[Ill.u.s.tration: VIEW FROM HOLMHURST.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: ENTRANCE TO HOLMHURST: "HUZ AND BUZ."]

JOURNAL.

"_Holmhurst, Dec. 27._--It was on Monday, the 16th, that I was sitting in my study in the twilight, when the mother came in suddenly. She had been down to Hastings with Mrs. Colegrave and Miss Chichester to see Florence Colegrave at the convent, and there first heard the dreadful news of the event of Sat.u.r.day. Seeing her so much agitated terrified me to the last degree. I thought that it was Arthur who was dead, and when I heard that it was the Prince Consort, the shock was almost as great. It seems impossible to realise that one will not be able to say 'the Queen and Prince Albert' any more: it is a personal affliction to every one, and the feeling of sympathy for the Queen is overpowering. The Prince sank from the time he read the letter about the deaths of the King and Princes of Portugal. Then they tried to persuade him not to see the messengers who returned from taking the letters of condolence: he insisted upon doing so, and never rallied.... From the first the Prince thought that he should not live, and from the Wednesday Sir Henry Holland thought so too, and wrote in the first bulletin, '_Hitherto_ no unfavourable symptoms,' to prepare the public mind; but the Queen came into the anteroom, saw the bulletin, and scratched out the 'hitherto:' she would entertain no idea of danger till the last[203].... When the Prince was dying, he repeated the hymn 'Rock of Ages.' ... A letter from Windsor Castle to Mr. P.

describes the consternation and difficulty as to how the Queen was to be told of the danger: no one would tell her. At last Princess Alice relieved them all by saying, 'I will tell her,' and took her out for a drive. During the drive she told the Queen that the Prince could not recover. When he died, the Queen gave one piercing, heart-rending scream, which echoed all over the castle, and which those who stood by said they could never forget, and threw herself upon the body. Then she rose and collected her children and spoke to them, telling them that they must rally round her, and that, next to G.o.d, she should henceforth look to them for support.

"C. W. sends an odd story about the King of Portugal. After his death, Princess Alice made a drawing of him lying dead, and, at the top of the drawing, the gates of heaven, with Queen Stephanie waiting to receive the spirit of her husband. A little while after, M. Lavradio sent the Queen a long account of the King's illness, in which it was said that when the King lay dying he fell into a deep sleep, and woke up after some little time saying that he had dreamt, and wished he could have gone on dreaming, that he lay dead, and that his spirit was going up to heaven, and that at the gates he saw 'Stephanie' waiting to welcome him in. Everything fresh that one hears of Prince Albert makes one realise, 'Le prince ?tait grand, l'homme l'?tait davantage.'"[204]

In the course of the winter I was at Miss Leycester's house in Wilton Crescent, and saw there Miss Marsh and Sir Culling Eardley, both of whom told me much that was curious. I remember Sir Culling Eardley's saying, "I feel sure that the destruction of the temporal power will be the end of the Papacy, and I am also sure that there is one person who agrees with me, and that is Pio Nono!" He also told me that--

"One morning Mrs. Pitcairn at Torquay told her husband that she had been very much disturbed by a dream. She said she had seen her little boy of four years old carried into the house dreadfully crushed and hurt, and that all the princ.i.p.al doctors in the town--Madden, Mackintosh, &c.--had come in one after the other to see him.

"Her husband laughed at her fears, but said, 'Whatever you do, don't tell this to the boy; it would only frighten him unnecessarily.' However, Mrs. Pitcairn did not promise, and when her husband was gone out, she called her little boy to her, and taking him on her knee, spoke to him very seriously, saying, 'If anything happened to you now, where would you be?' &c.

"That afternoon, the little boy went with his elder brother to see some new houses his father was building. In crossing the highest floor, the ill-fastened boards gave way, and he fell, pa.s.sing through all the floors, into the cellar. Half-an-hour afterwards his mother saw him carried into the house, and all the doctors come in to see him, one after another, in the exact order of her dream.

"The little boy recovered; but four years after, his elder brother, playing on the sh.o.r.e at Babbicombe, pulled down some rocks upon himself, and was killed upon the spot."

In March 1862 an event occurred which caused a great blank in our circle, and which perhaps made more change in my life than any other death outside my own home could have done--that of my aunt Mrs. Stanley.

JOURNAL.

"_Holmhurst, March 23, 1862._--In March last year dear Uncle Penrhyn died. Aunt Kitty was with him, and felt it deeply. Now she also, on the same day of the same week, the first anniversary of his death, has pa.s.sed away from us--and oh! what a blank she has left! She was long our chief link with all the interest of the outside world, writing almost daily, and for years keeping a little slate always hanging to her davenport, on which, as each visitor went out, she noted down, from their conversation, anything she thought my mother might like to hear.

"Five weeks ago Arthur went to join the Prince of Wales at Alexandria. He was very unwilling to leave his mother, but he took the appointment by her especial request, and she was delighted with it. He took leave of her in the early morning, receiving farewells and blessings as she lay on the same bed, from whence she was unable afterwards to speak one word to her other children. When he went, my mother was very ill with bronchitis. Aunt Kitty also caught it, but wrote frequently, saying that 'her illness did not signify, she was only anxious about my mother.' It did signify, however. She became rapidly weaker. Congestion of the lungs followed, and she gradually sank. The Vaughans were sent for, and Mary was with her. We were ready to have gone at any moment, if she had been the least bit better, but she would not have been able to have spoken to the mother, perhaps not have known her, so that I am thankful for my sweet mother's sake that she should have been here in her quiet peaceful home.

"There were none of the ordinary features of an illness. Aunt Kitty suffered no pain at all: it was a mere pa.s.sing out of one gentle sleep into another, till the end.

"Kate wrote--'What a solemn hour was that when we were sitting in silence round her bed, watching the gradual cessation of breathing--the gradual but sure approach of the end! Not a sound was heard but the sad wailing of the wind as her soul was pa.s.sing away. She lay quite still: you would hardly have known who it was, the expression was so changed--Oh no, you would never have known it was the dear, dear face we had loved so fondly. And then, when all ceased, and there was stillness, and we thought it had been the last breath, came a deep sigh, then a pause--then a succession of deep sighs at long intervals, and it was only when no more came that we knew she was gone. Charles then knelt down and prayed for us, "especially for our dear absent brother, that he might be comforted"--and then we rose up and took our last look of that revered countenance.'

"When people are dead, how they are glorified in one's mind! I was almost as much grieved as my mother herself, and I also felt a desolation. Yet, on looking back, how few words of tenderness can I remember receiving from Aunt Kitty--some marigolds picked for me in the palace garden when I was ill at Norwich--a few acknowledgments of my later devotion to my mother in illness--an occasional interest in my drawing: this is almost all. What really makes it a personal sorrow is, that in the recollection of my oppressed and desolate boyhood, the figure of Aunt Kitty always looms forth as that of _Justice_. She was invariably just. Whatever others might say, she never allowed herself to be bia.s.sed against me, or indeed against any one else, contrary to her own convictions.

"I went with Mary and Kate to the funeral in Alderley churchyard.

We all a.s.sembled there in the inner school-room, close to the Rectory, which had been the home of my aunt's happiest days, in the centre of which lay the coffin covered with a pall, but garlanded with long green wreaths, while bunches of snowdrops and white crocuses fell tenderly over the sides. 'I know that my Redeemer liveth' was sung as we pa.s.sed out of the church to the churchyard, where it poured with rain. The crowds of poor people present, however, liked this, for 'blessed,' they said, 'is the corpse that the rain falls on.'"

[Ill.u.s.tration: ALDERLEY CHURCH AND RECTORY.]

During this sad winter it was a great pleasure to us to have our faithful old friend the Baroness von Bunsen at St. Leonards, with two of her daughters--Frances and Matilda. She had been near my mother at the time of her greatest sorrow at Rome, and her society was very congenial at this time. We were quite hoping that she would have made St.

Leonards her permanent winter-home, when she was recalled to live in Germany by the death of the darling daughter of her heart--Theodora von Ungern-Sternberg--soon after giving birth, at Carlsruhe, to her fifth child.

In this winter I went to stay at Hurstmonceaux Rectory with Dr.

Wellesley, who was never fitted to be a country clergyman, but who never failed to be the most agreeable of hosts and of men. In person he was very like the Duke of Wellington, with black eyes, s.h.a.ggy eyebrows, and snow-white hair. His courtesy and kindness were unfailing, especially to women, be their rank what it might. A perfect linguist, he had the most extraordinary power of imitating Italians in their own peculiar dialects. Most diverting was his account of a sermon which he heard preached in the Coliseum. I can only give the words--the tone, the gestures are required to give it life. It was on the day on which the old Duke of Torlonia died. He had been the great enemy of the monks and nuns, and of course they hated him. On that day, being a Friday, the Confraternit? della Misericordia met, as usual, at four o'clock, in SS.

Cosmo and Damiano in the Forum, and went chanting in procession to the Coliseum. Those who remember those days will recall in imagination the strong nasal tw.a.n.g of "Sant' Bartolome, ora pro n.o.bis; Santa Agata, ora pro n.o.bis; Sant' Silvestro, ora pro n.o.bis," &c. Arrived at the Coliseum, the monk ascended the pulpit, and began in the familiar style of those days, in which sermons were usually opened with "How do you do?" and some remarks about the weather.

"Buon giorno, cari fratelli miei. Buon giorno, care sorelle--come state tutti? State bene? Oh, mi fa piacere, mi fa molto piacere! Fa bell' tempo stasera, non e vero? un tempo piacevole--cielo sereno.

Oh ma piacevole di molto!

"Ebbene, cari fratelli miei--Ebbene, care sorelle--sapete cosa c' ?

di nuovo--sapete che cos' ? successo stammattina in citt?? Non lo sapete--maraviglia! Oh, non vi disturbate--n?--n?--n?--non vi disturbate affatto--ve lo dir?, io ve lo spieghier? tutto.

"Stammattina stessa in citt? ? morto qualcheduno. Fu un uomo--un uomo ben inteso--ma che specie d' uomo? Fu un uomo grande--fu un uomo ricco--fu un uomo potente--fu un uomo grandissimo, ricchissimo, potentissimo, magnificentissimo, ma mor?!--mor?, cari fratelli miei, quell' uomo cos? grande, cos? ricco, cos?

potente--mor?!--cos? pa.s.siamo tutti--cos? finisce il mondo--moriamo.

"E che fu quell' uomo cos? importante che ? morto? Fu un Duca! un Duca, cari fratelli miei! E, quando mor?, cosa fece? ? montato sopra, montato sopra su alla porta del Paradiso, dove sta San Pietro, colle sue sante chiavi. Picchia il Duca.... 'Chi ? l?,'

disse San Pietro. 'Il Duca di Torlonia!'--'Ah, il Duca di Torlonia,' disse San Pietro, 'quel nome ? ben conosciuto, ben conosciuto davvero.' Quindi si volt? San Pietro all' angelo custode che teneva il libro della vita, e disse, 'Angelo mio, cercate un p?

se trovate quel nome del Duca di Torlonia.' Dunque l'angelo cerc?, cerc? con tanta pena, con tanta inquietudine, volt? tante pagine in quel libro cos? grande della vita, ma disse infine, 'Caro Signor San Pietro mio, mi rincresce tanto, ma quel nome l? non mi riesce di trovarlo.'

"Allora si volt? San Pietro, e disse, 'Caro Signor Duca mio, mi rincresce tanto, ma il suo nome non si trova nel libro della vita.'

Rise il Duca, e disse, 'Ma che sciocchezza! cercate poi il t.i.tolo minore, cercate pure il t.i.tolo maggiore della famiglia, cercate il Principe di Bracciano, e lo troverete sicuramente.' Dunque l'angelo cerc? di nuovo, cerc? con sollecitudine, volt? tante tante pagine in quel libro cos? immenso--ma alla fine disse, 'Caro Signor San Pietro mio, mi rincresce tanto--ma quei nomi non si trovan qui, n?

l'uno, n? l'altro.' Allora disse San Pietro, 'Mi dispiace tanto, Signor Duca mio--ma bisogna scendere pi? gi?--bisogna scendere pi?

gi?.'

"Scese dunque il Duca--poco contento--anzi mortificato di molto--scese gi? alla porta del Purgatorio. Picchia il Duca. 'Chi ?

l?,' disse il guardiano. 'Il Duca di Torlonia' (_piano_). 'Ah, il Duca di Torlonia,' disse il guardiano. 'Anche qui, quel nome ? ben conosciuto, molto ben conosciuto--ma bisogna scendere pi?

gi?--bisogna scendere pi? gi?.'

"Scese dunque il Duca. Ahim?! quant' era miserabile! come gridava, quanto piangeva, ma--gridando, piangendo--scendeva--scendeva gi?--alla porta dell' Inferno, dove sta il Diavolo. Picchia il Duca. 'Chi ? l?,' disse il Diavolo. 'Il Duca di Torlonia'

(_pianissimo_). 'Ah, il Duca di Torlonia,' disse il Diavolo, 'oh siete il benvenuto, entrate qui, caro amico mio, oh quanto tempo siete aspettato, entrate qui, e restate per sempre.' Ecco cari fratelli miei, ecco care sorelle, quel ch' ? success? quest' oggi, stammattina, in citt?, a quel povero Duca di Torloni-a!" &c.

I narrated this story afterwards to Mrs. F. Dawkins and her daughters, and they told me that some friends of theirs were at Rome on August 10, St. Laurence's Day--which fell on a Friday that year--and St. Laurence, as all know, was roasted on a gridiron. That day, the monk began as usual--

"Buon giorno, cari fratelli miei--buon giorno, care sorelle (sniff, sniff, sniff)--ma sento qualche cosa (sniff, sniff)--che cosa sento io (sniff)--sento un odore. E l'odore de che? (sniff, sniff, sniff)--? l'odore di carne (sniff). Chi specie di carne pu? essere?

E l'odore di carne bollito? (sniff). N?, n?, n?, non e bollito (sniff, sniff, sniff). Ah, lo vedo, ? l'odore di carne arrosto, ?

l'odore di carne arrost.i.to--? l'odore d'un santo arrost.i.to--?

l'odore di San Lorenzo."

Lady Marian Alford used to tell a similar story. Lord Brownlow was at S.

Agostino, when a monk, who was walking about, preaching, in the great pulpit there, said, "Che odore sento io? E l'odore di montone?--n?! ?

l'odore di presciutto?--n?! ? l'odore delle anime che friggono nell'

inferno."

I cannot remember whether it was in this or the preceding winter that I spent an evening with Dr. Lushington, the famous judge, who, having been born in the beginning of 1782, and preserving evergreen all the recollections of his long life, was one of the most delightful of men. I remember his describing how all the places ending in _s_ in England take their names from people who have lived there. Leeds is so called from an old person called Leed or Lloyd, of whom the great city is now the only memorial. Levens is from Leofwin.

He said that "the d.u.c.h.esse d'Angoul?me never forgave the Court of Rome for not canonising her father." She always regarded Louis XVI. as a saint. Of her mother she spoke with less confidence--"she had faults,"

she said, "but they were terribly expiated."

Dr. Lushington said that when he was a very little child travelling alone with his father, the carriage stopped near a public-house, and the footman and coachman, with the license of those times, went in to drink. He was himself asleep in the corner of the carriage, when a pistol, directed at his father, came crashing in at the window, with a demand for money. Dr. Lushington distinctly remembered his father drawing out a long green silk purse, in which were one hundred guineas, and deliberately counting out twelve guineas into the man's hand, and saying, "There, take that, that is enough." "Well," said the man, "but I must have your watch."--"No," said his father, "it is an old family watch, and I cannot give it to you." Upon this the man said, "Well, G.o.d bless you," and went away. Immediately after the servants came out of the inn, and hearing what had happened, said they were armed, they could pursue the highwayman, and they could easily take him. "No," said Dr.

Lushington's father, "let him go. The man G.o.d-blessed _me_, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I hang _him_."

At this time I took the opportunity of persuading Dr. Lushington to tell me himself the most celebrated of his stories, which I had already heard from his son G.o.dfrey and from Arthur Stanley. I wrote it down at the time, and here it is, in the very words of the old judge.

"There was once, within my memory, an old gentleman who lived in Kent, and whose name, for very obvious reasons, I cannot mention, but he lived in _Kent_. He was a very remarkable old man, and chiefly because in the whole course of his very, very long life--for he was extremely old--he had never been known on any single occasion to want presence of mind; he had always done exactly the right thing, and he had always said exactly the right word, at exactly the right moment. The old gentleman lived alone.

That is to say, he had never married, and he had no brother or sister or other relation living with him, but he had a very old housekeeper, a very old butler, a very old gardener--in fact, all the old-fashioned retinue of a very old-fashioned household, and, bound together by mutual respect and affection, the household was a very harmonious one.

"Now I must describe what the old gentleman's house was like.