. I doubt whether reason
 
 190 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 ever forces a man to action, however convinced he may 
 be that he has arrived at his conclusion without a flaw 
 in his chain of reasoning. No doubt but that Napoleon 
 had faith in his star, and Carlyle in his own power. I 
 wish you would get from the London Library Newman's 
 Grammar of Assent. It is not a controversial, hardly 
 a religious book, but it is very explanatory of those 
 questions. ... I delight in your letters, and shall 
 answer your important one when I can call home 
 my thoughts, which go wheeling and whirling like 
 flights of birds. I think one's imaginations are very 
 like flights of birds. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, i^th December 
 
 Of one thing I am quite sure, which is, that the more 
 you believe the less you can argue for your belief, and 
 that the most complete argument sometimes leaves one 
 without belief. Belief is a venture, and a venture 
 always means action. But belief must be supported by 
 reason, or it degenerates into mere credulity. There 
 comes in the whole question of authority. I always 
 intended to read Sir George Cornwall's book on 
 Authority. It is one volume, and is very masterly I 
 have heard. All this is very interesting to me. . . . 
 Why should you put the word delusion as interchang- 
 able with belief in your letter ? Why not say " the 
 man who would produce an effect in the world must 
 first believe in something" instead of " must find a 
 delusion? To suppose that there is nothing to believe 
 in is of all delusions the fatalest. The fool hath said 
 in his heart, " There is no God," and setting aside the 
 eternal question, the fact remains that a man without
 
 1 888] MARY SIB YLLA HOLLAND 1 9 1 
 
 faith is a man without action. His life-blood, that by 
 which he lives and moves, is sapped. 'Twas unbelief 
 that brought sin and death into the world. 'Tis the 
 enemy's old game. Hath God said ? Doth he not 
 know ? Eat and satisfy that which you do know all 
 the lower part of our nature. But it was not for this 
 that you were born, nor your fair childhood nourished. 
 
 To Rosamond Stephen 
 
 CANTERBURY, Xmas Eve. 
 
 On Saturday night I posted to you a solid sort of 
 bottle to stand on your dressing-table and to hold 
 perfumes, which perhaps you dislike and despise. 
 
 But I do not think that the particular lavender 
 water made at Canterbury will displease you, and, if you 
 like it, I will presently send you some more. I wonder 
 what like was the perfume contained in that alabaster 
 box of ointment very precious. One of the Fathers 
 comments upon the passage says that the fragrance of 
 the ointment has ever since filled the church. 
 
 I hope, my dear Rosamond, that in the course of 
 this coming year you will pay us a visit here. It is a 
 very long time since I saw you face to face. If you 
 have any new photographs of yourself or of Dorothea I 
 should like so much to have them. The one that your 
 mother gave me of you many summers ago in a 
 little letterweight is always on my table, but it is fading 
 quite away, and hardly more than a pair of bright eyes 
 looks out of it, and one that I had since has been mis- 
 laid. I have looked for it in vain. 
 
 Give my love to your mother and to the judge, and 
 believe me, my dearest Rosamond, your affectionate 
 god-mother, SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 192 LETTERS OF [1888 
 
 Extracts from Journal 
 
 SATURDAY, %th December. This day dear John 
 Starr died five years ago. Fast in Paradise he is. " O 
 that I once past changing were, fast in thy Paradise 
 where no flower can wither." There he certainly is, 
 the innocent, ingenious mystic soul. 
 
 December. ... So ends my day, but how 
 little does what I write represent to me the events of 
 the day. The real events are those that go on in my 
 mind and soul. Mr. Field, in his Wednesday sermon, 
 spoke of the dull routine of our lives. This I never 
 feel. I am more sensible of movement, change, new 
 and surprising ideas, and a world of possibilities. I am 
 tired often of the effort of keeping pace with myself. 
 I think of a thousand things to say when I only say 
 half a dozen. 
 
 Saturday, i$th December. Slight thaw, white fog, 
 very cold. After matins with flowers to Agnes in 
 vestry. Within the Cathedral is another climate, 
 another world everything so much larger, clearer, and 
 quieter than in the town outside. In spite of three or 
 four days of very hard frost, Chancy has sent down 
 little red roses, large daisies, chrysanthemums, plenty of 
 laurestinus, and, from the greenhouse, carnations, sweet 
 geranium and scarlet, so that there are plenty of flowers 
 about the house. A bunch of pale mauve chrysanthe- 
 mum and laurestinus and Christmas roses in Lisa's 
 little vase below my pale crucifix. O Jesus, love of] 
 heaven and earth ! detach me from myself, attach me to 
 Thyself. I will bear the cross, and the cross will bear
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 193 
 
 j me, if only, my sweet Jesus, Thou dost sustain both the 
 lone and the other. 
 
 i8/// December. . . . To Cathedral. The fog so 
 thick that at a dozen yards' distance one could not per- 
 ceive anything of the building, only a thick white blurr. 
 Inside all clear and heavenly. The tender lights in 
 Trinity Chapel very beautiful. . . . Fog lifted late at 
 night and the moon shone like silver, streaming over 
 Bell Harry and the great church from end to end, 
 while the white masses of mist lifted themselves and 
 floated over the city wall at the breath of the south-west 
 wind. 
 
 Thursday, 2oth December. . . . Then to evensong. 
 Anthem, " Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose 
 mind is stayed on Thee. The dead men shall live 
 with my dead shall they arise. Thy dew is as the dew 
 of hills." The lovely sounds flowed round the lofty 
 roofs, and empty sanctuaries, and broken tombs of the 
 princes and great prelates of old time ; but we are still 
 in the dust we made when we tore down the altars and 
 broke the shrines. We have no dew. 
 
 The lessons of Isaiah and St. John's Revelations are 
 wonderful. These we have and the ever -blooming 
 Psalms. 
 
 Tuesday, 22nd January. . . . Letter from Bernard 
 apropos of our conversation on Sunday night. He 
 advises delay, and says, " It is not as if it were a 
 question of religion or no religion." But it is almost 
 that with me, though I do not like to say so because of 
 casting a reflection on the religion of my family. No 
 
 O
 
 194 LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND [1889 
 
 one but myself can estimate what it will be to me, at 
 what a conscious risk I shall relinquish the idea, and, as 
 I write, I know that I would rather relinquish my life. 
 If I were to die to-night I should die in the Faith but 
 not in the Church. I shall starve to death where I am. 
 
 Tuesday \ gtk February. All these are the days in 
 which my darling Luce began to be ill three years ago. 
 As long as I breathe this mortal air these sad yearn- 
 ings must recur. Her beautiful little head, and oval 
 face, and sweet rounded chin, and clear large eyes and 
 splendidly shaped throat are often, always, before me. 
 And her voice so rich, and full, and varied in tone. 
 Oh ! my Luce !
 
 IX 
 
 LETTERS OF 1889 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, zyd January. 
 
 THANK you for letter of Monday evening. I cannot 
 well reply, for I am in the lowest depths of a most 
 violent cold, such as has not seized me for years. I 
 believe that one's declining strength, while it makes one 
 less subject or offers less material to these ravaging dis- 
 orders, yet, if one once succumbs, makes it much more 
 difficult to eject them, and I have quite gone under this 
 time, but " on cst heureux quand on sort de la sante pour 
 entrer dans la sagesse." 
 
 All that you say is good and sound, but of course 
 no one but myself can estimate the loss and pain of such 
 a move as that we were speaking of. I have waited a 
 long time, and I shall wait again, but I have not so very 
 much time left. 
 
 I do not at all think that every religious emotion or 
 attraction comes from God. There is a great deal of 
 self mixed up in all these human determinations. But 
 this is the one subject about which I have really 
 thought and read and prayed, and it is difficult for me 
 to turn back upon myself and undo what is done. But 
 I cannot write about it, though I am glad to have heard
 
 196 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 from you, and you are always kind and generous to me. 
 The path to the Church of Rome is an old, well-worn 
 way, and my case is that of many others. I am under 
 no delusion. I don't expect to be made more good 
 malgrt moi, or to be enchanted with the services or 
 with the persons I should meet over there. They are 
 the reverse of attractive to me. I should go on in a 
 dry way, but I should find what I sought. 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, I3/A February. 
 
 Yesterday Agnes and I drove to Godmersham ; it 
 was beautiful and lonely as ever, a few white snowdrops 
 here and there on the three graves, and a cluster of 
 deep purple violets at the foot of the old rose tree. 
 The cistus green and vigorous against the wall. The 
 hill and park were white with the withered, bent grass, 
 but the river, brimming and flowing rapidly against the 
 due east wind, was sapphire blue in the westering sun. 
 The secular yews were covered with their little powdery 
 blossom. The place is perfect in itself and whole like 
 a pearl ; and so was the child we laid in its earth. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 CANTUAR, zotk February. 
 
 I have signed my unworthy name with the sense 
 that those that are first shall be last. But there it is. 
 ... It is all the plotting and planning for other people 
 that makes your busy head ache. 
 
 When you get an interval let me know that you are
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 197 
 
 coming down to Canterbury to laugh and sigh a little 
 with me. Mild March days, such as sometimes are 
 given, are pleasant enough in these quiet old places. I 
 wish that I were a quiet old lady to watch them. I 
 am to all appearances. Well, good-bye for the moment, 
 chere rachetee de mon Dieu. 
 
 To the Same 
 THE PRECINCTS, CANTERBURY, \zth March. 
 
 ... I think that in the end Mrs. - will be left 
 supreme, will reign for a moment, and then will come 
 home, and the whole project, with all the aims and 
 hopes and fears and prayers of the human souls con- 
 cerned in it, will go into the great waste-paper basket 
 of our day. 
 
 I wish that the father, who lives only for Christ, 
 and who has nothing, and clings to nothing, nor fears to 
 lose anything, but possesses his soul in patience, would 
 write a word of warning to the one and of comfort to 
 the other. Mrs. - - will be left to settle down upon 
 her lees, while the other woman will be emptied from 
 vessel to vessel till she becomes the pure wine of God. 
 I cannot write to him, because I have displeased him, 
 and there it is. 
 
 Whenever you can come here you will be welcome. 
 
 To the Same 
 THE PRECINCTS, CANTERBURY, zotk March, 
 
 . . . But what I want to say to you is this. You 
 must not suppose that because I managed to talk
 
 198 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 cheerfully to you the state of things in which I find 
 myself is not always very painful and often almost 
 unbearably so. To think otherwise would be mislead- 
 ing from several points of view. I assure you that it 
 is hardly possible to imagine the sort of death that it 
 is, and one of the peculiar anguishes that one cannot 
 say a word naturally about it even to those with whom 
 one is intimate, or whom one loves (as I love you) 
 without being intimate. The question so naturally 
 arises, If it is so painful why do you do it ? and one 
 has no answer that one can give without putting into 
 words the very inmost feelings of one's heart, that 
 belong indeed to God only. I do not want you to reply 
 to this. I feel that it is hard on you that I should write 
 it. Perhaps really I ought never to have cherished 
 your friendship under the circumstances. However, 
 there it is. I intended no malice. God bless you, my 
 dear, and order all your days in His peace. 
 
 To Miss Arnold- For ster 
 
 CANTERBURY, zist March. 
 
 . . . Your letter has been too long unanswered. 
 It has been every day since going about with me in 
 my little letter and key bag, and I have a hundred 
 times been reminded of you by it. All that you say 
 about marriage is gospel truth. Marriage is ordained 
 of God, and is so natural, and the family life which it 
 brings about is so complete and beautiful, that to those 
 who renounce it, or miss it, Christ had to make the 
 splendid promises which the Evangelists record. . . . 
 You sound such a nice little party of all ages and 
 one heart and mind. I wish I could fly along the 
 coast and look in upon you. I am rather rheumatic
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 199 
 
 too, and rather tired of creeping in and out round 
 about these old stones. The rooks and jackdaws do 
 the same thing over my head, but they fly in the blue 
 while I must creep in the damp below. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, zyd March. 
 
 Yesterday I went to Harbledown. The March air 
 blew very sweet round the high ground and purpling 
 woods. The young trees look well, the old ones ill and 
 mossy. I think we should have cleared more of these 
 elderly creatures away. Old Potts was cutting and 
 building and had been planting. These are actions 
 which a human being can wage however old and trem- 
 bling he may be. 
 
 . . . Yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's 
 death. How well I remember passing you as we went 
 up the long hill that clear windy March day. You are 
 not to feel grief when you see me laid in the earth 
 but gladness that all is well over. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, z$th March. 
 It was singular that you should have met Mr. 
 
 there, for the first time after a long interval. By devious 
 roads God calls whom he will. Lord L.'s idea was to 
 bring up his beloved daughter as a philosopher, but he 
 rough-hewed his end. Yes, both yesterday and to-day 
 have been the spring in the kingdom, 1 and I have felt 
 almost a horror of the old stones and bones which 
 survive so many springs both in the actual world and 
 
 1 Kingdom of Kent.
 
 200 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 in the souls of men. We have primroses and violets 
 from the Lodge, and there will be plenty by the time 
 you return. 
 
 Extracts from Journal 
 
 ^th March. . . . The bells to-night seemed to ring 
 in my heart, and I could hardly bear the wind-borne 
 melody. 
 
 Sunday, 24^/2 March. A lovely day, but such a 
 storm in my soul, of remembrance and grief and longing 
 for the one and only consolation. Little Kathleen's 
 baptism in St. George's Church. She is baptized into 
 nothing less than the great Catholic Church of the 
 West. 
 
 Thursday, ^th April. After matins with the 
 Sheppards in library. Helped to look out the Dirige 
 Psalm, etc. Said to Mrs. Sheppard that I meant to die 
 in that Church. Dr. Sheppard said, " Well, that is 
 a continuous Church, and the mediaeval religion has 
 much against it." She said nothing. 
 
 Monday, gt/i April. Talked with Dr. Sheppard in 
 the library till nearly i P.M. He is very kind, and has 
 a large tender heart, full of the very dew of kindness, 
 under his rough old body and face. But his religion has 
 no symbols, no system, nothing but the sense of the 
 power and love of the Father. This is the religion of 
 the scientific man. But I feel that the man is dear to 
 Jesus.
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 201 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, CANTERBURY, $th April. 
 
 . . . Edith's letter is too pretty to burn. I have 
 not the heart to do it. I read to the end twice through 
 and send it back to you ; it breathes of youth and 
 spring, and of the pretty country where it was written, 
 and which I know so well. I know the firwoods and 
 the deep paths and whortleberry-covered hill, and the 
 wide aerial plain, but not St. Martin's, unless that is the 
 Christian name of my cousin John Shearm's church at 
 Holmbury. Do you know those places ? Albury, with 
 its terraced yew-hedged garden and long bowling-green 
 and stone fountain at the top, and the " silent pool " 
 full of great blue carp, and Wotton, John Evelyn's 
 home, with its little gray church and hanging beech- 
 woods. I should like to go there with you. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, is/A April. 
 
 I sent off your garments this morning, my darling 
 boy. Fair fall your dear feet in the " sweet green fields 
 of Wales," as Matthew Arnold calls them somewhere. 
 
 is gone to-day to - 's funeral. Certainly her 
 sweet soul is in Paradise. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, Easter Eve, zoth April. 
 
 I am writing before breakfast, the mild south wind 
 blowing across the oaks, and all the vanes of Bell Harry 
 pointing to Godmersham. I am sure that you are
 
 202 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 enjoying Wales. I am still disappointed that you don't 
 go to St. David's, and so is the Savant. He says that 
 we shall make an expedition there when Parliament is 
 up an antiquarian expedition. Here, we had yester- 
 day a most perfect day. ... I have been reading 
 again Hook's account of the settlement of the English 
 Church under Parker and Elizabeth, and I laugh aloud 
 at the notion that I am at all bound by the arrange- 
 ments made by Parker, Leicester, Bacon, and Elizabeth. 
 The clergy are, but the laity are not. The case for me 
 remains as I have ever put it to myself, that I doubt 
 whether a wife has a moral right to do as I proposed. 
 Yet, if she has not, if in things spiritual also she is one 
 with her husband, it would be difficult to disprove what 
 has been in some places alleged, i.e. that the woman is 
 but the complement of the man, and has not, properly 
 speaking, a soul of her own to save, and one or two 
 expressions of the Apostle somewhat fall in with this. 
 But I am not writing very seriously do not suppose it. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, 2nd May. 
 
 Prince Kugo has sailed back to Japan, by doctor's 
 order. What a misguided expedition for him it has 
 been ! and what a mercy that the poor child did not 
 die in London. Where and how are the bodies buried 
 of these gentle Pagans who die in our great roaring 
 mill ? Did you read about Father Joseph Damien and 
 the lepers ? Another priest and two or three sisters of 
 charity have gone to supply his place and carry on his 
 work. This sort of thing is the glory of the Church of 
 Christ. It is the standard held up and handed from one 
 to another down the ages.
 
 1889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 203 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, znd May. 
 
 My dearest Mary Your note made me weep. I 
 wish to Heaven that I were on your lawn, and could 
 see that flush of blue under the great trees on the 
 rising ground opposite the verandah. I always did 
 so love your house and everything in and about it. 
 We were always at Fox Holm in May, " in the sweet 
 spring days, with whitening hedges and uncrumpling 
 fern, and bluebells trembling in the forest ways," as 
 your own dear poet sang. 1 He is gone, but what a 
 joy and gift it is to have had him, and to remember 
 him in all the pleasant places. 
 
 Agnes is away at this moment. If you are so good 
 as to give her a teapot it will be a most good present 
 nothing could be better a plain prosaic pot. I 
 believe that William Bolton has accepted, or is on the 
 point of accepting, a small benefice at the Land's End. 
 As far as the east is from the west, so far will be set 
 my girl from me. The Bishop of Truro wants him to 
 come into that diocese, and this wish, several times 
 reiterated, seems to constitute a sort of " call," so that 
 one has little to say, and perhaps for a few years 
 they may have a pleasant scrambling life in that 
 remote place, contending with the Wesleyans, and 
 within sound of the thundering Atlantic. If he accepts 
 St. Sythney they will marry latish in June. 
 
 Michael goes to Canada in August with Gerald 
 Spring Rice. I should like you to know Michael. 
 There is a sort of charm about him. He is the most 
 active, simple, humorous, and altogether engaging 
 
 1 Matthew Arnold.
 
 204 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 creature of eighteen. It is almost intolerable to me to 
 think of parting with him, but I suppose it will come, 
 as sure as sunset. . . . Give my best love to dear Mr. 
 Deacon, and believe me, my dearest Mary, for ever 
 your most affectionate friend, SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, 6th May. 
 
 I can think of nothing but Scott Holland's lectures, 
 and three times this blessed day I have read them 
 through, twice to myself and now again out loud 
 to Mr. Holland and Agnes, and this has taken so long 
 that now it is post time. I like them better than any- 
 thing of his that I have ever heard or read. I think 
 them quite extraordinary. He goes to the very root 
 of the matter ; no wonder that as he spoke he sighed. 
 
 Are you vexed about ? The thought that 
 perhaps you are a little downcast makes me long to 
 have you in my arms. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, yth May. 
 
 Stupid of me not to have sent back Mrs. N. Here 
 she is, a feeble drop of apology in a whole sea of mis- 
 understandings and misrepresentations. But, as you 
 say, it don't signify at all ; it has no meaning whatever. 
 Yet Mrs. N. is a dear sort of woman. However, I can 
 think of nothing but first principles with Scott Holland. 
 I cannot cease reading those lectures. I got up this 
 morning and read them through again. They are a 
 great deal to me. I wonder what they are to other
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 205 
 
 people. Scott is all on fire and can penetrate. To 
 teach like this is certainly to please the Master. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, ioiA May. 
 
 Dear me, or dio mi, which it is and means, is a very 
 sufficient expression with which to close a conversation 
 on things in general. What can you say more, or less ? 
 The Grahamstown letter is very pretty and interesting, 
 but I am glad that you are not abroad. There are so 
 many things that are against our missionary work that I 
 hope you will not go to Persia. I hope that you will go 
 nowhere where Father Black does not himself send you. 
 
 I am still under the influence of Scott's lectures. 
 I observed the added fulness of the fourth lecture. I 
 suppose that what makes the form in which a thing 
 is put so important is that in no other way can that 
 which underlies be expressed ; it is the essential for us, 
 the soul of the matter, Dio mi ! ! 
 
 We have had visitors all the week and begin again 
 to-morrow with five young men in the house till 
 Monday. But young men are never the least trouble. 
 I don't mind how many mothers' sons I have about 
 Apropos of young men, will you carefully for me thank 
 Father Black for his kindness about Michael, who is the 
 youngest of young men ; and also, if you think of it, 
 will you say that Lingard, the R. C. historian, wrote a 
 treatise in which he quite passionately defended Matt. 
 Parker's ordination ? Also Charles Butler and Canon 
 Tierney, who are distinguished R. C. writers. Have 
 you ever read Stubbs' letter to a Russian " On the 
 Apostolical Succession in the Church of England ? " 
 I wish it were published separately.
 
 206 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 f 
 
 But only say this if conversation flags. Break off 
 no good talk for this purpose. 
 
 I wish to Heaven, Agnes mi, that you were settled. 
 Your projects make my blood run warm, as an old 
 French friend said to me yesterday. 
 
 My Agnes marries on the 2Qth June. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, 2ist May. 
 
 We are having very good May weather on the 
 whole. On Saturday afternoon Aunt Cathy and I 
 drove over to Godmersham, rolling swiftly along the 
 road in the Nackington carriage, lent me in the owner's 
 absence. Aunt Cathy had not been there since 1886. 
 She is very much pleased with everything, and indeed 
 nothing could look more restful and lovely than the 
 place. The three little graves so trim and smooth, the 
 roses in bloom, the cistus in bud, and the thick grass 
 in the rest of the churchyard full of flowers. Margaret 
 had twisted up for me the loveliest wreath imaginable 
 of lilies, large and small, with tender long sprays of 
 copper beech. She is a dear, faithful girl, and I really 
 love her. 
 
 I like your figure of the barbarian brilliant tide 
 slowly flowing in. Our arrangement for the London 
 season is very good. How lapped in luxury and 
 prosperity many of them are, and how much in danger 
 of what dear Gordon calls " settling down upon one's 
 lees ! " How some souls, on the other hand, are, by 
 inward and outward events, emptied from vessel to 
 vessel until they become the pure wine of God ! The 
 former rear a fine race for their country the latter 
 bring forth the ideas by which men live.
 
 i88 9 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 207 
 
 Yesterday we entertained eighteen pilgrims from 
 Beckenham. They arrived at twelve and went away 
 at six. Aunt Cathy and Uncle Robert stay till Thurs- 
 day. Their visit is a great pleasure for me. The 
 Warden preached last Sunday evening in the Cathedral 
 and celebrated Father Joseph Damien of the lepers. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, \st June. 
 
 It is such a lovely morning, Francesco mi. On 
 such a day years and years ago, my father would walk 
 about on the lawn of Godmersham murmuring, " This 
 morn is merry June I trow, the rose is budding fain," 
 etc. I remember hearing him then and often on after 
 June mornings and thinking the words very pretty. 
 In October also, he would mutter from Coleridge, " The 
 grapes upon the Vicar's wall were ripe as ripe could be." 
 He was a great quoter, as I am disposed to be, but I 
 always feel that to make quotations is not the part of 
 a woman. A quotation has a tendency to stop con- 
 versation, whereas it is the woman's part by subtle 
 
 means to promote it. is here till Monday a 
 
 most innocent intelligence and gentle generous heart 
 under a somewhat awkward though pleasing exterior. 
 She is quite a wild-flower blooming in the long rows 
 of the south-west. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 HARBLEDOWN, ijth June. 
 
 I was so pleased with your charming letter describ- 
 ing Cobham. 1 Edward Bouverie writes that it is " a 
 divinely beautiful place," and he hopes that you 
 1 Lord Darnley's house, near Rochester.
 
 208 LETTERS OF [188 
 
 enjoyed it as he did. I am sure that you did, for 
 you have the faculty of seeing, which is also a divine 
 faculty. We have a cold east wind this evening, 
 and a clear sunset, and a bright wood fire. We 
 have plenty of roses ; let me hear if you would like 
 some ; and our first dish of strawberries this evening. 
 . . . Sophy and Frank went to Hales Place yesterday, 
 Sunday afternoon, to see the French play acted by the 
 boys for their parents and friends. One boy sang 
 beautifully and Pere du Lac kissed him on both cheeks 
 after the play was over. It was all very pretty and 
 graceful. I am reading Von Sybel l and find it of 
 absorbing interest. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, 2ot& June. 
 
 Agnes is in London. Papa also ; and I am, as I 
 shall often be, alone in the midst of the house and 
 garden. I look into your little room, into Bernard's, 
 into Agnes's all is orderly arranged, and the 
 " summer wind fills the silent house." Two men are 
 mowing in the apple orchard and among the young 
 cherry trees. I should feel as still as everything 
 around me were not my heart and ears filled with the 
 coming sounds of next week. But " come what may, 
 Time and the hour run through the roughest day," and 
 will run me through Saturday, June 2Qth. 2 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, izth July. 
 
 ... I do not, however, think so much of Hamlet's 
 scepticism, because it was that of a very young man 
 
 1 History of the French Revolution. 
 
 2 The day of her daughter's marriage.
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 209 
 
 whose intellect rather overbalanced his character. Be- 
 sides, Hamlet is so lacking in the cheerful present moment 
 and practical turn which is natural to the real sceptic. 
 I don't believe that Shakespeare himself was a sceptic, 
 but he lived in a time when it must have been very 
 difficult to belong heartily to any outward form of 
 religion. But now, Frank, why should you hate to go 
 to a ball at that princely and hospitable house ? You 
 must go, and tell me all about it afterwards. I shall 
 be very vexed if you do not. As you love Shakespeare 
 so much you ought, like him, to be cheerful and to like 
 to see and observe all sorts and conditions of men. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, la/A July. 
 
 The weather is trying. The south wind, a little 
 moist with rain, blows against our slope which seems 
 to send back the heat into the house. There is a 
 languor like that of Rome in September. Yesterday 
 the sun was excessively hot, and yet there was now 
 and then a little misty rain. Last night it rained for 
 some hours. The morning is all glorious again. The 
 hops are in ecstasy at the weather, and the little rich 
 hollow of our high valley is overflowing with the dark 
 stream of trellised leaves. The yaffells also highly 
 approve of the warm moistening of their hunting- 
 grounds, and I see their strong squat gaily painted 
 shapes at early dawn, digging with a sort of fury in the 
 garden banks, while the blackbirds and starlings work 
 gaily in the Bigareau, that forlorn hope of the 
 orchards towards the north. What years the birds 
 of God have pillaged that old tree ! I have spent 
 some quiet evenings gathering currants with the maids 
 
 P
 
 210 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 in the Potager till the brilliant light faded on the elms, 
 and the moon shone high in the south, and the colours 
 of berries and leaves become one. There is all night a 
 belt of light in the north-west, which remains till the 
 wide spaces of the east pale and brighten. I do not 
 mind being alone. When I am alone you all seem to 
 be with me again. When you are all here I look in vain 
 for two sweet faces. Besides, I am well accustomed 
 to it. What innumerable summer nights, when you 
 were little or at school, have I wandered about the 
 fields and woods at Fox Holm ; what early mornings 
 and what quiet late afternoons ! 
 
 On Wednesday evening I took a walk in the woods. 
 The silence of the open high common was immense ; 
 not a note or a rustle, nor did a leaf stir of the strong 
 growing copse. I came back by the path that turns 
 down to the brooklet, and up through the dark " ton- 
 nelle " to the cart track and right-of-way. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, j.6tA July. 
 
 What charming letters you send me, my dearest 
 Ber ! I am so glad that you always go on preferring 
 Kent to Surrey ; but I am not sorry that you were 
 reared in Surrey. Yesterday I provoked St. Swithin 
 by forgetting his day and attempting a fete champetre 
 of Middle School girls and mistresses. The rain fell 
 hard on the large tables spread on the lawn, and all 
 was hurry and confusion, wet umbrellas and piles of 
 
 mackintoshes. In the midst arrived and roamed 
 
 about gloomily seeing no prospect of dinner, until 
 Michael conveyed provisions to the greenhouse, where 
 I presently saw 's old back bowed over plate and
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 211 
 
 bottle. He worries me in my present mood, and so 
 does the stream of Canterbury people who make their 
 way up to ask how Agnes is, and if I do not feel dull 
 without her. 1 If I could only be out of sight and out 
 of mind for a little while I should think myself happy ; 
 as it is I feel worn interiorly. ... I wish I were a man 
 for six months, both for my sake and for yours. The 
 worst of being a woman is that one must always act in 
 character, or one makes oneself ridiculous. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, zist July. 
 
 Friday was a lovely day here and I drove with 
 
 Mick after an early cup to call on Mrs. D , who 
 
 lives in a pretty house just off the lane that runs round 
 to the right when one gets to the bottom of Herne 
 Hill. He was not at home, nor she either, but there 
 was a homely civility in the manner of the waggoner 
 who opened the gate for us, and the butler who 
 answered the bell, which betokens well for the char- 
 acter of their master and mistress. The view of the 
 Faversham flats, all bathed in a haze of western 
 sunshine, was beautiful as we came down the hill, and 
 so was the Canterbury side as we faced it on our 
 return Bell Harry eyeing us sternly over the woods, 
 and the noble old road with its steep descents making 
 straight for it. We had hardly been back at the Lodge 
 a quarter of an hour when Micky brought round Barnes 
 caparisoned with a pack-saddle, on which he persuaded 
 me to mount, and we took our way across the parklet, 
 through " Frank's Gate," over the common and into the 
 
 1 Her daughter Agnes had married and departed from Kent at the end 
 of June.
 
 212 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 darker woods where the heather is so high, across the 
 cut down spaces where the lily buds are, sharp down to 
 the little runlet, and up through the very dark arched 
 " tonnelle " to the main cart road, and so to the right-of- 
 way stile, where I got off, and Michael rode Barnes 
 down Love Shaws and by the road home. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, 2$tA July. 
 
 Dorothy and Margaret came to breakfast on Tuesday 
 and stayed till I P.M. Many messages to you from the 
 former of an involved and dubious meaning, but I have 
 forgot 'em all. 
 
 There is a perpetual roaring in the elms 'tis the 
 south-west wind at play. He is tossing many a league 
 of green branches, all that is left of the little wild wood 
 of Fox Holm included. How often in the long summer 
 days there I have shut my eyes and wished it were the 
 sea rushing up. I am glad that Agnes can see the 
 Atlantic when she will. That is a great thing in one's 
 everyday life. One wants something great and 
 continuous. The Sea, the Mountains, or the Catholic 
 Church. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, ist August. 
 
 It is really hot this week. As Shelley says, writing 
 on a summer afternoon many years ago, " The warm 
 wind fills the silent house." So it does to-day. The 
 great elms do not cease to wave and rustle sleepily, 
 and the perfume of the stocks and heliotrope comes 
 in great puffs across the lawn.
 
 1 889] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 2 1 3 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, ist August. 
 
 Thanks for your charming letter. I will go to 
 Bruges some day if I live much longer. I expect 
 Mr. Raleigh with you on Saturday. Bring me 
 Fitzgerald. 
 
 We are having a fine sun. The hops spread them- 
 selves splendidly in it from end to end of the summer 
 day. ... I like the leisure of my life here, and if I 
 did not often feel so unwell I could make some use of 
 it. J'ai trop aval de larmes ; it is better to shed them. 
 Agnes is extremely happy and this makes me very 
 happy. I must read you her letters when you come 
 here. 
 
 Lisa Rawlinson is come out of her convent to take 
 care of her father for a month while her mother is 
 abroad. She is robed in black with poke bonnet and 
 black veil, but cheerful as ever. Nor did I see, in 
 1885, when she and Luce and Agnes were so much 
 together, what would be their separate destinies. One 
 in heaven ; one in earth ; one 'twixt heaven and earth. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 HARBLEDOWN, giA August. 
 
 Your father is enjoying himself moderately in la 
 belle France, and much admires the Eiffel Tower and 
 the audacity of its conception. He says that it is 
 both graceful and stupendous. " Stupendious " Evelyn 
 would have said, which is indeed a more expressive 
 word. 
 
 Yesterday, an hour before sunset, Michael and I
 
 214 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 drove to Bigbury Camp. There is a fine new cherry 
 orchard west of Denstead, in that sandy rough meadow 
 that makes the approach to the fish ponds, and the 
 double staking and straw wisping of the young trees 
 seems a very good plan. The wheat is all in shock 
 under the wood, and the hops in sheltered places in full 
 bloom. The currant bushes are all stripped and tied 
 neatly up. The plums ripening to the full. Stout 
 brown women with sturdy babes in waggons were 
 making their way home to the old doors through all 
 the bye - paths. Beer had lately been transported 
 to the Hatch as we could see by the traces of Finn. 
 
 From the camp, where our appearance disturbed 
 200 rabbits feeding under the sky, the prospect was 
 enough to make a Kentish breast burst with exultation. 
 When I could raise my eyes from the contemplation 
 of the tracts of fruit, wheat, hops, and clover, there was 
 the line of the Ramsgate cliffs, the mill beyond 
 Adisham, the wide circling woods almost touching us 
 at the camp foot, and Michael, young and alert, his 
 slight figure and charming curled head against the 
 pure evening sky. I find myself always looking at him, 
 knowing how soon the Atlantic will lie between him 
 and his home. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, I5/A August. 
 
 Mick's last two days were dull and wet, but he was 
 sunshiny enough and went off in good spirits. We 
 shall all miss him I most of all. All yesterday, after 
 he was gone, I kept expecting to see Agnes or Lucy 
 come in. It was quite an illusion. I was alone and 
 wept alone, but that is best. If any one had been here
 
 i889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 215 
 
 I could not have wept. I have swallowed too many 
 tears it is much better to shed them and I am quite 
 content with everything and every one but myself. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, zjth August. 
 
 Last night I dreamed of you and of Lucy very 
 vividly. 
 
 We have a lovely still morning to-day, but yesterday 
 storms of rain assaulted the hop-pickers, driving them 
 here and there. This morning they have cheerfully 
 resumed the attack on the poles, which are garlanded 
 with the finest hops imaginable. Mr. and Mrs. Stickles 
 spent the day here on Saturday. To-day Pugh and 
 his sons come, and to-morrow Charlie Goulden and his 
 mamma. Such are my humble but worthy guests. . . . 
 Things go on here precisely in due season. Adams is 
 making large quantities of plum jam. Chancy is on a 
 ladder getting the keeping apples ; the squirrel scampers 
 across the lawn and scratches up the wooden posts 
 of the steps ; a flight of young martens sits along the 
 garden rail, learning to fly and fed incessantly by 
 anxious swift-darting parents. A stoat has just lept 
 from one flower bed to another and galloped up into 
 the meadow, and the yaffels are tapping in the elms 
 and laughing at their own jokes. The village row is 
 silent as the desert, nor does Harry Hearn stir within 
 the Plough. All these things Luce saw and noted 
 three years ago in these very days, and drew in the 
 strong air laden with the sharp fragrance of the hop- 
 oasts.
 
 216 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, zjtk August. 
 
 On Sunday, when we were walking through the 
 fruit and hop gardens, talking of one thing and another, 
 I ought perhaps to have told you that I had a day or 
 two before, with your father's knowledge, taken the 
 irrevocable step and separated myself from the Anglican 
 communion. But I trembled and do tremble lest any 
 shadow should come between me and the child who is 
 so unspeakably dear to me. It is a strange thing to 
 fear one's children, but I do. If you can write to me 
 that you shall always love me as well as ever, pray do 
 any way write me something kind. I have suffered 
 much and there is plenty more to suffer. The hardest 
 thing of all to bear is the thought of your father. No 
 words can express how kind and generous he has been 
 to me. Certainly God will bless him for his mercy 
 and forbearance in my regard, and all the rest of my 
 life shall be devoted to show my gratitude. 
 
 To Agnes Bolton 
 
 THE LODGE, gtA September. 
 
 I will not say much more about the end of your 
 letter, my darling girl, but that I think what you feel 
 is natural. My share is not all "joy" by any means. 
 There is a great and irreparable loss on all sides but 
 one, and I do not look upon you as you look on the 
 dissenters. This may be illogical, but it remains a fact. 
 I am not conscious of much difference in feeling towards 
 the Anglican Church from that which I have always 
 had ; that is to say, a feeling of doubt and uncertainty.
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 217 
 
 You forget that all I hold dear remain in her com- 
 munion. Take this trouble about me, and wrap it up 
 in a neat little parcel, and lay it down at the feet of 
 our Lord, and leave it there. His Mother will smile 
 if she sees you. There is no sin, it is only a tangle ; 
 don't try to unravel it, pack it up. The will of God 
 for you, and for His poor at St. Sithney, is as clear as 
 the light of this lovely harvest day. If He wills any- 
 thing else, He will show you. I have the most perfect 
 and quiet trust in this. I always see, in my mind's 
 eye, you and Luce walking towards the light. 
 
 I believe the (Burgate) music is simply awful. Oh 
 that you and I were together listening to the smooth 
 rise and fall of the Cathedral Psalms, as in the days 
 that were. Well, we have had them. Tout passe. 
 Dieu ne change point. 
 
 To the Lady Knutsford 
 
 BATH, \jth September. 
 
 It was very kind of you to write to me. . . . My 
 own feeling with regard to my friends is one of immense 
 tenderness, and this is natural enough when I reflect 
 that I have given them a right to withdraw their trust 
 and kindness, while, if I lose them, I have nothing to 
 put in their stead, but must go bare and poor all my 
 days. So your note brought me great balm and 
 comfort, and, while I read it, tears of love and gratitude 
 flowed. . . . We have heard nothing of dear Meta's 
 illness. She was looking so sweet and well in June, 
 but that seems a long while ago now. . . . Farewell, 
 my dear, kindest Margaret. I am grateful to you. I 
 will be your bedeswoman from this time forward, and
 
 218 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 will pray for you and yours by every thread and 
 channel that the old religion affords, and they are 
 many. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 BATH, i8t/i September. 
 
 I quite see why old Landor was so fond of Bath. 
 It is like Florence, seen from the high ground. Yester- 
 day I took a drive, selecting from the stand an aged 
 driver, who looked as if he was an ancient old Bathonian, 
 and garrulous. So we set off, I telling him that I 
 wanted to see all the fine views. " Oo ay, I'm your 
 man for that job " ; and so he was. I was most of all 
 pleased with the beautiful view behind Prior Park (a 
 great Benedictine house which stands above the city, 
 well backed with woods) over towards the Wiltshire 
 Downs, about twenty miles of beautiful country ; then 
 the bare hills, and the afternoon sun shining on the 
 great white horse cut out on the steep slope of West- 
 bury Down. "As nigh like a horse as nigh can be, 
 and a man can stand in the eye of him," said my 
 driver. . . . 
 
 ... I am beginning to have a number of letters 
 on the subject of my step all very affectionate, but in 
 various stages of dismay. Aunt Margaret, however, 
 has written most sweetly and kindly, and I shall ever 
 be grateful to her. . . . G. C. P., as I expected, is the 
 severe friend ; however, he sent me his love, but he 
 says that it is every way " a serious wrong," and I feel 
 this condemnation very much, because I am so long 
 accustomed to take his standard of things.
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 219 
 
 To the Same 
 
 BATH, zbth September. 
 
 Frank and I have been all day at Bristol, and I find 
 your charming letter on my return. Bristol is a horrid 
 place, but Bath is beautiful, and I shall be so glad to see 
 you here on Saturday. I can imagine that you were 
 sorry to leave the yacht. Cette vie intime, nursed on 
 the breast of the wild waters, and under the wide sky, 
 has a charm. You and - will always remember it 
 with pleasure. I was so happy in that way one year 
 at Freshwater, when H. C. spent five or six weeks 
 with us, and devoted himself to my amusement. I 
 think that a real friend is a perfect treasure in family 
 life. Anything, a place, a person that a whole family 
 agree to love, extends at once and doubles and trebles 
 that by which men live. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. SITHNEY, HELSTON, 8t& October. 
 
 I came here on Thursday via Exeter, where I slept 
 one night. Evensong was beginning as Frank and I 
 entered the Cathedral, and I was well pleased to hear 
 again the sweet, solemn chaunts resounding. It is a 
 noble church, and seemed particularly rich in interest, 
 both ancient and modern. Afterwards I went to look 
 for the Roman Catholic church, which was not far to 
 seek. It is large and coldish and brand new, compared 
 with the Cathedral nothing of interest having, yet, com- 
 pared again, possessing all things. Next day Frank 
 and I parted company, and I came on here a pretty 
 journey of six hours, the line running for some distance
 
 220 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 between the red cliffs and the shining sea. Villas 
 scattered about, and plenty of ilex, arbutus, myrtles, 
 and fuchsias, like, in a humble degree, the growth of 
 lovely Sestri. For the last two hours and a half the 
 country is barren enough. I changed at Gwinear Road, 
 and perceived the fineness and delicacy of the air. I 
 alighted at Helston, and drove up here. . . . From the 
 churchyard the country rolls in all directions but one 
 towards the sea, the fine glittering line of which one 
 perceives from all the hills. We took a charming drive 
 on Saturday, and walked for a mile or so along the 
 green edge of the cliff, and watched the Atlantic dash 
 on the rocks below, and run up into the hollow mur- 
 muring passages. The little fields, with banks and 
 walls and hedges, deep lanes and good wide roads, 
 remind me of Guernsey, but the immediate coast is 
 nothing so fine. Will seems to be preaching in all 
 directions. I heard him on Sunday night. He is 
 quite remarkably good ; and this greatly because he 
 founds and grounds himself upon the Fathers. I gave 
 him the Oxford translation two years ago, and he is 
 always reading therein for his sermon. Then he has 
 advantages of voice, and quiet yet rather moved and 
 moving manner. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 ST. SITHNEY VICARAGE, n^A October. 
 
 My dear Hobbist What a silence since we parted 
 at Exeter, the Lady of the West ! You will be vexed 
 to hear that I have not resumed the philosopher of 
 Malmesbury ; but I have not lost time, for I have well 
 digested what we read together, and it has never been 
 long out of my thoughts. . . . Agnes seems very con-
 
 1889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 221 
 
 tent in her little house up on this wind-swept hill. 
 From the churchyard one looks upon a country rolling 
 in three directions towards the sea, the fine glimmering 
 line of which marks the horizon. Yesterday she and I 
 made our way to a charming sheltered bay, where we 
 sat in a summer sun and watched the great clear waves 
 break upon the rocks, and run up into the hollow mur- 
 muring passages. The hedges are loaded with black- 
 berries, the air fine and mild as milk ; stone cottages, 
 narrow lanes with stone banks, and abundant growth 
 and small divided pastures make a country not unlike 
 Guernsey. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CHELTENHAM, i6th October. 
 
 I came here yesterday via Plymouth and Bristol. 
 The first ten miles along the pretty coloured lanes 
 and rocky slopes, as far as Camborne, in the country 
 diligence. In all, it took me eleven hours and a half 
 from Agnes's door to this. I left her and Will stand- 
 ing in the road by Jordan's cottage ; the old woman 
 watching the little parting from her old door. Good, 
 tall Trevithen, the gardening man, with his barrow 
 emptied of my box and bag, and all wrapt in the light, 
 the blessed light, of the clinging October mist. A mist 
 in my eyes too, and in Agnes's, but none in Will 
 Bolton's, as he caught her hand from mine, and bid 
 me a cheery farewell. 
 
 To-morrow I sleep, if I still wake, at 18 Queen's 
 Gate ; next day I hope to return to Canterbury. You 
 are quite right in supposing that I do not wish any- 
 thing but good to the Church of England, bless her ! 
 I shall never enter into any plot to her disadvantage. 
 I was very much struck by Charles Gore's speech.
 
 222 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 All you say on the subject interests me much, but I 
 cannot put what I should like to say in a letter. 
 
 Coming back by road from Penzance one Monday, 
 a violent demagogue entered the vehicle in the shape 
 of the postmaster of Marazion. He went on furiously 
 haranguing the universe from the moment the omnibus 
 moved. I felt much interested, and presently struck 
 in, upon which he darted to my side, and we talked 
 incessantly, till I clambered out at the stone stile nearest 
 St. Sithney vicarage, when we shook hands, congratu- 
 lated one another, and parted. 
 
 He was a Devonshire man, with a private grievance ; 
 this was the low lying original fire to which he added 
 all the other fuel ; and in revenge for which he would 
 pull down Church, and Crown, and Aristocracy. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, zyd October. 
 
 Pleased am I to see your handwriting again, and 
 to have your word for it that you are not too much 
 scandalised to love me. 
 
 I am very glad that you wrote first. You see I 
 must leave it to my friends to decide whether or no 
 they go on or leave off. I have made a sort of ending, 
 and I have no right also to make a beginning, but 
 I shall correspond exactly to what their behaviour 
 announces. If you had never written to me again, I 
 should have perfectly justified you in the depths of my 
 mind. As you have written again I take you as a new 
 and perfect gift, and shall ever treasure you. Perhaps 
 you will come some day to see me. If you do not, will 
 not, I shall look for you in Red Lion Square when I 
 go to London ; but that may be months and months
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 223 
 
 to come. I have got yet to settle down, and go through, 
 and tide over, and put up with, and be put up with ; in 
 short, to use up all the prepositions, with all the uncom- 
 fortable verbs in the language (or are they adverbs ?) 
 
 And it is all more solid and serious and close to me 
 than I can express. 
 
 I feel the greatest possible interest in the Guild 
 affairs, and anything of any kind that you can tell me 
 I shall be always glad to know, or about yourself, or 
 Father Black, only it seems an impertinence to ask. 
 
 To Mrs. Deacon 
 
 HARBLEDOWN LODGE, z^th October. 
 
 My dearest Mary Will you for the sake of past 
 Octobers send me a bundle of plants of the St. John's 
 wort that grows in and under your hedge ? I cannot 
 get it about here. Any scrappy pieces will do, pulled 
 up anyhow. It is sure to grow. 
 
 Mary ! what have I not gone through, and made 
 other people go through ! What a war and enterprise 
 at my age, with no strength left in me ! What a risk 
 of both worlds, and loss of one ! And what thorny, 
 solitary paths ahead ! It does not bear thinking of, 
 much less writing about. 
 
 It is such a comfort to know that church matters 
 were never the platform On which I sat with you, but 
 love, joy, peace, and all the other heavenly and healing 
 gifts of God ; blessed for ever be His holy name 
 and love of children, and birds, and bluebells, and 
 purple commons, and dim autumn woods, and cheerful 
 fires, and dear poor good people, and hymns in Hatch- 
 ford Church, and the Poet with all that belonged to
 
 224 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 him. These things were where we sat, and sit, together. 
 Bernard was at Fox Warren Sunday week and wrote 
 that the woods and lanes were lovely to see. I am 
 often there in spirit, and see you in all the old places. 
 Do not exorcise me. I am a harmless ghost. Your 
 ever affectionate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 CANTERBURY, loth November. 
 
 . . . Your affectionate note pleased me, because it 
 was so affectionate. I am happy in having a few good 
 extravagant friends, and really it does me good at this 
 moment to be a little cosseted, because of the painful 
 weaning from the breasts of the Anglican Church. I 
 hear as I write the deep hum of the organ beginning 
 the Magnificat. After a gray morning a splendid broad 
 sunshine bathes the great church from the west tower 
 to Beckett's Crown. Miss D. is walking with the 
 Canon, Fanny Macrae is lying on a small portion of 
 the great sofa with eyes closed, and I am writing to 
 you, dear Agnes Mason, dear servant of Christ, chere 
 rachete de mon Dieu. You who really spend yourself 
 and are spent for the souls of others. 
 
 I am glad that we went out together into that good 
 sunshine on Thursday ; 'twas better than creeping 
 about these ancient enclosed places with their past and 
 thrice buried past, and melancholy and confusing 
 shadows and sounds. What a phantom has the Dean 
 often seemed to me ! and yet how dear he is as part 
 of things which have gone to make up my life. Well, 
 farewell, and God preserve you.
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 225 
 
 _ To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, toM November. 
 
 From Canterbury to Rome is a far cry, but what a 
 traffic of pilgrims used to go between this Metropolitical 
 city and the " limina apostolorum S. Petri et Pauli." I 
 was reading yesterday the adventures of William of 
 Moreton on his way to Rome (the chronicler calls him 
 romer Duboricam). He went over the Alps by Barzi, 
 and was robbed at Placentia. His business was to 
 see about the canonisation of Thomas a Becket in the 
 name of the brethren of Canterbury they being ignorant 
 that the Pope had already settled it. I wish I were 
 with you. Canterbury is something of a purgatorio 
 just now, but that is as it should be, because through 
 purgatory I may emerge into light and refreshment 
 and rest. Old Mrs. McQueen has come to an end 
 a quiet end, full of years and full of charity. . . . The 
 house is full of roses and chrysanthemums from the 
 Lodge a third bloom of roses. The air is mild as 
 milk, so that fires seem too much and I long to be 
 somewhere on the top of a hill. 
 
 To Miss Arnold-Forster 
 
 CANTERBURY, iith November. 
 
 . . . Please do not think of coming on Thursday, if 
 you can only come to lunch. It will make me very 
 uneasy and may make you very unwell. It is not 
 worth while, dear, kind and faithful little friend. We 
 shall meet again some time in hac valle lackrymarum. 
 If you cannot come to me next time you are in the 
 south I will come up to London to you. . . , Let go 
 
 Q
 
 226 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 the Canterbury plan and, if you can weave another, 
 throw one end of the thread to me by means of a 
 post-card. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, 12^ November. 
 
 ... I have often in Memoirs met with the nuns of 
 Trinita de Monte, and they are always as you describe 
 them. I daresay if you went every day to call on them 
 they would be quite pleased. That is their way. 
 Every order has its own peculiar way of behaving 
 just as an individual has. An Order is like a person 
 who does not die but goes on. The first duty of a 
 novice is to imbue himself with the spirit of the founder. 
 The more thoroughly he does this the better a religious 
 he is. ... Please remark the statue of Sophocles in 
 the Lateran Museum I thought it so wonderful. So 
 is the head of the young Augustus in the Vatican and, 
 among the pictures, that room which contains the 
 Transfiguration of Raphael and Domenicho's last Com- 
 munion of St. Jerome. But the Sistine Chapel pleased 
 me beyond all things. Everything of Michael Angelo's 
 is beyond all others in power of conception. ... It is 
 such a pleasure to have your letters almost as sweet 
 as if I were with you in Rome, but the bare thought of 
 what that would be brings tears into my eyes. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 CANTERBURY, i^th November. 
 
 . . . The daily mass is everything in heaven and 
 earth to me. You are right there. Earth-born clouds 
 may sometimes veil Him from His servants' eyes, but
 
 1889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 227 
 
 He comes, He comes certain as sunrise. No doubt, 
 Agnese mia, but that my talk must often have seemed 
 to you a mass of contradictions but, however it may be 
 with other people, it is always the case with me, that, 
 if I speak truly, I speak all sort of contrary things. 
 The truth itself perhaps lies too deep for words. It is 
 true, but overlaid with other and mixed stuff, which has 
 to be shovelled away by Agneses and other, if any, in- 
 dustrious friends. 
 
 What you say of St. Paul's is true, perhaps, and I 
 think that St. Augustine would lay hold of that living 
 Church and bring it again into communion with the 
 Chair of the Apostles. He would not be satisfied short 
 of that ; do you think he would ? 
 
 The little Imitation will be a treasure for me, not 
 too large for a pocket, and nearly 300 years of age. I 
 will leave it back again to you in my will, and be sure 
 that you come to my burial. This I shall count upon, 
 that you attend if you are anywhere in England. I 
 will look at those places in the Imitation that you 
 mention ; only one book is really familiar to me. 
 
 I do mind what you say very much in the sense ot 
 giving heed to it, but if I thought you did not deal 
 fairly by me, giving me truth for truth without let or 
 hindrance, I should first be seized with regret of having 
 spoken openly, then with melancholy at the deception, 
 then our intercourse would pale, sicken and die out. 
 So pray continue the prophet-like strain. 
 
 The piano is tuning in the adjoining room, and a 
 barrel-organ is vexing the very bowels of Burgate, 
 making a hellish discord in my ears, and goading my 
 pen ; so enough. Thank you for the spectacles ; I am 
 consoled for your trouble by considering the prophet- 
 like rebuke you administered to the attendant. I see
 
 228 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 you are a prophet, though this only occurred to me at 
 the third line from the top of this page. Ever yours, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, igtk November. 
 
 I so perfectly remember that summer evening, and 
 see Arnald de Grey cross the lawn with a great faggot 
 of tall river flowers, and a quiet look on his face. I 
 have always thought of him since just as I saw him 
 then. This was God's will for him ; this was to be the 
 end of the short stay of his quiet harmless life. A dim 
 vision, far less distinct probably than that left on my 
 mind by his two days' visit, will be all that will remain 
 for his little small sons. 
 
 Your verses are charming, the first you have written 
 for some time, are they not ? I am very fond of that 
 sort of poetry ; it pleases, which is a great thing. Some- 
 times when I read George Herbert I am extraordinarily 
 pleased all seems so dainty sweet. 
 
 To the Lady Knutsford 
 
 CANTERBURY, zist November. 
 
 Thank you very much indeed for the mother o' 
 pearl Cross, which came safe to hand yesterday. I 
 have hung it again in my room with a sigh. ... X. 
 was here for a few days in the beginning of the month. 
 I was very glad to have her, she is always so kind and 
 content. Yet 'twas a torment, because of the impossible 
 questions with which she plied me, and the deductions 
 she made from my false and fleeting replies. Who can 
 truly say in a dozen words how or why he began to
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 229 
 
 love his friend, or how he has arrived at his political belief 
 or his determination as to beauty and perfection, or 
 what a place is to him, or a poem, and why ? Belief is 
 another thing from opinion. 
 
 A great many singular things happen here, more, I 
 suspect, than you meet in your great world ; but this is 
 happy for you. Ever, dearest Margaret, your affection- 
 ate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, 23^ November. 
 
 I am going to post this at 3 P.M., and perhaps it 
 will reach you to-morrow in the ancient demesne of 
 Ashburnham. Your good letter came in at twelve, 
 and I was so pleased to get it that I gave old Maxted * 
 a handful of the pale chrysanthemums that I was sort- 
 ing in the hall by the open door. For the air to-day 
 is so mild that even in these low and shadowed places 
 all doors and windows stand open, and the rooks have 
 come over to look at their nests. They seem a good 
 deal irritated by the apparatus on the pinnacle on 
 Bell Harry the ladders and ropes and no doubt 
 look upon it as some deep-laid human plot directed 
 against their skiey haunts. 
 
 To tJie Same 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, z8th November. 
 
 I hasten to say that whatever I wrote to you must 
 not be read as though I repented me of what I have 
 done. I know that to-morrow if things were as they 
 were I should make the same move, and also I know 
 
 1 The postman.
 
 230 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 that in my soul I have a point of abiding peace and 
 joy which spreads, and will spread, till all else is sub- 
 merged and swallowed up. But apart from myself, 
 and you cannot think how difficult it is to me to see 
 questions not apart from myself, I think that there is 
 much in all G. C. P. urges. Perhaps the thing that 
 interests him most in all that his eye surveys from 
 his niche in St. Margaret's Street is the Established 
 Church, with all her claims, temporal and spiritual, 
 holding her own in the battlefield of the world ; and 
 it is a singular and wonderful thing to behold. Dol- 
 linger thinks that she is an instrument in God's hand, 
 and is reserved as a meeting - place for the older 
 churches. He wrote a little book called the Church 
 and the Churches, or some such name, putting forth this 
 view, after he broke with the Vatican. 
 
 G. C. P. did depress me because I could not speak 
 openly to him, and he got very angry and severe, and 
 scolded me for not speaking. He tried to make me 
 give my reasons in order to confound them ; in short, 
 it was perhaps as painful an hour of the sort as ever I 
 have spent in my life. At last he said : " Well, it's a 
 mystery," and told a story of his churchwarden who 
 had stolen the church money, and every one knew 
 clearly what he had done, but he could not be got to 
 say more than " It's a mystery seemingly," and this he 
 said over and over again. 
 
 At 9.30 A.M. yesterday morning we were overtaken 
 by a violent storm of snow with a due westerly wind, 
 and in half an hour Bell Harry's long roof was white 
 from end to end, so were the red roofs of the opposite 
 houses, so was every leaf of ivy on the old walls, and 
 your father's trencher crossing the Oaks to matins, and 
 the newspaper boy's jacket advancing with the Times.
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 231 
 
 Snow levels like death, shrouding all alike. In the 
 mystic interpretation of colours, white is the earth or 
 death, blue is the air or aspiration, gold is splendour 
 or knowledge, purple the sea or endurance, scarlet the 
 fire or charity. 
 
 Canon Mason is talked of as the probable successor 
 
 of Bishop Parry. I wish this may be so. Mrs. 
 
 says : " Well, of course, we all like old friends, and 
 we wish for Canon Holland," adding, " Canterbury 
 is a city that does not desire anything new. We like 
 to know what we have got." I believe that the 
 idea of the middle class is that the Church should 
 take the lead everyzvhere, and should be on friendly 
 terms, but wholly patronising terms, with all other 
 denominations. This is what they are themselves 
 with their numerous dissenting relations and friends. 
 
 Mrs. wouldn't dream of entering a chapel. Church 
 
 people won't do that, but she likes to bring her friends 
 to the Cathedral. The Church to them is like the big 
 old family of a neighbourhood. Affable, largely hos- 
 pitable, knowing everybody, and doing as it chooses 
 without consulting the public. 
 
 To 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, Sunday Night, znd December. 
 
 You have taken what I said in too strong a sense. 
 I cannot bear myself for having written anything at all. 
 By " masculine " I only meant the entire absence of 
 that part of a woman's character which, on certain 
 matters, holds other women aloof; that which makes 
 the rule of a priest or doctor, or household master, 
 more easy to many women than that of a mistress, or 
 woman doctor, or Red Mother. You have no little-
 
 232 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 nesses at all in you, and an immense indulgence, and 
 the quick acknowledgment of every sort of merit 
 wherever you find it, which is the very essence of 
 generosity. This is all that I meant, and how in the 
 world could this hurry you down any slope ? It 
 might hinder you somewhat in the educating of these 
 dear souls, and that is all I meant. But fiere, I now 
 believe I did you wrong. When I come to consider it, 
 I believe that I was partly judging myself (which is, 
 after all, all that one really has to judge by). 
 
 What you said about girlish beauty rather hit me, 
 because I often feel a sort of mad benignity towards 
 quite young people and children. It is far as the 
 poles asunder from what I did and felt in bringing up 
 my own children, and it is not the best side of me. 
 I mean that I could not work with it, and to get a 
 letter like the one you sent me would pull me up very 
 short. But then you see that you have never talked to 
 me about that child, and I ought not to have expressed 
 any opinion formed merely on the sight of two little 
 letters without asking you what you said in reply, or 
 making any inquiry at all. I have sinned a little 
 against friendship in this, but I know you have for- 
 given, because really my mind and heart were full of 
 love and wonder. I cannot think how you can keep 
 all these souls in hand. You have more than a woman's 
 strength, that is the fact, and I come back to it. They 
 feel it and cling on. 
 
 . . . We have a house full of people, and I am 
 tied to strings upon which everything seems playing. 
 And the first Advent out of the old church tries me 
 much and unreasonably. I ought to keep silence out- 
 wardly and inwardly.
 
 1 889] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 233 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 CAVENDISH RECTORY, SUFFOLK, yth December. 
 
 Agnese mia I am going straight through London 
 on Saturday, so don't expect me that evening. It is 
 too near Christmas Day to linger among the millions. 
 I only regret the loss of another talk with you, but we 
 shall have it elsewhere in times to come, either in hoc 
 valle lachrymarum, or in the place of light, refreshment, 
 and peace. This sounds solemn, but is a commonplace 
 that is ever in my mind on all occasions of loss and 
 gain. Your affectionate and faithful 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To the Same 
 WAITING ROOM, CHARING CROSS, i2/A December. 
 
 Here have I been already for some little time, and 
 the train does not go till 3.30. I might have sat with 
 you for half an hour more at least. Isn't it like one of 
 your girls to sit and write to you half an hour after 
 leaving you. There are things that I have left unsaid. 
 One is to wish you a good Christmas and New Year ; 
 another is to ask you, if you do see S. C. to tell her 
 about your work, not to mind telling her. She will be 
 so interested if you do. She is not in the least bit 
 clever, rather the contrary, and has hardly any power 
 of expression among ordinary people. She goes 
 trembling and discouraged to all her undertakings ; 
 her own family thinks nothing of her. Yet she can 
 keep a whole roomful of rough, poor men quietly wait- 
 ing for her words, every separate soul being of extra- 
 ordinary importance to her. She is very nervous, but
 
 234 LETTERS OF [1889 
 
 does the boldest things. What you and she are doing 
 is almost the same work, and almost in the same 
 manner, only you are such absolutely different people. 
 I bless God that He leaves me your friendship, which 
 I might well have lost, and that I still know S. C. ; but 
 she is not my friend. I think it will be good for her 
 to know you. She does not know any one like you, 
 but very likely you would get on together. 
 
 Now farewell till we meet again, chere rachetee de 
 mon Dieu. Remember me at the altar, that great 
 meeting-place of all faithful hearts. Your ever affec- 
 tionate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 There is such a crowd and bustle all around. I 
 say a Pater, and an Ave, and a Memorare for them all. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, 237-0? December. 
 
 You are hard at work on your birthday instead of 
 at leisure here in this mild pale flower of December 
 sunshine. Yesterday's continuous rain has washed the 
 roofs and lanes of the old city, and I pray St. Thomas 
 to keep us clean till over Xmas week. The Kentish 
 bells are chiming as they chimed when you were born 
 three-and-thirty years ago. You are now the same age 
 as I was when the first tremendous misfortune of my 
 life overtook me, and I hope for some blow of good 
 fortune for you. Men do, and women suffer. 
 
 To Rosamond Stephen 
 
 THE PRECINCTS, zgth December. 
 
 My dear Rosamond Rosamond, my dear ! your 
 kind little letter came like a reproach, for I had
 
 i88 9 ] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 235 
 
 suffered the days to slip by till Xmas Eve without 
 writing to you, as I had fully proposed to you, and 
 then, finding that the posts would all be a confusion 
 from Xmas Day and Sunday falling together, I again 
 put off, but you will forgive and forget if you have a 
 letter within the Octave of Xmas. 
 
 Bernard says that James will presently bring you to 
 Canterbury, and this will give us all very great pleasure, 
 for I have never seen you since you have become a 
 grown-up young lady with regular evening dresses, and 
 most likely a beautiful crest of hair twisted up upon 
 the top of your head. We are deep in snow here ; it 
 lies glittering two feet deep all round the Cathedral. 
 On Christmas morning the sun rose in a clear, pale blue 
 sky, against which the great Bell Harry Tower shone 
 rosy red. All the old houses and ruined arches were 
 muffled up in shining white, and every branch and twig 
 and ivy leaf carried lines of snow three times its own 
 thickness. In an old city like Canterbury this has a 
 strange effect ; towards evening, when the light fades, 
 everything looks disguised. The dumb streets, the 
 muffled-up hurrying figures, the dim burning lights, the 
 bells and clocks in the sharp air above, all this seems 
 to blot out modern life. Yesterday in the Cathedral at 
 morning service I heard every now and then a low 
 thunderous noise. This was the heavy masses of snow, 
 a little loosened in the midday sun, slipping from the 
 lofty steep roof of the nave. 
 
 To-day is the day of the famous murder of St. 
 Thomas a Becket, who was done to death by the four 
 Norman knights in the north transept of the nave. I 
 am sure you have read Dean Stanley's account of that, 
 and of how, when it was all over, and the body of 
 Thomas left alone in the dark church, the people of
 
 236 LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND [1889 
 
 Canterbury all came pouring in making a dreadful 
 noise and lamentation. Kentish people have always 
 been noisy and rough. I daresay you have read how 
 they hustled and snowballed Mr. Gladstone at Dover, 
 and played unfeeling tunes outside the town hall while 
 he was talking inside. And at the last election, when 
 the people of the parish of Northgate, Canterbury, 
 understood that the Liberal candidate was coming to 
 make a speech in their part of the city, they made pre- 
 parations to throw him into a pond. He heard of it 
 just in time and kept away. But all this violent and 
 rude behaviour need not make you fear to come to 
 Canterbury, and I hope to see you when the weather 
 is mild and the days draw out a little. Ever your 
 very affectionate godmother, SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 X 
 
 LETTERS OF 1890 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, 6fA January. 
 
 THE midday post has just brought me a letter from 
 Aunt Mary, with news of your illness. She wrote 
 on the 3rd. I have been expecting to see you walk 
 in any time these last three days and I have not 
 imagined any other delay than picture-galleries and 
 churches at Florence. This is what I say there is no 
 intimation of the pain or peril of those whose life is so 
 infinitely precious and unspeakably dear. Mary says 
 you have been well doctored and nursed, and that I am 
 not to feel alarmed. But it gave me a shock, and 
 though I reason with myself yet I am anxious. Leo 
 XIII. must have given you a frisson that morning. 
 Dress clothes are too light, and I daresay you had no 
 overcoat. I have begged Aunt Mary to advance you 
 some money for nurse and doctor and journey, and 
 you ought to give something over and above to the 
 kind people at the hotel. I wish that I knew Major 
 and Mrs. Ross. I wish that I could thank them. I 
 hope that some day I may meet them. I will write 
 again to-night, this is to catch post. I was enormously 
 interested in your account of the Pope.
 
 238 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, ith January. 
 
 \ thought of you the last thing last night and the 
 first thing this morning, and I shall think of you every 
 hour of every day till you come home. I hope that 
 you will have this heavenly mild weather for your 
 journey back. The air cannot be much milder in 
 Rome itself, or herself, and the nights are beautiful. 
 We have not had one hour's darkness in the twenty- 
 four. This morning at 6.40 I saw Bell Harry flash in 
 the dawn, while the long shadows still fell from west 
 to east cast by the full and sinking moon ; and this 
 evening, before the sun touches the horizon, the moon 
 will silver the whole eastern sky and glitter upon 
 Becket's crown and all the eastern heights and depths 
 and steep slopes of the great Gothic church. She 
 shines too upon the wide Campagna and the dome of St. 
 Peter's and on Trajan's column, and glitters on the 
 plashing fountains of the Eternal City, where my 
 darling boy's head lies sleeping, I hope, and free from 
 feverish dreams. I have got a book from G. C. P. 
 which I know you will like because it is your period 
 Charles I. and James I. You shall have it when 
 
 you come home. Mrs. with her daughter and 
 
 niece are here till Thursday, and I am hoping you will 
 not arive till they are gone. But they are quiet, in- 
 telligent old friends. There is nothing in this note. 
 " Hie canit errantem lunam solisque labores " is not 
 that a Virgilian line ?
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 239 
 
 To Lady Egerton 
 
 PRECINCTS, CANTERBURY, \-jth February. 
 
 My dear Lady Egerton I cannot say how much 
 pleasure your letter has given me. My old love for 
 you has lain in my heart all these years, and when I 
 read your kind, sweet, faithful words it sprang up into 
 a flame. The frost of the heart is silence, some old 
 writer says this cry of the heart is fire, is charity. It 
 is of no use for me to enter upon the subject of your 
 letters. I took this step at the risk of losing all that 
 makes earth dear. I risked everything, and, besides, I 
 risked the possibility of being mistaken, of losing one 
 world without gaining the other. But God is good. 
 Our family union has not been injured, and many 
 friendships have held firm in spite of the severe and 
 singular strain put upon them. Still, looking back I 
 cannot conceive how I had the courage to do it. 
 
 There are a thousand things that I should like to 
 say and to hear, and if I thought that when you came 
 to London we might perhaps meet, it would be a very 
 great pleasure. Naturally I have lost a certain number 
 of interests and friends, and I have made no new ones 
 nor is it probable that I shall ever do so, as I shall never 
 enter the great Catholic coterie. So you may imagine 
 how three and four times dear are faithful and indulgent 
 friends like yourself. 
 
 Neither of my boys were able to be at the dance at 
 32 De Vere Gardens last week. I have therefore no 
 news of the dear people there nor have I liked 
 to write to Mary, not knowing how she might feel 
 about my retrograde movement. Your very affection- 
 ate SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 240 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 No I do not feel in the least separated from other 
 people, nor do I think that they feel divided from me. 
 I feel an infinite j affection for my friends, and a sort 
 of slavish desire to serve them. 
 
 PRECINCTS, gth February. 
 
 I quite fall in with your remark on the Lincoln 
 case. The larger High Church party, who are the 
 successors of the old religious minds, will never be 
 satisfied short of the Mass, and the Reformers' one 
 great object was to do away with the Mass, and they 
 would have swept it away altogether had it not been 
 for great Eliza's instincts and poor old Parker's prin- 
 ciples. 
 
 . . . The bell is chiming for 4 p.m. evensong, and 
 the Cathedral is glittering from Clock Tower to Corona 
 in the south-west sunshine and due east wind. The 
 rooks are holding a parliament. Huggins is rolling the 
 grass in the Oaks, and your father, in trencher, is 
 making his way across to the great church. So it has 
 been (not from the beginning but) for 300 years, is 
 now, but whether it shall ever be or for how long who 
 knows ? It will last my time in any case. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, lytA February. 
 
 ... I was amused this morning after 8 A.M. mass 
 to see the little school children patter up the church and 
 crowd round the altar rails to receive a little dab of 
 ashes on their innocent foreheads. They swarmed up, 
 and knelt one behind the other, making treble rows and
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 241 
 
 smiling with delight while the immense P. P. l passed 
 quickly along saying ancient Latin words and making 
 a black mark on each. The grown ups all went up 
 also. The delight of the children amused me : the 
 babies squeezed forwards and came triumphantly back. 
 The bigger ones looked at one another with laughing 
 eyes, and made joyful gestures. One would have 
 thought that some great pleasure had befallen them. 
 It is not easy to explain the intense pleasure children 
 take in customs. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 PRECINCTS, z^th February. 
 
 I should not have allowed so much water to have 
 run under the bridge, but that I have had to put all 
 my letter-writing aside for other things. First, Agnes 
 has been at home, and, after five pleasant days, fell ill 
 of influenza, and has gone back to Cornwall to-day still 
 unwell, after a fortnight in the house. Then the sick 
 people outside have been innumerable, and now the 
 Warden's wife at St. Augustine's is lying at the point 
 of death. She was seized with influenza on the ninth 
 day after the birth of her child, and has inflammation of 
 the lungs and other things all the terrors of the Pale 
 King. Nurses, doctors, appliances of all sorts are in 
 full array, and I am absorbed in the contest of life and 
 death. You know what it is how one's mind beats 
 about in vain. We know not what is the will of God 
 as to the issue. We cry to Him, and He answers by 
 deeds, not words. He speaks to us by what He does, 
 and our only true answer is contained in what we do 
 
 1 Parish priest. 
 R
 
 242 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 in return. Words are nothing more than groans and 
 cries. 
 
 Well, Agnese mia, can you come down ? I have 
 seven empty rooms and a warm welcome. Do come, and 
 change back into a human being, any day, and any 
 hour, and for as long as you can. For the rest of 
 Lent? Do. And do send some nice girl into that 
 pays d'or. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, a,th March. 
 
 Last night was the coldest registered in these 
 parts for many years, and this morning there were 10 
 inches of snow in the Precincts. Poor Fox, 1 plunging 
 about in the drifts at midnight, did not cry " All's 
 well." I looked out and saw his retreating solitary 
 figure, and the dark holes left as he drew his feet out 
 of the snow. At midday the wind changed and all 
 the vanes stood to the south, the sun came out and 
 the waters flowed everywhere. But at sunset it froze 
 again, and I could hardly keep my footing as I walked 
 back with the old seneschal. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, itfA March. 
 
 I have been more or less unwell all the week, or 
 would have written. The weather has been lovely, 
 but this has made me restless. I cannot get away 
 from these old Stones and Bones, and I long for 
 
 1 The watchman of the Precincts, whose duty it is to announce the 
 hour, the weather, and to say that "all's well."
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 243 
 
 something quite different. I should like to carry you 
 and Ber with me far out of London, but I don't know 
 where. . . . The antiquarian excitement has gone on 
 all the week, but with all the discussion no sort of 
 certainty has been arrived at as to iv/io the Archbishop 
 is, nor will it ever be discovered. I have finished Unto 
 
 this Last and handed it on to Mrs. as a change 
 
 from Tolstoi's What shall we do, then, which is goading 
 her to desperate deeds. . . . 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, zotk March. 
 
 I have congratulated our savant, who came in this 
 morning early and stayed two hours discussing Tolstoi's 
 What shall we do, then, instead of going on to pursue 
 his researches in the Cathedral. Tolstoi is a very 
 goading writer. I suppose that it is because so much 
 of what he says is true, and he has a steady purpose 
 before him in every line he writes. . . . According to 
 Tolstoi, Michael is the only one among us who is 
 leading the true life. This is a considerable comfort 
 to me in considering Mick that Tolstoi approves. . . . 
 I wonder if Henry Holland of Staffordshire, educated 
 at Eton and Oxford, and one of the Jesuits who were 
 thrown into England in Charles I.'s time, were any 
 relation of ours. He sounds just like one of us. I 
 daresay that he was, and that after the troubles the 
 Jesuit took to business and Nonconformity as a safer 
 line on the whole. I have just come back from read- 
 ing to an old bedridden Irish papist. It is very easy 
 to visit poor Catholics, because they delight in devo- 
 tions, and are more grateful to you if you say a Litany 
 with them or the Way of the Cross, than for any other
 
 244 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 thing you can bring them. I do not know whether 
 they are really more religious than our poor people, 
 but if they don't practise their religion they are 
 nothing, whereas among Protestants the actual religious 
 practice is somewhat stunted. Were you not affected 
 at hearing of that wave which swept Sir Howard 
 Elphinstone into his vast and wandering grave ? Such 
 a fate in the heydey of active life ! If Bismarck lives 
 to see Europe in another great war, and the socialists 
 getting the upper hand, he won't sing Nunc Dimittis 
 very cheerfully. I suppose the Revolution is going 
 on over the world, but when the masses are at the top 
 they will become the classes, and it will not be much 
 forwarder. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 zotk March. 
 
 I did see the strange fate that overtook Sir Howard 
 Elphinstone. The Queen will have wept for her good 
 soldier. 
 
 Yesterday we had snow and rain all day, and to-day 
 the same. Tuesday was fine and dry, and I took the 
 Warden's three little boys to tea at the Lodge. 
 They were very happy careering about. We found 
 anemones and primroses, and came home about six 
 o'clock. The house smelt very sweet and I wished to 
 remain. Yesterday in the library I opened a little 
 memoir of Sumner, 1 and found him described in 
 pleasing terms as of that civility which Caesar himself 
 had observed in the inhabitants of this part of the 
 island, and of that same courage and determination 
 
 1 Sumner, the antiquary and local historian.
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 245 
 
 which had caused the men of Kent to come forward 
 with branches in their hands to make a bargain with 
 the Conqueror. I like this patriotic way of writing, 
 and I think that for the future I will not go beyond 
 the kingdom in seeking for comparisons, figures, and 
 tropes. " There's plenty ready enough to want to 
 come into Kent, but I never heard of nobody who'd no 
 call to go out of it." l 
 
 Your father and I walked down to St. Peter's on 
 Sunday afternoon to be present at the baptism of the 
 
 Warden's motherless babe. There was old B 
 
 there, who sat against the wall at right angles with his 
 old parson, and never took his eye off him till the end 
 of the service, when he asked him to step across to 
 " look at his old gal, who is wore completely to skin 
 and bone and deafer than ten postes." So we did, 
 
 and during our visit papa asked B if he had ever 
 
 been to London. " No," says he, " but I have been 
 pretty well everywhere else. I was wonst beyond 
 Chatham, and felt lost. Why ! I thought I should 
 never have got back to Old England no more." This 
 is very confirmatory of your view. 2 
 
 I said to B , " How is it that your son-in-law is 
 
 always out of work ; he is a good engineer black- 
 smith ? " " Well," says B , very cautious and 
 
 solemn, " I suppose he done wrong. He had a very 
 
 good place under Mr. D at Hales Place the 
 
 college, 3 you understand. But he done wrong. In 
 the course of his work he came across the place where 
 they kep the sacrament wine, and I do suppose he 
 
 1 A remark by some one at Harbledown. 
 
 2 That when East Kent people speak of Old England they mean East 
 Kent. 
 
 3 The Jesuit College.
 
 246 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 drinked it, made an end o' the whole lot, kep' going 
 back upon it like, so he was forced to leave." You 
 can't think what a singular expression B - had in 
 telling me this. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, z6th March. 
 
 Mrs. T. 1 is in the hall partaking of sherry and 
 biscuit and waiting to see papa on quarter-day matters, 
 while he, unconscious, is lingering in the Cathedral. I 
 am struck by the piety and solemnity with which she 
 prefaces her glass of sherry. Her health-drinking is 
 like a sincere prayer. She ends with " poor Mrs. 
 Machins and God bless us all." Mrs. Machins has 
 gone quite blind, which is a double calamity. This 
 custom of health -drinking is really something of a 
 religious act, and 'tis a pity that it has gone out. Did 
 the Romans and Greeks drink healths ? . 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, zdtk March. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lewis of Cambridge come here to- 
 morrow and stay over Sunday. He is an authority 
 on gems, and came to discuss the unknown Arch- 
 bishop's emerald gem. When first that Archbishop 
 was laid in that stone coffin he must have looked 
 himself like a jewel in a case. His head mitred, his 
 shining ring and jewelled staff, and broidered and 
 jewelled shoes, and gold silk vestments from head to 
 foot, and cold-pinned pall, and chalice parcel-gilt. He 
 who wore these things was stately and delicately made. 
 
 1 An old nurse, retired.
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 247 
 
 Lying at the bottom of that stone coffin he must have 
 shone wondrously. The antiquaries are cross and 
 quarrelling. 1 
 
 To Miss Arnold- Forster 
 
 CANTERBURY, ist April. 
 
 . . . We are deep in snow here ; all the old roofs 
 and towers and ivied walls wrapped in a sheet of 
 dazzling white. A perpetual draught is kept up in 
 our very cold house by people making short cuts 
 through it. I shiver all day. I have a good many 
 sick people also, and a great many things to do and to 
 listen to, and often I am very tired. It is tiring, my 
 Frances, to come and go, and listen, and run about, 
 and fetch and carry for people, and all the time to be 
 sure of their disapprobation, but after all I don't make 
 myself a slave for them, but for Him, blessed above 
 all, whose name I cannot take on my lips, or even 
 think of in my heart, without smiling for joy. You 
 must just lie in the hollow of His hand, and trust Him, 
 and trust Him. You want a long rest. . . . Let your- 
 self go a little more ; do not try to find words or to 
 think consecutively. Let your heart and mind empty 
 itself, and keep yourself very still, so that if Jesus 
 speaks, you may hear Him. Don't try to hold any- 
 thing fast. If you must have words, take some very 
 simple prayer, and keep entirely to this and the Lord's 
 Prayer. 
 
 1 The tomb of an Archbishop of the early thirteenth century was 
 opened in order to endeavour to satisfy some antiquarian curiosity as to 
 which Archbishop he was.
 
 248 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, gth April. 
 
 . . . For this, and for innumerable other blessings, 
 I praise His holy name. I do, and will remember 
 you, dearest Frances, in the proper place and hour, in 
 the ancient words which have sounded and resounded 
 through Christendom so many years, and which will 
 go on while the world lasts. Yes, that is a wonderful 
 text, St. John xii. 24, especially if we take it with the 
 two following verses. The corn grain of the Incar- 
 nation cast into the field of the world, the seed of the 
 elect and the Church. 
 
 As some old Father says, if we would be of the 
 harvest, we must also be of the sowing ; whosoever will 
 be of the heavenly bread must first have lain in the 
 earth of humiliation, and have been buried in forget- 
 fulness of the world, threshed on the floor, crushed 
 under the mill-stones, passed through the water and 
 the fire of troubles, affliction, and repentance. Yet 
 God does lead souls by an easier and fairer path, and 
 may He so ever lead yours. His government is in- 
 finitely varied in method, answering to the infinity in 
 creation. 
 
 To Agnes Bolton 
 
 CANTERBURY, \oth April. 
 
 . . . Bernard persuaded me to go to Bruges with 
 him for Easter Day, so we set out. Our expenses 
 there and back and our bill came to 2. It was 
 tiring, but I enjoyed seeing the old city, with its 
 belfry and steeples, and the vast mixed multitude that 
 came crowding up hour after hour to the altars to be
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 249 
 
 fed by the pale patient priests. The whole city seemed 
 to communicate easily, devoutly, and thankfully. At 
 6.30 I formed one of a dense crowd of persons in a 
 side aisle, and it was the same at three other altars in 
 the cathedral, and at all the other churches. Old 
 crippled people, young children, big boys and girls 
 innumerable, rich and poor of all ages pressing steadily 
 forward, and streaming back with clasped hands and 
 downcast eyes. A loud continuous noise of chairs 
 moving and feet treading, but not a word, look, or 
 smile. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, io//4 April. 
 
 Thank you very much for your charming letter 
 from the " green fields of Wales." I am glad that you 
 have seen old Sam with your bodily eyes. He is the 
 last of the old set except George, and he had much 
 more to do with Knutsford than ever George had. I 
 remember him coming there in my early married days, 
 and all the jokes between him and Aunts Mary and 
 Lucy, and his first pretty little wife Annie, of whom 
 they were very fond ; and I stayed with him for a night 
 during the tour in Wales I took with Aunt Lucy and 
 Bernard, and we saw an otter hunt. I think that 
 Wales has a great charm. We will go to St. David's 
 together some day. ... I went over with Ber to 
 Bruges on Easter Eve and returned Monday. It was 
 rather tiring, but I liked seeing the old city and fine 
 churches. I should rather like to have a room in the 
 old English convent there and to go over sometimes, but 
 lor,' as Tomlin says, I shall never do nothing of the 
 sort.
 
 250 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, i^th April, 4.30 P.M. 
 
 All day long Canterbury has been burying the good 
 Bishop of Dover. There has been a very great stir. 
 Military, volunteers, fire brigade, schools, colleges, 
 parochial clergy, all the shops shut, and every living 
 creature but me in the streets and cathedral yard and 
 cathedral. It is all over now bells and organ and 
 music and trampling feet, and he is left quiet at the 
 top of S. Martin's Churchyard, where a " thousand suns 
 will stream on him, a thousand moons will quiver." I 
 am grieved for Mrs. Parry, but she has dear sons, and 
 who knows better than I do all the hope and con- 
 solation that lies in that thought. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 THE LODGE, ?8tA May. 
 
 Thank you for the two kindest notes. I am glad of 
 your friendship and grateful for it, and it does not 
 matter (except to myself) that you think me more of a 
 person than I am. I have been reading such beautiful 
 things this morning, some in dear George Herbert. I 
 wish you were here to share the feast. On so many 
 matters we feel alike ; that is clear, and to me very 
 delightful. 
 
 Before you leave England let me know whether 
 I can do anything for the Guild on the 2ist of 
 June. Don't leave me in a sea of doubt as to that 
 ... I often think of that little church to which you 
 guided me yesterday week. I liked it better than any 
 Catholic Church I have been into in London.
 
 1 890] MAR Y SIB YLLA HOLLAND 25 1 
 
 I forget when you are going. Write me two words 
 to say that you are gone, and come to see me when 
 you return. Ever and aye your affectionate friend, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, $tk June. 
 
 I trimmed my long dinner -table last night with 
 pinks and roses, and it looked pretty, but this flagging 
 south wind makes me feel very tired. How it will 
 rustle to-day in the great elms at Eton, and how quiet 
 the moonlight will lie upon the castle and river at 
 midnight when the pretty play is over and the company 
 dispersed. How we fly forgotten a dream, a spark, 
 an arrow, a bird, such is our course. The delight of 
 books is the continuity they make. I am reading 
 St. Theresa's life of herself. I perfectly understand 
 her. Her mind lives and touches mine. As she found 
 people and things, in the main, 300 years ago, so 
 I find them now. Loss and Gain is a very clever book. 
 There is something so incisive and clear as crystal in 
 Newman's way of putting things, and it is, no doubt, 
 a perfect picture of one side of English life so many 
 years ago. We had a houseful of ordination candidates 
 good young men not of a high stamp mentally or 
 otherwise, and not at all trained in ecclesiology, very 
 natural and not at all supernatural. Not at all like 
 Willis, nor even Bateman, nor with White's aesthetical 
 proclivities. Don't you love Bateman ? * 
 
 1 Characters in Newman's Loss and Gain.
 
 252 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, \\thjune. 
 
 Yesterday Pere du Lac wrote to me to say that 
 in August he and his whole house give up Hales 
 Place and return to France for good. He says, "Je 
 n'ai pas voulu vous laisser apprendre ces nouvelles 
 par bruit public." 
 
 I am very curious to know under what circumstances 
 they return. He says, " Notre maison de Slough, qui 
 n'est pas un College, prendra notre place ici." But 
 what can any one but a college want with a great house 
 like Hales Place ? I am sorry they are going, for 
 they were an interesting feature at Canterbury more 
 interesting and less formidable than a set of English 
 Jesuits would be. 
 
 Do you think it a good thing to read such con- 
 tradictory authors at the same time? It would worry 
 me dreadfully. I like to abandon myself to an 
 author. I think that natural religion is little more 
 than the worship of nature, and fails one entirely at 
 the great moments of life. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CANTUAR, Sunday, \$th June. 
 
 I wonder where you have been to-day, which is just 
 drawing to a close by means of the curfew, though the 
 sun is hardly set and the twilight will last till dawn. 
 Mrs. Loosemore, who has been long ill, died at three 
 o'clock. The boom of the bell startled me sitting 
 alone in the garden. I went over and found the poor 
 girls in tears, and the old sister saying that there had
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 253 
 
 never been a happier marriage, and that her brother 
 and his wife had had the happiest life in spite of many 
 troubles. Such is family affection. 
 
 A very old Jesuit father (English) staying at Hales 
 Place preached at St. Thomas's this morning. It was a 
 great pleasure to look at his bent head covered with 
 snowy hair, and to listen to his low but clear voice. 
 He spoke like a man of vast experience, who knew all 
 that there was to be known, and had been conversant 
 with men all over the world. 
 
 Pere du Lac called here on Friday and sat for a 
 long time. He says that the reason the college is to 
 be broken up in July is that it draws boys too much 
 from the Society's colleges in France, and that his own 
 time is over, and that it is not thought worth while to 
 begin again with a new rector. He is very sorry to 
 go and spoke very warmly of England. I am sorry, 
 though I never see him ; it is the loss of something 
 that might have been. The tradesmen are quite broken- 
 hearted and write him " the most beautiful letters." 
 The house is taken by the French Jesuits of Slough. 
 This is a noviciate. There will be about 120 of them, 
 but they will not circulate either in purse or person. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, zf>tk June. 
 
 I am very rheumatic. This warm rain works me 
 in woe. Roses and strawberries abound. June is 
 certainly the prime of the year, and we have had this 
 week the still, warm, fragrant nights proper to the 
 season. The sun is quite hot at 4.30 A.M. Last 
 night papa was dining out, and I was so tired that I
 
 254 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 went to bed at nine with all my windows open, worn 
 out with arranging and distributing a mass of roses. 
 No sooner was I stretched flat and comfortable, with a 
 book and shaded lamp, than the Warden was announced 
 on business. So I got up and threw on a dressing-gown 
 and white shawl, and went and sat with him for an 
 hour, very pleasantly, in the twilight drawing-room. 
 He had got a case of conscience, and wanted a woman's 
 uncalculating opinion upon it 
 
 Our dinner went on and off on Tuesday. . . . We 
 have dined about 100 people since Easter, besides 
 our big excursion parties, so I think we have done 
 our part 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, \st July. 
 
 It is so delicious here, though the roses have suffered 
 from the heavy rain and boisterous south wind. But 
 all is still and sunny and fresh as Paradise. I came up 
 this morning bringing little Douglas Reid with me. He 
 is a lively wandering elf of a child, and except for 
 twenty minutes' dinner, has been on his feet the whole 
 day. Up the hill where the five mowers are bending 
 in rhythm to their work, and across to the wood for 
 foxgloves, and into the kitchen garden for strawberries. 
 He wants nothing of one but an ear for his adventures. 
 " I believe I have been here quite a month, and yet I 
 have a thought that we came this very morning," he 
 observed just now. Mrs. Tomlin is here, and Adams 
 and an Industrial Blue for change of air, and a younger 
 servant, all glad to " transmigrare sicut passer ad 
 montem." So am I. Every June my heart bleeds 
 in the Precincts ; it is a via dolorosa for me. While I
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 255 
 
 live, and live in these places, I go the round of the 
 seasons with my sick child. The only time I am free 
 of it is from the 3rd September to the i6th February, 
 and then she seems to be about with me in Canterbury. 
 I don't fancy these things, but they are always with 
 me. If only people knew what Lucy was to me, and 
 what it is to me that she is gone, they would forgive me 
 and excuse me. It is a folly so to love. If she had 
 married and left me I should not have known a day's 
 easiness, missing her from my side. I ought not to 
 write these things to you, reviving perhaps your pain, 
 you who most shared my grief, my dearest Bernard ; 
 and you must not think me melancholy. I have had 
 a very happy afternoon, arranging my pretty rooms, 
 and cutting my storm-blown roses, and I feel the better 
 for the air already. I have plenty of books, and I mean 
 to-morrow to call on Mrs. Hilton. 
 
 I enjoyed my afternoon at Margate ; the air is quite 
 delightful, and so is little Lucy and her mamma. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, i$th July. 
 
 The weather has turned with the "translation of 
 Swithin, B.C." Yesterday was very warm, and towards 
 night the wind fell, and after sunset there was a balmy 
 stillness, which prevails also this morning. I spent 
 most of the day in the Potager culling fruit, aided 
 by an orphan girl from Canterbury, to whom the place 
 is Paradise. At six o'clock, as I was writing in the 
 drawing-room, Pere du Lac drove up. He came to 
 ask me to call upon a young couple who have taken a 
 house in Summer Hill for six weeks. " Ce jeune 
 homme n'est pas de notre cote", c'est plutot un ennemi,
 
 256 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 mais enfin il est venu me demander quelques ren- 
 seignements, j'ai connu son pere, et je veux bien 
 lui montrer toute la charite catholique possible, ainsi, 
 Madame, etc., etc." All this he said, and more, with a 
 most sweet and bright expression of countenance. He 
 much admired the Perugino, and stood looking at it. 
 Indeed, all our religion is in that picture. As his 
 carriage turned out of the gate, he turned also and 
 took off his hat. I bowed from the window, and he 
 was gone. I never see him without emotion. 
 
 After this Amy came in to say that Miss Skipps 
 and all her girls 1 were in the yard. They had come 
 up in spite of all the prohibitions of ... etc. " Well," 
 said Miss Skipps, " we couldn't hold out any longer." 
 So a ladder was set against the Bigarreau cherry, and 
 with cries of joy the girls flew to contest the spoil 
 with the starlings. Delia looked charming high up 
 on the ladder, throwing down the cherries to the little 
 girls, knowing, as a maid of Kent should do, how to 
 plant a ladder, run up it, and reach the fruit. 
 
 Then the swing, and the summer-house, and the 
 willow-tree occupied them till it was nearly dark, when 
 they sang a hymn, and clattered off down the drive, 
 and I betook myself with my rosary to the clump, 
 always my walk when the house grows quite dark. 
 It was light on the top of the hill, a clear zenith, and 
 great violet clouds with orange streaks to the west and 
 north, where the sun had gone down. All the hay cut 
 and sending forth an immense fragrance. The night 
 jars wheeled round and round me as I sat motionless, 
 and presently one settled on the wire fence close behind 
 the clump, and gave forth a sound that seemed to fill 
 the world. His mate continued to wheel, uttering clear 
 
 1 A training home.
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 257 
 
 whistling notes at intervals. These things I did, saw, 
 and heard yesterday, but the thought of you unceasingly 
 filled my heart. My darling boy, it always seems to 
 me that God would have something of you that you 
 have not yet given Him, and that then all would be 
 well. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, i6tk July. 
 
 Yesterday was a deep summer day. I wrote till 
 eleven, then gathered fruit with my orphan, under 
 a burning sun till one, when Mrs. Reid arrived to 
 deposit little Douglas again. The currants are large 
 and hang in great clusters, the black ones each throwing 
 off a jet of light, under the heavy green leaves. Adams 
 stirs her great copper pan all day and the house is 
 filled with the fragrance of the fruit. " The silent 
 house," Shelley once wrote in a past summer, "the silent 
 house is filled with the warm summer wind." How often 
 have I felt that ! 
 
 After lunch, I turned all hands but those of Adams, 
 the confectioner, into the orchards, and, while I went to 
 spend the rest of the day at Oakwell, the maids, Chancy 
 and Mark, worked with a will, and on my return at 
 7.30, all was combed and swept and a neat little stack 
 built up. As I came slowly along the high terrace 
 road towards Tyler Hill, I observed with delight the 
 cobalt blue of the atmosphere in which everything was 
 bathed. The cathedral, the city, the ridge beyond, the 
 Thanet valley, all was pale bright blue, against which 
 the immediate foreground, the massed summer woods 
 of Hales Place stood out with a peculiar clearness. 
 To the left, that is to the north, the little houses and 
 
 S
 
 258 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 stacks and orchards of Blean were sharp and bright as 
 possible against a white horizon. It was one of those 
 transparent days when one is so aware of the sea. It 
 is that waste of waters all around which gives us that 
 blue, and that pale brilliant horizon. Only Florence 
 and the children were at Oakwell in the Blee. They 
 accompanied me, walking, on our return as far as the 
 Clergy Orphan School. I ate two eggs and salad and 
 coffee, at 8 P.M. put Douglas to bed and went up to 
 the Clump, where the air blew cool over the darkening 
 landscape, and my friendly night-jars wheeled round 
 again, but were silent. Now, I am going again to 
 gather fruit. 
 
 You are not a minute out of my mind and heart. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, ly/A July. 
 
 We are clearly to have full summer weather now, 
 the blessed sun disperses all sorts of mists and earth- 
 born clouds. Yesterday, again, I picked fruit, but this 
 time alone, the orphan having been summoned home 
 by her aunt. She went, bathed in tears, at mid-day, 
 but in the evening re -appeared with a sort of 
 desperate expression of countenance. We have asked 
 no particulars, but I shall send her back again to-night. 
 I fancy that at all risks she has seized this one more 
 day, and I don't blame her. Her poor little childhood 
 has been so moped away amid privations of all sorts, 
 and she is not yet sixteen. Pere du Lac appeared 
 again yesterday to tell me about some poor woman 
 I had asked him to recommend to his successors. He 
 apologised, " mais c'est toujours plus facile pour moi
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 259 
 
 de venir ici que de vous voir en ville et puisque je 
 pars enfin." 
 
 Miss Ward drove up at four, and stayed till after 
 supper. After tea, as she and I sat at the Clump 
 watching the hay-carrying on the breast of the hill, 
 and admiring the active figures of the men pitching, 
 and the men receiving, a whole party of people, Powells, 
 etc., who had been calling at the Hiltons, climbed up 
 and joined us. The hay is superb after all. 
 
 Mr. Powell says that an old Selling farmer of his 
 acquaintance, as soon as the year's almanack is out, i.e. 
 in December, and as soon as he has thereby ascer- 
 tained the course of the moon in the coming year, sits 
 down and makes out the weather beforehand, and is 
 always right within a little. He says that he finds 
 from long experience that the weather depends upon 
 the time of night or day in which the moon's changes 
 occur. Some weeks ago he showed Mr. Powell that 
 we should have a period of fine weather from i6th 
 July when the moon changed at 12.50 in the night 
 and we have it Such it is to be a farmer of Selling, 
 Kent. 
 
 To 
 
 THE LODGE, 2yd July. 
 
 What I meant by a full surrender is just perhaps 
 what would have prevented you from making a false 
 step in all this business. I mean a full and entire 
 reference to God in every step of your life. " I will 
 bear the cross and the cross will bear me provided, O 
 my sweet Jesus, that Thou dost maintain both the one 
 and the other." 
 
 But now, all my hope for you and my consolation
 
 260 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 lies there ; nor can I believe but that the Commander- 
 in-Chief looks with eyes of tenderest love on His 
 soldier and servant and His child. Sacrificium dei 
 spiritus contribulatus est, cor contritum et humiliatum 
 Deus non despicies. You are as He would have you ; 
 you see plain. He has let you take your way. 
 
 Keep your heart close to Him, as the noble and 
 solitary soldier said, of whom this generation was not 
 worthy, 1 and He will bring you out of the mire and 
 clay and set your feet upon a rock and order your 
 goings. 
 
 I don't for an instant mean that by a mere emotion 
 of the soul you should throw yourself upon God and 
 do nothing, but my profound belief is that in so doing 
 you will see clearer and gain courage and tranquillity of 
 soul ; your imagination will be ruled and your judg- 
 ment strengthened. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 LOGGIA, z^tk July. 
 
 . . . We have a fine blowing day after a still, warm, 
 and starlight night. I looked late out of my window. 
 The sky was light in the north, and in the south one 
 great planet shone and throbbed far above the rest. 
 The great elms made a great darkness opposite the 
 windows, and bats and moths, with their hoods and 
 woolly capes and beaded eyes, were on the wing. 
 
 If you had been next door to me you would have 
 been looking out too. I often think of you standing 
 on the top of the little outside staircase at Fox Holm, 
 in moonlight and starlight, or early morning. 
 
 1 Gordon.
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 261 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 THE LODGE, HARBLEDOWN, 8/A August. 
 
 I might really be able to look in en route from 
 York. I will write thence on the chance. 
 
 But I cannot fix anything because I am at the 
 mercy of the winds and waves, that is, of the unruly 
 wills and affections of my darling family, and may have 
 to scurry straight back here from York. 
 
 Then again I shall be all redolent of the York 
 convent, and perhaps ought to go into quarantine before 
 introducing myself and box into a healthy Anglican 
 household. 
 
 Agnes and her husband are here from Cornwall, 
 full of the pleasure of your brother's company. All he 
 said and did and looked was perfection. I can well 
 believe it. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, \\th August. 
 
 After you and Will were gone yesterday, Agnes and 
 I avoided successfully two sets of callers by rather 
 ignobly hiding in the nut copse while Amy conscien- 
 tiously searched the premises, and the horses uneasily 
 pawed the slope, and then we went to walk in the 
 breathless woods. The copse is all grown too high, 
 and the common is almost impassable, and while the 
 wind sits in the west there is no air. We were glad to 
 emerge again at the right-of-way stile, and to trend 
 homewards to the teapot. I ought to fulfil my word 
 to-day, and go to pace the alleys and walled gardens 
 of Hales Place with the gentle and accomplished Pere
 
 262 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 du Lac, but I cannot make up my mind to it. Some- 
 thing cries in my heart in all the Augusts of the years 
 of my life, and makes me turn from offered pleasures. 
 So I shall go on till the night is done and in the morn 
 those angel faces smile. I am not unhappy, but I want 
 nothing. The only source of unhappiness to me at 
 this moment is that my dearest son is not happy, but 
 still I am persuaded that, if he takes this from God he 
 will be guided into peace. 
 
 Agnes's visit gives -'me great satisfaction. She is 
 perfectly well and quite content. She has excellent 
 sense and a firm hold on her religion, and she will, I 
 think, increase in strength of purpose. Will is a for- 
 tunate man to have her for his friend and faithful com- 
 panion. She has all the best qualities for her calling. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 THE CONVENT, MICKLEGATE BAR, YORK, i8fA August. 
 
 York is much more of a capital than Canterbury. 
 A much prouder city, but there is no charm or mystery 
 in the huge minster. The most beautiful thing in it is 
 the lovely Chapter-house circular, perfect, and delicate, 
 as the bell of a flower, larger than the chapter-house at 
 Westminster, and the beautifully poised roof unsupported 
 by any pillar. I think that one is sensible of a different 
 climate from that of Kent. The sky is dun and the 
 meadow grass coarse perhaps because of the huge 
 smoky cities not many miles away. There is nothing 
 of the violet horizons of Surrey, or the pale bright blue 
 of our own kingdom. This is the oldest convent in 
 England and derives from Mary Ward, an interesting 
 person in the days of Charles I. She was of noble
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 263 
 
 family and allied to the best blood in Yorkshire, and 
 had many strange adventures, and a lovely countenance. 
 She was not successful in her own lifetime being 
 before her age but all modern convents are carrying 
 out her ideas of increased liberty and higher education 
 for women. Farewell till we meet, my dearest boy. I 
 shall have time and much inclination to pray for all 
 graces and blessings for you and do you think of me 
 as you walk about the fields and see x the sunset over 
 the woods and the divine pallor of my tea-roses in the 
 waning light. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, yd September. 
 
 Agnes and I intend to drive over to Godmersham 
 this afternoon and sit awhile by St. Lawrence's low 
 church wall. But Lucy is not dead, sunk though she 
 be beneath the " flowery " floor. We shall see her again 
 after we ourselves have fought through the shadows and 
 phantoms of this lower world ; and long before that day 
 comes, I think that you will be free from difficulties, 
 and be found serving God with a quiet mind, pliable in 
 all things to His will. But I am often frightened to 
 perceive how earnestly I desire for you, not, perhaps, 
 so much what God wills, but what you will. 
 
 To E. M. (in Japan) 
 
 THE LODGE, $th September. 
 
 My darling E. M. Your letter of 6th August has 
 just come to hand, and its words burn themselves into 
 my heart while my tears drop upon them. Your poor 
 Jugero, Christ's poor Jugero ! What does it matter
 
 264 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 whether an angel or a hand of flesh and blood threw 
 the " pice," the miracle is the same, if it came direct 
 from God, to His poor child tramping the lonely hills. 
 I will pray for Jugero, and I wish he would pray for 
 me. 
 
 Why not your Quaker friend, my E. M., why not 
 combine ? He is doing Christ's work : he is not 
 smiling in scorn, and setting limits to the Gospel. But 
 oh ! my E. M., if you and he did but belong to the 
 old faith that rejoices in just such things as those that 
 have happened to Jugero ? I don't want to persuade 
 or to disturb, but if you only knew or could imagine ! 
 There are plenty of things as regards discipline, and 
 perhaps some of doctrine difficult to arrange with, but 
 when one has made but half a dozen steps within the 
 vast precincts of the ancient, first, and last Church, all 
 the noise of commonplace dies away and is infinitely 
 removed and remote. You cannot, my E. M. imagine 
 it, and it is of no use to tell to you, though I feel as if 
 I would almost give my soul for yours. There is no 
 delusion on my part ; it is all true and the only truth 
 a thousand times you have acknowledged it in our old 
 readings, you must have done so. Well, don't answer 
 me in this, you will only say something that might 
 hurt, and all I want is to have you back, and to hold 
 you in my arms. That is all my immediate aim, chere 
 rachet6e de mon Dieu ! You know that it is. 
 
 You will remember, my E. M., that everything I 
 have in the world is yours, and that I have always now 
 too much house-room,, and too many servants, and that 
 if you will make us your headquarters for life there is 
 nothing would please us better, and you will never 
 imagine that I should worry you on questions. No 
 one feels that who lives with us or visits us. I have
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 265 
 
 not a shadow of anxiety about any of Christ's servants, 
 and only bless Him with my whole soul that He has 
 permitted them still to love me. 
 
 With love from all here, I am ever your true and 
 faithful friend, SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, -Lzth September. 
 
 Our superb weather continues. One day certifies 
 another. The hoppers rejoice, and all the roses are 
 out again. 
 
 There is nothing to relate ; no news except that at 
 4.30 A.M. the silver crescent of the moon rides in the 
 east just above the dark elms, while the rosy dawn 
 flushes the sky to the south and south-east, and the 
 Great Bear wheels round on his head, preparatory to 
 plunging below the northern fringe of wood. 
 
 And, of an evening, as we sit talking by Frank's 
 fire on the hill under the fir clump, the evening star 
 hangs in the sunset, exceeding fair, and the hop oasts 
 give out a piercing odour, and the young men standing 
 on the waggons sling up the great round sacks. 
 
 Are such things to be seen at Brome, in heaven and 
 earth? Have the tea-roses, the September roses, the 
 divine pallor in the twilight that mine have ? Can any 
 curfew be heard when the winds are still ? Have 
 troops of pilgrims ever tramped the road to Scole ? 
 
 Is there any place like Kent ? 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, zot/i September. 
 
 Our weather has broken, and the gales of the 
 Equinox are all abroad, roaring in the tossing elms
 
 266 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 and sending the delicate rose-petals flying. But the 
 sun is out, and the country shines like a clear mirror. 
 Papa will be tossed on the ocean. He sails the 
 24th. I will send you his last letter when I know 
 where you are. He says Vancouver is a paradise. 
 Bernard and I have much talk. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, 22nd September. 
 
 The Judge 1 is very like Dr. Johnson in many ways 
 exterior and interior. I have always thought so. There 
 is a particular kindness about him, almost a tenderness 
 don't you think so ? He was ever most kind to me, and 
 I hope he has not put away the kindness in spite of my 
 aberrations. ... I hope that you will never give way to 
 the demon of melancholy. Nothing so hinders and par- 
 alyses all the best part of the mind. A passion of grief 
 is another thing. That even restores occasionally, but 
 a settled melancholy is to be abhorred even for only an 
 hour. My head is full of rheumatism, and I cannot write. 
 
 [I left England for India on the morning of Monday, 
 2pth September 1890. My mother drove with me 
 from Harbledown to the station at Canterbury, where I 
 was to take the Dover train. I parted with her at the 
 door of the station, and last saw her as she still sat in 
 the carriage which had brought us, never to see her 
 again in this world.] 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, ist October. 
 
 I drove away from the station on Monday feeling 
 very ill, nor have I yet lost the physical sensation. It 
 
 1 Sir James Fitzjames Stephen.
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 267 
 
 is, however, of no use to say more as to this. You 
 know, or at least can partly guess, all that you are to 
 me. I hope that as you move along courage will 
 return. ... I spent some hours in the Precincts, sitting 
 talking with Mrs. Rawlinson in the bowling-green, and 
 then got a telegram to say that Uncle A. would not be 
 home till the late boat train, and so drove up here 
 and read some old letters, and wrote some new ones, 
 and said the Itinerary for you, which you will find in 
 the Garden of the Soul, and then talked to Anne Frossel, 
 who suddenly appeared and was very nice and affec- 
 tionate. 
 
 I don't know what is portended by the arrival of 
 all these old servants. Sarah on Sunday, Anne on 
 Monday. Anne slept for a night, and went off shedding 
 tears next morning. I have hung up your straw hat in 
 my room, and put all your room in order. I miss 
 hearing you shut your window at night, after your 
 evening meditation, and there is no one to want an 
 early cup of tea. When all the children go, besides 
 the actual pain of losing them, the mother loses her 
 occupation. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, gfA October. 
 
 I so very much value all your expressions of affec- 
 tion. My children give me far more pleasure than 
 anxiety ; but I am not precisely anxious, but, as it 
 were, bereft, missing their sweet company. Yet I like 
 them to move about. Your sojourn in the Lakes has 
 given me pleasure, because I can imagine and be sure 
 of yours. I fell in love with that country, and that you 
 love it also gives us another thing to love in common. 
 Hobbes says quite truly, All pain is prospective. It is
 
 268 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 the idea of the long time that Ber will be away, and 
 that he may not during that time be happy, that grieves 
 me, not the fact that he is at this instant away. 
 
 To her Niece, the Hon. Mrs. Charles Cropper 
 
 22 HALF-MOON STREET, 2ist October. 
 
 My dearest Edith I have put in here for the after- 
 noon on my way home from Surrey to Kent, and Frank 
 has just told me that you have a fourth little daughter, 
 and that her name is Sibylla. It only shows how much 
 communication has lessened in my direction that I 
 should neither have known that this sweet soul was on 
 her way to our world of varied good and ill, or that 
 she already breathed this mortal air, for mortal air it is. 
 
 I do not for a moment imagine that you gave her 
 my name because it is mine, but that you did not avoid 
 giving it for that reason ; and that you did give it makes 
 me feel an interest in the child, and I shall always 
 remember her in my prayers, and be her bedeswoman 
 at shrines not approached by any other of the dear 
 family. 
 
 I think with pleasure of your little visit to me about 
 two years ago, and I shall always hope that you may 
 come again, and that you will believe that I am ever 
 your affectionate aunt, SIBYLLA. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 LODGE, HARBLEDOWN, zznd October. 
 
 I have been away. We fed a hundred clergy and 
 teachers last Wednesday ; as I live we did so feed 
 them, and next day I fled before the face of bishops
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 269 
 
 and archbishops, but crept back here last night, and am 
 now engaged in reducing a pile of letters, among which 
 yours meets my eye only and my heart. I have 
 remembered your brother every day in psalms and 
 hymns and spiritual songs. I do pray that all may be 
 laid out for him, and that he will see his way clear as 
 a shining track of light. 
 
 I am in a sort of demi-high spirits at the idea of 
 your arrival on Wednesday. Half of me rises like an 
 ill-kneaded loaf. Your ever affectionate 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland (in India} 
 
 PRECINCTS, ^th November. 
 
 We came down here on All Saints Day, and the 
 Lodge already seems to be fifty miles off. Our weather 
 is mild, a blustering south-west wind whirling the lime 
 leaves into space, and carrying the rooks and jackdaws 
 round Bell-Harry in joyous circles. Now and then a 
 pale sun illuminates the too familiar scene. Papa and 
 I drove to Godmersham with some white flowers for 
 our lost white flower. The church from the road below 
 the bridge was set in every tint of gold and amber, 
 behind which rose the Down white with the bent grass ; 
 the stream ran clear, swift, and strong below. Our little 
 graves were all dipt close and neat, all was quiet, 
 in order, and full of bright transitory colour. Tell 
 Uncle James I thought of him at Godmersham ; I 
 always think of him there. Afterwards we called at 
 the Vicarage, then at the great House where no one 
 was at home, but the butler was so glad of some one to 
 talk to that he made us quite a long speech. Then we 
 called at Chilham Castle where all were out. Then we
 
 270 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 took tea with Mrs. , very solemn, kind, and pious, 
 
 with a lurking spite of her neighbours. Then to the 
 Cockerells where all was youth, good humour, and wild 
 spirits. Did I tell you that I went for a Sunday and 
 Monday last month to Cambridge ? In the morning I 
 went to mass in the new church, not very interesting 
 somehow, and in the afternoon to King's where I met 
 Katherine Stephen, and next day went with her over 
 Newnham which pleased me much on account of the 
 great attention to detail, and the general thoroughly 
 feminine air of all the arrangements. 
 
 I am very busy with my sick people, etc. Castle's 
 daughter's husband dying of consumption touches me 
 very much. So simple and tender and hard-working ; 
 so sorry to lay down his tools and leave his good little 
 wife and boys whom he has overworked himself for, 
 such a natural dread of the awful change, and such a 
 humble dependence upon God. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 CANTERBURY, Sunday Evening, gth November. 
 
 Somehow I always take a long week to settle down 
 in the Precincts, which must be my excuse for not 
 having written to you. I have thought of you very 
 often, and of your brother, wondering a little about 
 what God has in store for him, whether to call him to 
 high office or to leave him in the ranks, far happier so 
 in my opinion, for dignities mean so many bonds. 
 
 After you were gone a sadness settled down in my 
 mind, because of you, and it is still there. I suppose 
 that it is that each time we meet and talk a difference is 
 accentuated. You can speak freely to me, but not I to
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 271 
 
 you. I understand you but you cannot by any possi- 
 bility understand me. I can talk your language but 
 not you mine. 
 
 However this enforced darkness does not and can- 
 not diminish my love for you, perhaps it increases it, 
 just as I used to be much pleased to hear my young 
 sons talk of matters which they had no experience of, 
 nor I wit enough to show them the truth about. Their 
 honesty, candour, and ingenuity pleased me, and I knew 
 that the experience would come, and then that they 
 would go a hundred times more surely and intelligently 
 than ever their poor mamma could do. With you the 
 experience will not come, voila tout ! but you must 
 never, my Agnes, persuade yourself that you can 
 perfectly judge the matter without it. 
 
 I have been reading all day Mr. Mackonochie's life. 
 It is very interesting, and shows him so good, and so 
 great and simple in his work and character, and there 
 are many such men in the English Church. I am 
 pleased too with a blue cloth book called Our Lady's 
 Dower by Father Bridgett. It is not controversial but 
 of research, and contains many pretty and pious things. 
 Ever my dear Agnes Your affectionate poor friend, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 v 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 PRECINCTS, z^th November. 
 
 Our weather continues to blow warm from the south. 
 I have a large bunch of roses from the Lodge. The 
 watchman cried all the hours last night. I lay awake 
 and responded. I could not sleep for having talked to 
 , old friends have a right to ask questions, and it
 
 272 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 is a sort of relief to talk openly at the same time it 
 raises ghosts by the thousand, nor are they laid with- 
 out exorcism. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 T.st December. 
 
 ... I am wholly swallowed up by the papers all 
 the morning, and by the Egoist of an afternoon and 
 evening. But I am longing to get to the last chapter 
 and my freedom of mind again. It is too much. He 
 makes me feel myself an egoist. As for Parnell he is 
 like Milton's hero in council. I agree with every word 
 he says (for the Irish), and admire his wondrous tactics. 
 The whole question of the Irish party lies in Parnell's 
 words If you sell me, etc. etc. Meantime how good, 
 kind, and wise does Balfour radiate, with his well-cast 
 schemes and courageous responsibility ! 
 
 To Bernard Holland (in India} 
 
 PRECINCTS, a,th December. 
 
 Take all my greetings for your birthday, and for 
 Christmas. You will at least, I think, have a cheery 
 Christmas in India and I like to think of you making 
 one with the party there. Ever since I was a little 
 child of three or four years old I have had to think of 
 India. At Godmersham your grandmother used to end 
 the Christmas toasts with, " and Cousin John in India ! " 
 a Cousin John who never came home. We have been 
 deep in snow and ice. All the towers and roofs and 
 ivied walls wrapped in white silence. It has been cold 
 in Cornwall too. Agnes writes that as she sat alone in
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 273 
 
 her little drawing-room writing to me, at nine in the 
 evening, a little wren, scarcely larger than a bumble-bee 
 and noiseless as the down before the wind, lighted down 
 on her paper. It must have been in the room for 
 hours. It spent the evening with her, playing about on 
 the table and carpet and replying to her whistle with a 
 cheerful chirp. If nothing comes of your hawk and her 
 wren I shall think that our mysterious relationship with 
 birds is over, and that they have settled down upon 
 ordinary good fellowship. . . . 
 
 ... I am absorbed by the Irish debates among 
 themselves, but as events will have moved by the time 
 you receive this letter I will only remark that on his 
 side of the question I am inclined to think Parnell in 
 the right. He knows that morality has nothing to do 
 with the matter, and if he leaves the saddle to please 
 Nonconformists how is he to know that he can ever 
 mount again ? Those words of his, " Don't sell me 
 unless you can get fair value for me," seems to contain 
 the whole question for the Irish party. I don't see 
 that they will get much value for him. 
 
 E. M. {in Japati) 
 
 CANTERBURY, yd December. 
 
 . . . Did I tell you that I had a long sit with the 
 Canon of Westminster last month ? He looked very well 
 and was full of nothing but Newman, got out letters to 
 show me, and went back upon things, and talked with 
 all the enthusiasm imaginable of the great man. I sat 
 silent enough, for somehow the Cardinal's personality 
 is nothing to me. I think, E. M., that it is a fault in 
 
 T
 
 274 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 me to care not enough about persons, at least the 
 persons of writers. If you have their writings you have 
 the very best of them. I would much rather see and 
 observe C. W. F., for example, who isn't a writer but a 
 man of action. But you know it is rather a silly posi- 
 tion for me when I sit to hear eulogies on a Cardinal 
 by an Anglo- Catholic. I havn't got anything to say in 
 reply, and I came away full of affection, but empty 
 otherwise. And I am getting a sad habit of silence. 
 You must come home and break it for me. You must 
 determine beforehand, my E. M., that you will say and 
 let me say. Do not let there be any blocks of silence 
 between you and me. I shall not wish to try to convert 
 you, but I shall love to talk openly. 
 
 We are full of snow and ice here, a silent city. 
 Bell Harry rears himself with all his fretwork picked 
 out with snow and his long gray back clad in a white 
 mantle. The red roofs of the houses and the old ivied 
 walls are all covered up. The fluffy birds alight noise- 
 lessly as feathers on the frozen ground. Mysterious 
 humped-up figures flit round the great church ; they 
 may be Deans and Archdeacons, or they may be 
 butchers and bakers, so levelling of outward distinction 
 is the heaped up dazzling snow. I went across to the 
 Cathedral at 4 P.M. and sat down in the lovely half- 
 light of the north transept, and said my rosary to the 
 sweet whirling music of the psalms. Over the purple- 
 drawn curtains the choir lights struck up into the high 
 vaulting of the roof. I thought of many things and 
 of many persons. How often have I seen Lucy cross 
 that transept to and fro with her sweet face set as 
 though she were hurrying on a way. Do you know 
 the expression ? You cannot imagine, my E. M., how 
 I cry out for Lucy. In this empty house I cannot
 
 1890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 275 
 
 help sometimes listening for her step overhead folly 
 it is. 
 
 Bernard writes happily from India. As he sailed 
 the Indian Ocean and was quietly playing chess on the 
 upper deck, a hawk flew in from the sea and settled on 
 his head. And two days ago as Agnes was writing to 
 me alone in her little vicarage in Cornwall at nine in the 
 evening, a tiny wren alighted on her paper and spent 
 the evening with her. No bigger than a thimble, she 
 says, and light and noiseless as down before the wind. 
 But I have suffered too much to be any longer super- 
 stitious. 
 
 I remember catching your eye, your dark eye, the 
 last summer at Fox Holm when we were sitting on the 
 lawn and a robin flew in at Lucy's window. 1 Ever 
 your loving SlBYL. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, loth December. 
 
 I am fascinated by the Egoist? The scene in 
 which, while his mother's death is imminent, he pictures 
 his own, and wants to make Clara swear, is extra- 
 ordinarily good, and that word of hers, " I can only be 
 of value to you, Willoughby, by being myself" contains 
 the very gospel of marriage. So many marriages are 
 more or less spoilt by the man wanting the woman to 
 be his echo not his friend. 
 
 I think that Mr. Dicey's letter in the Times is very 
 good. I suppose that the only principle in admiring 
 Parnell consists in the sort of admiration one feels to 
 
 1 There is an old country idea that wild birds entering a house predict 
 a coming death. 
 
 2 Meredith's novel.
 
 276 LETTERS OF [1890 
 
 any super-eminent quality, by whomsoever exercised. 
 Beauty strongly calls it out so why not courage ? 
 David could not help forgiving Absalom, because of 
 the personal beauty in which he had delighted. 
 
 To Miss Trueman 
 
 Thursday Evening, 8.30. 
 
 My dearest Florence I wish that . . . had not been 
 here to cut off a few parting words. Not that I have 
 anything especial to say. That silent kneeling side by 
 side, in the most sacred part of our dear Cathedral was 
 far more than any words. As I write the sacring bell 
 of St. Thomas' strikes the three strokes for the end of 
 Benediction. I pray our dear Lord and His blessed 
 Mother to have you in their holy keeping while you 
 are away, and to bring you back in peace to your dear 
 ones, among whom please reckon me who loves you 
 truly and tenderly. Ever your affectionate friend, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Bernard Holland 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY, CANTERBURY. 
 
 I was much interested by your account of the dis- 
 course of the Cambridge Mission preacher at Delhi. 
 Mohler's famous book on Symbolism is written to show 
 that the central point of difference between Catholic 
 and Protestant lies in the way in which the doctrine 
 of the fall of man is held. The Calvinistic view 
 (originally derived perhaps from St. Augustine's writ- 
 ing) is that no good was left in man. The Catholic
 
 1 890] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 277 
 
 view is that the image of God, in which he was created, 
 is ineffaceable, though distorted and defaced. He was 
 created in it, and it is an integral part of his nature. 
 
 I went to the Cathedral this afternoon with Frank 
 and Uncle Alfred. We had the Pastoral Symphony, 
 the Handel Chorus, and " Hark the Herald Angels." 
 As we came out of the little south door at 4.35 the 
 light had faded eastwards, but the west was like a great 
 curtain of orange and rose, where the sun had just gone 
 down. Uncle Alfred and I walked across the oaks, 
 and round by St. Martin's Hill and Barton Fields 
 before tea. The ground is hard as ice, one could skate 
 along the roads ; everywhere is ice and silence, and a 
 biting air. All the children look like red apples, and 
 everybody treads in the middle of the road, and no one 
 stands still for a moment. I have sent out numberless 
 plum puddings, bottles of wine, and Churchwood rabbits 
 to all my old friends ; and, notwithstanding the pinch 
 of cold, a cheerful feeling seems to prevail.
 
 XI 
 
 LETTERS OF 1891 
 
 To a Lady expecting a Child 
 
 CANTERBURY, iotA January. 
 
 . , . OF course, for general purposes, I hope for a 
 boy, but a little " fair maid of February," coming among 
 the snowdrops, would be very pretty too. Still, " Father 
 and Son," " Son and Mother," are great names in heaven 
 and earth. But all is as God wills ; and from my heart 
 I say His will be done ! His will be mine ; His will 
 be thine ; blessed for ever be His holy Name ! 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 LONDON, i^th January. 
 
 I return the nice letters ; good material for the flying 
 leaf. I do hope that you will make quite a new booklet 
 for the Guild. That Guild paper with the two squat 
 rule and prayer papers danced before my eyes in the 
 night, and assumed proportions of such size in regard 
 of commonplace and stupidity that I caught myself 
 imagining that it was enough to prevent people joining 
 the Guild, and really, by daylight, I think that a wholly 
 new paper is a pressing need.
 
 1891] LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 279 
 
 It was good of you to come up through the fog ; 
 you are just the friend to appear in a fog of any kind, 
 and to hand one out of it Now I come to think of it, 
 it is your very calling. I am off at 1.50 ; every vein in 
 my body streaming towards Canterbury, and my own 
 room, and household, and husband. Ever am I your 
 grateful and affectionate, SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, iafh January. 
 
 It is the hand of God, my darling girl ; it is the 
 will of God. It is His design from all eternity that 
 thus, just thus, and at exactly such a time this should 
 come to pass. So He willed it when your father's soul 
 first left His hand, so He fulfils it now when He calls 
 it back to His hand. But oh ! the pain for you, and 
 for those dear to you ; and oh ! your father might 
 answer, the rest for me the sleep in Christ, the place of 
 refreshment and light and peace, the morning instead 
 of the evening, the renewal and increase of life. There 
 are a thousand consolations, but nothing that touches 
 upon or lessens the parting. 
 
 I shall think of you every moment, my dearest 
 Agnes ; and I know how all your many friends, whom 
 you love and serve so faithfully, will feel for you. Your 
 name will be in all our hearts, and on all our lips. 
 
 It is of no use for me to write more till I know 
 more ; write when you are able. Your faithful sorrow- 
 ing friend, SIBYL HOLLAND.
 
 280 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, Sunday, January. 
 
 My dearest Agnes I am so glad and thankful to 
 know about your blessed father. What a quiet and 
 beautiful death : and how beautiful his face must have 
 looked these days ! White on his pillow, and the world 
 all white without. I am so glad to have seen him in 
 his house among you all. I always think of him in 
 two places one, walking lightly along that broad walk 
 along from the house ; and the other, sitting easily on 
 the gate by the roadside waiting for us. He was not 
 in the least like an old man. There was something so 
 graceful in both mind and body. 
 
 Your mother is wonderful, but don't count upon it 
 too much. There is a sort of throw off of the mind 
 under a great shock, and this must be a great shock. 
 You must take infinite care of her dear body. And 
 you yourself, my dear Agnes, who have lost so much. 
 It is easy, comparatively, to draw deep draughts for 
 other people, as long as one can oneself draw from the 
 living spring of unalterable home affections. You have 
 suffered an immense loss, but it came so suddenly, and 
 with so much of sweetness and mercy, that your heart has 
 been full of love and thankfulness. It is all beautiful, 
 but the pain must be there. Your loving, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 CANTERBURY, January. 
 
 Oh no, my dearest Agnes, I would not discourage 
 you. I think that all is right with you, and it is not
 
 1 89 1] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 281 
 
 possible but that our Lord looks with the tenderest love 
 and approval upon all that you do, and say, and feel 
 in respect of your blessed father, of whom really one 
 may say he was not, for God took him ; and it is a 
 great thing to have been spared that hopeless struggle 
 for life, and that dread of parting which, as Mohler 
 says, testifies to the unnaturalness of death. Man was 
 not so created. 
 
 I daresay that your father looked beautiful in death, 
 with that mystery of both worlds on his placid brow. 
 It will be very good for your mother to be with the 
 son who was not there, and to have to tell him quietly 
 all about it. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 zotfi January. 
 
 You are at work again to-day in the centre of 
 things. I am glad that you were admitted to the 
 M.A. degree in such a solemn manner and with the 
 greatest imaginable words. I wish that I could for 
 twenty-four hours have been a young man and your 
 best college friend, and come also to take my M.A. 
 and to sit up into the small hours with you. How 
 fond I should have been of you, and I daresay you 
 would have liked the company of your little brown 
 friend. In the other world (and may the Father, the 
 Son, and the Holy Ghost bring us there), where there 
 will be no age, I shall renew my youth and you will 
 know me young as you have known me old. ... I 
 have some very sick people on hand, and visiting them 
 keeps my spirits piano piano. They are poor, but 
 young and reluctant to die. I said to a young man, 
 " The weather is milder and the men will be out to dig
 
 282 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 the hop grounds." " Yes," said he, and burst into 
 passionate weeping, " and there is nothing for me but 
 the cold grave, and I have so loved to work." 
 
 To E. M. (in Japan} 
 
 CANTERBURY, -z^rd January. 
 
 . . . The difficulty of mission work seems so great now. 
 What made the natives catch fire in former days and 
 come in to the fold of Christ, never to return to their 
 old gods ? Why does not the Spirit blow as He did 
 then ? The missionaries are as believing and devoted 
 in many places. Something has grown cold in the 
 world, as St. Francis said. I think that at home here 
 there is a fast increasing indifference among the work- 
 ing people to all religion. The Catholic religion has 
 no more hold on them than anything else. They are 
 neither in the parish churches nor chapels, and, as far 
 as I can see, they are quite indifferent to the Salvation 
 Army. They all, more or less, believe in God ; but 
 they live their own life. 
 
 In many respects Christians are now far inferior to 
 their mediaeval forefathers. The more I read the more 
 this strikes me. . . . 
 
 ... I think that I shall never see my children's 
 children, but that is as it pleases God, blessed for ever 
 be His holy Name, for all that He gives and all that He 
 withholds. He gave me your friendship, which was a 
 great good gift to me and mine. I don't fret for my 
 scattered children. There is alway much to do here, 
 even though I am out of all committees, etc. ; but the 
 sick-visiting tries me rather, because I cannot say my 
 whole mind to my sick. I cannot think why they so
 
 1 89 1] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 283 
 
 like me to come, except they think that I too have 
 known trouble. 
 
 To Bernard Holland (in India) 
 
 CANTERBURY, 237-^ January. 
 
 Old M has been ill all the winter and has 
 
 just paid me a visit. He sat sipping a glass of 
 wine and pronouncing upon things. He has got a 
 great many phrases, such as, " We are not all made 
 alike, nor is it fit we should," a familiar Canterbury 
 saying. He observed that " Our Lord went through 
 the world with a great amount of goodness and no 
 interest whatsoever in worldly affairs, and this enabled 
 Him to see clear and to speak plain." He says that 
 he finds there is a great deal of truth in the gospel, 
 and ended by saying that of all things he was fond of 
 " ruralising," and had been since a boy, by which he 
 meant moralising. His own father had made away 
 with himself in the Stour, and was found near Sand- 
 wich twenty-six days afterwards, whereas the Duke of 
 
 " had gone off with firearms." " Tis mostly fire 
 
 or water," says M , " sometimes they are cast into 
 the fire and sometimes into the water, by which we 
 may plainly know who sets the temptation agoing." 
 
 Not much happens externally. In myself I am 
 much at peace, and were you happily settled in life I 
 should cease to desire anything ardently, except to live 
 in charity with all men, and to make a good end of my 
 careless life. I should like to know whether any one 
 who comes after me will ever be a Catholic, as I am, for 
 to him or to her would I leave the few things that I 
 hold most dear among my small goods and chattels.
 
 284 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, ^otk January. 
 
 I am so sorry that I missed Frank Newman's letter. 
 It is very odd of the old man to break out now against 
 his brother. I think that perhaps he has been for 
 many years devoured with jealousy. He was thought 
 his brother's equal in intellect as a young man. But a 
 man who only pulls down cannot make the same mark 
 in the world as the man who builds up. Nevertheless 
 I have sometimes thought that perhaps Cardinal New- 
 man has been over-estimated. I wonder what he 
 would have done had he remained out in the world 
 instead of withdrawing into a charmed circle at 
 Birmingham. Perhaps this very withdrawal, together 
 with the Apologia, and the careful arrangement made 
 with regard to the publishing of his correspondence 
 point to some existence of the ego still alive and 
 moving in his noble heart " A strange creature," 
 G. C. P. says, "J. H. N. always was." But I must try 
 to see his brother's letter. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, i8t& February. 
 
 We have a thick white sea mist this morning. Bell 
 Harry all shrouded, but tolling for the funeral of George 
 Austin. Yesterday I spent chiefly in bed, and amused 
 myself with the Layman's mass book, a thirteenth- 
 century book of devotions in English, and also with 
 Ward's Ideal, which entertains me very much because 
 he states so exactly all my old difficulties as to the 
 Anglican Church being identical with that of the
 
 i8 9 i] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 285 
 
 Fathers, and there is something so audacious in the 
 way he goes along, for at that time he was an Aglican. 
 I should like to read Bishop Berkeley, and will " when 
 the May is white with blossom, and the fountain flows 
 again." 
 
 To Bernard Holland (in India] 
 
 CANTERBURY, z6tk February. 
 
 I thought that by this time I should be able to give 
 
 you some news of dear but none has reached me. 
 
 February is, I think, a very good month to be born in ; 
 all the year lies ahead with its bloom and fruit and 
 ingathering. 
 
 I just see in Newman's letters that his birthday was 
 2 1st February 1801. Newman's anxiety and careful 
 arrangements as to the publication of his letters after 
 his death is a singular feature in his character. I 
 sympathise in his immense desire of being understood, 
 and in his idea that to misunderstand him was in a 
 degree to misunderstand his religion, but yet I think it 
 somewhat of a weakness. However, I have only just 
 begun his letters, and I may take a different view 
 presently. I wonder whether, if Newman had been 
 born a Catholic in Catholic days, he would have been 
 a great Churchman. I rather think that polemics 
 quickened his spiritual nature, and that he owed much 
 of his special influence to the fact that he was in 
 opposition. Something in his way of letter-writing 
 reminds me of yours. I am also reading the Tracts 
 for the Times, and all the occasional pamphlets straight 
 through it is very amusing reading. 
 
 We are having perfect weather for the special 
 affairs of the kingdom. 1 The ground has been made 
 
 1 Kingdom of Kent.
 
 286 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 so friable by the frosts that it hardly wants turning 
 over before putting in the seeds. Bell Harry is wrapt 
 in moonlit sea mists all night, but by 8.30 A.M. casts 
 off this veil, and is clothed in majesty by the clearest 
 sunshine. I am leading a silent and busy life, and find 
 the day too short for what I have to put into it. Two 
 of my sick people are lying dead, and their wasted 
 bodies contrast with the springing year ; but the 
 streets are full of children ; every girl skips and every 
 boy drives a top. This invariable custom comes into 
 play on Candlemas day. It is cheerful, but impedes 
 traffic. No one ever reproves a child in Canterbury. 
 I have always observed this. Perhaps the children, if 
 scolded, would not go out hopping or fruiting with 
 their mammas. There is probably a solid reason 
 somewhere for this extraordinary indulgence. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, ytA March. 
 
 Monday, the London antiquarians will be here 
 again. The director, Mr. Milman, has rummaged up 
 an MS. in which Henry VIII. is made to say that he 
 never give no horders * for burning the bones of St. 
 Thomas, but on the contrary that they were buried in 
 a certain round tower. So there will be more explain- 
 ing and talking, which is a great amusement to me. 
 My teeth are all right again now. Nothing is as bad 
 as it seems in prospect. ... I might perhaps go to 
 London for Thursday and Good Friday. I should like 
 once to hear the famous Tenebrae. ... I see that 
 Froude had a notion that there was a strong re- 
 
 1 Kentish way of talking.
 
 1891] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 287 
 
 semblance, body and mind, between Julius Caesar and 
 Newman. But surely there was not. Newman had 
 not governing talent ; he would have made a bad 
 bishop, and it is impossible to imagine him a Pope. 
 Whereas one can easily imagine Julius Caesar in those 
 capacities. Then he says their mouths were the same. 
 But where in Julius Caesar's face was that underhung 
 lip of J. H. N.'s ? Froude always talks so loosely. 
 
 To Miss Arnold-Forster 
 
 CANTERBURY, ro/A March. 
 
 I am surprised to hear of you still in London. I 
 was thinking you were at home again. You will 
 certainly have enjoyed seeing so many dear kind 
 faces, and hearing so many friendly affectionate words. 
 Friends are so dear, so unspeakably dear ; I feel this 
 more and more. Love costs, but it is the pearl of 
 great price, isn't it? 
 
 To Bernard Holland (in India'} 
 
 LONDON, Good Friday. 
 
 Your letter from Isa Khel enclosing verses gave me 
 the sweetest pleasure. It really is charming, and the 
 verses are beautiful. Your muse has returned, my son. 
 
 I am here surreptitiously for Maundy Thursday 
 and Good Friday, just for once, to hear the voice of 
 the Church in the Lamentations and great chanted 
 Antiphons. ... I am cheered by your last letter and 
 verses. They read happy and strong. I trace Tolstoi. 
 I am reading his book called Life. Some passages in 
 it affect me as passages in Gordon affected me, and
 
 288 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 when he names Christ I kiss the page. He is a 
 servant of Christ and a saint, I think, and he speaks 
 from the heart of things. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 PRECINCTS, 2nd April. 
 
 I was in London for Easter Eve and went to all the 
 morning services at the Oratory. They brought the 
 new fire into the church ; blest the fire, the water, the 
 oil, the salt, the chrism in short all the great prepara- 
 tory ceremonies for Easter Day ; all carried out finely, 
 great order, promptness and very fine music. I saw 
 things done as St. Gregory I. established them in the 
 days of St. Augustine. The melodious cry of Lumen 
 Christi, as they lit the first candle from the fire struck 
 at the entrance of the church with flint and tinder, 
 was very striking. This was repeated again in the 
 centre of the church under the dome, and again in the 
 sanctuary on the lighting of the third candle. So was 
 the ancient " prose " sung by the Deacon on the light- 
 ing of the great Pascal candle, and so were the twelve 
 long lections read from the Old Testament and the 
 Holy Saturday mass and the first great Alleluia. 
 I was very much pleased. 
 
 To the Hon. Mrs. Duckworth (on the death of a young 
 married daughter], 
 
 THE PRECINTS, iztA April. 
 
 My husband has shown me your letter, and my 
 tears flowed as I read your natural expressions of 
 grief, and renewed my own. Heart-rending it truly is
 
 1 89 1] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 289 
 
 to part with these darling creatures and to survive so 
 much hope and joy and love. 
 
 I know what I say, for I too have lost children a 
 boy whom I loved too passionately, and a charming 
 daughter in the flower of her age. He was suddenly 
 drowned on a summer day, and her I accompanied 
 step by step through a long year to the very brink of 
 the grave. I know how God can strike and I know 
 how He can heal, blessed for ever be His holy name. 
 
 In these great sorrows two thoughts sustained me. 
 After the boy's death I one day opened an old book 
 and read these words written to a mother whose only 
 son had been killed in battle : " You must know, 
 madam," the letter said, " that neither did marriage 
 give you this child, nor did death take him away, but 
 the Will of God." 
 
 This, I thought, was true, and I went on to consider 
 that this very thing that had happened to us and our 
 sweet springing boy had been the exact Will of God 
 for us and for him through all eternity, and that the 
 whole story of the child's life had lain in the Mind of 
 God, and that when He sent his soul into the world 
 He knew precisely in what hour and on what day and 
 under what circumstances He should recall it ; and 
 that my life lay in the same way in the hollow of His 
 hand, and that this deep grief was a part of it, and 
 that all that was left me to do was to enter into 
 His design. 
 
 O dolce lume a cui fidanza i entro ! 
 
 In la sua volontade e nostra pace 
 
 Ella & quel mare, al qual tutto si muove. 
 
 And again, through the long illness of Lucy so loving 
 
 U
 
 290 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 and tenderly loved, and so worthy of love, I thought of 
 Calvary, and a thousand times as she lay dying, for 
 there was never any hope, I carried her to the foot of 
 the Cross, arid laid her there, where Jesus and His 
 Mother give to us poor mothers and children tear for 
 tear, wound for wound, love for love. It is the only 
 habitable place in all the universe for a mother and her 
 dead or dying child, there we strike the bottom of 
 the ocean of grief, and thence we draw the power of 
 still living and loving and hoping. Here your heart, 
 though pierced through and through, is yet enlarged 
 and set at liberty, so that you love all tender and young 
 married women in your lost daughter and she lives ; 
 of that we are certain, and, while our tears fall, she is 
 sunning herself in Paradise. She is risen with Christ, 
 and there is no more death for her. I often think of 
 Fdnelon's words : " Encore un moment et il n'y aura plus 
 de quoi pleurer, c'est nous qui mourons . . . elle ne 
 moura plus." 
 
 You say you have been so happy ; how good God 
 is ! We must not take His gifts instead of Himself ; 
 that is such a great mistake, and leads to so much pain. 
 I know how you must suffer, and that life will be 
 different this is what God wills, but He will comfort. 
 I pray for you with all my heart. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 CANTERBURY, $th May. 
 
 . . . May some good angel speed B.'s business . . . 
 this is a day of Paradise. I wish that you and I were 
 in Normandy, in an old farmhouse buried in blossom- 
 ing orchards sloping down to the clear waters of the 
 Seine and set thick with primroses.
 
 1 89 1] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 291 
 
 To the Same 
 
 FRESHWATER, y>th May. 
 
 . . . Christ and His apostles seem to intimate that 
 wealth and poverty will always continue, and that the 
 kingdom will to the end of the world consist of those 
 who resist its influence. It is the essence of Christianity 
 to give up ease and comfort for Christ's sake, to go down 
 and live among the poor, and to help them to bear the 
 inevitable burden. . . . He (Tolstoi) says that if no one 
 ordered yachts or pictures or fine buildings the slavery of 
 the world would cease and certainly, Frank, I believe 
 that the slavery of free England to-day is a thousand and 
 a thousand times more miserable than anything the 
 negroes have ever suffered. It darkens the sunlight to 
 think of it. Yesterday I went a long walk with the old 
 poet (Tennyson), and he talked a great deal. He can 
 walk for miles. He attacked me about my religion as 
 we plodded up a long hill. He led up to the subject, 
 but I beat about a little ; but at last he was absolutely 
 direct, so that I was obliged to reply and the storm 
 broke. I stood my ground notwithstanding the war of 
 the elements, and when the thunder ceased and the 
 clouds rolled back, we were found discussing ghosts with 
 quiet minds. It is delightful to feel the freedom and 
 assurance with which one can talk to a distinguished 
 intellect, no accommodations are necessary, one has only 
 to be quite honest and clear and one is certain to be 
 understood. If I walk again with him, I will see what 
 he thinks of the subject of your paper. The weather is 
 lovely. We have had a cold wind and a few showers, 
 but none of your Epsom weather. I am so glad that 
 this will find you at Fox Warren all the bluebells will
 
 292 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 be out on the lawn at dear Fox Holm. I wonder that 
 my astral body (which the poet was talking of yesterday) 
 does not flit about those wood walks in the deepening 
 summer twilight or in the light morning mists. I 
 have often been out on the lawn at 3.30 A.M. and seen 
 the dew lift in clouds of light steam as the June 
 sun rose. Nowadays base thoughts of rheumatism 
 keep me indoors if not in bed. 
 
 To E. M. (in Japan) 
 
 PRECINCTS, i8t& June. 
 
 . . . All you say about Jugero made me weep. I 
 feel about him exactly as you do. Who is worthy to 
 receive if such a simple believer is turned away. 
 He would have adhered more clearly to Jesus had 
 he been one of those who heard the wondrous and 
 searching words of St. John vi. It is to be remarked 
 that our Lord expected what He there says to be taken 
 as it stood. He seems to have made no attempt to 
 explain them to those who had hitherto followed but 
 now left Him. It would not have made any difficulty 
 to Jugero, mark you, nor to me. . . . Jugero's soul is 
 safe with his Master who loves him as a mother may 
 love her babe which has died before it could draw the 
 breast. Happy you who begot him in Christ Jesus. 
 That expression of forming Christ in the soul, and 
 bringing forth and giving birth to children in Christ 
 must be very applicable where you are. 
 
 . . . Early this month I spent a week at Freshwater. 
 Every day I talked and walked with old Tennyson, 
 which interested me very much. He is so absolutely 
 simple and veracious with his rough manner and few 
 words that he attracted me powerfully. Besides, I
 
 1891] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 293 
 
 have all my life been enslaved by his enchanting 
 poems. 
 
 I enjoyed my visit to darling Agnes. Saltash is a 
 very pretty and singular place and more cheerful t than 
 you can imagine. Agnes's house is all neatness and 
 order, and she and her husband lead an excellent useful 
 life. I have been alone here eight or nine days, while 
 F. is at Saltash. All the rooms empty, nothing but 
 the warm wind filling the silent house. Where are 
 Bernard and Agnes and Lucy and Frank and Michael 
 and E. M. who shared the sunshine and the flowers 
 with us all ? Japan, and the Rocky Mountains, and far 
 Kashmir, where Bernard is drifting in a light house-boat, 
 under the flowery forests and in sight of the eternal 
 snows, and Cornwall, and Westminster, and the fields of 
 Paradise ; these places hold them ; they have passed 
 like shadows from their mother's house. Oh, E. M. 
 come again to see me, before we all go hence one 
 by one. 
 
 To Bernard Holland (in India] 
 
 PRECINCTS, z6tA June. 
 
 The nightingales have sung in the Precincts this 
 year ; heart-piercing notes in the silence of the early 
 summer nights. Last night, just as the bell practice 
 began, a sudden storm from the sea, preceded by a 
 thick mist, swept over Canterbury, great claps of 
 thunder and streaming lightning. It was like an 
 assault on Bell Harry, the lightning played all round 
 him. " The bells kep on," as George Castle observed, 
 " and come right through, and when all was said and 
 done there they was, and by the time the curfew 
 begun all was cleared off and you wouldn't know 
 nothing had happened."
 
 294 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 THE LODGE, $tfi July. 
 
 My dearest Agnes This letter has been waiting 
 for you since Saturday mid-day. You did not give 
 me the Sandgate address, so I send it to the Metropolis. 
 Our conversations still work in my head, and your 
 sweet manner to me is alive in my heart. Ever your 
 affectionate SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 P.S. The post has just brought your letter, and 
 the man waits while I write a word and change the 
 cover. What a nice account of Sandgate, but why 
 not bathe on Sunday ? (Plenty of reasons for not 
 doing so occur as I write.) You might have bathed in 
 the summer moonlight just before midnight on Satur- 
 day. That is a mysteriously delightful thing to do. 
 I knew two brothers, beloved of all, who used to swim 
 out into the shining furrows of the moonlit sea, and 
 come back plashing up the beach. 
 
 I haven't time to say anything more than that 
 I am eternally yours, SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, gtA July. 
 
 We have nothing but rain here. The pilgrimage on 
 Tuesday did not go off badly, notwithstanding the 
 weather. I saw the long line of pilgrims and banners 
 coming along the Dane John ramparts, and down High 
 Street. They walked three and three very steadily, 
 the mild -eyed citizens stood at the shop doors and 
 smiled good-humouredly. It was the dinner-hour and 
 Canterbury chiefly occupied in munching. Father
 
 1 89 1 ] MA R Y SIB YLLA HOLLA ND 295 
 
 Ephraim sang the Gospel at the pontifical mass very 
 sweetly in the old benedictine " tone." He came 
 in to dine afterwards and said, " Ah, all the time 
 I sang I thought you were hearing me and would 
 be pleased and it gave me courage," he is such 
 a simple person. 
 
 To Miss Mason 
 
 THE LODGE, izth July. 
 
 My dearest Agnes I ought sooner to have returned 
 this very charming letter. " Wild " it is not, rather a 
 steady fragrant flame of love to God and man. You 
 are happy to have such a sweet strong friend working 
 hand in hand with you. Have you got a photograph 
 of her ? I should like to see her. 
 
 I liked your description of your gardening with 
 Mrs. Mason. I can see your strong hands and brown 
 head and bright weed-searching eyes. 
 
 I can't write more. Dear you are to many, to 
 none perhaps more than to me. Yours ever, 
 
 SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 To Francis Holland 
 
 THE LODGE, i^tk July. 
 
 You will be here next Friday, and to that I shall look 
 on with pleasure. Why should I be here alone ? The 
 four young "H. Sch. Maams" enjoyed themselves yester- 
 day such sweet, intelligent, and affectionate creatures. 
 . . . The weather is fine but flagging. The sun hot 
 on this hillside, and the east wind not perceptible. 
 The sound of the great church bells comes up from the 
 city.
 
 296 LETTERS OF [1891 
 
 ... I wish, my son, that you would now abjure 
 the philosophers. You have had two years of them. 
 You turned to them when I turned to the old church, 
 and I think that I made the best bargain. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 THE LODGE, -ysth July. 
 
 Storms now prevail, spoiling the raspberries, but 
 washing the dark green 'op to its great good. This 
 morning, after heavy early rain, a warm sun began 
 at 8.30 and the teeming earth sends up an immense 
 and universal perfume. 
 
 To the Same 
 
 ST. MARY'S CONVENT, MICKLEBAR GATE, 
 YORK, 2$rd August. 
 
 I shall not be able to get to the Minster between 
 four and five. But Le Pere Morris says do you come 
 here and you can see me for a quarter of an hour, and 
 then take a walk in the Minster or elsewhere with him. 
 He has a passion for York antiquities, and it will be a 
 refreshment to him to have you. Get a wash and 
 something to eat and then come. I shall count on 
 seeing your darling face. This is a large ordinary- 
 looking house just outside Micklebar Gate. . . . We have 
 a good deal of rain here, but the large garden in which 
 we pace silently soon dries. I am glad that I came 
 away, but it was an effort at the moment. ... I 
 enclose also a rather touching letter from Aunt Emily ; 
 I will go and see her. She has been such a faithful 
 friend to me since 1870. 
 
 Yesterday was two years since I made my move.
 
 1891] MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 297 
 
 It is odd, rather, that all that has happened has a sort 
 of fragrance in my memory, not in the least pain. If 
 pain there was, all trace of it has faded. Perhaps in 
 another life we shall so remember even days of anguish 
 here. We shall seem to have lived more truly, even 
 though we suffered keenly. Ever, my sweet, your loving 
 mother, SIBYL HOLLAND. 
 
 Much of my meditation takes the turn of considering 
 my children here, there, or elsewhere. I thank God 
 that I can trust their lives to His good guidance. 
 There is much to make me anxious could I do anything 
 in it, but, as I can't, I try to keep a quiet mind and see 
 the hand of God in all things.
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 IN the last days of August 1891, my mother left the 
 convent at York, where the Retreat had been conducted 
 by her friend, Father Morris, S.J., and went for a visit of 
 two or three days to her sister at Cavendish, in Suffolk. 
 Here she seemed to be in excellent health and high 
 spirits. She arrived at Harbledown Lodge on the 
 2nd of September. On the morning of the 3rd of 
 September, the fifth anniversary of her daughter's death, 
 she was taken at breakfast by a sudden " rigor." The 
 nature of her illness was not well understood, but 
 it was thought to be due to a blood-poisoning from an 
 abscess. Her illness was painful but short. She 
 received the last sacraments from Father Morris, and 
 died on the 2 3rd of September, in the presence of 
 several members of her family. On the 28th of 
 September she was buried, with the Roman Catholic 
 ceremonial, under the south wall of the chancel of 
 Godmersham, close to the grave of the daughter whom 
 she had so ardently loved. 
 
 Over that grave, five years earlier, she had caused 
 to be engraved the words from the Latin psalm, 
 " Domine ne moreris," in our version, " Lord, make 
 no long tarrying," an expression of her own hope 
 not to live too long. When death came she received 
 it as a gracious gift from God. My sister, who was
 
 LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 299 
 
 with her throughout the illness, wrote at the time : 
 " She longed to die. All through her illness this 
 was her one cry, ' Oh, that God would take me now, 
 now ! Oh, that this might be my last bed ! If He 
 would let me go now, I should think it such a mercy.' 
 She settled everything with a view to this, and gave 
 me many messages."
 
 LINES BY A FRIEND 
 
 M. S. H. 
 2 3RD SEPTEMBER 1891. 
 
 CARVE no stone above her head, 
 Rather let her praise be read 
 In the shining eyes of youth 
 Taught by her to gaze at Truth ; 
 Let her honour be approved 
 In the deeds of those she loved, 
 And each life inspired by her 
 Be her worthy chronicler. 
 
 Never soul more chastely wise 
 Watched the world through deeper eyes ; 
 Hardly shall the future tell 
 What the influence of her spell ; 
 How her speech's virgin gold 
 Took the grace of antique mould ; 
 How her heart like altar fire 
 Burned with flame of high desire ; 
 How divine Philosophy, 
 Handmaid of the Lord, stood nigh, 
 Prompting her the Truths that wrought 
 In her every look and thought. 
 All has fled ; no written scroll 
 Holds the story of her Soul ; 
 In Time's archives is set forth 
 No escutcheon of her worth 
 Naught remains save memory !
 
 302 LETTERS OF 
 
 Nay ; such sweetness cannot die ; 
 Though her name be never set 
 In Fame's tarnished coronet. 
 
 As within a garden green 
 
 Shall that dearest name be seen, 
 
 Showing as in lilies writ, 
 
 And with roses framing it. 
 
 We who hung upon her words 
 
 Caught the throb of heavenly chords 
 
 Touching harmonies of earth 
 
 Into a diviner birth ; 
 
 Felt the Stoic's rigid School 
 
 Soften into Christian rule ; 
 
 Learnt what hidden virtue lies 
 
 In the life which fools despise ; 
 
 Longed to play the nobler part 
 
 With the right chivalric heart. 
 
 Honeyed lore of poet and sage ; 
 
 Simples of the golden age, 
 
 These, as into sweets distilled, 
 
 All her days with fragrance rilled, 
 
 These, as garlands wreathed and fair, 
 
 Guard her solemn sepulchre. 
 
 All Love's herald could proclaim 
 Lies within her twofold name, 
 Mary, hers, whose home was blest 
 By the living Lord as guest ; 
 Sibyl, her majestic eyes 
 Rapt in lofty mysteries, 
 But, if childhood met her sight, 
 Melted into loving light. 
 Precious as her counsel's store, 
 Yet her comforting was more ; 
 When she stood by misery 
 With divining sympathy, 
 When her every grace and power 
 Found in Love its crowning dower. 
 
 Where the hallowed sunshine fills 
 That lone vale 'mid Kentish hills,
 
 MARY SIBYLLA HOLLAND 303 
 
 Where her stainless child has rest 
 'Neath her native earth's kind breast, 
 Let her sleep, while April rain 
 Calls the blossoms forth again, 
 While the nightingales rejoice, 
 And the wild bee's murmurous voice 
 Hums the sombre trees among 
 Like an echo of old song. 
 While the fading leaves shall fall 
 To one lonely thrush's call, 
 While the snow shall drift and pass 
 Like a shadow on life's glass, 
 While the world shall onward roll 
 Nearer its mysterious goal. 
 
 Strew with violets dim the sod, 
 Leave her Epitaph with God. 
 
 ETHEL COXON. 
 
 Feltrtiary 1892. 
 
 Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh
 
 March, 1898. 
 
 MR. EDWARD ARNOLD'S 
 New Books & Announcements. 
 
 LONDON : 37 BEDFORD STREET. 
 Telegraphic Address: 'Scholarly, London.' 
 
 Ifoew anfc ifortbcoming Worfcs. 
 
 WITH THE BRITISH MISSION TO 
 MENELIK, 1897. 
 
 By COUNT GLEICHEN, 
 
 Captain Grenadier Guards, Intelligence Officer to the Mission. 
 
 With numerous Illustrations by the Author and a Map. Demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 This book gives the only authentic account of the extremely interest- 
 ing mission to Menelik in 1897. Everyday the relations of this country 
 with Abyssinia are becoming more important as our advance up the Nile 
 progresses ; while in Somaliland and at Kassala we shall shortly find 
 ourselves face to face with the ' Empire of Ethiopia.' Much has hap- 
 pened since Sir Gerald Portal's Mission to Abyssinia some years ago, 
 and the present expedition, headed by Mr. Rennell Rodd, passed through 
 an entirely new country and had opportunities never before enjoyed by 
 Englishmen of examining its resources and observing the power of 
 Menelik's military dominion. 
 
 Count Gleichen has already made a literary reputation by his work, 
 ' With the Camel Corps up the Nile,' and has written an entertaining 
 and very valuable book.
 
 Mr. Edward Arnold's 
 
 MANY MEMORIES OF MANY PEOPLE. 
 
 By Mrs. M. C. SIMPSON (nee NASSAU-SENIOR). 
 One vol., demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 1 Mrs. Simpson's work should appeal with success to a wide circle of readers. It is 
 charmingly written, and pleasant to read.' Standard. 
 
 ' A delightful volume.' Daily News. 
 
 ' Mrs. Simpson has something interesting to say about nearly every woman of note in 
 the middle portion of the century. The whole book is good reading.' Athenaum, 
 
 ' This is a delightful book. A long succession of familiar names flit across Mrs. 
 Simpson's pages, and she has something interesting or amusing to tell us about all of 
 them. ' Guardian. 
 
 ' There is not a dull page in it from first to last, and the present generation will have no 
 excuse for ignorance of all that was best and most brilliant in the society of the middle of 
 this century as long as a copy of "Many Memories" remains accessible.' Manchester 
 Guardian. 
 
 Sbree IRew Morfcs of fiction. 
 A REPUTATION FOR A SONG. 
 
 By MAUD OXENDEN. 
 
 Author of ' Interludes. ' 
 Crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 THE FALSE CHEVALIER. 
 
 By W. D. LIGHTHALL. 
 Crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 THE MERMAID OF INISH-UIG, 
 
 By R. W. K. EDWARDS. 
 Crown 8vo., 33. 6d.
 
 New Books and Announcements. 
 
 HARROW SCHOOL. 
 
 Edited by E. W. HOWSON and G. TOWNSEND WARNER. 
 With a Preface by EARL SPENCER, K.G., D.C.L., 
 
 Chairman of the Governors of Harrow School, 
 
 And Contributions by Old Harrovians and Harrow Masters. 
 
 Illustrated with a large number of original full-page and other Pen-and- 
 ink Drawings by Mr. HERBERT MARSHALL, 
 
 With several Photogravure Portraits and reproductions of objects 
 of interest. 
 
 In one volume, crown 410., One Guinea net. 
 
 A numbered Large- Paper Edition, limited to 150 copies, 
 Three Guineas net. 
 
 This book will contain articles on the origin and history of the School 
 and its buildings, and its connection with the town, embodying much 
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 and other branches of School Sports, School Songs and Music, and the 
 Social Life of the School. 
 
 Articles have been contributed by the following : 
 
 E. E. BOWEN ; H. MONTAGU BUTLER, D.D., Master of Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, and late Headmaster of Harrow School ; EDWARD M. BUTLER ; C. COLBECK ; 
 Professor W. J. COURTHOPE, C.B. ; the EARL OF CREWE ; Rev. J. A. CRUIKSHANK ; 
 Sir HENRY S. CUNNINGHAM, K.C.S.I. ; Sir CHARLES DALRYMPLE, Bart., M.P. ; 
 Rev. B. H. DRURY ; SPENCER W. GORE ; E. GRAHAM ; W. O. HEWLETT ; A. F. 
 HORT ; E. W. HOWSON ; the Right Rev. BISHOP JENNER ; B. P. LASCELLES ; Hon. 
 E. CHANDOS LEIGH, Q.C. ; Right Hon. W. H. LONG, M.P. ; Rev. HASTINGS 
 RASHDALL ; C. S. ROUNDELL, Governor of Harrow School ; the EARL SPENCER, 
 K.G., D.C.L., Chairman of the Governors; P. M. THORNTON, M.P. ; G. TOWNS- 
 END WARNER ; and the Rev. J. E. C. WELLDON, Headmaster of Harrow School. 
 
 A full Prospectus can be had post-free on application. 
 The work will be ready for publication in June.
 
 Mr. Edward Arnold's 
 
 LESSONS IN OLD TESTAMENT 
 HISTORY. 
 
 By the VENERABLE ARCHDEACON AGLEN. 
 With Maps. One vol., crown 8vo., 45. 6d. 
 
 The Archdeacon of St. Andrews is known to literature for his 
 scholarly contributions to the ' Encyclopaedia Britannica,' for his trans- 
 lation of the Odes of Horace, and as the editor of { Selections from the 
 Writings of Dean Stanley.' 
 
 CHURCH AND REALM IN STUART 
 
 TIMES. 
 
 a Course of Gen -Jllustrateo lectures arranged to accompany a 
 Series of 600 lantern Illustrations. 
 
 By the Rev. C. ARTHUR LANE, 
 
 Author of ' Illustrated Notes on English Church History.' 
 
 One vol., crown 8vo., 33. 6d. net. 
 
 For twelve years Mr. Lane has been engaged in popularizing, by his 
 Church lectures, the history of the National Church of England. This 
 volume is indispensable to clergymen and others who desire to give 
 popular lectures on Church History. The lantern slides to accompany 
 the lectures are supplied by the Church Committee for Church Defence. 
 
 LETTERS OF MARY SIBYLLA 
 HOLLAND. 
 
 Selected and Edited by her Son, BERNARD HOLLAND. 
 One vol., crown 8vo., 75. 6d. net. 
 
 This book has the charm of a collection of letters written, with no 
 thought but to please, convey affection, help or console, by a person 
 gifted with sympathy, and of a nature of rare distinction. The writer 
 has also the power of style, the inmost soul of literature.
 
 New Books and Announcements. 
 
 IRew IDolume of Gbe Sportsman's 
 
 THE CHASE, THE TURF, AND THE 
 
 ROAD. 
 
 BY NIMROD. 
 
 Edited by the Right Hon. Sir HERBERT MAXWELL, Bart., M.P. 
 
 With a Photogravure Portrait of the Author by D. MACLISE, R.A., and 
 with Coloured Photogravure and other Plates from the original Illustra- 
 tions by ALKEN, and several reproductions of old Portraits. 
 
 Large 8vo., handsomely bound, 153. Also a Large-Paper Edition, 
 limited to 200 copies, Two Guineas net. 
 
 This Edition is based on the first Edition of Apperley's famous work ; 
 Alken's Plates will be reproduced to their original size, and it may 
 confidently be claimed that it forms the finest Edition of the book yet 
 published. 
 
 For earlier volumes of ' The Sportsman's Library,' see pp. 13 and 18 
 of this catalogue. 
 
 A MINGLED YARN. 
 
 0e (gufoBtosraytJg of (gbnoarb Jlpencer (gJoff 
 (NATHANIEL GUBBINS), 
 
 Authoi of ' Cakes and Ale,' etc. 
 
 i vol., large crown 8vo., izs. 6d. 
 
 This volume is the candid record of a life full of varied experiences. 
 The author, with a wealth of anecdote and a rare fund of cynical 
 humour, gives some account of his school-days, a vivid narrative of the 
 years he spent as a lieutenant in the Queen's service in India, of 
 existence in a cholera camp and in a Burmese gaol. Under the 
 pseudonym of ' Nathaniel Gubbins ' he is widely known as a sporting 
 journalist, and no small portion of the work is devoted to the history 
 and stories of the racecourse.
 
 Mr. Edward Arnold's 
 
 STUDIES ON MANY SUBJECTS. 
 
 By S. H. REYNOLDS. 
 One vol., demy 8vo., ros. 6d. 
 
 The late Rev. Samuel Harvey Reynolds was a scholar of Exeter 
 College, Oxford, and a Fellow and Tutor of Brasenose College, and 
 Vicar of East Ham from 1871 to 1893. He was the author of 'The 
 Rise of the Modern European System,' and edited Bacon's ' Essays ' 
 and Selden's ' Table Talk ' for the Clarendon Press. He wrote for the 
 Times from 1873 to 1896, and died in February, 1897. These studies 
 deal with a number of economic, political, and critical subjects. 
 
 NEW AND COMPLETELY REVISED EDITION. 
 
 POULTRY-KEEPING 
 
 an 3nbu0fr for Sarmere an& Coffagere. 
 
 By EDWARD BROWN, F.L.S. 
 
 Fully Illustrated by LUDLOW. 
 
 i vol., demy 4to., cloth, 6s. 
 
 The continued popularity and demand for this work has justified a 
 new edition, which has been thoroughly re-cast and revised by the 
 author. 
 
 "... We are glad to welcome the appearance of an excellent volume by Mr. Edward 
 Brown. The author has acquired so solid a reputation in connection with this subject 
 that any praise of his work is superfluous.' Morning Post. 
 
 ' Mr. Brown is one of our best-known and most capable experts, and he has here presented 
 the fruits of his wide knowledge and experience in, perhaps, the most useful form they 
 could have taken. , . . His book is, indeed, a thoroughly practical and trustworthy guide 
 to poultry in health and disease ; and whether a dozen hens be kept or a hundred, it will 
 be their owner's own fault if, with Mr. Brown's excellent manual at hand, they fail to 
 derive profit from their stock. ' St. James's Gazette.
 
 New Books and Announcements. 
 
 of fiction. 
 
 RECENTLY PUBLISHED. 
 
 THE KING WITH TWO FACES. 
 
 By M. E. COLERIDGE, 
 
 Author of ' The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus,' etc. 
 
 One vol., crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 Fifth Edition. 
 
 ' We despair of giving to those who have not read this beautiful romance an adequate impression of 
 the delicacy and variety of its portraiture, the freshness, subtlety, and distinction of its dialogue, and 
 the poignant interest excited in the fortunes of the leading dramatis persona. In the whole range of 
 contemporary fiction we know of no more picturesque Royal figure than that of Gustavus as he is 
 limned by Miss Coleridge. Above all, the book has to a quite exceptional degree the quality ot 
 glamour. Fresh from its perusal, and still under the spell of its magic, we are fain to re-echo 
 Schumann's historic greeting addressed to Chopin in a review of his earliest published pianoforte 
 works, " Hats off, gentlemen ! A genius."' Spectator. 
 
 ' One of the very rare novels which yield so much pleasure that it almost stifles criticism. Miss 
 Coleridge's quality is that of perfectly original brilliancy in romantic narration. Her style is at once 
 placid and spirited, full of colour without heaviness and luxury, correct, rapid, adequate, with no 
 tedious research of " the word," or preciosity. Her imagination js wonderfully vivid ; for scenes and 
 moments, colour, form, atmosphere, are all felt and conveyed in her pictures, which are not too 
 numerous, and are never tedious.' Times. 
 
 ' One of the cleverest historical novels of late years." Literature. 
 
 ' This is one of the most remarkable stories that we have read for many a day. . . . Gustavus is 
 throughout a magnificent figure. ... It is a bold thing to say, but we hardly remember in fiction the 
 figure of a king more finely drawn. . . . We desire to welcome this fascinating book.' Westminster 
 Gazette. 
 
 ' The curious, complex, many-sided nature of the Swedish monarch, the charm he exercised on all 
 brave and generous-minded men with whom he came in contact, his rapidity of decision and action, 
 his strange superstitions and his undaunted valour, are set forth with skill and convincingness. M. E. 
 Coleridge has done very well indeed.' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 Third Edition. 
 
 PAUL MERCER. 
 
 Q afe of (Repentance among (Jttffftons* 
 
 By the Hon. and Rev. JAMES ADDERLEY. 
 
 Author of ' Stephen Remarx.' 
 
 One vol., crown 8vo., 35. 6d. 
 
 1 Will be welcomed by all the large number of readers who enjoyed the same author's " Stephen 
 Remarx." Mr. Adderley may, perhaps, be regarded as the nearest representative of Charles 
 Kingsley in modern Christian Socialism.' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' Mr. Adderley writes so well when he pleases, and has such an eye for humour and for character, 
 that literature must almost grudge him even to the newest side of an old church.' Atketurunt 
 
 ' Exhibits all the artless sincerity, the humour, and the hopeful idealism which gave to " Stephen 
 Remarx " its interest and charm. We hope that its readeis maybe numbered by thousands.' Churck 
 Times.
 
 Mr. Edward Arnold's 
 
 THE SON OF A PEASANT. 
 
 By EDWARD McNULTY, 
 
 Author of f Misther O'Ryan,' etc. 
 
 One vol., crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 ' A remarkably clever representation of Irish life . . . The dialogue is racy of the soil. 
 ... A work of ability, and it will give keen enjoyment to those who know and appreciate 
 the Irish character.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 'An excellent Irish story. The book is full of knowledge of Irish character, and 
 altogether it is a welcome relief from the ordinary run of novels.' Standard. 
 
 ' It is long since we have read an Irish story so consistently well written as this. It is 
 thoroughly to the end, and its humour is racy of the soil.' Glasgow Herald. 
 
 JOB HILDRED. 
 
 (Jtrftef anb Carpenter. 
 
 By Dr. RICHARDS. 
 
 Edited by ELLEN F. PINSENT. 
 
 Author of 'Jenny's Case,' ' No Place for Repentance, etc. 
 One vol., crown 8vo., 35. 6d. 
 
 1 A good piece ol work. It is original ; it impresses the reader as a genuine bit of life. 
 Lady Elizabeth is an admirable sketch, and Sally Hildred is very nearly a creation to be 
 proud of.' Guardian. 
 
 ' Mrs. Pinsent possesses the power of feeling with and for her characters in high degree, 
 and combines with it the rare faculty of telling her story in simple and charming style. . . . 
 This book will greatly increase her reputation." Birmingham Daily Post. 
 
 NETHERDYKE. 
 
 By R. J. CHARLETON, 
 
 Author of ' Newcastle Town,' etc. 
 
 One vol., crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 ' " Netherdyke" is first and foremost an adventure story, and is unquestionably entitled 
 to be reckoned among the best of its class. Mr. Charleton is an excellent and clear 
 narrator.' Newcastle Leader. 
 
 ' The stirring times of the '45 are admirably chronicled.' Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 ' The narrative of the events is graphic and effective.' Freeman's Journal. 
 
 ' Will be appreciated by boys and all lovers of stirring scenes.' Eastern Morning 
 News.
 
 New Books and Announcements. 
 
 Works of Ibistorp anb Biography IRecentty 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF AUBREY DE 
 
 VERE. 
 
 In one volume, demy 8vo., with Portrait, i6s. 
 
 1 The most genial, charming, and amusing volume of reminiscences of the year.' Truth. 
 
 ' It presents the portrait of a noble figure, a man ol letters in a sense peculiar to a day now dis- 
 appearing, a man of responsible leisure, of serious thought, of grave duties, of high mind.' 
 A thenetum. 
 
 'The recollections are likely to be widely read, for they will interest our readers. 1 Spectator. 
 
 ' There are brisk studies of character, quaint old stories, bits of exquisite descriptions, excellent 
 jests, anecdotes of famous men.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 'These "Recollections" will appeal to many sympathies, personal, political, social, literary, and 
 religious. As a Catholic the author enjoyed the intimate friendship of Cardinal Newman and 
 Cardinal Manning, and these pages throw additional and interesting sidelights on the character and 
 genius of each of these distinguished men. Few " Recollections" of late years, if any, furnish more 
 pleasant reading than these. 1 Morning Post. 
 
 'A remarkable book, full of good humour and good sense, and one which no reader will wish to lay 
 down once he has taken it up. Mr. Aubrey de Vere has long had an " audience fit though few," and 
 the appearance of the present volume will be a point of interest both for those who knew and valued 
 his poems, and for those who knew him for an Irishman of the " ould stock," with many kindly remin- 
 iscences of his country through more than one generation.' St. James's Gazette. 
 
 ' They are the recollections of one whose mind has been concerned with great thoughts and subjects, 
 and whose way has lain with great men.' Freeman's Journal. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND LETTERS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 RT. HON. JOHN ARTHUR ROEBUCK, 
 
 Q.C., M.P. 
 
 Edited by ROBERT EADON LEADER. 
 With two Portraits, demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 ' The political struggles in which Roebuck took a prominent part have p_assed into history. . . . 
 Nevertheless, this book is welcome. It is a substantial and permanent contribution to the literature 
 of Parliamentary biography. Mr leader has done his work well, and Roebuck the men as well as 
 Roebuck the Parliamentarian is made to stand clearly before the mind's eye.' Globe. 
 
 ' Mr. Leader is to be congr tulated on the ability with which he has carried through what must have 
 been a most laborious task. He has given not only the record of a remarkable man, but a valuable 
 picture of the working of our Parliamentary system.' Morning Post. 
 
 ' Mr. Leader has done a good work ; he has produced for the public a lifelike portrait of a remark- 
 able public man.' Sheffield Telegraph.
 
 io Mr. Edward Arnold's 
 
 A MEMOIR OF ANNE J. CLOUGH, 
 
 of 
 
 By her Niece, BLANCHE CLOUGH. 
 In one volume, 8vo., izs. 6d. 
 
 1 Her niece's work as editor has been done with admirable skill. Those who knew and 
 loved Miss Clough will feel that not a word too much has been said and that nothing has 
 been left out which could help to make a rare and lovable personality more fully realised 
 by those who would fain have known her better.' Guardian. 
 
 ' The memoir is thoroughly worthy of its subject, and must earn the gratitude of every 
 reader. A complicated story has been clearly and simply told ; a complicated character 
 has been drawn with rare tact and sympathy.' Speaker. 
 
 ' Miss B. Clough has unfolded with singular discretion, clearness, and sympathy the early 
 history of an important institution, and the personality of a great pioneer.' Spectator. 
 
 ROME : THE MIDDLE OF THE 
 WORLD. 
 
 By ALICE GARDNER, 
 
 Lecturer in History at Newnham College ; 
 Atithor of 'Friends of the Olden Time,' etc. 
 
 With Illustrations and Map. Crown 8vo., 33. 6d. 
 
 1 Miss Gardner's book on the Emperor Julian reconciled many readers to a singularly 
 interesting personality of which they had previously heard little beyond the opprobrium of 
 " apostasy." In her present volume she addresses a younger audience, but in treating of 
 a much wider subject she displays the same grasp and scholarship. We fancy Miss Gardner 
 knows what youthful patience and attention are, and her method of appealing to the imagi- 
 nation by a series of strongly-lined pictures will probably do more to make Roman history 
 a living thing to children than serried dates and a philosophical argument of causes and 
 effects.' Saturday Review. 
 
 FAITH WHICH WORKETH BY LOVE. 
 
 a Sermon preacbeo after tbe funeral of tbe princess 
 2>ucbess of 
 
 By the Very Rev. S. REYNOLDS HOLE, Dean of Rochester, 
 
 Author of ' The Memories of Dean Holt, 
 
 Bound in vellum, is. net.
 
 New Books and Announcements. n 
 
 TOorfcs in General literature anfc art. 
 
 RECENT L Y PUBLISHED. 
 Dedicated by Special Permission to Her Majesty the Queen. 
 
 OLD ENGLISH GLASSES. 
 
 $ccounf of (Bfasfi rinfitngsCpessefs tn (gngfcmb from 
 fo f0e enb of f0 
 
 With Introductory Notices of Continental Glasses during the same 
 period, Original Documents, etc. 
 
 By ALBERT HARTSHORNE, 
 
 Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries. 
 
 Illustrated by nearly 70 full-page Tinted or Coloured Plates in the best 
 
 style of Lithography, and several hundred outline Illustrations in the 
 
 text. Super royal 410. , price Three Guineas net. 
 
 ' It would be difficult to overestimate the value of this book to the collector. It would be but scanty 
 praise to say that this book is a noble quarto. It is that and much more. With its beautiful type, 
 ample margins and luxurious paper, its hundreds of illustrations, many of them whole-page lithographs 
 of exceptional merit, it is an exceedingly fine example of typography, while its half-vellum bindnig is 
 in admirable keeping with the care and taste which has been lavished upon the interior.' Sta.nda.rd. 
 
 ' An important contribution to the library of the serious antiquary and collector.' Times. 
 
 ' Mr. Hartshorne has been fortunate in finding a subject about which literally nothing was known, 
 even by would-be connoisseurs, and he has risen to the height of his opportunity in a wonderful way 
 A fortnight ago the collector of old English Glasses was working in darkness. . . . to-day such a 
 collector has but to become the possessor of this sumptuous quarto and the whole sequence of glass- 
 making, not only in England but on the Continent, from primitive times to the end of the last century, 
 is before him. It is a monograph which must remain the one authority on English glasses.' 
 Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' No more sumptuous monograph on any artistic subject has been published this year than Mr. 
 Hartshorne's volume.' Westminster Gazette. 
 
 THE CHIPPENDALE PERIOD IN 
 ENGLISH FURNITURE. 
 
 By K. WARREN CLOUSTON. 
 
 With 200 Illustrations by the Author. 
 
 Demy 410., handsomely bound. One Guinea, net. 
 
 This handsome volume is enriched with illustrations which will be of great value to collectors, and 
 of interest to any person of taste. It fills a distinct gap in the annals of art, and that in a manner not 
 too technical for the Philistine in search of enlightenment.' Daily Telegraph. 
 
 ' A very attractive volume.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' In Mr. Clouston's handsome quarto, with its zoo illustrations charmingly drawn by the author and 
 admirably reproduced, we have an attractively written history of a remarkable artistic movement and 
 the_ man who directed. Mr. Clouston has done his work thoroughly well, and has produced a book 
 which will be of real value not only to the serious student of the history of furniture, but to every 
 reader who wishes to be well informed upon a topic at once so pleasant and so popular.' Standard.
 
 12 Mr. Edward Arnold's List. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 STYLE. 
 
 By WALTER RALEIGH, 
 
 Professor of English Literature at University College, Liverpool ; 
 Author of Robert Louis Stevenson? etc. 
 
 One vol., crown 8vo., 53. 
 
 ' Professor Raleigh has produced a finished masterpiece, where the men before him, 
 masters as they were, gave us brilliant sketches or clever studies. His ingenuity of thought, 
 restraint of expression, austerity of judgment, his prudent counsel and wise suggestion are 
 worthy of all praise. A model treatise on a most difficult and important theme.' Pall 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' In our judgment Mr. Raleigh's volume on "Style" is an amazingly good and pre-emi- 
 nently interesting and suggestive book. His whole treatment of his subject is vigorous, 
 manly, and most sensible.' Speaker. 
 
 ' As brimful of discerning criticism and fruitful suggestion as it is throughout lively and 
 inspiriting.' St. James's Gazette. 
 
 ' Mr. Raleigh's volume is the fruit of much reading and more thinking. It is informed by 
 the true literary spirit ; it is full of wisdom, inclining now and then to paradox ; and it is 
 gay with quaintnesses and unexpected epigrams.' Times. 
 
 ' A fascinating little volume.' Spectator. 
 
 BALLADS OF THE FLEET. 
 
 By RENNELL RODD, C.B., C.M.G. 
 One vol., crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. 
 
 ' Mr. Rodd's ballads as a whole reach a high level of achievement. They have much of 
 Macaulay's " go," and something better than Macaulay's rhetoric.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' The verse is full of colour and animation and fine feeling ; simple withal, and vigorous 
 without noise or brag." Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' Many-sided in its charm, no less than it its appeal.' Standard. 
 
 MORE BEASTS 
 (FOR WORSE CHILDREN). 
 
 By H. B. and B. T. B., 
 
 Authors of ' The Bad Child's Book of Beasts.' 
 
 One vol., 4to., 35. 6d. 
 
 1 The authors ot this book have discovered a new continent in the world of nonsense. 
 Their second book, which sings and illustrates this new world, is to the full as original and 
 delightful as the first.' Spectator. 
 
 ' It has created a furore.' Daily Mail. 
 
 ' Even better and wittier than the first volume.' Westminster Budget.
 
 Books of Travel, Sport, and Adventure. 13 
 
 Sportsman's Xibrar^ 
 
 Edited by the RT. HON. SIR HERBERT MAXWELL, BART., M.P. 
 TWO RECENT VOLUMES. 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF A HUNTSMAN. 
 
 By the HON. GRANTLEY F. BERKELEY. 
 
 With a Coloured Frontispiece and the original Illustrations by JOHN 
 LEECH, and several Coloured Plates and other Illustrations by G. H. 
 
 JALLAND. 
 
 Large 8vo., handsomely bound, 155. Also a Large- Paper Edition, 
 limited to 200 copies, Two Guineas net. 
 
 'The latest addition to the sumptuous " Sportsman's Library" is here reproduced with 
 all possible aid from the printer and binder, with illustrations from the pencils of Leech 
 and G. H. Jalland.' Globe. 
 
 The Hon. Grantley F. Berkeley had one great quality of the raconteur. His self- 
 revelations and displays of vanity are delightful.' Times. 
 
 THE ART OF DEER-STALKING. 
 
 By WILLIAM SCROPE. 
 
 With Frontispiece by EDWIN LANDSEER, and 9 Photogravure Plates of 
 the original Illustrations. 
 
 Large 8vo., handsomely bound, 155. Also a Large-Paper Edition, 
 limited to 200 copies, Two Guineas net. 
 
 ' With the fine illustrations by the Landseers and Scrope himself, this forms a most 
 worthy number of a splendid series.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' Among the works published in connection with field sports in Scotland, none probably 
 have been more sought after than those of William Scrope, and although published more 
 than fifty years ago, they are still as fresh as ever, full of pleasant anecdote, and valuable 
 for the many practical hints which they convey to inexperienced sportsmen. ' Field. 
 
 ' Judged by the standard of lasting popularity, and by certain subtle qualities that 
 make its pages interesting to those who have read them often, William Scrope's entertain- 
 ing narrative of deer-stalking in the forest of Atholl must take high rank among works on 
 sport.' Daily News.
 
 14 Mr. Edward Arnold's List. 
 
 U)olumc0 of Sport, Gnwel anfc Htwenture. 
 
 RECENTLY PUBLISHED. 
 
 BENIN, THE CITY OF BLOOD. 
 
 $n (Account of f0e Q^entn <&rpebtfion + 
 By R. H. BACON, Commander R.N. 
 
 Illustrated by W. H. OVEREND. 
 In one volume, demy 8vo., 73. 6d. 
 
 'Commander Bacon was intelligence officer to the expedition, and his personal record of the advance 
 on Ologbo, of the fighting in the bush and at the crossroads and Agagi, of the capture of Benin, and 
 of the horrors of human sacrifice, and the practice of Ju-ju, is as fascinating as it evidently is comp.ete 
 and accurate.' Daily Mail. 
 
 ' Should be read not only by those who care for adventure, but also by those who care for history. 
 It is difficult in a short space to give any idea of the striking way Commander Bacon brings the horrors 
 and trials of the campaign vividly before the reader, or to give even a vague notion of the loathsome 
 practice of Ju-ju, or the terrible picture of slaughter and sacrifice Benin presented when it was at last 
 reached.' Saturday Review. 
 
 WILD NORWAY : 
 
 With Chapters on the Swedish Highlands, Jutland, and Spltzbergen. 
 
 By ABEL CHAPMAN, Author of ' Wild Spain,' etc. 
 
 With seventeen full-page Illustrations and numerous smaller ones by the 
 Author and CHARLES WHYMPER. 
 
 Demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 1 There is not a chapter in this book which would not be missed.' Spectator. 
 
 ' A very good, very accurate, and deeply interesting book of wild life and natural history.' Iliu s 
 trated Sporting and Dramatic News. 
 
 ' Will be read with keen interest by the angler, the hunter of wild game, and the student of bird 
 life." Scotsman. 
 
 1 It will be found not only an inva uable but a delightful companion by the sportsman, the angler, 
 and the ornithologist.' Times. 
 
 FIRE AND SWORD IN THE SUDAN. 
 
 By SLATIN PASHA. 
 
 Translated and Edited by COLONEL WINGATE, C.B., 
 Chief of the Intelligence Department Egyptian Army. 
 
 A new, revised, and cheaper edition of this famous work. 
 Illustrated. Price 6s. 
 
 In this edition the book has been thoroughly revised by the authors, 
 omitting certain matters of temporary interest, and making it as far as 
 possible a standard work of permanent value for young and old. The 
 striking illustrations by Mr. Talbot Kelly have been retained. 
 
 Also the complete work, demy 8vo., One Guinea.
 
 Books of Travel, Sport, and Adventure. 15 
 
 THROUGH UNKNOWN AFRICAN COUNTRIES. 
 
 The First Expedition from Somaliland to Lake 
 Rudolf and Lamu. 
 
 A Narrative of Scientific Exploration and Sporting Adventures. 
 By A. DONALDSON SMITH, M.D., F.R.G.S. 
 
 With nearly thirty full-page Plates and numerous smaller Illustrations by 
 
 A. D. McCORMiCK, CHARLES WHYMPER, etc., and detailed Maps 
 
 of the countries traversed. 
 
 Super royal 8vo., One Guinea net. 
 
 1 Will be of the greatest interest to sportsman, traveller, and man of science.' Pali Mall Gazette. 
 
 'Since the publication of Stanley s " Across the Dark Continent," there has been no work of 
 African travel equal, in scientific importance and thrilling interest, to Dr. Donaldson Smith's book. 
 As a book of exciting sport, apart from its geographical and ethnological usefulness, it deserves to 
 stand alongside the best experiences of the toughest Anglo-Indian shikaris." Daily Telegraph, 
 
 ' While to the large class of people interested in African exploration this book is indispensable, 
 sportsmen will find in its pages a wealth of exciting incidents rarely equalled in similar works.' St. 
 jfaines's Gazette. 
 
 SOLDIERING AND SURVEYING IN BRITISH EAST 
 AFRICA, 1891-1894. 
 
 An Account of the Survey for the Uganda Railway, and the various 
 Campaigns in the British Protectorate during the last few years. 
 
 By Major J. R. MACDONALD, R.E. 
 
 Illustrated from Sketches and Photographs by the Author and numerous 
 Plans and a Map. 
 
 Demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 1 No country in the world has had greater need of an impartial historian than Uganda, and, strange 
 to say, though the bitter feelings engendered by the struggles of the past ten years have not had time 
 to cool, one has been found among the actors m these stormy scenes Major Macdonald. . . . No 
 one who reads this exciting book of adventuie can regret that we are spending .3,000,000 on the 
 railway. Major Macdonald writes with considerable literary and historical skill, and his sketches 
 and maps are all excellent.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' The illustrations from photographs and sketches are better than any we have seen of this part of 
 the Dark Continent, and the maps are distinctly good.' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' A well written and useful addition to our knowledge of Uganda." Literature. 
 
 MEMORIES OF THE MONTHS. 
 
 Leaves from a Field Naturalist's Note-book. 
 
 By the Right Hon. Sir HERBERT MAXWELL, Bart., M.P. 
 Crown 8vo., with four Photogravure Illustrations, 6s. 
 
 ' It is a very long time since we have read so pleasant a book as this.' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' Most agreeably and freshly written.' Field. 
 
 ' The easy style, the graphic descriptions of bird-life, and of the ways of beasts and fishes, the clever 
 sketches of sport, the happy introductions of plant-lore and of fragments of myth and legend, will 
 ensure a warm welcome for this delightful volume.' Daily News. 
 
 'Charming in language, and at the same time so varied in character that they never become 
 tedious.' A thetufum.
 
 16 Mr. Edward Arnold's List. 
 
 IDolumes of travel, Sport, anfc Jlfcventure. 
 
 Bacon THE CITY OF BLOOD. (See page 14.) 
 
 Balfour TWELVE HUNDRED MILES IN A WAGGON. A Nar- 
 
 rative of a Journey in Cape Colony, the Transvaal, and the Chartered Company's 
 Territories. By ALICE BLANCHE BALFOUR With nearly forty original Illustrations 
 from Sketches by the Author, and a Map. Demy 8vo. cloth, i6s. 
 
 Beynon WITH KELLY TO CHITRAL. By Lieutenant W. G. L. 
 
 BEVNON, D.S.O., yd. Goorkha Rifles, Staff Officer to Colonel Kelly with the Relief 
 Force. With Maps, Plans, and Illustrations. Demy 8vo. , 73. 6d. 
 
 Bottome A SUNSHINE TRIP: Glimpses of the Orient. 
 
 Extracts from Letters written by MARGARET BOTTOME. With Portrait, elegantly 
 bound, 45. 6d. 
 
 Bull THE CRUISE OF THE ' ANTARCTIC.' To the South Polar 
 
 Regions. By H. J. BULL, a member of the Expedition. With frontispiece by W. 
 L. WVLLIE, A.R.A., and numerous full-page illustrations by W. G. BURN-MURDOCH. 
 Demy 8vo., 153. 
 
 Chapman WILD NORWAY. (Seepage 14.) 
 
 ColvUe THE LAND OF THE NILE SPRINGS. By Colonel Sir 
 
 HENRY COLVILE, K.C.M.G., C.B., recently British Commissioner in Uganda. With 
 Photogravure Frontispiece, 16 full-page Illustrations and 2 Maps. Demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 Custance-RIDING RECOLLECTIONS AND TURF STORIES. By 
 
 HENRY CUSTANCE, three times winner of the Derby. One vol., crown 8vo., cloth, 
 
 23. 6d. 
 
 Freshfleld THE EXPLORATION OF THE CAUCASUS. By 
 
 DOUGLAS W. FRESHFIELD, lately President of the Alpine Club and Honorary Secretary 
 of the Royal Geographical Society. With Contributions by H. W. HOLDER, J. G. 
 COCKIN, H. WOOLLEY, M. DE DECHY, and Prof. BONNEY, D.Sc., F.R.S. Illustrated 
 by ^ Panoramas, 74 full-page Photogravures, about 140 Illustrations in the text, chiefly 
 from Photographs by VITTORIO SELLA, and 4 Original Maps, including the first 
 authentic map of the Caucasus specially prepared from unpublished sources by Mr. 
 FRESHFIELD. In two volumes, large 4to., 600 pp., Three Guineas net. 
 
 Gordon PERSIA REVISITED. With Remarks on H. I.M. Mozuffer 
 
 ed-Din Shah, and the Present Situation in Persia (1896). By General Sir T. E. 
 GORDON, K.C.I.E., C.B., C.S.I. Formerly Military Attache" and Oriental Secretary 
 to the British Legation at Teheran, Author of ' The Roof of the World,' etc. Demy 
 8vo. , with full-page illustrations, IDS. 6d. 
 
 Hall FISH TAILS AND SOME TRUE ONES. By BRADNOCK 
 
 HALL, Author of ' Rough Mischance.' With an original Etching by the Author and 
 twelve full-page Illustrations by T. H. McLACHLAN. Crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 Hole A LITTLE TOUR IN AMERICA. By the Very Rev. S. 
 
 REYNOLDS HOLE, Dean of Rochester, Author of ' The Memories of Dean Hole ' 
 'A Book about Roses,' etc. With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 Hole A LITTLE TOUR IN IRELAND. By 'OXONIAN' (the Very 
 
 Rev. S. REYNOLDS HOLE). With nearly forty Illustrations by JOHN LEECH. 
 Large crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 Knight-Bruee-MEMORIES OF MASHONALAND. By the late 
 
 Right Rev. Bishop KNIGHT-BRUCE, formerly Bishop of Mashonaland. 8vo., IDS. 6d. 
 
 Macdonald SOLDIERING AND SURVEYING IN BRITISH 
 
 EAST AFRICA. (Seepage 15.)
 
 Books of Travel, Sport, and Adventure. 17 
 
 McNab ON VELDT AND FARM- in Cape Cotony, Beehuana- 
 
 land, Natal, and the Transvaal. By FRANCES McNAB. With Map. Crown 8vo. , 
 300 pages, 33. 6d. 
 
 Maxwell THE SPORTSMAN'S LIBRARY. (Seepages 5, 13, and 18.) 
 Maxwell MEMORIES OF THE MONTHS. (Seepage 15.) 
 Pike THROUGH THE SUB-ARCTIC FOREST. A Record of 
 
 a Canoe Journey for 4,000 miles, from Fort Wrangel to the Pelly Lakes, and down 
 the Yukon to the Behring Sea. By WARBURTON PIKE, Author of ' The Barren 
 Grounds of Canada. ' With illustrations by CHARLES WHYMPER, from Photographs 
 taken by the Author, and a Map. Demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 Pollok FIFTY YEARS' REMINISCENCES OF INDIA. By 
 
 Lieut. -Colonel POLLOK, author of ' Sport in Burmah. ' Illustrated by A. C. CORBOULD. 
 Demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 Portal THE BRITISH MISSION TO UGANDA. By the late Sir 
 
 GERALD PORTAL, K.C.M.G. Edited by RENNELL ROOD, C.M.G. With an Intro- 
 duction by the Right Honourable LORD CROMER, G. C.M.G. Illustrated from 
 photos taken during the Expedition by Colonel RHODES. Demy 8vo. , 2is. 
 
 Portal MY MISSION TO ABYSSINIA. By the late Sir GERALD 
 
 H. PORTAL, C.B. With Map and Illustrations. Demy 8vo., 155. 
 
 Slatin FIRE AND SWORD IN THE SUDAN. (Seepage 14.) 
 
 Smith THROUGH UNKNOWN AFRICAN COUNTRIES. (See 
 page 15.) 
 
 Stone IN AND BEYOND THE HIMALAYAS: A Record of Sport 
 
 and Travel. By S. J. STONE, late Deputy Inspector-General of the Punjab Police. 
 With 16 full-page Illustrations by CHARLES WHYMPER. Demy 8vo. , i6s. 
 
 AMERICAN SPORT AND TRAVEL. 
 
 These books, selected from the Catalogue of MESSRS. RAND McNALLY & Co., the well- 
 known publishers of Chicago, have been placed in MR. EDWARD ARNOLD'S hands under 
 the impression that many British Travellers and Sportsmen may Ind them useful before 
 starting on expeditions in the United States. 
 
 Aldrieh ARCTIC ALASKA AND SIBERIA. By HERBERT L. 
 
 ALDRICH. Crown 8vo. , cloth, 43. 6d. 
 
 AMERICAN GAME FISHES. By various Writers. Cloth, los. 6d. 
 Higrgins-NEW GUIDE TO THE PACIFIC COAST. By C. A. 
 
 HIGGINS. Crown 8vo., cloth, 45. 6d. 
 
 Lefflngfwell THE ART OF WING - SHOOTING. By W. B. 
 
 LEFFINGWELL. Crown 8vo., cloth, 45. 6d. 
 
 Shields CAMPING AND CAMP OUTFITS. By G. O. SHIELDS 
 
 ('Coquina'). Crown 8vo., cloth, 55. 
 
 Shields THE AMERICAN BOOK OF THE DOG. By various 
 
 Writers. Edited by G. O. SHIELDS (' Coquina '). Cloth, 155. 
 
 Thomas SWEDEN AND THE SWEDES. By WILLIAM WIDGERY 
 
 THOMAS, Jun., United States Minister to Sweden and Norway. Cloth, i6s.
 
 i8 Mr. Edward Arnold's List. 
 
 Gbe Sportsman's Xibran?. 
 
 Edited by the RIGHT HON. SIR HERBERT MAXWELL, BART., M.P. 
 
 A Re-issue, in handsome volumes, of certain rare and entertaining books on 
 
 sport, carefully selected by the Editor, and illustrated by the best sporting 
 
 artists of the day, and with reproductions of old plates. 
 
 Library Edition, 155. a Volume. 
 Large Paper Edition (limited to 200 copies), 2 guineas a volume. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 THE LIFE OF A FOX, AND THE DIARY OF A HUNTSMAN. 
 
 By THOMAS SMITH, Master of the Hambledon and Pytchley Hounds. 
 
 With Illustrations by the Author, and Coloured Plates by 
 G. H. JALLAND. 
 
 VOLUME II. 
 
 A SPORTING TOUR THROUGH THE NORTHERN PARTS OF 
 
 ENGLAND AND GREAT PART OF THE HIGHLANDS 
 
 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 By COLONEL T. THORNTON, of Thornville Royal, in Yorkshire. 
 
 With the Original Illustrations by GARRARD, and other Illustrations and 
 Coloured Plates by G. E. LODGE. 
 
 VOLUME III. 
 THE SPORTSMAN IN IRELAND. 
 
 By a COSMOPOLITE. 
 
 With Coloured Plates and Black and White Drawings by P. CHENEVIX 
 
 TRENCH, and reproductions of the Original Illustrations drawn by R. ALLEN 
 
 and engiaved by W. WESTALL, A.R.A. 
 
 VOLUME IV. 
 REMINISCENCES OF A HUNTSMAN. 
 
 By the HON. GRANTLEY F. BERKELEY. 
 
 With a Coloured Frontispiece and the original Illustrations by JOHN LEECH, 
 and several Coloured Plates and other Illustrations by G. H. JALLAND. 
 
 VOLUME V. 
 THE ART OF DEERSTALKING. 
 
 By WILLIAM SCROPE. 
 
 With Frontispiece by EDWIN LANDSEER, and 9 Photogravure Plates of the 
 original Illustrations. 
 
 VOLUME VI. 
 THE CHASE, THE TURF, AND THE ROAD. 
 
 By NIMROD. 
 
 With Coloured 'and other Photogravure Plates by ALKEN, photogravure 
 portrait of the Author by D. MACLISE, R.A., and several reproductions of 
 old portraits.
 
 Works of Fiction. 19 
 
 Works of fiction. 
 
 ' Adalet ' HADJIRA : A Turkish Love Story. By ' ADALET.' i vol., 
 
 crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. 
 
 Adderley STEPHEN REMARK. The Story of a Venture in Ethics. 
 
 By the Hon. and Rev. JAMES ADDERLEY, formerly Head of the Oxford House and 
 Christ Church Mission, Bethnal Green. Twenty-Second Thousand. Small 8vo., 
 elegantly bound, 35. 6d. Also, in paper cover, is. 
 
 Adderley PAUL MERCER. (Seepage 7.) 
 
 Blatchford TOMMY ATKINS. A Tale of the Ranks. By ROBERT 
 
 BLATCHFORD, Author of ' A Son of the Forge,' ' Merrie England, 1 etc. New Edition. 
 Crown 8vo. , cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 Charleton NETHERDYKE. (See page 8.) 
 
 Cherbuliez THE TUTOR'S SECRET. (Le Secret du Pre'cepteur.) 
 
 Translated from the French of VICTOR CHERBULIEZ. One vol. , crown 8vo. , cloth, 6s. 
 
 Cholmondeley A DEVOTEE : An Episode in the Life of a 
 
 Butterfly. By MARY CHOLMONDELEY, Author of ' Diana Tempest,' ' The Danvers 
 Jewels,' etc. Crown 8vo., 35. 6d. 
 
 Clifford LOVE-LETTERS OF A WORLDLY WOMAN. By Mrs. 
 
 W. K. CLIFFORD, Author of 'Aunt Anne,' 'Mrs. Keith's Crime,' etc. One vol., 
 crown 8vo., cloth, 23. 6d. 
 
 Coleridge THE KING WITH TWO FACES (Seepage 7.) 
 Collingwood THE BONDWOMAN. A Story of the Northmen in 
 
 Lakeland. By W. G. COLLINGWOOD, Author of ' Thorstein of the Mere,' ' The Life 
 and Work of John Ruskin,' etc. Cloth, i6mo., 33. 6d. 
 
 Crane GEORGE'S MOTHER. By STEPHEN CRANE. Author of 
 
 1 The Red Badge of Courage. 1 Cloth, 2s. 
 
 Dunmore ORMISDAL. A Novel. By the EARL OF DUNMORE, 
 
 F.R.G.S., Author of ' The Pamirs.' One vol., crown 8vo., cloth, 6s. 
 
 Ford ON THE THRESHOLD. By ISABELLA O. FORD, Author of 
 
 ' Miss Blake of Monkshalton.' One vol., crown 8vo., 33. 6d. 
 
 Gaunt DAVE'S SWEETHEART. By MARY GAUNT. One vol., 
 
 8vo. , cloth, 33. 6d. 
 
 Hall FISH TAILS AND SOME TRUE ONES. Crown 8vo., 6s. 
 Hutehinson THAT FIDDLER FELLOW : A Tale of St. Andrews. 
 
 By HORACE G. HUTCHINSON, Author of 'My Wife's Politics,' 'Golf,' 'Creatures 
 of Circumstance,' etc. Crown 8vo-i cloth, as. 6d.
 
 2O Fiction and Adventure. 
 
 Knutsford THE MYSTERY OF THE RUE SOLY. Translated by 
 
 Lady KNUTSFORD from the French of H. DE BALZAC. Crown 8vo., cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 McNulty MISTHER O'RYAN. An Incident in the History of 
 
 a Nation. By EDWARD McNuLTY. Small 8vo., elegantly bound, 35. 6d. 
 
 MeNulty SON OF A PEASANT. (Seepage 8.) 
 
 Montresor WORTH WHILE. By F. F. MONTRESOR, Author of 
 
 ' Into the Highways and Hedges." Crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Oxenden INTERLUDES. By MAUD OXENDEN. Crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 Pinsent JOB HILDRED. (See page 8)'. 
 
 Preseott A MASK AND A MARTYR. By E. LIVINGSTON PRES- 
 
 COTT, Author of ' Scarlet and Steel.' Cloth, 6s. 
 
 Spinner A RELUCTANT EVANGELIST, and other Stories. 
 
 By ALICE SPINNER, Author of ' Lucilla,' ' A Study in Colour,' etc. Crown 8vo., 6s. 
 
 Williams THE BAYONET THAT CAME HOME. By N. WYNNE 
 
 WILLIAMS. Crown 8vo., 35. 6d. 
 
 Gales of Hbventure for 
 
 Clowes THE DOUBLE EMPEROR. By W. LAIRD CLOWES, Author 
 
 of 'The Great Peril,' etc. Illustrated. Crown 8vo., 33. 6d. 
 
 Fawcett SWALLOWED BY AN EARTHQUAKE. By E. D. 
 
 FAWCETT. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. , 33. 6d. 
 
 Fawcett HARTMANN THE ANARCHIST; or, The Doom of the 
 
 Great City. By E. DOUGLAS FAWCETT. With sixteen full-page and numerous 
 smaller Illustrations by F. T. JANE. Crown 8vo., cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 Faweett THE SECRET OF THE DESERT. By E. D. FAWCETT. 
 
 With numerous full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo. , cloth, 33. 6d. 
 
 Hervey THE REEF OF GOLD. By MAURICE H. HERVEY, With 
 
 numerous full-page Illustrations, handsomely bound. Gilt edges, 55. 
 
 Hervey ERIC THE ARCHER. By MAURICE H. HERVEY. With 
 
 numerous full-page Illustrations. Handsomely bound, crown 8vo. , 55. 
 
 Munroe THE FUR SEAL'S TOOTH. By KIRK MUNROE. Fully 
 
 illustrated. Crown 8vo. , cloth, 53. 
 
 Munroe SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES. By KIRK MUNROE. 
 
 Fully illustrated. Crown 8vo., cloth, 53. 
 
 Munroe RICK DALE. By KIRK MUNROE. Fully illustrated. 
 
 Crown 8vo., cloth, 53. 
 
 Nash BAREROCK ; or, The Island of Pearls. By HENRY NASH. 
 
 With numerous Illustrations by LANCELOT SPEED. Large crown 8vo., handsomely 
 bound, gilt edges, 53.
 
 Works on Science and Philosophy. 21 
 
 Morfe0 on Science anb 
 
 Bryan THE MARK IN EUROPE AND AMERICA. A Review 
 
 of the Discussion on Early Land Tenure. By ENOCH A. BRYAN, A.M., President 
 of Vincennes University, Indiana. Crown 8vo., cloth, 45. 6d. 
 
 Burgess POLITICAL SCIENCE AND COMPARATIVE CONSTI- 
 TUTIONAL LAW. By JOHN W. BURGESS, Ph.D., LL.D., Dean of the University 
 Faculty of Political Science in Columbia College, U.S.A. In two volumes, demy 
 8vo. , cloth, 255. 
 
 Fawcett THE RIDDLE OF THE UNIVERSE. Being an Attempt 
 
 to determine the First Principles of Metaphysics considered as an Inquiry into the 
 Conditions and Import of Consciousness. By EDWARD DOUGLAS FAWCETT. One 
 vol. , demy 8vo. , 145. 
 
 Hopkins THE RELIGIONS OF INDIA. By E. W. HOPKINS, 
 
 Ph.D. (Leipzig), Professor of Sanskrit and Comparative Philology in Bryn Mawr 
 College. One volume, demy 8vo. , 8s. 6d. net. 
 
 Ladd LOTZE'S PHILOSOPHICAL OUTLINES. Dictated Portions 
 
 of the Latest Lectures (at Gb'ttingen and Berlin) of Hermann Lotze. Translated 
 and edited by GEORGE T. LADD, Professor of Philosophy in Yale College. About 
 180 pages in each volume. Crown 8vo., cloth, 45. each. Vol. I. Metaphysics. Vol. 
 II. Philosophy of Religion. Vol. III. Practical Philosophy. Vol. IV. Psychology. 
 Vol. V. ^Esthetics. Vol. VI. Logic. 
 
 THE JOURNAL OF MORPHOLOGY. Edited by C. O. WHITMAN, 
 
 Professor of Biology in Clark University, U.S.A. Three numbers in a volume of 
 100 to 150 large 410. pages, with numerous plates. Single numbers, 173. 6d. ; sub- 
 scription to the volume of three numbers, 455. Volumes I. to XII. can now be obtained, 
 and the first number of Volume XIII. is ready. 
 
 Morgan ANIMAL LIFE AND INTELLIGENCE. By Professor 
 
 C. LLOYD MORGAN, F.G.S., Principal of University College, Bristol. With 40 
 Illustrations and a Photo-etched Frontispiece. Second Edition. Demy 8vo., 
 cloth, i6s. 
 
 Morgan HABIT AND INSTINCT. A Study in Heredity. By C. 
 
 LLOYD MORGAN, F.G.S. Demy 8vo., i6s. 
 
 Morgan THE SPRINGS OF CONDUCT. By Professor C. LLOYD 
 
 MORGAN, F.G.S. Cheaper Edition. Large crown 8vo., 33. 6d. 
 
 Morgan-PSYCHOLOGY FOR TEACHERS. By Professor C. LLOYD 
 
 MORGAN, F.G.S. With a Preface by J. G. FITCH, M.A., LL.D., late one of H.M. 
 Chief Inspectors of Training Colleges. One vol., crown 8vo., cloth, 35. 6d. net 
 
 Paget WASTED RECORDS OF DISEASE. By CHARLES E. 
 
 PAGET, Lecturer on Public Health in Owens College, Medical Officer of Health for 
 Salford, etc. Crown 8vo., as. 6d. 
 
 Pearson THE CHANCES OF DEATH, AND OTHER STUDIES 
 
 IN EVOLUTION. By KARL PEARSON, F.R.S., Author of 'The Ethic of Free 
 Thought,' etc. In two vols. , demy 8vo., with Illustrations, 255. net. 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. The Chances of Death The Scientific Aspect of Monte Carlo 
 Roulette Reproductive Selection Socialism and Natural Selection Politics and Science 
 Reaction Women and Labour Variation in Man and Woman. 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. Woman as Witch Ashiepattle ; or, Hans seeks his Luck- 
 Kindred Group Marriage The German Passion Play Index.
 
 22 Mr. Edward Arnold's List. 
 
 Perry CALCULUS FOR ENGINEERS. By Professor JOHN PERRY, 
 
 F.R.S. Crown 8vo., 73. 6d. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL REVIEW. Edited by J. G. SCHURMAN, 
 
 Professor of Philosophy in Cornell University, U.S.A. Six Numbers a year. Single 
 Numbers, 35. 6d. ; Annual Subscription, 145. post free. The first number was issued 
 in January, 1892. 
 
 Shaw A TEXT-BOOK OF NURSING FOR HOME AND HOSPITAL 
 
 USE. By C. WEEKS SHAW. Revised and largely re-written by W. RADFORD 
 House Surgeon at the Poplar Hospital, under the supervision of Sir DYCE DUCK- 
 WORTH, M.D., F.R.C.P. Fully Illustrated, crown 8vo., 35. 6d. 
 
 Young A GENERAL ASTRONOMY. By CHARLES A. YOUNG, 
 
 Professor of Astronomy in the College of New Jersey, Associate of the Royal Astro- 
 nomical Society, Author of The Sun, etc. In one vol., 550 pages, with 250 Illustra- 
 tions, and supplemented with the necessary tables. Royal 8vo., half morocco, 
 
 135. 6d. 
 
 TOorfcs in General literature. 
 
 Agrlen OLD TESTAMENT HISTORY. (Seepage*.) 
 
 Bell DIANA'S LOOKING GLASS, and other Poems. By the 
 
 Rev. CANON BELL, D.D., Rector of Cheltenham, and Hon. Canon of Carlisle. 
 Crown 8vo.. cloth, 55. net. POEMS OLD AND NEW. Cloth, 75. 6d. THE NAME 
 ABOVE EVERY NAME, and other Sermons. Cloth, 53. THE GOSPEL AND POWER 
 OF GOD. Crown 8vo., cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 Bell KLEINES HAUSTHEATER. Fifteen Little Plays in German 
 
 for Children. By Mrs. HUGH BELL. Crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 
 
 Most of these little plays have been adapted from the author's ' Petit Theatre,' the 
 remainder from a b'ttle book of English plays by the same writer entitled ' Nursery 
 Comedies. ' 
 
 Butler-SELECT ESSAYS OF SAINTE BEUVE. Chiefly bearing 
 
 on English Literature. Translated by A. J. BUTLER, Translator of ' The Memoirs of 
 Baron Marbot.' One voL, 8vo., cloth, 53. net. 
 
 Clouston EARLY ENGLISH FURNITURE. (See page 5.) 
 Collingwood THORSTEIN OF THE MERE : a Saga of the North- 
 
 men in Lakeland. By W. G. COLLINGWOOD, Author of ' Life of John Ruskin,' etc. 
 With Illustrations. Price IDS. 6d. 
 
 Collins A TREASURY OF MINOR BRITISH POETRY. Selected 
 
 and Arranged, with Notes, by J. CHURTON COLLINS, M.A. Crown 8vo., 75. 6d. 
 
 Cook THE DEFENSE OF POESY, otherwise known as An 
 
 APOLOGT FOR POETRY. By Sir PHILIP SIDNEY. Edited by A. S. COOK, Pro- 
 fessor of English Literature in Yale University. Crown 8vo., cloth, 43. 6d. 
 
 Cook A DEFENCE OF POETRY. By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 Edited, with notes and introduction, by Professor A. S. COOK. Crown 8vo., cloth, 
 2S. 6d.
 
 Works of General Literature. 23 
 
 Davidson A HANDBOOK TO DANTE. By GIOVANNI A. SCAR- 
 
 TAZZINI. Translated from the Italian, with notes and additions, by THOMAS DAVIDSON, 
 M.A. Crown 8vo. , cloth, 6s. 
 
 Ellaeombe THE PLANT-LORE AND GARDEN-CRAFT OF 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. By HENRY N. ELLACOMBE, M. A., Vicar of Bitton. Illustrated by 
 Major E. B. RICKETTS. Large crown 8vo. , los. 6d. 
 
 Fleming: THE ART OF READING AND SPEAKING. By the 
 
 Rev. Canon FLEMING, Vicar of St. Michael's, Chester Square. Third edition. 
 Cloth, 35. 6d. 
 
 Garnett SELECTIONS IN ENGLISH PROSE FROM ELIZABETH 
 
 TO VICTORIA. Chosen and arranged by JAMES M. GARNETT, M.A., LL.D. 700 
 pages, large crown 8vo. , cloth, 75. 6d. 
 
 Goschen THE CULTIVATION AND USE OF IMAGINATION. 
 
 By the Right Hon. GEORGE JOACHIM GOSCHEN. Crown 8vo., cloth, as. 6d. 
 
 GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOLS. ETON HARROW WINCHESTER 
 
 RUGBY WESTMINSTER MARLBOROUGH CHELTENHAM HAILEYBURY 
 CLIFTON CHARTERHOUSE. With nearly 100 Illustrations by the best artists. 
 Cheaper edition. One vol. , large imperial i6mo. , handsomely bound, 33. 6d. 
 
 Gummere OLD ENGLISH BALLADS. Selected and Edited by 
 
 FRANCIS B. GUMMERE, Professor of English in Haverford College, U.S.A. Crown 
 8vo., cloth, 55. 6d. 
 
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 CATALOGUE OF WORKS FOR USE IN ELE- 
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 ILLUSTRATED LIST OF BOOKS FOR PRESENTS 
 
 AND PRIZES.
 
 New Books and Announcements. 
 
 to Butbors, 
 
 FAGS 
 
 ADAMS. The Palace on the Moor . . 28 
 ADDERLEY. Stephen Remarx . . 19 
 ,, Paul Mercer . . .7 
 
 AGLEN. Old Testament History . . 4 
 ALDRICH. Arctic Alaska . . .17 
 AMERICAN GAME FISHES . . .17 
 BACON. City of Blood . . . .14 
 
 BALFOUR. Twelve Hundred Miles in a 
 Waggon . . . . . .16 
 
 BELL, MRS. Kleines Haustheater . . 23 
 BELL (REV. CANON). The Gospel the 
 
 Power of God . . .22 
 ,, Sermons . . . .22 
 
 ,, Diana's Looking Glass . . 22 
 
 ,, Poems Old and New . . 22 
 
 BENSON. Men of Might . . . .25 
 
 BERKELEY. Reminiscences of a Hunts- 
 man 13 
 
 BEYNON. With Kelly to Chitral . . 16 
 BLATCHFORD. Tommy Atkins . . 19 
 BOTTOME. A Sunshine Trip . . .13 
 BOYLE. Recollections of the Dean of 
 
 Salisbury 25 
 
 BROWN. Works on Poultry Keeping . 27 
 BRYAN. Mark in Europe . . .21 
 BULL. The Cruise of the ' Antarctic ' . 16 
 BURBIDGE. Wild Flowers in Art . . 27 
 BURGESS. Political Science . . .21 
 BUTLER. Select Essays of Sainte Beuve 22 
 CAWSTON. The Early Chartered Com- 
 panies 25 
 
 CHAPMAN. Wild Norway . . .14 
 CHARLETON. Netherdyke . . .8 
 CHERBULIEZ. The Tutor's Secret . . 19 
 CHILDREN'S FAVOURITE SERIES . . 28 
 CHILDREN'S HOUR SERIES . . .28 
 CHOLMONDELEY. A Devotee . . 19 
 CLIFFORD. Love-Letters . . .16 
 CLOUGH. Memoir of Anne J. Clough . 10 
 CLOUSTON. Early English Furniture . n 
 CLOWES. Double Emperor . . .28 
 COLERIDGE. King with Two Faces . 7 
 COLLINGWOOD. Thorstein . . .19 
 ,, The Bondwoman . . 19 
 
 COLLINS. A Treasury of Minor British 
 
 Poetry 22 
 
 COLVILE. Land of the Nile Springs . 16 
 COOK. Sidney's Defense of Poesy . 22 
 
 , , Shelley's Defence of Poetry . 22 
 COSMOPOLITE. Sportsman in Ireland . 10 
 CRANE. George's Mother . . .19 
 CUNNINGHAM. Draughts Manual . . 27 
 CUSTANCE. Riding Recollections . . 16 
 DAVIDSON. Handbook to Dante . 23 
 
 DE VERE. Recollections . .9 
 
 DUNMORE. Ormlsdal . . . .19 
 
 .8 
 
 25 
 
 16 
 28 
 10 
 23 
 19 
 
 PAGE 
 
 EDWARDS. Mermaid of Inish-Uig. . 2 
 ELLACOMBE. In a Gloucestershire 
 
 Garden. 2 
 
 ELLACOMBE. The Plant Lore of Shake- 
 speare ...... 
 
 FAWCETT. Hartmann the Anarchist 
 
 Riddle of the Universe . 21 
 
 ,, Secret of the Desert . . 28 
 
 ,, Swallowed by an Earthquake 28 
 
 FIELD. Master Magnus. . . .28 
 
 FLEMING. Art of Reading and Speaking 23 
 FORD. On the Threshold . . .19 
 FOWLER. Echoes of Old County Life . 
 FRESHFIELD. Exploration of the Cau- 
 casus ....... 
 
 GARDNER. Friends of Olden Time 
 
 Rome : Middle of World . 
 GARNETT. Selections in English Prose 
 GAUNT. Dave's Sweetheart . 
 GLEICHEN. With the British Mission to 
 
 Menelik i 
 
 GORDON. Persia Revisited . . .16 
 GOSCHEN. Cultivation and Use of the 
 
 Imagination 23 
 
 GOSSIP. Chess Pocket Manual . . 27 
 GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOLS . . .23 
 GUMMERE. Old English Ballads . . 23 
 
 HADJIRA 19 
 
 HALL. Fish Tails 16 
 
 HANS ANDERSEN. Snow Queen . . 28 
 ,, Tales from . . 28 
 HARE. Life and Letters of Maria Edge- 
 worth 25 
 
 HARRISON. Early Victorian Literature . 23 
 
 HARROW SCHOOL 3 
 
 HARTSHORNS. Old English Glasses . n 
 HERSCHELL. Parisian Beggars 
 HERVEY. Eric the Archer 
 Reef of Gold . 
 
 HIGGINS. New Guide to the Pacific 
 
 Coast 
 
 HOLE. Addresses to Working Men 
 Book about Roses . . 
 Book about the Garden 
 Little Tour in America 
 Little Tour in Ireland . 
 Memories . . 
 More Memories . 
 HOLLAND. Letters of . . 
 HOLT. Fancy Dresses Described 
 HOPKINSON. Toby's Promise 
 HOPKINS. Religions of India . 
 HUDSON. Life, Art, and Characters of 
 
 Shakespeare . . .23 
 
 ,, Harvard Shakespeare . . 23 
 
 HUNT What is Poetry?. . . .23 
 
 23 
 28 
 28 
 
 17 
 23 
 27 
 
 27 
 16 
 16 
 25 
 25 
 4 
 27 
 28 
 
 21
 
 Mr. Edward Arnold's New Books & Announcements. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HUTCHINSON. That Fiddler Fellow . 19 
 INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION SERIES . 29 
 JOHNSTON. Joel ; a Boy of Galilee . 28 
 
 KAY. Omarah's Yaman . . . .25 
 
 KENNEY-HERBERT. Fifty Breakfasts . 27 
 
 ,, ,, Fifty Dinners . 27 
 
 ,, Fifty Lunches . 27 
 
 ,, Common-sense 
 
 Cookery 27 
 
 KNIGHT- BRUCE. Memories of Mashona- 
 
 land 16 
 
 KNOX. Hunters Three . . . .28 
 KNUTSFORD. Mystery of the Rue Soly . 20 
 KUHNS. The Treatment of Nature in 
 
 Dante . . 24 
 
 LANE. Church and Realm . . .4 
 LANG. Lamb's Adventures of Ulysses . 24 
 LEADER. Autobiography of Roebuck . 2 
 LECKY. Political Value of History . . 25 
 LE FANU. Seventy Years of Irish Life . 25 
 LEFFINGWELL. Art of Wing-Shooting . 17 
 LEGH. How Dick and Molly went round 
 
 the World 28 
 
 LEGH. How Dick and Molly saw Eng- 
 land 28 
 
 LEGH. My Dog Plato . . . .28 
 LIGHTHALL. The False Chevalier . . 2 
 LOTZE. Philosophical Outlines . . 20 
 MACDONALD. Memoirs of Sir John 
 
 Macdonald 25 
 
 MACDONALD. Soldiering and Surveying 
 
 in British East Africa 
 MAUD. Wagner's Heroes . . 
 
 Wagner's Heroines . 
 MAXWELL. The Sportsman's Library 
 , , Memories of the Months 
 
 McNAB. On Veldt and Farm 
 McNuLTY. Misther O'Ryan . 
 
 ,, Son of a Peasant 
 
 MILNER. England in Egypt . 
 
 ,, Arnold Toynbee 
 MONTRESOR. Worth While . 
 More Beasts for Worse Children 
 MORGAN. Animal Life . 
 
 ,, Habit and Instinct 
 
 ,, Psychology for Teachers 
 
 ,, Springs of Conduct 
 
 MORPHOLOGY, JOURNAL OF . 
 MORRISON. Life's Prescription 
 MUNROE. Fur Seal's Tooth . 
 
 ,, Rick Dale . 
 
 ,, Snow-shoes and Sledges 
 
 NASH. Barerock .... 
 NATIONAL REVIEW 
 NiMROD. Chase, Turf, and Road . 
 OMAN. History of England . 
 OXENDEN. Interludes . 
 
 OXENDEN. A Reputation for a Song . 2 
 
 PAGET. Wasted Records of Disease . 21 
 PEARSON. The Chances of Death . .21 
 PERRY. Calculus for Engineers . . 21 
 PHILOSOPHICAL REVIEW . . .22 
 PIKE. Through the Sub- Arctic Forest . 17 
 PlLKiNGTON. An Eton Playing-Field . 26 
 PINSENT Job Hildred ... .8 
 
 POLLOK. Fifty Years' Reminiscences of 
 India . . . . . . .17 
 
 POPE. Memoirs of Sir John Macdonald . 25 
 PORTAL. British Mission to Uganda . 14 
 ,, My Mission to Abyssinia . 14 
 
 PRACTICAL SCIENCE MANUALS . . 26 
 PRESCOTT. A Mask and a Martyr. . 20 
 PULITZER. Romance of Prince Eugene . 26 
 
 RALEIGH. Robert Louis Stevenson . 26 
 
 ,, Style 12 
 
 RANSOME. Battles of Frederick the Great 26 
 RAYMOND. Mushroom Cave . . .28 
 REYNOLDS. Studies on Many Subjects . 6 
 ROCHEFORT. The Adventures of My Life 2(> 
 ROOD. Ballads of the Fleet . . . 16 ( 
 ROOD. Works by Rennell Rodd . . 24 
 ROEBUCK. Autobiography . . .-9 
 
 SANTLEY. Student and Singer . . 26 
 SCHELLING. Elizabethan Lyrics . . 24 
 ,, Ben Jonson's Timber . 24 
 
 SCROPE. Art of Deer-Stalking . . 13 
 SHAW. A Text Book of Nursing . . 22 
 SHERARD. Alphonse Daudet . . .26 
 SHIELDS. Camping and Camp Outfits . 17 
 SHIELDS. American Book of the Dog . 17 
 SHORLAND. Cycling for Health and 
 Pleasure . . . . . .27 
 
 SICHEL. The Story of Two Salons . . 24 
 SIMPSON. Many Memories of Many People 2 
 SLATIN. Fire and Sword in the Sudan . 14 
 SMITH. The Life of a Fox . . .10 
 ,, Through Unknown African 
 
 Countries 15 
 
 SPENCER. A Mingled Yarn . . .5 
 SPINNER. A Reluctant Evangelist . . 20 
 STONE. In and Beyond the Himalayas . 17 
 
 TATHAM. Men of Might . . .25 
 THAYER. Best Elizabethan Plays . . 24 
 THOMAS. Sweden and the Swedes . . 17 
 THORNTON. A Sporting Tour . . 10 
 TOLLEMACHE. Benjamin Jowett . . 26 
 TWINING. Recollections of Life and 
 
 Work 26 
 
 WHITE. Pleasurable Bee- Keeping. . 27 
 WILD FLOWERS IN ART AND NATURE 27 
 WILLIAMS. The Bayonet that came 
 
 Home 20 
 
 WINCHESTER COLLEGE . . . 24 
 
 YOUNG. General Astronomy . . .22
 
 90 
 
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