C CD~ Jf




I NO li        T Ul1l  I


AOflPrtss'vi
~C ~1~  win    H


j io                         Hill I I IiIllI i  in I  II a  iv i ffim


- a




07 40
AS








THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND
LETTERS OF
MRS M. O. W. OLIPHANT








o\fr




1'  ~ < ~F14.


*..-*....




THE


AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND
LETTERS.r%MRS. MO.W.: OLIPHANT
Arranged and Edited by
MRS. HARRY COGHILL
WITH TWO PORTRAITS
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1899




Copyright, 1899,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
OHN  ILSO nib, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRZIDGE, U. S. A.




P RE FAC E.
IN some of the last-words she ever wrote, Mrs Oliphant
described herself as " a writer very little given to explanations or to any personal appearance"; and probably of
no writer that ever lived was this so absolutely true a description. Her work, enormous in volume and multifarious in kind, was given to the public; her life was for her
children first, and after them for the small circle of loving
and intimate' friends who closely suirrounded her. Of
these, many, in the last darkening years of her life, had
passed awvay, and with one small exception it is in these
years 'only that we find-in her writings any personal
revelations, intentional or unintentional. - They were
very rarely-intentional, and when they were, it was of
deliberate purpose and for a fixed reason, as in two recent
-papers in ' Blackwbod '-" The'Thoughts of a Believer "
and" "The Verdict of Old Age."   The last and most
-touching instance is in the only preface which she ever
attached to a novel-the few pages called " On the Ebb
Tide,"- prefacing 'The Ways of Life.'
When she wrote those pages, worn out with bodily
and mental suffering, she thought she felt in.herself the
beginnings of failure. As a matter of fact, she had never
written more brilliantly than at times during the concluding year of her life; but she had never since the




vi


PREFACE.


death of her last child been conscious of that happy
mastery of her work which had supplied many of the
pleasantest hours of the past. "I am behind the fashion,"
she said herself; " I have no longer the place or the value
I had." She felt certain that the difficulty of producing
good work must increase for her (as, indeed, at sixtynine it well might), and she greatly longed to be released
from her service and allowed to join those who had gone
before her. But until within the last few months she
had very little hope of escape. When first those who
loved her were anxious, alarmed by her pallor, her inability to take food, and what they knew of her nights
of sleepless sorrow, she used to smile and say, " Don't
be afraid; there never is anything the matter with me."
Her health had almost always been perfect, withstanding
every kind of fatigue and sorrow, and she could not think
that it would fail her. But when, only about ten days
before the end, it became certain that she was mortally
ill, she said, as she had imagined Mr Sandford saying,
"God is very good; He gives me everything."
In this quiet confidence that everything had been so
perfectly arranged for her, with her mind clear, even a
Slittle flicker of fun in her eyes at times, always a tender
7j  smile and word for those she loved; a great writer passed
away from us, leaving a blank that there is certainly no
one capable of filling. There have been, perhaps there
are (and she herself would have been the first to say it
with full belief), greater novelists, but who has ever
achieved the same variety of literary work with anything like the same level of excellence? A great deal
of her very best remains at present anonymous - biographical and critical papers, and others dealing with
an extraordinary variety of subjects.  But merely to
divide her books into classes gives some little idea of
the range of her powers. Her novels, long and short,




PREFACE.


vil


can hardly number much less than a hundred, but these
for a long time back were by no means her works of
predilection; and in the three last sad years all fiction
had been heavy labour to her. Next in importance come
her biographies-- Edward Irving, Count de Montalembert, Principal Tulloch, Laurence Oliphant, and a number of smaller ones, some involving great labour and
research; while her last work of this class, two volumes
of the 'History of the House of Blackwood,' occupied
two years of her life. Then there are the brilliant papers
on the reign of George II., collected some years ago,
and those on the reign of Queen Anne; the laborious,
but not entirely successful,' Literary History of England,'
and 'A Child's History of Scotland.' 'The Makers of
Florence' began a fresh series in 1876; it was followed
at intervals by 'The Makers of Venice,' 'Rome,' and
'Jerusalem,' each of these books involving immense
labour, and all, except 'Rome,' having its materials
carefully collected on the spot. The topography of Rome
she knew well; every aspect of it had been engraved on
her memory with the pencil of sorrow. Finally, there
remains one of the most wonderful set of writings in
our language-that which began very simply and sweetly
with 'A Little Pilgrim,' and went on through various
"Stories of the Seen and the Unseen,' reaching a strange
poetic power and beauty in 'A Beleaguered City,' and
finding, to those who were near enough to her life to
guess the thoughts with which it was written, a most
fitting end in 'The Land of Suspense.' Thus she had
laboured in almost every field of literature, winning every
kind of success, and never, in all the fifty years (except,
perhaps, for one moment in the early days of her widowhood), making a real failure. One day in the last week
of her life she said, "Many times I have come to a
corner which I could see no way round, but each time




ai00
Vill.


PREFACE.


a way has been found for me." The way was often
found by the strengthening of her own indomitable
courage, which, as long as her children were left to her,
never seemed to fiag,-it was the courage of perfect love.
But it is certain that if she had had no moral qualities
except courage, she could not have toiled on as she did:
a saving sense of humour, a great capacity to enjoy what
was really comic and everything that was beautiful, made
life easier to her, and "the great joy of doing kindnesses"
was one never absent from her. So that whatever suffering might be lying in wait to seize upon her solitary
hours, there was almost always a pleasant welcome and
talk of the very best to be found in her modest drawingroom.   If the visitors were congenial, her charm  of
manner awoke, her simple fitness of speech clothed
every subject with life and grace, her beautiful eyes
shone (they never sparkled), and the spell of her exquisite womanliness made a charmed circle round her.
She was never a beautiful woman at any time of her
life, though for many years she was a very pretty one,
but she had, as a family inheritance, lovely hands, which
were constantly busy, in what she called her idle time,
with some dainty sewing or knitting; she had those
wonderful eyes which kept their beauty to the last
minute of her life; and she had a most exquisite daintiness in all her ways and in the very atmosphere about
her which was "pure womanly."
It was just at the moment when all England kept
festival for the Queen's second Jubilee-in the last half
of June I897-that Mrs Oliphant lay dying in a sunny
little house at Wimbledon. Happily free from  acute
pain, she had passed into a serene region of perfect
peace, out of which she spoke to us who were about
her with all her old brightness, giving such information
and directions as she thought might be useful after.




PREFACE.


ix


And one distinct injunction,she laid. upon us-no biography of her was to be written.
Many years ago she had begun in a time of great trial
and loneliness to write down scraps more or less autobiographical, and later had added more cheerful pictures
of her early life. Later still, to please her last surviving
child, she continued this memoir, bringing it up to the
time when her two sons went to Oxford. She must,
it would seem, have intended to add to it some record
of the remaining twenty years of her life, and possibly
in her last hours she forgot how great a gap was left.
At any rate she bade us deal with this autobiography
as we thought best, believing that it would serve for
all that was necessary.
But when those to whom she had intrusted it came
to examine the manuscript, a great disappointment befell
them.. It had no beginning; scraps had been written
*at long intervals and by no means consecutively. The
first entry in her book was written in 186o, and mentions,
rather than records, the struggles of her early widowhood. The second, in 1864, is the outpouring of her
grief for the loss of her one daughter, her little Maggie,
suddenly snatched from her in Rome.. After this is the
long gap of twenty-one years, till the time when in her
bright house at Windsor with both her sons still left to
her, and her two, adopted daughters about her, she was
moved to write down a more connected and less sad
record. But even then the thread is snapped two or
three times before it finally breaks off after the death
of both her sons, and it may be that the needful fitting
together has not been quite smoothly done after all.
So far, however, there is a narrative in her own writing.
After 1892 there is nothing, and it. seemed impossible to
allow the late years of her life--full of work, full of
varying scenes and interests-to remain altogether un



x


PREFACE.


recorded. The best thing that could be done, therefore,
was to supplement her manuscript with letters, and to
connect these with the slightest possible thread of story,
thus endeavouring to obey her wishes and yet gratify
the many readers who have for so long a stretch of years
regarded her as a friend.
Here, however, another and most unexpected difficulty
occurred. Three or four of her most intimate friends
-two especially to whom she was in the habit of writing
full and interesting letters-have died within the last
few years, and the whole correspondences which would
have been so valuable have been destroyed. One series
of letters, beginning in 1865 and ending only with her
death, is too intimate to furnish much of general interest,
though a few selections from it are given; and several
friends have added each two or three letters to the
collection. The largest portion of the correspondence
now printed belongs to the Blackwood family. Her
faithful and highly valued friend, the late Mr John
Blackwood, his sister the late Miss Blackwood, and Mr
William Blackwood, the present Editor of 'Maga,' were
all recipients of letters which are very characteristic and
very interesting, and give almost a connected history of
Mrs Oliphant's literary work. Some others come from Mr
Craik (Macmillan & Co.), and some from other business
correspondents. A few letters to her sons have been
added, and in all cases it has seemed advisable to furnish
now and then a letter written to her to explain those
written by her.
Very little more than this has been attempted. Only
when the end must be chronicled another hand takes
up the pen she has laid down and sorrowfully records
the close of a life-not faultless, indeed, but noble, loving,
and womanly in the highest sense, and of a literary
career full of sound, skilful, and serviceable labours.




PREFACE.                    X1
Let me end this short preface with an extract from
a letter addressed to Mr Blackwood in 1876, and expressing her feeling with regard to one from Mr Kinglake:"How very good of Mr Kinglake to interest himself
about the poor little reputation which, alas! 'thae muving things ca'ed weans' have forced me to be so careless
of... I think, though, if ever the time comes that I
can lie on my oars, after the boys are out in the world,
or when the time comes which there is no doubt about,
when I shall be out of the world, that I will get a little
credit-but not much now, there is so much of me!"
A. L. C.
Marck 1899.








CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE........  v
AUTOBIOGRAPHYI.
A life of incessant work-A misunderstood Scottish trait-The
freedom from human ties-George Eliot-Early memoriesA domestic miracle-The old type of Scotch mother-The
Carlyles-An Irish admirer-First attempt at writing-An
unauthorised political canvasser-' Mrs Margaret Maitland'
-First impressions of London-A compliment from Jeffrey'Caleb Field'-The prophetic ache in the heart-A visit to
Edinburgh-Sir Daniel Wilson-" Delta"-Major William
Blackwood-' Katie Stewart '-Marriage- Face to face with
the inevitable-The mystery of grief-Disillusionment in
London-Mrs S. C. Hall-Mary Howitt-Rosa BonheurMiss Muloch-Frank Smedley-Simple pleasures..  3
II.
Early married life in London-A doubtful compliment-A
halcyon time - Disloyal workmen - Ordered south - Marseilles-A generous landlady-First impressions of Florence
-A vivid and painful recollection-A peaceful revolutionThe companionship of pictures-Rome-An artist's salon-A
soldier priest-Death of Mr Oliphant-A cheerless outlookA point of etiquette--A magic name to hotel-keepers-Charlotte BrontE-Insensibility to praise or blame... 41




xiv


CONTENTS.


III.
A village in Fife-John Blackwood-A house in Edinburgh-A
critical moment in her literary career-A notable success with
the Carlingford series-A vivacious Scotswoman-Rome and
the ' Iliad'-A story of Professor Aytoun-The broken bread
of science-A fervent Irvingite-Principal Story-The pathos
attending the writing of the autobiography-A widowei's
philosophy-A visit to Carlyle at Cheyne Row-Mrs Carlyle
-The study of human nature an impertinence-J. A. Symonds
-Ealing-Mr Blackett-The author of 'John Halifax'SSalem Chapel'-Pleasant memories of the Carlyles-Fine
writing-Principal Tulloch-Roseneath-The tragedy of a
false quantity-A journey to Rome-The shadow of deathThe mystery of the "Unseen".... 68
IV.
Twice fatal Rome-Paris-Count de Montalembert-Carlyle
and Montalembert-Notre Dame-A French grande dameA bohemian Latin tutor-An Italian refugee-Father Prout
-A miraculous ease of mind-A retrospect-" I wrote as I
read "-Normandy-A rash adventure-St Malo-A coaching
journey-Windsor-A     house full of entertainment-Want
of musical appreciation-The "Little Pilgrim "-Some interesting neighbours-A merry heart goes all the way-An
alarming interruption-The interest of unimportant details
-Which was God and which was Mammon?-A critical
moment-The difficulties of a domestic budget-Was it
tempting Providence?-Two-edged compliments-A Sloane
Street salon-Lady Martin-Mr Pigott-First impression of
Tennyson-Mr Fawcett-A beautiful appetite-A scheme of
pleasure interrupted by death-No prouder woman in the
world-The might-have-been-Mr Leslie Stephen-The burden and heat of the day-A bitter disappointment-Death of
Cyril Oliphant-The filling of the cup of sorrow.. 95
LETTERS (1850-1897)..... 151
LIST OF MRS OLIPHANT'S PUBLISHED WORKS... 441
MRS OLIPHANT'S CONTRIBUTIONS TO ' BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE' 445




PLATES.
MRS OLIPHANT.....       Frontistiece
From a. Drawing made in i895 by yanet Mary Olipfant.
-WINDSOR, 1874. M. 0. W. 0., C. F. 0., F. R. 0., F. W.    Facing.d 246
From a Photograf1k.








.AU T O.B.IOGR APHY








AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


WINDSOR, ist February 1 885.1
TWENTY-ONE years have passed since I wrote what is on
the opposite page.2  I have just been reading it all with
tears; sorry, very sorry for that poor soul who has lived
through so much since.     Twenty-one years is a little
lifetime.  It is curious to think that I was not very
young, nearly thirty-six, at that time, and that I am not
very old, nearly fifty-seven, now. Life, though it is short,
is very long, and contains so much. And one does not,
to one's consciousness, change as one's outward appearance and capabilities do. D6esn't Mrs Somerville say
that, so far from feeling old, she was not always quite
certain (up in the seventies) whether she was quite
grown up!    I entirely understand the feeling, though I
have. had enough, one would think, to make one feel old.
Since the time when that most unexpected, most terrible
blow overtook me in Rome -where her father had died
four years before - I have had trials which, I say it with
1 It has been thought better to print the earlier portion, or such of it as
might interest general readers, after this part of Mrs. Oliphant's journal, so as
to preserve the sequence of the narrative. --Ed.
2 See Preface, p. ix. - Ed.




4


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


full knowledge of all the ways of mental suffering, have
been harder than sorrow. I have lived a laborious life,
incessant work, incessant anxiety-and yet so strange, so
capricious is this human being, that I would not say I
have had an unhappy life. I have said this to one or two
friends who know faintly without details what I have had
to go through, and astonished them. Sometimes I am
miserable-always there is in me the sense that I may
have active cause to be so at any moment-always the
gnawing pangs of anxiety, and deep, deep dissatisfaction
beyond words, and the sense of helplessness, which of
itself is despair. And yet there are times when my heart
jumps up in the old unreasonable way, and I am,-yes,
happy-though the word seems so inappropriate-without any cause for it, with so many causes the other way.
I wonder whether this is Want of feeling, or mere temperament and elasticity, or if it is a special compensation
-"Werena my heart licht I wad dee"-Grizel Hume
must have had the same.
I have been tempted to begin writing by George Eliot's
life - with that curious kind of self-compassion which one
cannot get clear of. I wonder if I am a little envious
of her? I always avoid considering formally what my
own mind is worth. I have never had any theory on
the subject. II have written because it gave me pleasure,
because it came natural to me, because it was like talking
or breathing, besides the big fact that it was necessary
for me to work for my children.. That, however, was
not the first motive, so that when I laugh inquiries
off and say that it is my trade, I do it only by way
of eluding the question which I have neither time nor
wish to enter into. Anthony Trollope's talk about the
characters in his books astonished me beyond measure,
and I am totally incapable of talking about anything I
have ever done in that way. As he was a thoroughly
sensible genuine man, I suppose he was quite sincere in
what he says of them,-or was it that he was driven
into a fashion of self-explanation which belongs to the
time, and which I am following now though in another




SCOTCH TRAITS OF CHARACTER.


5


way?   I feel that my carelessness:of asserting my
claim is very much against me with everybody. It
is so natural to think that if the workman himself is
indifferent about his work, there can't be much in it
that is worth thinking about. I am.not indifferent,
yet I should rather like to. forget it all, to wipe out
all the books, to silence those compliments about my
industry, &c., which I always turn off with a laugh,
I suppose this is really pride, with a mixture of Scotch
shyness, and a good deal of that uncomprehended,
unexplainable feeling which made Mrs Carlyle reply with
a jibe, which meant only a whimsical impulse to take the
side of opposition, and the strong Scotch sense of the
absurdity of a chorus of praise, but which looks so often
like detraction and bitterness, and has now definitely
been accepted as such by the public in general. I don't
find words to express it adequately, but I feel it strenuously in my own case. When people comment upon the
number of books I have written, and I say that I am so
far from' being proud of that fact that I should like at
least half of them forgotten? they stare--and yet it is
quite true; and even here I could no more go solemnly
into them, and tell why I had done this or that, than I
could fly. They are my work, which I like in the doing,
which is my natural way of occupying myself, though they /
are never so good as I meant them to be. And when
I have said that, I have said all that is in me to say.
I don't quite know why I should put this all down. I
suppose because George Eliot's life has, as I said above,
stirred me up to an involuntary confession. - How I have
been handicapped in life! Should JI have done better if
I had been kept, like her, in a mental greenhouse and
taken care of? This is one of the things it is perfectly
impossible to tell. In all likelihood our minds and pur
circumstances are so arranged that, after all, the possible
-way is the way that is best; yet it is a little hard sometimes not to feel with Browning's Andreatbat the. mep
who have no wives, who. have given themselves.up to
their art, have had an almost unfair advantage over us.ALL:




6


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


who have been given perhaps more than one Lucrezia to
take care of. And to feel with him that perhaps in the
after-life four square walls in the New Jerusalem may be
given for another trial! I used to be intensely impressed
in the Laurence Oliphants with that curious freedom
from human ties which I have never known; and that
they felt it possible to make up their minds to do what
was best, without any sort of arridre pensde, without
having to consider whether they could or not. Curious
freedom! I have never known what it was. I have
always had to think of other people, and to plan everything -for my own pleasure, it is true, very often, but
always in subjection to the neccessity which bound me to
them. On the whole, I have had a great deal of my own
way, and have insisted upon getting what I wished, but
only at the cost of infinite labour, and of carrying a
whole little world with me whenever I moved. I have
not been able to rest, to please myself, to take the
pleasures that have come in my way, but have always
been forced to go on without a pause. When my poor
brother's family fell upon my hands, and especially when
there was question of Frank's education, I remember that
I said to myself, having then perhaps a little stirring of
ambition, that I must make up my mind to think no
more of that, and that to bring up the boys for the,/ service of God was better than to write a fine novel,
supposing even that it was in me to do so. Alas! the
work has been done; the education is over; my good
Frank, my steady, good boy, is dead. It seemed rather
a fine thing to make that resolution (though in reality I
had no choice); but now I think that if I had taken the
other way, which seemed the less noble, it might have
been better for all of us. I might have done better work.
I should in all probability have earned nearly as much
for half the production had I done less; and I might
have had the satisfaction of knowing that there was
something laid up for them and for my old age; while
they might have learned habits of work which now seem




GEORGE ELIOT.


7


beyond recall. Who can tell? I did with much labour
what I thought the best, and there is only a might have
been on the other side.
In this my resolution which I did make, I was, after
all, only following my instincts, it being in reality easier
to me to keep on with a flowing sail, to keep my household and make a number of people comfortable, at the
cost of incessant work, and an occasional great crisis of
anxiety, than to live the self-restrairied life which the
greater artist imposes upon himself.
What casuists we are on our own behalf! -this is altogether self-defence. And I know I am giving myself
the air of being au fond a finer sort of character than
the others. I may as well take the little satisfaction to
myself, for nobody will give it to me. iNo one even
will mention me in the same breath with George Eliot.
And that is just. It is a little justification to myself
to think how much better off she was,-no trouble in
all her life as far as appears, but the natural one of her
father's death - and perhaps coolnesses with her brothers
and sisters, though that is not said. And though her
marriage is not one that most of us would have ventured on, still it seems to have secured her a worshipper unrivalled.  I think she must have been a dull
woman with a great genius distinct from herself, something like the gift of the old prophets, which they
sometimes exercised with only a dim sort of perception
what it meant.   But this is a thing to be said only
with bated breath, and perhaps further thought on the
subject may change even my mind. She took herself
with tremendous seriousness, that is evident, and was
always on duty, never relaxing, her letters ponderous
beyond description - and those to the Bray party giving
one the idea of a mutual improvement society for the
exchange of essays.
Let me be done with this - I wonder if I will ever have
time to put a few autobiographical bits down before I
die. I am in very little danger of having my life written,




8


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


and that is all the better in this point of view--for
what could be said of me? George Eliot and George
Sand make me half inclined to cry over my poor little
unappreciated self -'" Many love me (i.e., in a sort of
way), but by none am I enough beloved."    These two
bigger women did' things which I have never felt the least
temptation to do - but how very much more enjoyment
they seem to have got out of their life, how much more
praise and homage and honour!. I would not buy their
fame with these disadvantages, but I do feel very small.,
very obscure, beside them, rather a failure all round,
never securing any strong affection, and throughout my
life, though I have had all the usual experiences of
woman, never impressing anybody, - what a droll little
complaint!-why should I? I acknowledge frankly that
there is nothing in me-a fat, little, commonplace woman,
rather tongue-tied-to impress any one; and yet there
is a sort of whimsical injury in it which makes me sorry
for' myself.
Feb. 8th.
Here, then, for a little try at the autobiography.  I
ought to be doing some work, getting on a little in
advance for to-morrow, which gives a special zest to
doing nothing:1 to doing what has no need to be doneand Sunday evenings have always been a time to fantasticare, to do what one pleased; and I have dropped out of
the letter I used to do on these occasions, having- which,
by the way, is a little sad' when one comes to think of it
-.no one to write to, of anything that is beneath the
surface. Curious! I had.scarcely realised it before.
Now for a beginning.
I remember nothing of Wallyford, where I was born,
but opened my eyes to life, so far as I remember, in the
village of Lasswade, where we lived inr a little house, I
think, on the road to Dalkeith. I recollect the wintry
road 'ending to my consciousness 'in a slight ascent with
1 This is exactly what Sir Walter says in his Diary, only published in 'Sc a
so 1 was like him in this without knowing it.




EARLY MEMORIES.


9


big ash-trees forming a sort of arch; underneath which I
fancy was a toll-bar, the way into the world appropriately
barred by that turnpike. But no, that was not the way
into the world; for the world was Edinburgh, the coach
for which, I am almost sure, went the other way through
the village and over the bridge to the left hand, starting
from somewhere close to Mr Todd the baker's shop, of
which I have a faint and kind recollection. It was by
that way that Frank came home on Saturday nights to
spend Sunday at home, walking out from   Edinburgh
(about six miles) to walk in again on Monday in the dark
winter mornings. I recollect nothing about the summer
mornings when he set out on that walk, but remember
vividly like a picture the Monday mornings in winter;
the. fire burning cheerfully and candles on the breakfasttable, all dark but with a subtle sense of morning,
though it seemed a kind of dissipation to be up so long
before the day. I can see myself, a small creature seated
on a stool by the fire, toasting a cake of dough which
was brought for me by the baker with the prematurely
early rolls, which were for Frank. (This dough was the
special feature of the morning to me, and I suppose I
had it only on these occasions.) And my mother, who
never seemed to sit down in the strange, little, warm,
bright picture, but to hover about the table pouring out
tea, supplying everything he wanted to her boy (how
proud, how fond of him!- her eyes liquid and bright with
love as she hovered about); and Frank, the dearest of
companions so long - then long separated, almost alienated, brought back again at the end to my care. How
bright he was then, how good always to me, how fond of
his little sister!--impatient by moments, good always.
And he was a kind of god to me- my Frank, as I always
called him. I remember once weeping bitterly over a
man singing in the street, a buttoned-up, shabby-genteel
man, whom, on being questioned why I cried, I acknowledged I thought like my Frank. That was when
he was absent, and my mother's anxiety reflected in a




IO


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


child's mind went, I suppose, the length of fancying that
Frank too might have to sing in the street. (He would
have come off very badly in that case, for he did not
know one tune from another, much less could he sing a
note!)  How well I recollect the appearance of the man
in his close-buttoned black coat, with his dismal song,
and the acute anguish of the thought that Frank might
have come to that for anything I knew. Frank, however, never gave very much anxiety; it was Willie, poor
Willie, who was our sore and constant trouble- Willie,
who lives still in Rome, as he has done for the last twoor three-and-twenty years - nearly a quarter of a century
-among strangers who are kind to him, wanting nothing, I hope, yet also having outlived everything.  I
shrank from going to see him when I was in Italy, which
was wrong; but how can I return to Rome, and how
could he have come to me?-poor Willie! the handsomest, brightest of us all, with eyes that ran over with
fun and laughter-and the hair which we used to say he
had to poll, like Absalom, so many times a-year. Alas!
What I recollect in Lasswade besides the Monday
morning aforesaid is not much. I remember standing
at the smithy with brother Willie, on some occasion
when the big boy was very unwillingly charged to take
his little sister somewhere or other, - standing in the
dark, wondering at the sparks as they flew up and the
dark figures of the smith and his men; and I remember
playing on the road opposite the house, where there was
a low wall over which the Esk and the country beyond
could be seen (I think), playing with two little kittens,
who were called Lord Brougham and Lord Grey. It
must have been immediately after the passing of the
Reform Bill, and I suppose this was why the kittens bore
such names. We were all tremendously political and
Radical, my mother especially and Frank. Likewise I
recollect with the most vivid clearness on what must have
been a warm still summer day, lying on my back in the
grass, the little blue speedwells in which are very distinct




THE OLD TYPE OF SCOTCH MOTHER. -


II


before me, and looking up into the sky. The depths of
it, the blueness of it, the way in which it seemed to move
and fly and avoid the gaze which could not penetrate beyond that profound unfathomable blue, - the bliss of
lying there doing nothing, trying to look into it, growing
giddy with the effort, with a sort of vague realisation of
the soft swaying of the world in space! I feel the giddiness in my brain still, and the happiness, as if I had been
the first discoverer of that wonderful sky. All my little
recollections are -like pictures to which the meaning,
naturally, is put long afterwards. I did not know the
world moved or anything about it, being under six at
most; but I can feel the sensation of the small head
trying to fix that great universe, and in the effort growing
dizzy and going round.
We left Lasswade when I was six, my father's business taking him to Glasgow, to the misery of my
mother, who was leaving her boys behind her.     My
father is a very dim figure in all that phantasmagoria.
I had to be very quiet in the evenings when he was at
home, not to disturb him; and he took no particular
notice of me or of any of us. My mother was all in all.
How she kept everything going, and comfortably going,
on the small income she had to administer, I can't tell;
it seems like a miracle, though of course we lived in the
utmost obscurity and simplicity, she herself doing the
great part of all that was done in the house. I was the
child of her age- not her old age, but the sentiment was
the same. She had lost three children one after another
- one a girl about whom I used to make all sorts of
dream-romances, to the purport that Isabella had never
died at all, and was brought back in this or that miraculous way to make my mother and myself supremely
happy. I was born after that period of misery, and
brought back life to my mother's heart. She was of the
old type of Scotch mothers, not demonstrative, not
caressing, but I know now that I was a kind of idol to




12


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


her from my birth. My clothes were all made by her
tender hands, finer and more beautifully worked than
ever child's clothes were; my under garments fine linen
and trimmed with little, delicate laces, to the end that
there might be nothing coarse, nothing less than exquisite, about me; that I might grow up with all the
delicacies of a woman's ideal child.
But she was very quick in temper notwithstanding
this, and was very far from spoiling me. I was not.
petted nor called by sweet names. But I know now that
my mere name meant everything to her. I was her
Maggie-what more could mortal speech find to say?
How little one realises the character or individuality of
those who are most near and dear. It is with difficulty
even now that I can analyse or make a character of her.
She herself is there, not any type or variety of humankind. She was taller than I am, not so stout as I
have grown. She had a sweet fresh complexion, and a
cheek so soft that I can feel the sensation of putting mine
against it still, and beautiful liquid brown eyes, full of
light and fun and sorrow and anger, flashing andmelting,
terrible to look at sometimes when one was in disgrace.
Her teeth projected, when she had teeth, but she lost
and never replaced them, which did not, I think, harm
her looks very much-at least, not in my consciousness.
I am obliged to confess that when I remember her first
she wore a brown front! according to the fashion of the
time -which fashion she detested; and suddenly abandoning it one day, appeared with the most lovely white
hair, which gave a charm of harmonious colour to her
beautiful complexion and brown eyes- and eyebrows, but
which was looked upon with consternation by her contemporaries, who thought the change wickedness.  She
had grown very early grey like myself, but was at this
period, I should think, about forty-five. She wore a7lways a cap with white net quilled closely' round herface,
and tied under her chin with white ribbons; and in
winter always a white -shawl; her dress cut not quite- to




A DANGEROUS FACILITY.


13


her throat, and a very ample white net or cambric handkerchief showing underneath. She had read everything
she could lay hands upon all her life, and was fond of
quoting Pope, so that we used to call her Popish in afterdays when I knew what Popish in this sense meant.
She had entered into everything that was passing all
her life with the warmest energy and animation, as was
her nature; was Radical and democratic and the highest
of aristocrats all in one. She had a very high idea,
founded on I have never quite known what, of the
importance of the Oliphant family, so that I was
brought up with the sense of belonging (by her side)
to an old, chivalrous, impoverished race. I have never
got rid of the prejudice, though I don't think our
branch of the Oliphants was much to brag of. I would
not, however, do anything to dispel the delusion, if it
is one, for my mother's sake, who held it stoutly and
without a doubt. Her father had been a prodigal, and
I fear a profligate, whose wife had not been able to
bear with him (my mother would have borne anything
and everything for her children's sake, to keep their
home intact), and her youth had been a troubled and
partially dependent one, - dependent upon relations on
the one side, whom it was a relief, I suppose, to the
high-spirited girl to think as much inferior in race as
they were in the generosity and princeliness of nature
which was hers. So far as that went she might have,
been a queen.
I understand the Carlyles, both he and she, by
means of my mother as few people appear able to do.
She had Mrs Carlyle's wonderful gift of narrative, and
she possessed in perfection that dangerous facility of
sarcasm and stinging speech which Sir Walter attributes to Queen Mary. Though her kindness was inexhaustible and her love boundless, yet she could drive
her opponent of the moment half frantic with half-adozen words, and cut to the quick with a flying phrase.
On the other side, there was absolutely nothing that




14


AUTOBIOGRAPHY,


she would not have done or endured for her own;
and no appeal to her generosity was ever made in vain.
She was a poor woman all her life, but her instinct
was always to give. And she would have kept open
house if she could have had her way, on heaven.knows
how little a-year. My father was in one way very different. He hated strangers; guests at his table were a
bore to him. In his later days he would have nobody
invited, or if guests came, retired and would not see
them, - but he was not illiberal.
We lived for a long time in Liverpool, where my
father had an office in the Custom-house. I don't
know exactly what, except that he took affidavits-which
was a joke in the house - -having a special commission
for that purpose. We lived for some time in the North
End (no doubt a great deal changed now, and I have
known nothing about it for thirty years and more),
where there was a Scotch church, chiefly for the use
of the engineers and their families who worked in the
great foundries. One of the first things I remember
here was great distress among the people, on what
account I cannot tell- I must have been a girl of
thirteen or so, I think. A  fund was raised for their
relief, of which my father was treasurer, and both my
brothers were drawn in to help. This was very momentous in our family, from the fact that it was the
means of bringing Frank, up to this time everything
that was good except in respect to the Church, to that
last and crowning excellence. He got interested about
the poor, and began to come with us to church, and
filled my mother's cup with happiness. Willie, always
careless, always kind, ready to do anything for anybody, but who had already come by some defeat in
life which I did not understand, and who was at home
idle, took the charge of administering this charity, and
used to go about the poor streets with a cart of coal
behind him and his pockets stuffed with orders for
bread and provisions of all kinds. All this I remem



AFAIfRES DE CC UR.


15


ber, I think, more through my mother's keen half
anguish of happiness and pride than through my own
recollection. That he had done so poorly for himself
was bitter, but that he did so well for the poor was
sweet; oh! and such a vindication of the bright-eyed,
sweet-tempered unfortunate, who never was anybody's
enemy but his own -words which were more true in
his case than in most others. And then Frank was
busy in the good work too, and at last a member of
the Church, and all well.  This is not to say that
there were not domestic gusts at times.
When I was sixteen I began to have --what shall I
say? - not lovers exactly, except in the singular - but one
or two people about who revealed to me the fact that I
too was like the girls in the poets. I recollect distinctly
the first compliment, though not a compliment in the
ordinary sense of the word, which gave me that bewildering happy sense of being able to touch somebody else's
heart-:,which was half fun and infinitely amusing, yet
something more,  The speaker was a young Irishman,
one of the young ministers that came to our little church,
at that time vacant. He had joined Frank and me on a
walk, and when we were passing and looking at a very
pretty cottage on the 'slope of the hill at Everton,
embowered in gardens and shrubberies, he suddenly
looked at me and said, "It would be Elysium."    I
laughed till I cried at this speech afterwards, though at
the moment demure and startled. But the little incident
remains to me, as so many scenes in my early life do,
like a picture suffused with a soft delightful light: the
glow in the young man's eyes; the lowered tone and
little speech aside.; the soft thrill of meaning which was
nothing and yet much. Perhaps if I were not a novelist
addicted to describing such scenes, I might not regmember
it after--how long?  Forty-one years. What a long
time! I could not have been sixteen. Then came the
episode of J. Y., which was very serious indeed. We
were engaged on the eve of his going away. He was to




16


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


go to America for three years and then return for me.
He was a good, simple, pious, domestic, kind-hearted
fellow, fair-haired, not good-looking, not ideal at all. He
cannot have been at all clever, and I was rather. When
he went away our correspondence for some time was very
full; then I began to find his letters silly, and I suppose
said as much. Then there were quarrels, quarrels with
the Atlantic between, then explanations, and then dreadful silence. It is amusing to look back upon, but it was
not at all amusing to me then. My poor little heart was
broken. I remember another scene without being able
to explain it: my mother and myself walking home from
somewhere--I don't know where - after it was certain
that there was no letter, and that all was over. I think
it was a winter night and rainy, and I was leaning on
her arm, and the blank of the silence, and the dark and
the separation, and the cutting off of all the dreams that
had grown about his name, came over me and seemed to
stop my very life. My poor little heart was broken. I
was just over seventeen, I think.
These were the only breaks in my early life. We lived
in the most singularly secluded way. I never was at a
dance till after my marriage, never went out, never saw
anybody at home. Our pleasures were books of all and
every kind, newspapers and magazines, which formed
the staple of our conversation, as well as all our amusement.   In the time of my depression and sadness my
mother had a bad illness, and I was her nurse, or at least
attendant.  I had to sit for hours by her bedside and
keep quiet. I had no liking then for needlework, a taste
which developed afterwards, so I took to writing. There
was no particular purpose in my beginning except this,
to secure some amusement and occupation for myself
while I sat by my mother's bedside. I wrote a little book
in which the chief character was an angelic elder sister,
unmarried, who had the charge of a family of motherless
brothers and sisters, and who had a shrine of sorrow in
her life in the shape of the portrait and memory of her




FIRST LITERARY EFFORTS.


I7


lover who had died young. It was all very innocent and
guileless, and my audience--to wit, my mother and
brother Frank - were highly pleased with it. (It was
published long after by W. on his own account, and very
silly I think it is, poor little thing.) I think I was then
about sixteen. Afterwards I wrote another very much
concerned with the Church business, in which the
heroine, I recollect, was a girl, who in the beginning of
the story was a sort of half-witted undeveloped creature,
but who ended by being one of those lofty poetical
beings whom   girls love. She was called, I recollect,
Ibby, but why, I cannot explain. I had the satisfaction
afterwards, when I came to my full growth, of burning
the manuscript, which was a three-volume business. I
don't think any effort was ever made to get a publisher
for it.
We were living at. the time in Liverpool, either in a
house in Great Homer Street or in Juvenal Street-very
classical in point of name but in nothing else. Probably
neither of these places exists any longer- very good
houses though, at least the last. I have lately described
in a letter in the 'St James' Gazette' a curious experience of mine as a child while living in one of these
places. It was in the time of the Anti-Corn Law agitation, and I was about fourteen. There was a great deal
of talk in the papers, which were full of that agitation,
about a petition from women to Parliament upon that
subject, with instructions to get sheets ruled for signatures, and an appeal to ladies to help in procuring them.
It was just after or about the time of our great charity,
and I was in the way of going thus from house to house.
Accordingly I got a number of these sheets, or probably
Frank got them for me, and set to work. Another girl
went with me, I believe, but I forget who she was. The
town was all portioned out into districts under the charge
of ladies appointed by the committee, but we flung ourselves upon a street, no matter where, and got our papers
filled and put all the authorised agents comically out.
B




i8


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


-Nobody could discover who we were. I took my sheets
to the meeting of the ladies, and was much wondered
at, being to the external eye a child, though to my own
consciousness quite a grown-up person. The secretary
of the association or committee, or whatever it was,
was, I think, a Miss Hayward; at all events her Christian name was Lawrencina, which she wrote L'cina.
I admired her greatly, and admired her pretty handwriting and  everything about her. I myself wrote
abominably, resisting up to this time all efforts to
teach me better; but the circulars and notes with
Miss L'cina's pretty name developed in me a warm
ambition. I began to copy her writing, and mended
in my own from that day. It did not come to very
much, the printers would say.
I was a tremendous politician in those days.
I forget when it was that we moved to Birkenhead
-not, I think, till after the extraordinary epoch of the
publication of my first book. From  the time above
spoken of I went on writing, and somehow, I don't
remember gow, got into the history of Mrs Margaret
Maitland. There had been some sketches from lift in the
story which, as I have said, I burned; but that was pure
imagination. A slight reflection of my own childhood
perhaps was in the child Grace, a broken bit of reflection
here and there from my mother in the picture of Mrs
Margaret. Willie, after many failures and after a long
illness, which we were in hopes had purified him from
all his defects, had gone to London to go through some
studies at the London University and in the College
called the English Presbyterian, to which in our warm
Free Churchism we had attached ourselves. He took
my MS. to Colburn, then one of the chief publishers
of novels, and for some weeks nothing was heard of it,
when one morning came a big blue envelope containing
an agreement by which Mr Colburn pledged himself to
publish my book on the half-profit system, accompanied
by a letter from a Mr S. W. Fullom, full of compliments




I MRS MARGARET MAITLAND.I


19


as to its originality, &c. I have forgotten the terms now,
but then I knew   them  by heart.  The delight, the
astonishment, the amusement of this was not to be
described. First and foremost, it was the most extraordinary joke that ever was.  Maggie's story!   My
mother laughed and cried with pride and happiness
and amazement unbounded.    She thought Mr S. W.
Fullom a great authority and a man of genius, and
augured the greatest advantage to me from his acquaintance and that of all the great literary persons about
him.  This wonderful event must have come most
fortunately to comfort the family under new trouble;
for things had again gone wrong with poor Willie -he
had fallen once more into his old vice and debt and
misery. He had still another term in London before
he finished the course of study he was engaged in;
and when the time came for his return I was sent with
him to take care of him. It was almost the first time
I had ever been separated from my mother. One visit
of two or three weeks to the Hasties of Fairy Knowe,
which had its part too in my little development, had
been my only absence from home; and how my mother
made up her mind to this three months' parting I do
not know, but for poor Willie's sake everything was
possible. We had lodgings near Bruton Crescent in a
street where our cousins, Frank and Tom Oliphant, were
in the same house. We had the parlour, I remember,
where I sat in the mornings when Willie was at his
lectures. Afterwards he came in and I went out with
him to walk. We used to walk through all the curious
little passages leading, I believe, to Holborn, and full of
old bookshops, which were our delight.  And he took
me to see the parks and various places - though not those
to which I should suppose a girl from the country would
be taken. The bookshops are the things I remember
best. He was as good as he could be, docile and sweettempered and never rebellious; and I was a little dragon
watching over him  with remorseless anxiety. I dis



20


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


covered, I remember, a trifling bill which had not been
included when his debts were paid, and I took my small
fierce measures that it should never reach my mother's
ears, nor trouble her. I ordained that for two days in
the week we should give up our mid-day meal and make
up at the evening one, which we called supper, for the
want of it. On these days, accordingly, he did not come
home, or came only to fetch me, and we went out for
a long walk, sustaining ourselves with a bun until it
should be time to come home to tea. He agreed to this
ordinance without a murmur-my poor, good, tenderhearted, simple-minded Willie;.and the little bill was
paid and never known of at home.
Curiously enough, I remember little of the London
sights or of any impression they made upon me. We
knew scarcely anybody. Mrs Hamilton, the sister of
Edward Irving's wife and a relation, took some notice
of us, but she was almost the only individual I knew.
And my heart was too full of my charge to think much
of the cousin up-stairs with whom my fate was soon
to be connected.  We had known scarcely anything of
each other before. We were new acquaintances, though
relations. He took me, I remember, to the National
Gallery, full of of expectation as to the effect the pictures
would have upon me. And I - was struck dumb with
disappointment,  I had never seen any pictures.   I
can't tell what I expected to see - something that never
was on sea or shore. My ideal of absolute ignorance
was far too high-flown, I suppose, for anything human.
I was horribly disappointed, and dropped down from
untold heights of imagination to a reality I could not
understand.  I remember, in the humiliation of my
downfall, and in the sense of my cousin's astonished
disappointment at my want of appreciation, fixing upon
a painting--a figure of the Virgin in a Crucifixion, I
think by Correggio, but I am quite vague about itas the thing I liked best.  I chose that as Wordsworth's little boy put forth the weathercock at Kilve




A GREAT DISILLUSIONMENT.


21


-in despair at my own incapacity to admire.   I remember also the beads of the old Jews in Leonardo's
Christ in the Temple.   The face of the young Redeemer with its elaborate crisped hair shocked me with
a sense of profanity, but the old heads I could believe
in.  And that was all I got out of my first glimpse
into the world of art.  I cannot recollect whether it
was then or after, that an equally great disillusionment
in the theatre befell me. The play Was "Twelfth Night,"
and the lovely beginning of that play" That strain again! it had a dying fall"
-was given by a nobody in white tights lying on a
sofa and balancing a long leg as he spoke.  The disgust, the disenchantment, the fury remain in my mind
now. Once more I cdame tumbling down from my ideal
and all my anticipations. Mrs Charles Kean was Viola,
and she was middle-aged and stout!1I    I was more
than disappointed, I was angry   and disgusted  and
cast down.  What was the good of anything if that
was all that Shakespeare and the 'great Masters could
come to?
I remember after this a day at Greenwich and Woolwich, and the sight of the Arsenal, though why that
should have made an impression on my memory, heaven
knows! I remember the pyramids of balls, and some
convicts whose 'appearance gave.me a thrill of horror,
- I think they were convicts, though why convicts
should be at Woolwich I can't tell- perhaps it was
a mistake. And then Mr Colburn kindly--I thought
most kindly, and thanked him avec effusion-gave me
~i50 for " Margaret Maitland.'  I remember -walking
along the street with delightful elation, thinking that,
after all, I was worth something-and not to be hustled
about.  I remember, too, getting the first review of
my book in the twilight of a wintry dark afternoon,
and reading it by the firelight-always half-amused at
1 Probably under thirty.- ED.




2 2


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


the thought that it was me who was being thus discussed in the newspapers.    It was the 'Athenaeum,'
and it was on the whole favourable. Of course this
event preceded by a couple of months the transaction
with Mr Colburn. I think the book was in its third
edition before he offered me that '150.  I remember
no reviews except that one of the 'Athenaeum,' nor
any particular effect which my success produced in me,
except that sense of elation. I cannot think why the
book succeeded so well.   When I read it over some
years after, I felt nothing but shame at its foolish little
polemics and opinions. I suppose there must have been
some breath of youth and sincerity in it which touched
people, and there had been no Scotch stories for a
long time.   Lord Jeffrey, then an old man and very
near his end, sent me a letter of sweet praise, which
filled my mother with rapture and myself with     an
abashed gratitude. I was very young. Oddly enough,
it has always remained a matter of doubt with me
whether the book was published in 1849 or I850. I
thought the former; but Geraldine Macpherson, whom
I met in London for the first time a day or two before
it was published, declared it to be 1850, from the fact
that that was the year of her marriage.  If a woman
remembers any date, it must be the date of her marriage!1 so I don't doubt Geddie was right. Anyhow,
if it was 1850, [I was then only twenty-two, and in
some things very young for my age, as in others perhaps older than my years.     I was wonderfully little
moved by the business altogether.     I had a great
pleasure in writing, but the success and the three editions had no particular effect upon my mind.     For
one thing, I saw very few people. We had no society.
My father had a horror of strangers, and would never
see any one who came to the house, which was a continual wet blanket to my mother's cordial, hospitable
nature; but she had given up struggling long before
1 It was 1849.- ED.




'CALEB FIELD.'


23


my time, and I grew up without any idea of the
pleasures and companions of youth. I did not know
them, and therefore did not miss them; but I daresay
this helped to make me-not indifferent, rather unconscious, of what might in other circumstances have
"turned my head." My head was as steady as a rock.
I had nobody to praise me except my mother and
Frank, and their applause - well, it was delightful, it
was everything in the world - it was life, -but it did
not count.  They were part of me, and I of them,
and we were all in it. After a while it came to be
the custom that I should every night "read what I
had written" to them   before I went to bed.   They
were very critical sometimes, and I felt while I was
reading whether my little audience was with me or
not, which put a good deal of excitement into the
performance. But that was all the excitement I had.
I began another book called 'Caleb Field,' about the
Plague in London, the very night I had finished ' Margaret Maitland.'  I had been reading Defoe, and got
the subject into my head. It came to one volume only,
and I took a great deal of trouble about a Nonconformist minister who spoke in antitheses very carefully
constructed.  I don't think it attracted much notice,
but I don't remember. Other matters, events even of
our uneventful life, took so much more importance in
life than these books-nay, it must be a kind of affectation to say that, for the writing ran through everything. But then it was also subordinate to everything,
to be pushed aside for any little necessity. I had no
table even to myself, much less a room to work in,
but sat at the corner of the family table with my writing-book, with everything going on as if I had been
making a shirt instead of writing a book. Our rooms
in those days were sadly wanting in artistic arrangement. The table was in the middle of the room, the
centre round which everybody sat with the candles or
lamp upon it. My mother sat always at needle-work




24


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


of some kind, and talked to whoever might be present,
and I took my share in the conversation, going on all
the same with my story, the little groups of imaginary
persons, these other talks evolving themselves quite undisturbed. it would put me out now to have some one
sitting at the same table talking while I worked-at least'
I would think it put me out, with that sort of conventionalism which grows upon one. But up to this date,
1888, I have never been shut up in a separate room, or
hedged off with any observances.  My study, all the
study I have ever attained to, is the little second drawing-room where all the (feminine) life of the house goes
on; and I don't think I have ever had two hours undisturbed (except at night, when everybody is in bed)
during my whole literary life. Miss Austen, I believe,
wrote in the same way, and very much for the same
reason; but at her period the natural flow- of life took
another form. The family were half ashamed to have
it known that she was -not just a young lady like the
others, doing her embroidery. Mine were quite pleased
'to magnify me, and to be proud of my work, but always
with a hidden sense that it was an admirable joke, and
no idea that any special facilities or retirement was
necessary. My mother, I believe, would have felt her
pride and rapture much checked, almost humiliated, if
she had conceived that I stood in need of any artificial
aids of that or any other description. That would at
once have made the work unnatural to her eyes, and
ailso to mine. I think the first time I ever secluded myself for my work was years after it had become my
profession and sole dependence- when I was living after
my widowhood in a relation's house, and withdrew with
my book and my inkstand from     the family drawingroom out of a little conscious ill-temper which made me
feel guilty, notwithstanding that the retirement was 'so
very justifiable! But I did 'not feel it to be so, neither
did the companions from whom I withdrew.
After this period our poor Willie became a minister




A NORTHUMBRIAN VILLAGE.


25


of the English Presbyterian   Church, then  invested
with glory by the Free Church, its real parent, which
in our fervid imagination we had by this time dressed
up with   all sorts  of traditional splendour. It, we
flattered ourselves, was the  direct successor of the
two thousand seceders of 1661 (was that the date?).
There had been    a  downfall, we allowed, into Unitarianism and indifference; but this was the real, and
a very respectable, tradition. Willie went to a very
curious little place in the wilds of Northumberland,
where my mother and I decided - with hopes strangely
wild, it seems to me now, after all that had gone
before--that he was at length to do well, and be as
strenuous to his duty as he was gentle in temper
and tender in heart. Poor Willie!   It was a sort of
show village with pretty flowery cottages and gardens,
in a superior one of which he lived, or rather lodged,
the income being very small and the position humble.
It was, however, so far as my recollection goes,. sufficiently like a Scotch parish to convince us that the
church  and  parsonage were quite   exotic, and  the
humble chapel the real religious centre of the place.
A great number of the people were, I believe, Presbyterians, and the continuance of their worship and little
strait ceremony undoubted from the time of the Puritans, though curiously enough the minister was known
to his flock by the title of the priest. I don't in the
least recollect what the place was like, yet a whiff of
'the rural air tinged with peat or wood, and of the
roses with which the cottages were garlanded, and an
impression of the subdued light through the greenish small window half veiled in flowers, remains with
me,-very sweet, homely, idyllic, like something in a
pathetic  country story of peace  overshadowed with
coming trouble. There was a shadow of a ruined castle
in the background, I think Norham; but all is vague,
--I have not the clear memory of what I saw in my
youth that many people retain.  I see a little collec



26


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


tion of pictures, but the background is all vague. The
only vehicle we could get to take us to Berwick was,
I recollect, a cart, carefully arranged  with  strawcovered sacking to make us comfortable. The man
who drove it was very anxious to be engaged and
taken with us as "Miss Wilson's coachman."    Why
mine, or why we should have taken a rustic "Jockeyto-the-fair" for a coachman, if we had wanted such
an article, I don't know. I suppose there must have
been some sort of compliment implied to my beaux
yeux, or I should not have remembered this. We left
Willie with thankful hearts, yet an  ache  of fear.
Surely in that peaceful humble quiet, with those lowly
sacred duties and all his goodness and kindness, he
would do well! I don't remember how long it continued. So long as he kept up the closest correspondence, writing every second day and giving   a full
account of himself, there was an uneasy satisfaction at
home. But there is always a prophetic ache in the
heart when such calamity is on the way.
One day, without warning, except that his letters
had begun to fail a little, my mother received an
anonymous letter about him. She went off that evening, travelling all night to Edinburgh, which was the
quickest way, and then to Berwick.   She was very
little used to travelling, and she was over sixty, which
looked a great age then. I suppose the trains were
slower in those days, for I know she got to Edinburgh
only in the morning, and then had to go on by the
other line to Berwick, and then drive six, miles to the
village, where she found all the evil auguries fulfilled,
and poor Willie fallen again helpless into that Slough
of Despond. She remained a few miserable days, and
then brought him   back with her, finally defeated in
the battle which he was quite unfit to wage. He must
have been then, I think, about thirty-three, in the
prime of strength and youth; but except for a wavering and uncertain interval now and then, he never got




A SORROWFUL HOME-COMING.


27


out of the mire nor was able to support himself again.
I remember the horrible moment of his coming home.
Frank and I went down, I suppose, to the ferry at
Birkenhead to meet the travellers. We were all very
grave -not a word of reproach did any one say, but to
be cheerful, to talk about nothing, was impossible.
We drove up in silence to the house where we lived,
asking  a faint question  now  and  then about the
journey.  I remember that Willie had a little dog
called Brownie with him, and the relief this creature
was, which did not understand being shut up in the
carriage and made little jumps at the window, and
had to be petted and restrained.  Brownie brought a
little movement, an involuntary laugh at his antics, to
break the horrible silence - an angel could scarcely
have done more for us.    When we got home there
was the settling down in idleness, the hopeless decision of any wretched possibility there might be for
him. The days and weeks and months in which he
smoked and read old novels and the papers, and, most
horrible of all, got to content himself with that life!
The anguish in all our hearts looking at him, not
knowing what to do, sometimes assailed by gusts of
impatience, always closing down in the hopelessness of
it; the incapacity to find or suggest anything, the
dreary spectacle of that content is before me, with
almost as keen a sense of the misery as if it had been
yesterday.
I had been in the habit of copying out carefully, quite
proud of my neat MS., all my books, now becoming a
recognized feature of the family life. It struck us all as
a fine idea that Willie might copy them for me, and
retrieve a sort of fictitious independence by getting o10
per cent upon the price of them; and I really think he
felt quite comfortable on this. Of course, the sole use
of the copying was the little corrections and improvements I made in going over my work again.
It was after this that my cousin Frank came upon a




28


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


visit. We had seen, and yet had not seen, a great deal
of each other in London during the three months I had
spent there with Willie; but my mind had been preoccupied with Willie chiefly, and a little with my book.
When Frank made me the extraordinary proposal for
which I was totally unprepared, that we should, as he
said, build up the old Drumthwacket together, my only
answer was an alarmed negative, the idea never having
entered my mind. But in six months or so things
changed.  It is not a matter into which I can enter
here.
In the spring of 1851 my mother and I were in
Edinburgh, and there made the acquaintance of the
Wilsons, our second cousins,--George Wilson being at
that time Professor of something which meant chemistry,
but was not called so. His mother was an exceedingly
bright, vivacious old lady, a universal devourer of books,
and with that kind of scientific tendency which made her
encourage her boys to form museums, and collect fossils,
butterflies, &c. I forget how my mother and shegot on,
but I always liked her.
George Wilson was an excellent talker, full of banter
and a kind of humour, full of ability, too, I believe,
writing very amusing letters and talking very amusing
talk, which was all the more credit to him as he was in
very bad health, kept alive by the fact that he could
eat, and so maintain a modicum  of strength-enough
to get on by.  There were two daughters-Jessie and
Jeanie - the  younger of whom   became my brother
Frank's wife; and the eldest son, who was married,
lived close by, and was then, I think, doing literary
work for Messrs Nelson, reading for them and advising
them  about books. He very soon after this migrated
to Canada, and became eventually President of University College, Toronto, and Sir Daniel in the end of
his life.
My mother at this -time renewed acquaintance with
Dr Moir of Musselburgh, an old friend of hers, who.had,




A BLACKWOOD GROUP.


29


I believe, attended me when, as a very small child, I fell
into the fire, or rather against the bars of the grate,
marking my arm in a way which it never recovered.
This excellent man, whom everybody loved, was the
Delta of 'Blackwood's Magazine,' and called everywhere
by that name. He had written much gentle poetry, and
one story a la Galt called 'Mansie Wauch,' neither of
which were good enough for him, yet got him a certain
reputation, especially some pathetic verses about children
he had lost, which went to the heart of every mother who
had lost children, my own mother first and foremost.
He had married a very handsome stately lady, a little
conventional, but with an unfailing and ready kindness
which often made her mannerisms quite gracious and
beautiful. There was already a handsome daughter
married, though under twenty, and many other fine, tall,
well-bred, handsome creatures, still in long hair and short
skidrts, growing up. I think I was left behind to pay a
visit when my mother returned home, and then had a
kind of introduction to Edinburgh literary society, in one
case very important for myself. For in one expedition
we made, Major Blackwood, one of the publishing firm,
and brother of the editor of the ' Magazine,' was of the
party; and my long connection with his family 'thus
began. He was accompanied by a young man, a Mr
Cupples, of whom, except his name, I have no recollection, but who was the author of a sea-story then, I think,
going on in ' Blackwood,' called the ' Green Hand,' and
who, it was hoped, would be as successful as the author
of' Tom Cringle' and the ' Cruise of the Midge,' who had
been a very effective contributor twenty years before.
All I remember of him was that my cousin Daniel
Wilson, who was also of the party, indignantly pointed
out to me the airs which this young author gave himself,
" as if it was such a great thing to be a contributor to
' Blackwood'! " I am afraid I thought it was a great
thing, and had not remarked the young author's airs;
but Daniel was of the opposite camp. Major Blackwood,




30


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


who interested me most, was a mild soldierly man,
with the gentlest manners and drooping eyelids, which
softened his look, or so at least it appears to me at the
end of so many years.
I remember that one of the places we visited was
Wallyford, where was the house in which I was born,
but of which I had no recollection. It must have been a
pleasant homely house, with a projecting half turret enclosing the staircase, as in many houses in the Lothians, the
passages and kitchen down-stairs floored with red brick,
and a delightful large low drawing-room above, with five
greenish windows looking out upon Arthur's Seat in
the distance, and a ghost of Edinburgh.1 That room
charmed me greatly, and in after days I used to think
of becoming its tenant and living there, for the sake of
the landscape and the associations and that pretty old
room; but before I could have carried out such an
idea, even had it been more real than a fancy, the
pretty house was pulled down, and a square, aggressive, and very commonplace new farmhouse built in its
place.
The consequence of my introduction to Major Blackwood was, that some time in the course of the following
months I sent him the manuscript of my story 'Katie
Stewart': a little romance of my    mother's family,
gleaned from  her recollections and descriptions. The
scene of this story was chiefly laid in old Kellie Castle,
which I was not then aware was the home of our own
ancestors, from whom it had passed long before into the
hands of the Erskines, Earls of Kellie -with the daughter
of which house Katie Stewart had been brought up.
She was my mother's great-aunt, and had lived to a
great age. She had seen Prince Charlie enter Edinburgh, and had told all her experiences to my mother, who
told them to me, so that I never was quite sure whether
I had not been Katie Stewart's contemporary in my own
1 This house is the scene of the story of 'Isabel Dysart,' reprinted since Mrs
Oliphant's death. - Enx




MARRIAGE.


31


person. And this was her love-tale. I received proofs
of this story on the morning of my wedding-day, and
thus my connection with the firm of Blackwood began.
They were fond of nicknames, and I was known among
them by the name of "Katie" for a long time, as I
discovered lately (1896) in some old letters. I suppose
they thought me so young and simple (as they say in
these letters) that the girl's name was appropriate to me.
I was not tall ("middle height" we called it in those
days), and very inexperienced,-"so simple and yet selfpossessed," I am glad to say Major Blackwood reports
of me. I was only conscious of being dreadfully shy.
We were married in Birkenhead on the 4th May 1852,
- and the old home, which had come to consist of
such incongruous elements, was more or less broken up.
My brother Frank, discontented and wounded partly
by my marriage,-partly by the determination to abandon
him and follow me to London, which my father and
mother had formed, married too, hastily, but very successfully in a way as it turned out, and so two new
houses were formed out of the partial ruins of the old.
Had the circumstances been different- had they stayed
in Birkenhead and I gone alone with my husband to
London - some unhappiness might have been spared.
Who can tell? There would have been other unhappiness
to take its place. They settled in a quaint little house in
a place called Park Village, old-fashioned, semi-rustic,
and pretty enough, with a long strip of garden stretching
down to the edge of a deep cutting of the railway, where
we used to watch the trains passing far below. The
garden was gay with flowers, quantities of brilliant
poppies of all colours I remember, which I liked for the
colour and hated for the heavy ill odour of them, and
the sensation as of evil flowers. Our house in Harrington Square was very near: it looked all happy enough
but was not, for my husband and my mother did not
get on. My father-sat passive, taking no notice, with
his paper, not perceiving much, I believe.




32


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


My child's birth made a momentary gleam of joy soon
lost in clouds.
My mother became ailing and concealed it, and kept
alive- or at least kept her last illness off by sheer stress
of will until my second child was born a year and a day
after the first. She was with me, but sank next day
into an illness from which she never rose. She died
in September 1854, suffering no attendance but mine,
though she concealed from me how ill she was for a
long time. I remember the first moment in which I
had any real fear, speaking to the doctor with a sudden
impulse, in the front of her door, all in a green shade
with the waving trees, demanding his real opinion. I
do not think I had any understanding of the gravity of
the circumstances. He shook his head, and I knew -
the idea having never entered my mind before that she
was to die. I recollect going away, walking home as
in a dream, not able to. go to her, to look at her, from
whom I had never had a secret, with this secret in my
soul that must be told least of 'all to her; and the
sensation that here. was something which would not
lighten after a while as all my troubles had always done,
and pass away. I had never come face to face with the
inevitable before. But there was no daylight here- no
hope - no getting over it. Then there followed a struggle
of a month or two, much suffering on her part, and a
long troubled watch and nursing on mine. At the very
end I remember the struggle against overwhelming sleep,
after nights and days in incessant anxiety, which made
me so bitterly ashamed of the limits of wretched nature.
To want to sleep while she was dying seemed so unnatural and horrible. I never had come within sight of
death before. And, oh me! when all was over, mingled
with my grief there was-how can I say it?-something
like a dreadful relief.
Within a few months after, my little Marjorie, my
second child, died on the 8th February; and then with
deep shame and, anguish I felt what I suppose was




MORE DISILLUSIONMENT.


33


another wretched limit of nature.  My dearest mother,
who had been everything to me all my life, and to whom
I was everything; the companion, friend, counsellor,
minstrel, story-teller, with whom I had never wanted
for constant interest, entertainment, and fellowship,did not give me, when she died, a pang so deep as the
loss of the little helpless baby, eight months old. I miss
my mother till this moment when I am   nearly as old
as she was (sixty, ioth June 1888); I think instinctively
still of asking her something, referring to her for information, and I dream constantly of being a girl with
her at home. But at that moment her loss was nothing
to me in comparison with the loss of my little child.
I lost another infant after that, a day old. My spirit
sank completely under it. I used to go about saying to
myself, "A little while and ye shall not see me," with a
longing to get to the end and have all safe-for my
one remaining, my eldest, my Maggie seemed as if she
too must be taken out of my arms. People will say it
was an animal instinct perhaps. Neither of these little
ones could speak to me or exchange an idea or show
love, and yet their withdrawal was like the sun going
out from the sky-life remained, the daylight continued,
but all was different. It seems strange to me now at
this long distance-but so it was.
The glimpse of society I had during my married life
in London was not of a very elevating kind; or perhaps I-with my shyness and complete unacquaintance
with the ways of people who gave parties and paid
incessant visits-was only unable to take any pleasure
in it, or get beyond the outside petty view, and the same
strange disappointment and disillusion with which the
pictures and the stage had filled me, bringing down my
ridiculous impossible ideal to the ground. I have tried
to illustrate my youthful feelings about this several times
in words.  I had expected everything that was superlative -beautiful conversation, all about books and the
finest subjects, great people whose notice would be an
C




34


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


honour, poets and painters, and all the sympathy of
congenial minds, and the feast of reason and the flow
of soul. But it is needless to say I found none of these
things. We went' "out," not very often, to parties where
there was always a good deal of the literary element, but
of a small kind, and where I found everything very commonplace and poor, not at all what I expected. I never
did myself any justice, as a certain little lion-hunter, a
Jewish patroness of the arts, who lived somewhere in
the region about Harley Street, said. That is to say,
I got as quickly as I could into a corner and stood there,
rather wistfully wishing to know people, but not venturing to make any approach, waiting till some one should
speak to me; which much exasperated my aspiring
hostess, who had picked me up as a new novelist, and
meant me to help to amuse her guests, which I had not
the least idea how to do. I fear I must have been rather
exasperating to my husband, who was more given to
society than I, and tried in vain (as I can now see) to
form me' and make me attend to my social duties, which
even in such a small matter as returning calls I was terri-bly neglectful of - out of sheer shyness and gaucherie, I
think; for I was always glad and grateful when' anybody
would insist on making friends with -me, as a few people
did.  There was an old clergyman, Mr Laing, who did,
I remember, and more or less his wife - he especially.
He liked me, I think, and complimented me by saying
"he did not like literary ladies -a sort of thing people
are rather disposed to say to me.   And Lance (the
painter of fruits and flowers and 'still life), who was a
wit in his way, was also a great friend of mine.  He
dared me to put him in a book, and I took him at his
"word and did so, making a very artless representation,
and using some of his own stories; so that everybody
tecognised the sketch, which was done in mere fun and
liking, and pleased him very much--the only actual bit
of real life I ever took for a book. It was in 'Zaidee/, I
think..




MRS S. C. HALL.


35


Among my literary acquaintances was the Mr Fullom
who had read for old Colburn my first book, and whose
acquaintance as an eminent literary -man and great
notability we had all thought at home it would be such
a fine thing to make. He turned out a very small personage indeed, a solemn man, with a commonplace wife,
people whom it was marvellous to think of as intellectual.
He wrote a book called ' The Marvels of Science,' a dull
piece of manufacture, for which by some wonderful chance
he received a gold medal, Filr Kunst, from the King of
Hanover. I think I see him moving solemnly about the
little drawing-room with this medal on the breast, and
the wife following him. He soon stalked away into the
unknown, and I saw him no more." I forget how I became acquainted with the S. C. Halls, who used to ask
me to their parties, and who were literary people of the
most prominent and conventional type, rather satisfying
to the sense on the whole, as the sort of thing one expected. Mrs Hall had retired upon the laurels got by
one or two Irish novels, and was surrounded by her
husband with the atmosphere-of admiration, which was
the right thing for a " fair " writer. He took her very
seriously, and she accepted the rdle, though without, I
think, any particular setting up of her own standard.
I used to think and say that she looked at me inquisitively, a little puzzled to know what kind of humbug
I was, all being humbugs. But she was a kind woman
all the same; and I never, forget the sheaf of white lilies
she sent us for my child's christening, for which I feel
grateful still. He was certainly a humbug of the old
mellifluous Irish kind - the sort of man whose specious
friendlinesses, compliments, and "blarney" were of the
most innocent kind, not calculated to deceive anybody,
but always amusing. He told Irish stories capitally.
They had the most wonderful collection of people at
their house, and she would stand and smile and shake
hands, till one felt she must stiffen so, and had lost all
consciousness who anybody was. He on his side was




36


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


never tired, always insinuating, jovial, affectionate. It
was at their house, I think, that we met the Howitts -
Mary Howitt, a mild, kind, delightful woman, who
frightened me very much, I remember, by telling me of
many babies whom she had lost through some defective
valve in the heart, which she said was somehow connected with too much mental work on the part of the
mother,- a foolish thing, I should think, yet the same
thing occurred twice to myself. It alarmed and saddened me terribly - but I liked her greatly. Not so
her husband, who did not please me at all. For a
short time we met them everywhere in our small circle,
and then they too disappeared, going abroad, I think.
There was a great deal about spiritualism (so called) in
the air at this time - its first development in England, -
and the Howitts' eldest daughter was an art medium
producing wonderful scribble-scrabbles, which it was the
wonder of wonders to find her mother, so full of sense
and truth, so genuine herself, full of enthusiasm about.
I remember a day at the Halls, which must have
been in the summer of 1853. They had then a pretty
house at Addleston, near Chertsey. My husband and I
travelled down by train in company with a dark, dashing person, an American lady, whom, on arriving at the
station, we found to be going to the Halls too. She
and I were put into their brougham to drive there, while
the gentlemen walked; and she did what she could in
a patronising way to find out who I was. She thought
me, I supposed, the poor little shy wife of some artist,
whom the Halls were being kind to, or something of that
humble kind. She turned out to be a literary person
of great pretensions, calling herself Grace Greenwood,
though that was not her real name, - and I was amused
to find a paragraph about myself, as " a little homely
Scotchwoman," in the book which she wrote when she
got back. Two incidents of this entertainment remain
very clear in my memory. One was, that being placed
at table beside Mr Frost, the academician, who was




A SINGING MANDARIN.


37


very deaf and very gentle and kind, I was endeavouring
with many mental struggles to repeat to him something
that had produced a laugh, and which his wistful look had
asked to understand, when suddenly one of those hushes
which sometimes come over a large company occurred,
and my voice came out distinct-to my own horrified
consciousness, at least - a sound of terror and shame
to me. The other was, that Gavan Duffy, one of the
recent Irish rebels, and my husband began to discuss,
I suppose, national characteristics, or what they believed
to be such, when the Irishman mentioned gravely and
with some heat that the frolic and the wit usually
attributed to his countrymen were a mere popular delusion, while the Scotchman with   equal earnestness
repudiated the caution and prudence ascribed to his
race; which was whimsical enough to be remembered.
Another recollection of one of the Halls' evening
parties in town at a considerably later period rises
like a picture before me. They were fond of every
kind of lion and wonder, great and small. Rosa Bonheur, then at the height of her reputation, was there
one evening, a round-faced, good-humoured   woman,
with hair cut short and divided at one side like a man's,
and indeed not very distinct in the matter of sex so far
as dress and appearance went. There was there also a
Chinese mandarin in full costume, smiling blandly upon
the company, and accompanied by a missionary, who had
the charge of him. By some means or other the Chinamtan was made to sing what we were informed was a sentimental ballad, exceedingly touching and romantic. It was
like nothing so much as the howl of a dog, one of those
grave pieces of canine music which my poor old Newfoundland used to give forth when his favourite organgrinder came into the street.  (Merry's performance
was the most comical thing imaginable.   There was
one organ among many which touched his tenderest
feelings. When it appeared once a-week, he rushed to
it, seated himself beside the man, listened till rapture




AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


and sentiment were wound up to the highest pitch,
and then, lifting up his nose and his voice to heaven,
-sang. There could be no doubt that the dear dog
was giving forth all the poetry of his being in that
appalling noise, -his emotion, his sentiment, his profound seriousness were indisputable, while any human
being within reach was ovetwhelmed and helpless with
laughter.)  The Chinaman sang exactly like Merry, with
the same effect. Rosa Bonheur, I suppose, was more
civil than nous autres, and her efforts to restrain the
uncontrollable laugh were superhuman.   She almost
swallowed her handkerchief in the effort to conceal it.
I. can see her as in a picture, the central figure, with
her bushy short hair, and her handkerchief in her mouth.
All my recollections are like pictures, not continuous, only
a scene detached and conspicuous here and there.. Miss Muloch was; another of the principal figures perceptible in the somewhat dimmed panorama of that faroff life. Her friends the Lovells lived in Mornington
Crescent, which was close to our little house in Harrington Square, - all in a remote region near Regent's Park,
upon the Hampstead Road, where it seems very strange
to me we should. have lived, and which, I suppose, is
dreadfully shabby and out-of-the-way. Perhaps it was
shabby then, one's ideas change so    greatly.  Miss
Muloch lived in a small house in a street a little
farther off even in the wilds than ours. She was a tall
young woman with a slim pliant figure, and eyes that
had a way of fixing the eyes.of her interlocutor in a
manner which did not please my shy fastidiousness. It
was embarrassing, as if she meant to read the other upon
whom she gazed,-a pretension which one resented. It
was merely, no doubt, a fashion of what was the intense
cc-hool of the time. Mrs Browning did the same thing the
only time I met her, and this to one quite indisposed to
be read. But Dinah was always kind, enthusiastic, somewhat didactic and apt to teach, and much looked up
to by her little -band of young women. She too had




LITERARY LIONS.


39


little parties, at one of which I remember Miss Cushman,
the actress, in a deep recitative, without any apparent
tune in it, like the voice of a skipper at sea I thought it,
giving forth Kingsley's song of "The Sands of Dee."  I
was rather afraid of the performer, though long afterwards,
she came to see me in Paris when I was in much sorrow,
and her tenderness and feeling gave me the sensation of
suddenly meeting a friend in the darkness, of whose
existence there I had no conception. There used to
be also at Miss Muloch's parties an extraordinary being;
in a wheeled chair, with an imperfect face (as if it had.
been somehow left unfinished in the making), a Mr Smedley, a terrible cripple, supposed to be kept together by
some framework of springs and supports, of whom the
story was told that he had determined, though. the,son
of a rich man, to maintain himself, and make himself a
reputation, and had succeeded in doing both, as the writer
- of all things in the world-of sporting novels. He was
the author of 'Lewis Arundel' and 'Frank Fairleigh,'
both I believe athletic books, and full of feats of horse-!
manship and strength; which was sufficiently pathetic -
though the appearance of this poor man somewhat
frightened me too.
Mr Lovell, the father of one of Miss Muloch's chief
friends, was the author of "The Wife's Secret," a play
lately revived, and which struck me when I saw it -as.
one of the most conventional and unreal possible, very
curious to come out of that sober city man. All the
guests at these little assemblies were something of the
same kind. One looked at them rather as one looked at
the figures in Madame Tussaud's, wondering if they were
waxwork or life - wondering in the other case whether
the commonplace outside might not cover a painter or a
"poet or something equally fine- whose ethereal qualities
were all invisible to the ordinary eye.
What I liked best in the way of society was when we
went out occasionally quite late in the evening, Frank
and I, after he had left off work in his studio, and went




40


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


to the house of another painter uninvited, unexpected,
always welcome, - I with my work. Alexander Johnstone's house was the one to which we went most. I
joined the wife in her little drawing-room, while he went
up-stairs to the studio. (They all had the drawing-room
proper of the house, the first-floor room, for their
studios.) We women talked below of our subjects, as
young wives and young mothers do - with a little needlework and a little gossip. The men above smoked and
talked their subjects, investigating the picture of the
moment, going over it with advice and criticism; no
doubt giving each other their opinions of other artists
and other pictures too. And then we supped, frugally,
cheerfully, and if there was anything of importance in
the studio the wives went up to look at it, or see what
progress it had made since the last time, after supper.
And then we walked    home again. They paid us a
return visit some days after of just the same kind. If
I knew them now, which I no longer do, I would ask
them to dinner, and they me, and most likely we would
not enjoy it at all. But those simple evenings were very.
pleasant. Our whole life was upon very simple lines at
this period: we dined in the middle of the day, and our
little suppers were not of a kind to require elaborate
preparation if another pair came in unexpectedly.  It
was true society in its way.  Nothing of the kind seems
possible now.




41


II.
January 18, 1891.
I FORGET where I left off in this pitiful little record of
my life.  It was with an attempt to remember somebody worth telling about in the old life in London.
We began our housekeeping in Harrington Square,
on the way to Camden Town, I.think, whereabouts a
number of artists had established themselves; though
I remember at this moment only the Pickersgills, and
not even them very well. Then my Maggie was born,
and my dear mother, then still living, had the joy and
delight of her grandchild, the third Margaret, - one
pleasure at least in that dreary ending of her life. I
remember saying that there had been always something
wanting to my mother, which I had felt without knowing
what it was, till I saw her with my baby in her dear
arms. Maggie was always a beautiful child. My dear
little Marjorie was always pale and delicate, but with
glorious eyes-to think of an eight months' old baby
having these! But I remember that as she died she
opened them widely and seemed to fix them on me as
she lay on my knee, giving up her little soul in that look
of consciousness, as it appeared to me. That was in 1855,
thirty-six years ago, but I have never forgot the look with
which that baby died.
After this we removed to Ulster Place, a larger house,
which is the house in London upon which my mind
dwells.  I pass it sometimes going to King's Cross,
when we have gone to Scotland, and a strange fantastic
thought crossed my mind the first time I did so in these




42


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


latter years, as if I might go up to the door and go in
and find the old life going on, and see my husband
coming down the road, and my little children returning
from their walk. There was a kind of feeling of increasing prosperity when we went to that house, more feeling
than reality; and I tried to make it pretty, though I fear
it would have looked rather dreadful to the ideas of this
changed time. It is at the corner of Ulster Place,
looking down Harley Street, and next to a large square
house with gardens, in which the Oudh princesses or
begums lived when: they came to. England to plead their
cause.. Some of our windows looked over this garden,
and we had glimpses of the strange Eastern figures flitting
about-the white robes' and shawls, and gleaming orna-,
ments and dusky faces. Later Frank tooka small house
farther up the road near Baker Street, I think, to make
a studio, and began to have his painted windows executed
there under his own 'superintendence, partly because he
was not satisfied with the way in which his designs were
carried out, partly with the hope that: he might then get
into a substantial business, instead of precarious artistwork. There was a brightness and hopefulness about the
beginning. We were both sanguine, and he dreamed of
work that might go on under his eye and keep our household going, while he might return to his painting, which
was the work he loved best. So things went on very
brightly for a time. He painted his King Richard picture,
which was sold, for a tolerable price; and then that of
the Prodigal, which I have still, and which I think a
very touching picture. And orders came in for windows.
And, best of all, our delightful boy was born. Ah, me!
If I had continued this, narrative at the time when I
broke it off in 1888, I should have told of this event and
all its pleasantness, if not with a light heart, yet without
the sudden tears that blind me now, so that I cannot see
the page. My beautiful delightful child, with all the
little jests, that he had come too late for church, and so
was unpunctual. all his. life after; my Sunday child,




A QUESTION OF PARTNERSHIP.


43


"blythe and bonny and happy and gay," as the old
rhyme says. I was. very anxious at his birth because of
the two babies I had lost, and had implored the doctor, my
old, kind, cranky Dr Allison, to examine him and tell me
honestly if all was well with him. "That fellow!" he said;
"he has lungs like a sponge." How well I remember the
room, the doctor's look, the baby that had brought joy
with him, the flood of ease and happiness that came into
my heart. The child was health itself, and vigour and
sweetness and life. He was born on Sunday, November
16, 1856. And that winter was a happy and cheerful
one. Sebastian Evans, then a fine young fellow fresh
from Cambridge, turned aside from the current of his
life because of the "doubts," then becoming a fashionable
malady, which would not let him go into the Church, and
drifting a little, not knowing what to do, came about a
window, a memorial to his father; and he and Frank
taking to, each other, remained as an assistant to
help with the cartoons, and by-and-by with the idea of
being a partner and sharing the business. He is mixed
in all this cheerful time for me. He cheered up my
husband so; his great, honest laugh recurs to me; his
cheerful company, which drew Frank out of the worries
and troubles with his workmen, and restored him to the
buoyancy of youth and good fellowship. (I saw him,
S. E., a few years ago with such a curious sense of the
downfall that time makes - a rather limited person,
instead of the genial young man to whom I had always
been so grateful for the good cheer he brought into the
studio, and the laugh that was so pleasant to hear.)
When the idea of a partnership took shape, his brother,
Mr (now Sir) John Evans, the well-known antiquary,
who was also a business man-paper-maker, one of the
'Times' people-came to go through Frank's books (if
he had any books), and see whether it was worth his
brother's while.  He came afterwards to dine, and it
was not till he had gone, after all the long evening, that
I heard what the decision was. After Mr Evans had




44


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


seen and heard all there was to see and hear, he congratulated my husband that his circumstances permitted
him to be so indifferent to profit. And there was an
end of the partnership, to which I had looked forward
for the sake of the companionship to Frank, I fear not
with much thought of profit. We neither of us, I suppose, knew anything about business-so long as we could
get on and live, that seemed all one cared for; but it
was a little dash as of cold water when the businessman paid this satirical compliment, and showed us our
true position. I was, of course, writing steadily all the
time, getting about C400 for a novel, and already, of
course, being told that I was working too fast, and
producing too much. I linger upon this brief, and, as
it feels to me now, halcyon time. I used the little back
drawing-room, which was at first dining-room, for my
work, the real dining-room of the house being Frank's
painting-room, where I used to write all the morning,
getting up now and then in the middle of a sentence to
run down-stairs and have a few words with him, or to
play with the children when they came in from their
walk-my dear little Maggie, my baby-boy, two beautiful
children, fresh and sweet, well and strong, reviving my
heart, that had been so heavy and sore with the loss
of my two infants, by the sight of their beautiful shining
faces.
When I look back on my life, among the happy
moments which I can recollect is one which is so
curiously common and homely, with nothing in it, that it
is strange even to record such a recollection, and yet it
embodied more happiness to me than almost any real
occasion as might be supposed for happiness. It was the
moment after dinner when I used to run up-stairs to see
that all was well in the nursery, and then to turn into
my room on my way down again to wash my hands, as
I had a way of doing before I took up my evening
work, which was generally needlework, something to
make for the children. My bedroom had three windows




HALCYON DAYS AT AN END.


45


in it, one looking out upon the gardens I have mentioned, the other two into the road. It was light enough
with the lamplight outside for all I wanted. I can see it
now, the glimmer of the outside lights, the room dark, the
faint reflection in the glasses, and my heart full of joy and
peace-for what?-for nothing-that there was no harm
anywhere, the children well above stairs and their father
below. I had few of the pleasures of society, no gaiety
at all.  I was eight-and-twenty, going down-stairs as
light as a feather, to the little frock I was making. My
husband also gone back for an hour or two after dinner
to his work, and well-and the bairnies well. I can feel
now the sensation of that sweet calm and ease and
peace.
I have always said it is inthese unconsidered moments
that happiness is-not in things or events that may be
supposed to cause it. How clear it is over these more
than thirty years!
In the early summer one evening after dinner (we
dined, I think, at half-past six in those days) I went
out to buy some dessert-knives on which I had set my
heart--they were only plated, but I had long wanted
them, and by some chance was able to give myself that
gratification. I had marked them in a shop not 'far off,
and was pleased to get them, and specially happy.
Some one had dined with us, either Sebastian Evans or
my brother-in-law Tom,-some one familiar and intimate
who was with Frank. When I came back again there
was a little agitation, a slight commotion which I could
not understand; and then I was told that it was nothing
-the merest slight matter, nothing to be frightened at.
Frank had, in coughing, brought up a little blood.
And so the happy time came to an end. I don't think
I was much alarmed at first, I knew so little. I was
quite ready to believe, after the first shock, that it might
turn out to be nothing, and to have no consequences.
I was much intent upon going to Scotland that year,
I remember, to Mrs Moir at Musselburgh-and I did go,




46


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


Frank promising to join me'in a. short time. After: I
was gone I took a great panic in my impulsive way
and came in to Edinburgh. on Sunday morning and telegraphed to him to know how he was, waiting about
the railway station the whole of the Sunday to have
an answer; but got none,-only a letter in due. time
scolding me for my foolishness. We;had no habit, of
telegraphing in those days, it being still a new thing.
But he never was well after. I thought, and perhaps
he too thought, that it was the worry of the work, which
began to get too much for himi, and the difficulty of
mianaging the men,vwhb were of the art-workmen class,
and highly paid, and untrustworthy to '-the last degree.
However important it might be to get the work done
they were never to be relied upon, not even 'when they
saw him -always most kind and friendly.to them,
incapable of treating them otherwise than if they had
been.gentlemen-ill, worn-out, dying by inches;- not even
when it became a matter of life and death for-him to
get free. They were well paid, educated in their way,
'thinking themselves a kind of artists--and I had always
been -brought up with a high idea of the honour and
virtue of working men.  I was very indignant at this
behaviour, of course, and cruelly undeceived,-and I do
not think I have, ever got over:the impression made
upon me by their callousness and want of honour and
feeling. I remember most wrathfully contrasting their
rbehaviour with that of my maids, who stood by me to
the last moment;' knowing we were breaking up our
-home and going away, and that-they would-be in no
respect advantaged by us, yet who were:as loyal and
true as the others were selfish and cruel. ' My husband
'did not like it to be said-but it was'so. 'Before we
'decided definitely to 'give up everything and go abroad,
Frank went to consult Dr Walsh, who was the great
authority on the lungs at that time. He lived in Harley
Street,. I think. I went with my: husband to the door,
and leaving him there walked up and down the' street




ORDERED SOUTH.


47


till he came out again. I think' he--was to meet Mr
Quain there, who was attending him at the time. And
here again there is a moment that stands out clear
over all these years. I was very anxious, walking up
and down, praying and keeping myself from crying, sick
with anxiety, starting at every sound of a door opening.
He met me with a smile, telling me the report was
excellent. There was very little the matter, chiefly
over - work, and that all would be well- when he got
away. The relief was unspeakable: relief from- pain is
the highest good on earth,, the most exquisite feeling,
--I have always said so. It was -in the upper part of
-Harley Street that he came up to me and told' me this,
and my heart leapt up with this delightful sense of
anxiety stilled.
Afterwards, in Rome, Robert Macpherson told me what
he said was the true story of the consultation-that the
-doctors had told Frank his doom; that his case was
hopeless, but that he had not the -courage to tell me
the truth. I was angry and wounded beyond measure,
-and would not believe that my Frank.had deceived me,
or told another what he did not tell to me. Neither
do I think he would have gone away, to expose me
-with my little children to so awful a trial in a foreign
place, had this been the case.  And yet the blessed
deliverance of that moment was not real either. -The
truth most likely lay between the two.
We left England in January 1859' to go to Italy.
We neither of us knew anything about Italy, but that
it was the sunny South - and of all places in the
world it was Florence we chose to go to in the middle
of winter,-Florence not -as it, is now, but cold and
-austere, without the domforts into which it has been
trained since then. The journey was a dreadful one.
Tom Oliphant went with us to Paris. I have no doubt
-that he felt he was taking leave of his. brother for the
last time.  We were none of us' experienced in Con-tinental travelling, and in those days' travellers were




48


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


shut up in the waiting-rooms, not allowed to get into
the train till the last moment.  It was my first experience of having to take the management of things
myself, and all was new to me, and my French of the
most limited description. Thus it happened that what
with my ignorance, and Tom's leave-taking, and the
two children, and all the excitement and trouble together, our luggage was not registered, nobody thinking
anything about it. We were to sleep at Lyons, and
when we arrived there late at night the luggage was
not forthcoming: we had no ticket,-I knew nothing
about it. Nothing was to be done, accordingly, but to
telegraph to Paris, and remain in Lyons till it came.
We had travelled second-class, one of the few times we
ever did so,-I have always had a stupid objection to
this kind of economy, perhaps to all kinds of economy,
though I have never been extravagant,-so I suppose
our train was a slow one. I remember that there was
a cheerful young fellow in our carriage who belonged
to Beaugain, and who kept Frank amused, and, as it
became cold in the afternoon, took off his own coat to
add to the shawls and rugs that were piled upon him,
and got out at one of the stations to bring a chauffepied or chauffrette-a thing filled with wood embers-for
his feet: the hot-water stools which are such a nuisance now did not exist then, in second-class at least.
How   grateful I was to this young man, and how
warmly I remember his kindness over all these years!
The luggage episode made us very late. We were detained at the cold dark station at Lyons till all the
other passengers were gone, and not a cab was to be
found.  At last we were allowed to share one that
passed with a single passenger in it, and so got to our
hotel-a helpless party as ever was. My poor Frank,
ill and worn out, cold and miserable, myself so unaccustomed to manage, good Jane who had never been
in a foreign country before, and the two little ones,
Maggie five, Cyril two-and nothing with us to make




A CONSIDERATE LANDLORD.


49


them comfortable, not even a hand-bag, not a nightgown for the children. These little miseries are very
bad at the time, but I never was one to make much
of them. I remember Lyons, however, as one of the
coldest places I ever was, in, and the great.blank
desolation of the immense Place Belcceur, I think.
Next day Frank insisted that I should go out to see
the place, though he would not leave the house himself; and I drove, taking. Jane and the children with
me, to Notre Dame de. Fourvieres, where there was a
wonderful view over the town, and the strange little
church full of ex-votos, which I looked at with a bewildering ignorance, and with such an aching and
miserable heart, realising for a moment all the misery
of the journey, my. inability to do anything for Frank,
my utter solitude in this pretence at sight-seeing, which
I was doing so against my will in obedience to his
whim.   I think that in some things I was younger
than my years. I was, thirty, but with very little experience of the world, and always shy and apt to keep
behind backs. I forget if the luggage came that night,
but I think it did, and there arose another difficulty.
We were but very sparingly supplied with money, and
had brought just enough for the journey to Marseilles
and one night's rest at Lyons. Circular notes, I think,
were scarcely used then,-at all events, what we had
was a letter of credit. And next morning I found that
we had not enough to pay our bill and journey, and
that it was a fete, and the banks all closed. This sort
of thing has never been a bugbear to me as to many
people, and I went to the landlord of the hotel and
told him  exactly how things were, though: with no
small trembling.  No one, however, could be- more
kind than he was. He would not, even take from me
what I could have paid him, but gave me the address
of a hotel at Marseilles where he directed me to go,
and pay his bill there. We went away, therefore, in
much better spirits, having our boxes, and with that
D




50


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


elated consciousness of having been kindly treated,
which, I suppose, gives one a feeling somehow of
having deserved it, of having been appreciated, for it
certainly warms the heart and improves the aspect of
everything.  Frank must have been better, for I remember walking down to the harbour with him when
we got to Marseilles, and discovering-with what thankfulness!-that the boat for Leghorn had sailed, and that
we must either wait two days for another or go on by
land.  I hate the sea, and had always longed to do
this, but had not, I suppose, liked to propose it, or else
had been overruled by my husband. We went on
accordingly to Nice by diligence, which was not very
comfortable, for we were in the interior, the five of us,
with two other people,-a man and his son going to
Antibes, where the lad was to draw for the conscription. I forget whether it was on this journey or when
we were approaching Marseilles that the sunrise upon
the new unaccustomed landscape struck me so-.the
awful rose of dawn coming over the wide sweep of
the country, the mulberry trees all stripped of their
leaves, standing out against the growing light.  This
seems rather a mingling of features; but it is the impression that remains on my mind, and the great
silence and the sleeping faces of my companions grey
in the rising of the daylight.  I remember, too, the
delightful sweeps and folds of the Maritime Alps, the
green of the cork-trees, as I was told, and the heavenly
curves of the coast; and Cannes, which I seem to see
as little more than a village, lying half on the hill and
half on the beach, with one great stone pine standing
up against the extraordinary blue of the sea.  How
familiar and commonplace later, how wonderful and
novel then, like Paradise, the gardens of oranges, the
hedges of aloes! We must have been about twentyfour hours in the diligence or more, and got to Nice,
I think, in the afternoon. By this time, I suppose, my
inclination to careless expenditure (such as it was, so




GENOA.


51


little to anybody that had any margin) must have got
the better of Frank's wiser instincts, for we stayed a
day or two at Nice, and went the rest of the way in
a vettura. So far as I recollect, we stopped only once
-at Alassio-between Nice and Genoa. I shall never
forget that night: the hotel v4as an old palace, and in
those days comfort had scarcely invaded even those
coasts of the Riviera.  We were taken into a huge
room with a shining marble floor, one or two rugs in
front of the fireplace and by the side of the bed, and
no fire. The mere sight of the place was enough to
freeze the tired traveller, so ill and languid to begin
with. I feel still the chill that went into my heart at
the sight of this room, so unfit for him; but we soon
got a blazing fire. I remember kneeling by it lighting it with the great fir cones, which blazed up so
quickly, and all the reflections, as if in water, in the
dark polished marble of the floor.
At Genoa we were somehow strangely fortunate. We
went to what I have always supposed to be the Hotel de
la Ville, but that must have been a mistake, and I believe
it was the Croce di Malta. It was one of the hotels close
to the bay, looking out over the terrace and promenade
that surrounds it. And here, again, the outlook being so
lovely and rest so desirable, Frank wanted to stay. The
landlady was English, and she offered me a beautiful
suite of rooms, a great salon, commanding the view,
with two large bedrooms attached to it. I was enchanted, but in terror for the price-when she said I
might have it for eight francs a-day, the whole apartment.
Why she was so good I never could tell. I think it was
because of my bonnie little Maggie. Whether she had lost
a child like her, or whether I only fancied so, I cannot
tell. Perhaps the good woman was sorry for us all, and
saw, as I did not see, how little chance there was that
my husband would ever return. I recollect now the
delight of the beautiful room-the walls all frescoed,
not very finely perhaps, but yet the mere fact was some



52


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


thing, the bay lying before the windows, and what was
almost as beautiful at the moment-a great fire; not a
few damp logs as we had been having, but a huge fire
of coals and wood, which warmed my invalid through
and through. I remember the glow of it and the children
playing on the warm carpet, all so perfect a contrast
to the last night's chill and misery, and the feeling
of settling down in that comfort and warmth, though
it was only for two or three days. My heart always
contrived to rise whenever it had a chance, and I think
Frank was pleased.
We got into Florence in a fog, and again very chill
and tired. I remember thinking that it might have been
Manchester for anything one saw or felt that was like the
South, and as soon as that was possible left the hotel
there for lodgings in Via Maggio. In all this our ignorance and want of experience did us great harm. The
Via Maggio, a deep street of high houses on the other
side of the Arno, was as unfavourable a spot as we could
have chosen, and to make it worse we were on the shady
side of the street. The recommendation it had was that
the mistress of the house, Madame Gianini, was again an
English, or rather an Irish woman.  We were on the
second floor-a long straggling apartment with some
rooms towards the Piazza Santo Spirito, I think; and
these were sunny, and we ought to have hired them, but
the salon was on the other side, and very cold. I had
not sense to see how bad that must have been for Frank,
but used the rooms as they were arranged in a helpless
way. I think there was a dreadful time at first,-he
suffering, unable for any exertion, sitting silent, without
even books, till my soul was crushed, not knowing what
to do or how to rouse him. I had to go on working
all the time, and not very successfully, our whole
income, which was certain for the time, being 20o
a-month, which Mr Blackwood had engaged to send me
on the faith of articles. To think of the whole helpless
family going to Italy, children and maid and all, upon




A TIME OF DEPRESSION.


53


that alone!-but things were very cheap in Florence then,
and I don't think I was at all afraid, nay, the reverse,
always inclined to spend.  Of course this must have
added to Frank's depression, for which I was sometimes
inclined to blame him, not knowing how ill he was. He
got rheumatism in addition to other troubles; and I have
the clearest vision of him sitting close by the little stove
in the corner of the room, wrapped up, with a rug upon
his knees, and saying nothing, while I sat near the window, trying with less success than ever before to write,
and longing for a word, a cheerful look, to disperse a
little the heavy atmosphere of trouble.  I forget how
we came to know a Mr Skottowe, a lame man, who had
been an artist, and who came to see us sometimes, to
my great thankfulness, for he cheered Frank a little.
There was also the Scotch minister, Mr Macdougall,
who is still in Florence, and who sent several people
to see me, a beautiful Miss M. among the rest, whose
distinction was that she refused a duke! and who had
dedicated herself to her old father and mother, then very
zld, and she no longer young,-a very attractive woman,
whose sacrifice I grudged dreadfully, though she did not.
I might have got into a little society, but had no desire
to do so, nor any pleasure in it. I remember Frank
going to see the Pitti or Uffizi for the first time, and
coming back in a kind of despair: his feeling was not
the anch' io jittore, but the other far less cheerful
sense of what wonders had been done, and how far he
was from being able to come within a hundred miles
(as he thought) of what he saw. No doubt illness had
much to do with this depression, which I, all sanguine
and sure that he could do what he would, were he but
well, did not sympathise in,-almost, I fear, felt to be
a weakness. He recovered his spirits a little after a
time, when the winter began to pass away and good
weather came. I remember, however, with great and
terrible vividness one scene, one day. It was the funeral
day of a young Archduchess. I forget who she was: the




54


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


wife of one of the Archduke's sons, who had died
away from Florence and was brought home for burial.
Frank, who was sometimes hard on me, as I on him,
insisted that I should go out to see the procession, which
I did most unwillingly all alone. It must have been very
early in the year, for it was at his worst time. I walked
as far as the Porta Santa TrinitA, I think, and I don't
think I saw any procession. It was a grey day, the
sky heavy, the Arno running grey under the bridge,
the hills all grey, the air tingling with the tolling of
the bells, and sombre streams of people flowing towards
the gate where the funeral train was to come in; as
sad as any could be, a young woman forlorn, with
nobody to give me even a kind look, and nothing before or about me that was not as grey and tragic as
the skies. I paused a little there, having been carried
so far by the instinct of pleasing him who had sent
me out to see; and then I could bear it no longer and
went back again, to find him sitting silent as before
--by the fire.
But things brightened, as I have said, when the
weather improved and it began to get warm.        He
thought of a picture to paint, a scene in which Macchiavelli should be the chief figure, and we began to visit
the galleries, and to go out together. All sorts of strange
things-not strange at all now, but wonderful thenwent on in Via Maggio. Scarcely a night passed but
we heard the chant of a passing funeral, and going to
the window saw far below, as in a deep gorge, the torches
glowing, the strange figures of the confraternita$ carrying
the bier, and their, tramp on the stony causeway. Sometimes it was the misericordia, carrying not the dead but
somebody hurt by an accident; and in the daytime the
deep street underneath was always a diversion, and I
used to look out for the dearest sight of all-two little
figures at the feet of tall Jane, or rather the one dear
figure at her feet, the other always with a song or
shout, in her arm against her ample shoulder. She was




A PEACEFUL REVOLUTION.


55


always very big, at this time about four - and - twenty,
"a finely developed, strong, large, substantial tower of
"a woman-the ox-eyed Juno, as we used to call her.
Ah me! would they come down from the Boboli gardens
with their hands full of anemones if I were at the windows
of the Casa Grassini now?
While we were there the revolution occurred-which,
so much as we saw of it, was more like a popular festa
than anything else. We had not known, being strangers
and Frank so ill, going out little, what was going on;
but a curious agitation and excitement made itself somehow felt in the air even up in our second floor. I don't
know really except by a sort of sympathetic instinct
what it was that took us to the windows to watch the
unusual coming and going. And then suddenly opposite
us, in the Casa Ridolfi, I think, there was unfurled a
great Italian tricolour-the green, white, and red-and
in a moment like fire the whole population seemed to
blaze out in the national colours, man, woman, child,
and horse, every living thing; and there began to be
a shout of "Viva l'Italia!" everywhere, wherever two
people met in the deep streets, a shout that my dear
baby boy took up in that little voice of his that was
never silent.  I was very eager too; but Frank was
rather nervous, and unwilling to be in any way mixed
up in the crowd, with whose doings we, as strangers,
he thought, had nothing to do. I got him, however, at
last to come out, and we went up to the front of the
Pitti Palace, where a great many people were hanging
about, and where at that moment the Grand Duke was
in full colloquy with the representatives of the people.
Notwithstanding the excitement of which I was full,
it was a little forlorn to stand out there with our very
faint knowledge of Italian, and nobody to tell us what
was going on; and Frank had no desire to be in the
heart of the revolution, if it was a revolution, as I
had. Where all the cockades, the rosettes, the ribbons, the little bouquets, all the red, white, and green




56


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


came from, at a moment's notice, or without even
a moment's notice, was an endless wonder to me;
and the delight of the people, and the air of universal
holiday, had none of the graver features that one
expected.  I am   not sure that I was not a little
disappointed at the entire peacefulness of the whole
proceeding. We heard afterwards that the Grand Duke
had given orders for the bombardment of the town, which
would have had a fine effect indeed in Via Maggio had
it taken place, but I don't know that the report was true.
Florence was at this time the very cheapest place to live
in I have ever known. We had, like most other strangers,
our dinner sent in from the Trattoria every evening. It
was the usual sort of meal-soup, two kinds of meat, one
of them  generally a chicken, a vegetable dish, and a
dolce; plenty for us all, with fragments left over, and
the price was five pauls, not quite two francs fifty centimes. I wonder if anywhere in Europe that could be
had now.'
We had brought an introduction to the Embassy, and
the Embassy sent us huge cards in return, but took no
more notice, which was just as well: what disappointed
me more was, that the Brownings, to whom also we had
letters, had left Florence for Rome, where we saw them
subsequently. By this time I must have written, I suppose, some half-dozen books or more, and had a little
bit of reputation, a very little bit in a small way, but
was very anxious it should be kept to ourselves. Just
before we left Florence, I remember Mr Skottowe came
one day quite excited; he had heard this from Mr Macdougall, who had heard it accidentally from some one
else. "I thought," he said, "I had found out there
was something out of the common for myself, and now
it appears all the world knows."  I wonder if I should
have remembered that, if it had not been a compliment.
I did not get many sweetmeats of the kind, so I suppose
it was a little pleasure to me.  I do not know that
Florence itself impressed me very much: how should




ROME.


S7


it, with my mind so full of other things? - my sick
husband, my little children, my work, and the precariousness of our means of living (though I don't think
that troubled me much).  I remember nature-as I
always do-more than art, and the view from Bellosguardo above all the treasures of the galleries. Frank
was profoundly, depressingly, as I have said, impressed
by the pictures at first-and all the glory of them. I
for my part used to stray into one small room in the
Pitti, I think,, where at that time the great picture of
the Visitation - Albertinelli's - hung alone.  By that
time I knew that another baby was coming, and it
seemed to do me good to go and look at these two
women, the tender old Elizabeth, and Mary with all
the awe of her coming motherhood upon her. I had
little thought of all that was to happen to me before
my child.came, but I had no woman to go to, to be
comforted-except these two.
Florence was Just becoming warm and bright and good
for an invalid to live in, when Frank was seized with a
desire to go to Rome. I think he had heard from Robert
Macpherson, to whom he was attached. I had only seen
him once in London, and he was too noisy, too much
unlike anything I knew, to please me. And I was very
much afraid for the children. It was just the time when
people are leaving, not going to, Rome; and one heard
of malaria and fever and all sorts of dreadful things.
But Frank had set his heart upon it, and there was
nothing more to be said. I think it very likely that, feeling himself no better, and having the doctor's verdict,
which he had not told me, in his mind, he wanted me to
be near the Macphersons, who would be a help and stand
by. We went on accordingly to Rome in May. I had
not been very successful in my work for 'Blackwood.'
I sent a story of Florence called '"Felicita,' I think
(knowing nothing about Florence!), and other articles,
not good, and I suppose I must have written something
for Mr Blackett while in Florence, but I cannot recollect.




AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


We could not certainly have struck our tents as we did
and moved on to Rome, by steamboat from Leghorn to
Civita Vecchia, on our twenty pounds a-month. I remember all about the journey strangely enough, from the
green water, so translucent and profound under the boat,
that took us out to the steamer at Leghorn, and the
remarks of some Irish ladies, who were the companions
of the voyage, and who made friends with the children,
and suggested, perhaps guessing from some sad look in
my face, that there had been some loss between the two,
-there were but three years between them, but there
had been two babies born to die: I don't remember their
names nor anything about them except that, and that
they were kind-and Irish. Half of the people I have
met travelling have always been Irish. Maggie was five
and a half, with her brown curls falling on her shoulders,
and my little Cyril was two and a half; always the
sweetest, most winning child.  He had been called
Cyril at first, then by himself when he began to talk
Tiddy, which was always his family name all his life,
though not a pretty one; sometimes Tids, which is
almost too dear, too familiar and tender, the most caressing of all, to be thought of now. But I must not begin
to write of my boy, or I will not be able to think of anything else-not five months yet since he has been taken
from me!
The Macphersons had a curious position in Rome,
and it is difficult to describe them. He always had a
curious position,-the son of a very poor man in Edinburgh with the humblest connections, yet not distantly
related, I believe, to Cluny Macpherson, the chief of the
clan; himself a poor painter-literally a poor painter,
never good for very much, yet always, as I have been
told, in society, and with friends quite beyond his apparent position. There was some romantic story about
a lady in the Highlands, intercepted letters and so forth,
which was told on one side as the reason for his leaving
the country with something like a broken heart, but on




AN ARTISTIC RESORT.


59


the other was made to appear like the disappointment of
a fortune-hunter. I don't know which was true. There
was very little that was like a fortune-hunter in his careless, hot-headed, humorous, noisy Bohemian ways. He
had given up his painting in Rome, and had taken to photographing; and his photographs of Rome were, I think,
among the first that were executed. He had been a long
time in Rome, had been there during the bombardment,
and I suppose had rendered some services to the papal
side, for he was always patronised more or less by the
priests, and was nero to the heart, standing by all the old
institutions with the stout prejudices of an old Tory quite
inaccessible to reason. Indeed reason had nothing to do
with him. He was full of generosities and kindness, full
of humour and whim and fun - quarrelling hotly and
making up again; a big, bearded, vehement, noisy man,
a combination of Highlander and Lowlander, Scotsman
and Italian, with the habits of Rome and Edinburgh all
rubbed together, and a great knowledge of the world in
general and a large acquaintance with individuals in
particular to give force to the mixture, and to increase
his own interest and largeness as a man. I could not
bear himat first, poor Robert,-we used to quarrel upon
almost every subject; but in the end I got to be almost
fond of him, as he was, I believe, of me, though we were
so absolutely unlike. Some years before I was married
he had married Geraldine Bate, a niece of Mrs Jameson,
very much against the aunt's will, to whom the Roman
photographer seemed a very poor match for her pretty
Geddie at eighteen. And so he was, and it was not a
very successful marriage, chiefly perhaps, notwithstanding
my indignation with the popular fallacy about mothersin-law, because of the constant presence in their house
of Mrs Bate, who, though entirely maintained by his
bounty, constantly encouraged Geddie in her little rebellions against her husband and her love of gaiety and
admiration. But Robert was no meek victim, and never
hesitated to tell mamma his mind. There used to be a




6o


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


fierce row often in the house, from which he would stride
forth plucking his red beard and sending forth fire and
flame; but when he came back would have his hands full
of offerings, even to the mother-in-law, and his face full
of sunshine, as if it had never known a cloud. Geddie
was of course full of faults, untidy, disorderly, fond of
gaiety of every kind, incapable of the dull domestic life
which seemed the right thing to me, ready to go off upon
a merrymaking at a moment's notice, indifferent what
duty she left behind, yet quite as ready to give up night
after night to nurse a sick friend, and to put herself to
any inconvenience to help, or take entirely upon her
shoulders, those who were in need.   And though full
of natural indolence, working like a slave-nay, as no
slave ever worked-at the common trade, the photographing, at which she did quite as much as, if not, people
said, more than, he did. And a pretty creature, and full
of vivacity and wit, a delightful companion. A strange
house it was, a continual coming and going of artists and
patrons of artists; of Scottish visitors, of Italian great
personages and priests, and more or less of all the
English in Rome. They were, I think, in one of their
best times (for they had many vicissitudes) when we
went to Rome first in 1859-and saw everybody.
My husband was much revived at first by the change
and, by the company of Robert, to whom he had a
faithful and long attachment from his boyish days, and
we went with them    to their villeggiatura at Nettuno
in May. It is now, I believe, a sea-bathing place, well
enough known; but then it was the rudest Italian village,
one of the most curious places I have ever seen.    I
described it in a little sketch I made for ' Blackwood;'
calling it a seaside place in the Papal States, or some
such title. The rooms, the living, everything was inconceivably rough, the place like a great medieval
fortress upon the rocks, with the natural agglomeration
of houses hanging about its skirts. The women were
handsome and wore a beautiful dress, red satin in long




UNHAPPY MEMORIES.


61


box-plaits, Greek jackets embroidered with gold, and
beautiful embroidered white aprons and kerchiefs, with
a very pretty half-Eastern headdress. We had some
very bad and some good days there.     Very bad at
first, and I very miserable; but later Frank took to
working, and made one very pretty picture of a group
of lads from the country, whom he saw and brought
into the loggia to stand to him.   It hangs in my
drawing-room now.    He also made two sketches of
the place itself, which are in my own room, his last
work.   This must have meant that he was feeling
better. But I remember some dreadful scenes in the
middle of the night, when his nose-bleeding came on,
and I stood by him for hours, holding the nostril till
the blood dried, he going to sleep in the meantime,
while I stood with the traces all about as if I were
murdering him.   I remember one time when they all
went off along the coast to Astura, the Macphersons
and Frank with them, leaving me alone with the
children,-probably my own fault, as I always had a
foolish proud way of holding back,-and how I got
over my little disappointment, and did my very best to
get a good dinner for them   to come back to, and
arranged everything as nicely as possible, yet when
they did come, could not keep it up, and was sulky,
and injured, and disagreeable, notwithstanding that I
had really taken a great deal of trouble to have everything ready and pleasant for the party. What trifles
remain in one's mind!    I suppose it was because I
contrived to be half sorry for myself, and half ashamed
of myself, that I remember this so clearly.
When we left Nettuno we went to Frascati, where
we lived for more than three months, I think, and
which at first was very pleasant with its great prospect
over the misty Campagna, where St Peter's was visible,
the only sign of the existence of Rome. We used to
go out and walk on the terrace from whence there was
that view, - and sometimes had a little society, the




62


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


Noccioli, and Monsignor Pentini, afterwards Cardinalan old trooper priest, who had been a soldier in Bernadotte's army, and then was supposed too liberal for
promotion, having been kept back a long time from
the Cardinal's hat he ought to have had. He was very
kind, very benignant, the providence and at the same
time the judge of all the poor people round, whom he
kept from litigation, settling all their quarrels.  I remember once or twice supping with him and good Ser
Antonio, and his fat big Irish wife,-such good simple
people, Monsignor not able to talk to me, nor I to
him, though he gave me many a kind look. I understood pretty well what he said, but could not express
myself either in French or Italian. The Noccioli lived
in the upper floor of his big old square house, with a
wonderful view from the windows, and partially frescoed walls, scarcely any furniture, and a supper-table
gleaming under the three clear flames of the Roman
lamp, and the melons on the table, which Monsignor
ate, I remember, with pepper and salt.   But Frank
grew very ill here.  He became altogether unable to
eat anything, not comparatively but absolutely; and
the awful sensation of watching this, trying with every
faculty to find something he could eat, and always failing, makes me shiver even now, though, God help me!
I have had almost a repetition of it.   We got an
Italian doctor there, who was quite cheerful, as I believe is their way when nothing can be done, and spoke
of our return next year, which gave me a little confidence.  On the Ist of October we went back to
Rome, to an apartment we had got in the Noccioli's
house in the Babuino, where he got worse and worse.
We had Dr Small, who brought a famous French doctor, and they told me there was no hope: it was better
to tell me franchement, the Frenchman said, and that
word franchement always, even now, gives me a thrill
when I read it. They told me, or I imagined they
told me in my confused state, that they had told




DEATH OF MR OLIPHANT.


63


him, and I went back to him not trying to command
my tears; but found they had not told him, and that
it was I in my misery who was taking him the news.
I remember he said after a while, "Well, if it is so,
that is no reason why we should be miserable."  In
my condition of health I was terrified that I might
be disabled from attending my Frank to the last.
Whether I took myself, or the doctor gave me, a dose
of laudanum, I don't remember; but I recollect very
well the sudden floating into ease of body and the dazed
condition of mind,-a kind of exaltation, as if I were
walking upon air, for I could not sleep in the circumstances nor try to sleep. I thought then that this was
the saving of me.  I nursed my husband night and
day, neither resting nor eating, sometimes swallowing
a sandwich when I came out of his room for a moment, sometimes dozing for a little when he sleptreading to him often in the middle of the night to try
to get him to sleep. And when I came out of the room
and sat down in the next and got the relief of crying
a little, my bonnie boy came up and stood at my knee
and pulled down my head to him, and smiled all
over his beaming little face,-smiled though the child
wanted to cry too, but would not - not quite three
years old.  When his father was dead I remember
him sitting in his bed in the next room singing "Oh
that will be joyful, when we meet to part no more,"
which was the favourite child's hymn of the moment.
Frank died quite conscious, kissing me when his lips
were already cold, and quite, quite free from anxiety,
though he left me with two helpless children and one
unborn, and very little money, and no friends but the
Macphersons, who were as good to me as brother and
sister; but had no power to help beyond that, if anything could be beyond that. Everybody was very kind.
Mr Blackett wrote offering to come out to me, to bring
me home; and John Blackwood wrote bidding me draw
upon him for whatever money I wanted. I had sent




64


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


for Effie M., my husband's niece, to come out to me,
sending money for her journey; but her mother arrived
some time after Frank's death, his sister, Mrs Murdoch
-a kind but useless woman, who was no good to me,
and yet was a great deal of good as a sort of background and backbone to our helpless little party,-for
I was young still, thirty-one, and never self-confident.
And there we waited six weeks till my baby was born--
he as fair and sweet and healthful as if everything had
been well with us. My big Jane was my stand - by,
and took the child from the funny Italian-Irish nurse,
Madame Margherita, who attended and cheered me with
her jolly ways, and brought me. back, she and the baby
together, to life. By degrees, so wonderful are human
things, there came to be a degree of comfort, even
cheerfulness; the children being always bright,-Maggie
and Cyril the sweetest pair, and my bonnie rosy baby.
While I write, October 5, 1894, he, the last, is lying
in his coffin in the room next to me --I have been
trying to pray by the side of that last bed - and he
looks more beautiful than ever he did in his life, in
a sort of noble manhood, like, so very like, my infant
of nearly thirty-five years ago. All gone, all gone, and
no light to come to this sorrow any more! When my
Cecco was two months old we came home-Mrs Murdoch and Jane and the three children and I-travelling
expensively as was my way, though heaven knows our
position was poor enough.
When I thus began the world anew I had for all
my fortune about  100ooo of debt, a small insurance of,
I think, ~200 on Frank's life, our furniture laid up in
a warehouse, and my own faculties, such as they were,
to make our living and pay off our burdens by.
Christmas Night, 1894.
I feel that I must try to change the tone of this record.
It was written for my boys, for Cecco in particular.
Now they will never see it-unless, indeed, they are




A QUESTION OF ETIQUETTE.


permitted, being* in a better place, to know what is
going on here. I used to feel that Cecco would use
his discretion,-that most likely he would not print any
of this at all, for he did not like publicity, and would
have thought his mother's story of her life sacred; but
now everything is changed, and I am now going to
try to remember more trivial things, the incidents that
sometimes amuse me when I look back upon them, not
merely the thread of my life.
Robert Macpherson came down with us to Civita
Vecchia to see us off, and, I remember, read to me all
the way there a story he had written, one of the stories
flying about Rome of one of the great families, which
he wanted me to polish up and get published for him.
It was very bad, poor dear fellow, and beyond doing
anything with. I used another of these stories which
he told me, in a little thing I did for ' Blackwood' some
time later, the strange tale of the Ciesarini-but that
was too bad. Robert introduced me to Dr Kennedy of
Shrewsbury when we got on board the steamer,-a large,
loose-lipped, loquacious man, full of talk, whom I liked
well enough, and who talked to me pleasantly enough.
He had two or three young men with him.     I have
always had a half-amused grudge against him, however.
We were a very helpless party, the baby two months
old and three other children, for I was bringing Willie
Macpherson home to his aunt. In those days we had
to land at Marseilles by small boats, which crowded
round the steamer as soon as she came to anchor, and
waited till the passengers had shown their passports and
got through all the preliminaries. I saw that Dr Kennedy
had engaged a large boat, and, though he said nothing
to me, I was so foolish as to take it for granted that
he meant me and my helpless party to go to the shore
with him. It amuses me to think how astonished, how
wounded and indignant I was, when, getting through
before me, he and his young men stepped into their boat
without a word, and left me to get ashore as I could
E




66


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


-which, of course, I did all right, never having had
any difficulty in that way of taking care of myself and
my own belongings. I dare say he was quite right,
and I had no claim upon him whatever,-and he was a
good man, no doubt, and a great scholar. But it could
not have hurt him to have helped a young woman and
her children. I was so much astonished that I could
scarcely believe my eyes. I remember that same night
at the railway station, when we were all getting off by
the rapide, I haughtily desired one of the young men
to stand by two of the children while I got them all
into a compartment, which he did meekly and rather
frightened. I did not know where to go in Paris, as
I could not go back to the same hotel where we had
been when my husband was with me; and in our
innocence we went to the Bristol!- my sister-in-law
having been advised to go there, at second or third hand,
through Mr Pentland. The rooms were delightful, but
so were the prices, which I inquired, as we had been
taught to do in Italy, before taking possession.  I
faltered, and said we had been sent there by Mr Pentland-but      The name acted like magic. Mr Pentland, ah! that was another thing,-the rooms were just
half the price to a friend of Mr Pentland. He was
the editor of Murray's Handbooks - but of that important fact I was not aware.
We arrived late at night in London, having been
detained at Calais by a storm, and got in with the
greatest difficulty to the Paddington Hotel.
After this we passed some time with my brother's
family at Birkenhead, which was not very successful.
I think it was rather more than I could bear to see
his children rushing to the door to meet him when he
came home, and my fatherless little ones ready to rush
too, though it was so short a time since their father
had been taken from them. I was always fantasticaland there were other things. It is a perilous business
when one is very sorry for oneself, and the sight of




INSENSIBLE TO PRAISE OR BLAME.


67


happy people is apt, when one's wounds are fresh, to
make the consciousness keener.
I was reading of Charlotte Bronte the other day, and
could not help comparing myself with the picture more
or less as I read. I don't suppose my powers are equal
to hers - my work to myself looks perfectly pale and
colourless beside hers - but yet I have had far more
experience and, I think, a fuller conception of life.  I
have learned to take perhaps more a man's view of
mortal affairs,-to feel that the love between men and
women, the marrying and giving in marriage, occupy
in fact so small a portion of either existence or thought.
When I die I know what people will say of me: they
will give me credit for courage (which I almost think
is not courage but insensibility), and for honesty and
honourable dealing; they will say I did my duty with
a kind of steadiness, not knowing how I have rebelled
and groaned under the rod. Scarcely anybody who cares
to speculate further will know what to say of my working power and my own conception of it; for, except one
or two, even my friends will scarcely believe how little
possessed I am with any thought of it all,-how little
credit I feel due to me, how accidental most things
have been, and how entirely a matter of daily labour, congenial work, sometimes now and then the expression
of my own heart, almost always the work most pleasant to me, this has been. I wonder if God were to
try me with the loss of this gift, such as it is, whether
I should feel it much? If I could live otherwise I do
not think I should. If I could move about the house,
and serve my children with my own hands, I know I
should be happier. But this is vain talking; only I
know very well that for years past neither praise nor
blame has quickened my pulse ten beats that I am
aware of. This insensibility saves me some pain, but
it must also lose me a great deal of pleasure.




68


III.
Decemniber 30, 1894.
I RESUME this from the old book which contains my
recollections up to 1859, when I came home from Rome
with my three children, Cecco a baby of two months old.
I stayed for some months, as I have said, with my
brother in Birkenhead, and then went to Scotland-to
Fife - for the summer, taking a small house in Elie.
The Milligans (Mrs Milligan was Anne Mary Moir, a
daughter of Delta, one of the girl friends whom I liked.to have to stay with me in the early days of my married
life in London) were at Kilconquhar, where Mr Milligan
was minister, a man afterwards distinguished in his way,
a well-known Biblical scholar and professor at Aberdeen.
I was still only thirty-one, and in full convalescence of
sorrow, and feeling myself unaccountably young notwithstanding my burdened life and my widow's cap, which,
by the way, I put off a year or two afterwards for the
curious reason that I found it too becoming! That did
not seem to me at all suitable for the spirit of my mourning: it certainly was, as my excellent London dressmaker made it for me, a very pretty head-dress, and an
expensive luxury withal.
The Blackwoods were at Gibleston for the summer,
a place quite near, so that I had friends within reach.
I had not seen very much of John Blackwood, but he
was already a friend, with that curious kind of intimacy
which is created by a publisher's knowledge of all one's
affairs, especially when these affairs mean struggles to
keep afloat and a constant need of money. He had




EDINBURGH.


69


bidden me draw upon him when my husband died, and
I was very grateful and apt to boast of it, as I have
or had a way of doing; so that people who have served
me in this way, even when, as sometimes happened, the
balance changed a little, have always conceived themselves to be my benefactors. But he was a genial
benefactor, and he and his wife used to come to see
me; so that, though lonely and a stranger, I was not
entirely out of a kind of society. I must, however,
have been very lonely, except for the sweet company
of my three little children and my good Jane, my
factotum, who had gone with me to Rome as their
nurse, and helped me in my trouble, and stood faithfully by me through all. I always remember, immediately after we came home, one dreadful night when my
dear baby was very ill, and was laid upon her capacious
shoulder as on a feather-bed, while I watched in anguish,
thinking the night would never be done or that he would
not live through it, when suddenly, with one of those
rapid turns peculiar to infants, he got almost well in a
moment! And this picture got itself hung up upon the
walls of my mind, full of a roseate glow of happiness and
deliverance instead of the black despair which had seemed
to be closing round me.
That winter we went to Edinburgh, where I got a
droll little house in Fettes Row, down at the bottom
of the hill, the lower floor and the basement with a
front door, in truly Edinburgh style-for "flats" were
-not known in England in those days. It was a very
severe winter, 186o-6I, and it was severe on me too.
I have told the story of one incident in it in my other
book, but I may repeat it here. I had not been doing
very well with my writing. I had sent several articles,
though of what nature I don't remember, to ' Blackwood,'
and they had been rejected. Why, this being the case,
I should have gone to them (John Blackwood and the
Major were the firm at that moment) to offer them, or
rather to suggest to them that they should take a novel




70


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


from me for serial publication, I can't tell,-they so
jealous of the Magazine, and inclined to think nothing
was good enough for it, and I just then so little successful. But I was in their debt, and had very little to go
on with. They shook their heads of course, and thought
it would not be possible to take such a story,-both very
kind and truly sorry for me, I have no doubt. I think
I see their figures now against the light, standing up,
John with his shoulders hunched up, the Major with
his soldierly air, and myself all blackness and whiteness
-in my widow's dress, taking leave of them as if it didn't
matter, and oh! so much afraid that they would see the
tears in my eyes. I went home to my little ones, running
to the door to meet me with "flichterin' noise and glee";
and that night, as soon as I had got them all to bed,
I sat down and wrote a story which I think was something about a lawyer, John Brownlow, and which formed
the first of the Carlingford series,-a series pretty well
forgotten now, which made a considerable stir at the
time, and almost made me one of the popularities of
literature. Alimost, never quite, though 'Salem Chapel'
really went very near it, I believe. I sat up nearly all
night in a passion of composition, stirred to the very
bottom of my mind. The story was successful, and my
fortune, comparatively speaking, was made. It has never
been very much, never anything like what many of my
contemporaries attained, and yet I have done very well
for a woman, and a friendless woman with no one to
make the best of me, and quite unable to do that for
myself.  I never could fight for a higher price or do
anything but trust to the honour of those I had to
deal with. Whether this was the reason why, though
I did very well on the whole, I never did anything like
so well as others, I can't tell, or whether it was really
inferiority on my part. Anthony Trollope must have
made at least three times as much as ever I did, and
even Miss Muloch. As for such fabulous successes as,y-Xthat of Mrs Humphry Ward, which we poorer writers
w                                        pr     writers




A CURIOUS REMINISCENCE OF THE 'ILIAD.'      71
are all so whimsically and so ruefully unable to explain,
nobody thought of them in these days.
I did not see many people in Edinburgh. I was still
in deep mourning, and shy, and not clever about society
- constantly forgetting to return calls, and avoiding
invitations. I met a few people at the Blackwoods',
and I remember in the dearth of incidents an amusing
evening (which I think, however, came a few years later)
when Professor Aytoun dined at Miss Blackwood's, he
and I being the only guests. Miss Blackwood was one
of the elders of the Blackwood family, and at this period
a comely, black-haired, dark-complexioned person, large,
and much occupied with her dress, and fulr of amusing
peculiarities, with a genuine drollery and sense of fun,
in which all the family were strong. She was sometimes
the most intolerable person that could be conceived,
and insulted her friends without compunction; but the
effect upon me at least was always this-that before
the end of one of her tirades she would strike, half
consciously, a comical note, and my exasperation would
explode into laughter. She was full of recollections of
all sorts of people, and of her own youthful successes,
which, though stout and elderly, she never outgrew,still remembering the days when she was called a sylph,
and never quite sure that she was not making a triumphant impression even in these changed circumstances.
She was very fond of conversation, and truly exceedingly queer in the remarks she would make, sometimes
so totally out of all sequence that the absurdity had as
good an effect as wit, and often truly droll and amusing, after the fashion of her family. I remember when
some people were discussing the respective merits of
Rome and Florence, Miss Blackwood gave her vote for
Rome. "Ah," she said with an ecstatic look, "when
you have read the 'Iliad' in your youth, it all comes
back!" Another favourite story of her was, that when
one of her brothers asked her, on mischief bent, no
doubt, "Isabella, what are hlbert nails? " she held out




72


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


her hand towards him, where he was sitting a little
behind her, without a word. She had a beautiful hand,
and was proud of it.
But I have not told my story of Aytoun.      Miss
Blackwood had asked him to dine with us alone, and
he came, and we flattered him to the top of his bent,
she half sincerely, with that quaint mixture of enthusiasm
and ridicule which I used to say was the Blackwoodattitude towards that droll, partly absurd, yet more or
less effective thing called an author; and I, I fear,
backing her up in pure fun, for I was no particular
admirer of Aytoun, who was then an ugly man in middle
age, with the air of being one of the old lights, but
without either warmth or radiancy.    We got him
between us to the pitch of flattered fatuity which all
women recognise, when a man looks like the famous
scene painter, "I am so sick, I am so clevare"; his
eyes bemused and his features blunted with a sort of
bewildered beatitude, till suddenly he burst forth without
any warning with " Come hither, Evan Cameron "-and
repeated the poem   to us, Miss Blackwood, ecstatic,
keeping a sort of time with flourishes of her hand, and
I, I am afraid, overwhelmed with secret laughter. I am
not sure that he did not -come to himself with a horrified
sense of imbecility before he reached the end.. I got rather intimate with old Mrs Wilson, a very
dear old lady, the mother of my sister-in-law, Jeanie,
and of Dr George Wilson and Sir Daniel Wilson-who
lived at quite a great distance from me, a very long walk
which I used to take every Sunday afternoon, with a
complacent sense that it was a fine thing to do. She had
a lonely day on Sunday, being very deaf, and unable to go
to church, and her daughter much occupied by Sunday
classes, &c. Although deaf, she was an amusing and
good talker, and used to give me all sorts of good advice,
and tell me stories of her life. Her advice was chiefly
about my children, whom she wished me to bring up
on Museums and the broken bread of Science, which




A FERVENT IRVINGITE.


73


I loathed, pointing out to me with triumph how this
system had succeeded with her own sons. It was a
very long walk to Elm         Cottage.    I don't know      Edinburgh well enough to say exactly where it was, but I
had to mount the hill to Princes Street, and then go
somehow by Bruntsfield Links, I think, past a Roman
Catholic Convent (St Margaret's?), and a long solitary
way    beyond    that.    I was rather proud       of myself for
resisting all temptations to take a cab, though the dark
road by the Nunnery, which was very lonely, used to
frighten me considerably.
It was then I first became acquainted with the Storys,
Mr, afterwards Dr, Story coming to see me in respect to
my proposed Memoir of Edward Irving, which he had by
some means heard about.         My article in ' Blackwood' on
Irving must have been published that winter: no, no, it was
published much before we went to Italy, and I had been to
Albury to see Mr Drummond,' my husband accompany1 Mr Drummond wrote to me when the article on Irving, which was in a
manner the germ of the book, was published. It must have been in the end
of 1848. He and all his community were much pleased with it, and had a
notion, which my Roman Catholic friends always share, that since I went so
far with them I must go the whole way. They gave me great encouragement accordingly, and I was supposed to be going to do just what they
wanted to have done. We went to Albury on Mr Drummond's invitation,
where we stayed three days, I think; and I remember the sensation with
which I sat and listened while Mr Drummond, the caustic wit and man of
the world, explained to me how they were guided in setting up their church,
and in building their quasi-cathedral in Gordon Square, and of the pillars
called Jachin and Boaz, and a great deal more, while Lord Lovaine, his sonin-law, now Duke of Northumberland,* a grave man, whose aspect impressed
me much, listened gravely, as if to an oracle, and I looked on and wondered,
amazed, as I sometimes used to be with Montalembert, at the combination of
what seems to my hard head so much nonsense with so much keen sense and
power; though I had much more sympathy with Montalembert, even with his
medieval miracles, than with Jachin and Boaz. These good people thought,
partly because of their deep sense of their own importance, and partly by
a trick of sympathy which I had, and most genuiue it was, that I was
interested beyond measure in them and their ways, whereas it was in Irving
I was interested, and listening with all my ears to hear about him, and much
less concerned about the Holy Apostolic Church. They were disappointed
accordingly, and not pleased with the book.
* Died January A899.




74


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


ing me, which was the first beginning of that project.
Mr Story told me of his father's long intimacy with
Irving, and promised me many letters if I would go to
the manse of Roseneath to see them. I went accordingly,
rather unwillingly in cold February weather, grudging the
absence from my children for a few days very much. I
did not know anything about the West of Scotland, and,
winter as it was, the lovely little loch was a revelation
to me, with the wonderful line of hills called the Duke's
Bowling Green, which I afterwards came to know so
well. The family at the manse was a very interesting
one. The handsome young minister, quite young, though
already beginning to grow grey-a very piquant combination (I was so myself, though older by several years than
he)-and his mother, a handsome old lady full of strong
character, and then a handsome sister with her baby,
the most interesting of all, with a shade of mystery about
her. They were, as people say, like a household in a
novel, and attracted my curiosity very much. But when
I was sent to my room with a huge packet of letters, and
the family all retired for the night, and the deep darkness
and silence of a winter night in the country closed down
upon me, things were less delightful. The bed in my
room was a gloomy creation, with dark-red moreen curtains, afterwards, as I found, called by Mr Story-witty
and profane-" a field to bury strangers in." I had a pair
of candles, which burned out, and a fire, which got low,
while I agonised over the letters, not one of which I
could make out. The despairing puzzle of that diabolical
handwriting, which was not Irving's after all (who wrote
a beautiful hand), but only letters addressed to him, and
the chill that grew upon me, and the gradual sense of
utter stupidity that came over me, I can't attempt to
describe. I sat up half the night, but in vain. Next
day Mr Campbell of Row came specially to see me, a
little shocked, I am afraid, to find the future biographer
of Irving a young person, rather apt to be led astray and
laugh with the young people in the midst of his serious




A MOMENT OF INTROSPECTION..75


talk. Mr Campbell had been a very notable character
in these parts, and was at that time reverenced and
admired as an apostle, though perhaps to me a little
too much disposed, like everybody else, to tell me of
himself instead of telling me of Irving, on whom my
soul was bent.   I never have had, I fear, a strong
theological turn, and his exposition at family prayers,
though I did my best to think it very interesting, confounded me, especially next morning when I had to
catch the boat at a certain hour in order to catch the
train and get home to my babies. All these details,
however, gave a whimsical mixture of fun, to which, a
sort of convalescent as I was from such trouble and
sorrow, and long deprived of cheerful society, my mind
yielded, in spite of a little resistance on the part of my
graver side, which had honestly expected never to laugh
again. This visit laid the foundation of a long friendship and much and generally very lively intercourse.
How strange it is to me to write all this, with the
effort of making light reading of it, and putting in
anecdotes that will do to quote in the papers and
make the book sell! It is a sober narrative enough,
heaven knows! and when I wrote it for my Cecco to
read it was all very different, but now that I am doing
it consciously for the public, with the aim (no evil aim)
of leaving a little more money, I feel all this to be
so vulgar, so common, so unnecessary, as if I were
making pennyworths of myself.   Well! what does it
matter?  Will my boys ever see it?    Do they ever
see me?   Have they the power, as some one says, of
being present when they desire to be by a mere process
of thought? I would rather it were not so. I should
not like to fix them to earth, to an old mother, an old
woman, when they are both young men in the very
height of life. But why should I turn back here to
this continual strain of my thoughts?  There is too
much of this already. I got a letter from Dr Story




AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


the other day, from Taymouth, about which we had
wandered once together in a little holiday expedition
full of talk and frolic, more than thirty years ago. It
was a very kind letter.   I could see that his heart
swelled with pity for the lonely woman, bereaved of
all things, whom  he had known so different.   Good
friend, though we have drifted so far apart since then.
But I must try to begin again.
I saw various other people besides Mr Campbell and
the Storys, in pursuit of information about Irving, and
came across some amusing scenes, though they have
passed out of my recollection for the most part. I remember making the discovery already noted-which, of
course, I promulgated to all my friends-that every one
I saw on this subject displayed the utmost willingness
to tell me all about themselves, with quite a secondary
interest in Irving.  One gentleman in Edinburgh told
me the whole story of his own wife's illness and death,
and that he had reflected on the evening of her death
that his children were almost more to be pitied than
himself, since it was possible that he might get a new
wife, while they could never have a new mother. Not
an original thought, perhaps, but curious as occurring
at such a moment. This was told me afropos of the
fact that Irving, I think, had once dined in the house
during the reign of that poor lady. She had more
than one successor, if I remember rightly.
One of my people whom I went to see on this subject
was Dr Carlyle, whom I found surrounded with huge
books, - books of a kind with which I was afterwards well acquainted-the 'Acta Sanctorum' and the
like. He was writing a life of Adamnan, the successor
of Columba. My recollection of him is of a small, rather
spruce man, not at all like his great brother. (Mrs Carlyle used to say of Dr John that he was one of the people
who seemed to have been born in creaking shoes.) It
must have been he who told me to go and see Carlyle




CARLYLE.


77


himself, who could tell me a great deal more than he
could about Irving. I fancy that I must have made a
run up to London from Edinburgh in the summer of
1861, and stayed with Mrs Powell in Palace Gardensa sister of Mr Maurice, who had been very kind and
friendly to me for a year or two before my husband's
death. This must have been my first visit to her after,
for I remiember that she questioned me as to how I was
"left," and that I answered her cheerfully, "With my
head and my hands to provide for my children," and
was truly surprised by her strange look and dumb amazement at my cheerfulness. I suppose now, but never
thought then, that it was something to be amazed at. I
don't remember that I ever thought it anything the least
out of the way, or was either discouraged or frightened,
provided only that the children were all well.
It was on this occasion that, shy as I always was,
yet with the courage that comes to one when one is
about one's lawful work, and not seeking acquaintance
or social favour, I bearded the lion in his den, and
went to see Mr Carlyle in the old house in Cheyne
Row, which people are now trying, I think very unwisely, to make a shrine or museum of, which I should
myself hate to see. He received me (I suppose I must
have had an introduction from his brother) with that
perfect courtesy and kindness which I always found in
him, telling me, I remember, that he could tell me
little himself, but that "the wife" could tell me a
great deal, if I saw her. I forget whether he took any
steps to acquaint me with "the wife," for I remember
that I left Cheyne Row with a flutter of disappointment, feeling that though I had seen the great man,
which was no small matter, I was not much the wiser.
I remember his tall, thin, stooping figure between the
two rooms of the library on the ground floor, in the
pleasant shadow of the books, and subdued light and
quiet in the place which seemed to supply a very appropriate atmosphere. I did not even know, and cer



78


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


tainly never should have learned from any look or tone
of his, that I had run the risk of being devoured alive
by thus intruding on him. But though I was fluttered by
the pride of having seen him, and that people might
-say "II vous a parl6, grand'mere," I felt that my hopes
were ended and that this was to be all. However, I
was mistaken. A day or two after I was told (being
still at Mrs Powell's) that a lady whose carriage was
at the door begged me to go out and speak to her,
Mrs Carlyle.  I went, wondering, and found in a
homely little brougham  a lady with bright eyes and
very hollow cheeks, who told me she had to be out in
the open air for certain hours every day, and asked me
to come and drive with her that we might talk about
Irving, whom her husband had told her I wanted to
hear about. She must have been over sixty at this
time, but she was one of those women whom one never
thinks of calling old; her hair was black without a grey
hair in it (mine at half the age was already quite grey),
her features and her aspect very keen, perhaps a little
alarming. When we set off together she began by asking
me if I did not come from East Lothian; she had.
recognised many things in my books which could only
come from that district. I had to answer, as I have
done on various occasions, that my mother had lived.for years in East Lothian, and that I had been so
constantly with her that I could never tell whether
it was I myself who remembered things or she. This
made us friends on the moment; for she too had had
a mother, whom, however, she did not regard with all
the respect I had for mine. What warmed my heart
to her was that she was' in many things like my mother;
not outwardly, for my mother was a fair radiant woman
with a beautiful complexion, and Mrs Carlyle was very
dark, with a darkness which was, however, more her
meagreness and the wearing of her eager spirit than
from  nature, or, at least, so I thought,-but in her
wonderful talk, the power of narration which I never




THE ART OF MAKING PEOPLE TALK.


79


heard equalled except in my mother, the flashes of
keen wit and sarcasm, occasionally even a little sharpness, and always the modifying sense of humour under
all. She told me that day, while we drove round and
round the Park, the story of her childhood and of her
tutor, the big young Annandale student who set her up
on a table and taught her Latin, she six years old and
he twenty (" perhaps the prettiest little fairy that ever
was born," her old husband said to me, describing this
same childhood in his deep broken-hearted voice the
first time I saw him after she was gone). I felt a little
as I had felt with my mother's stories, that I myself
remembered the little girl seated on the table to be on
his level, repeating her Latin verbs to young Edward
Irving, and all the wonderful life and hope that were
about them,-the childhood and the youth and aspiration never to be measured. We jogged along with the
old horse in the old fly and the steady old coachman
going at his habitual jog, and we might have been
going on so until now for anything either of us cared,
-she had so much to say and I was so eager to hear.
I have one gift that I know of, and I am a little
proud of it. It is that of making people talk-at least,
of making some people talk. My dear Lady Cloncurry
says that it is like the art of driving a hoop,-that I
give a little touch now and then, and my victim rolls
on and on. But my people who pour forth to me are
not my victims, for I love to hear them talk and they
take pleasure in it, for the dear talk's sake on both
sides, not for anything else; for I have never, I am
glad to say, been " a student of human nature " or any
such odious thing, nor practised the art of observation, nor spied upon my friends in any way. My own
opinion has always been that I was very unobservant,
-whatever I have marked or noted has been done
quite unaware; and also, that to study human nature
was the greatest impertinence, to be resented whenever
encountered.




So


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


My friendship with Mrs Carlyle was never broken
from this time-it must have been the summer either
of x86o or i86i-till her death. She came to see me
frequently, and I spent some (but feew) memorable evenings in her house, but at that time did not see her
husband again.
January 22.
I have been reading the life of Mr Symonds, and
it makes me almost laugh (though little laughing is in
my heart) to think of the strange difference between
this prosaic little narrative, all about the facts of a life
so simple as mine, and his elaborate self-discussions.
I suppose that to many people the other will be the
more interesting way, just as the movements of the
mind are more interesting than those of the body, or
rather of the external life.  I might well give myself
up to introspection at this sad postscript of my life,
when all is over for me but the one event to come,
which will, I hope and believe, do away with all the
suffering past and carry me back, a happy woman, lt6
my family, to a home; though whether it will be like
the home on earth who can tell? Nothihg can be more
sad than the home on earth in which I am nowv-the
once happy home that rang with my boys' voices and
their steps, where everything is full of them, and everything empty, empty, cold, and silent!  I don't know
whether it is more hard for me to be here with all
these associations, or to be in some other place which
might not be so overwhelming in its connection with
what is past. But it is not a question I need discuss
here.  Indeed I must not discuss here any question
of the kind at all, for any attempt at discussing myself
like Mr Symonds, if I were likely to make it, only would
end in outlines of trouble, in the deep, deep sorrow that
covers me like a mantle. I feel myself like the sufferers
in Dante, those of whom we have been reading, who
are bent under the weight of stones, though I think I
may say with them that invidiosa non fui; but this is




J. A. SYMONDS.


8l


not to put myself under a microscope and watch what
goes on in so paltry a thing, but only the continual
appeal I am always making to heaven and earth, consciously or unconsciously, saying often, I know, as I
have no right to say, "Is this fair,-is it right that I
should be so bowed down to the earth and everything
taken from me?"   This makes of itself so curious a
change even in this quite innocent little narrative of
my life. It is so strange to think that when I go it
will be touched and arranged by strange hands,-no child
of mine to read with tenderness, to hide some things,
to cast perhaps an interpretation of love upon others,
and to turn over all my papers with the consciousness
of a full right to do so, and that theirs is by nature
all that was mine.  Good Mr Symonds, a pleasant,
frank, hearty man, as one saw him from outside! God
bless him! for he was kindly to Cecco, who in his
tender kindliness made a little pilgrimage to Davos the
year after Mr S. died to see his family and offer his
sympathy-one of the many unrevealed impulses of kindness he had which they never probably guessed at all.
But it is vain for me to go on in this strain. I have.
fallen back into my own way of self-comment,-and that
is such a different thing.
In the beginning of the winter of 1861 I went to
Ealing, and settled down there in a tiny house on the
Uxbridge Road. It had a small drawing-room opening
on a rather nice garden, a long strip of ground truly
suburban, with a pretty plot of grass, a hedge of
lilacs and syringas, and vegetables beyond that,-very
humble, but I had no pretensions. I think by moments
I must have been quite happy here. I remember the
cluster of us on the grass, my little Maggie, a little
mother in her way, and the two boys.     We kept
pigeons for the first and only time, and the pretty
creatures were fluttering about, and the house standing
all open doors and windows, and the sunshine and
F




82


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


peace over all.  I wrote a few verses, I remember,
called "In the Eaves," and had a pang of conscious
happiness, always touched with foreboding.
I had gone to Ealing to be near the Blacketts, who,
much better off than I and in a much bigger house as
became a publisher, lived also in the village, which was
not half the size it is now. I.had got very intimate with
them somehow, I can scarcely tell how. Mrs Blackett
was about my age, and a fine creature, very much more
clever than her husband, though treated by him in any
serious matter as if she had been a little girl,-a thing
quite new to me, and which I could not understand. I
remember later by some years, at a time when she had
got to be very anxious about the education of her boys
and he had been somehow moved-a little, perhaps, by
myself, impelled in secret by her-to think of sending
Arthur to Eton, that while talking it over with me, he
suddenly turned to her and said, "Come, Nell, tell me
what you think-let us hear your opinion." I remember
the frightened look that came on her face, the same
look which came over it when she flew before the cow
for which, she was frightened, and she cried, " Oh, Henry,
whatever you think best," and morally ran away, though
it was indeed her movement through another which was
in reality setting him agoing. Now, why was she afraid
of him,? He was as good to her as a rather goodhumoured but self-important man could be, very fond
of her and very proud of her. She was a pretty woman,
bright and full of spirit, and much his superior, knowing
nothing about books, indeed, but neither did he,-why
was she frightened to express an opinion while privately
moved very strongly, much more strongly than he was,
with the desire to get that important matter decided,
and secretly working upon him by all the means at
her command? Through their house-planned like so
many houses of the same kind, on the system of having
everything as expensive as could be got, and making
as little show as possible for the money, the latter




THE AUTHOR OF 'JOHN HALIFAX.


not, perhaps, intentional, but from  preference for the
humdrum-there fluttered a confused drift from time
to time of literary persons, somewhat small beer like
myself, novel-writers and suchlike.  These were all
very literary: our hosts were not literary at all, but
with a business interest in us, along with a certain
kindly contempt, such as publishers generally entertain
for the queer genus writer. It was kindly at least on
the part of the good Blacketts, who were the kindest
folk, he always very brotherly to me, and she most
affectionate. I was very fond of Ellen Blackett, admired her and thought much of her. Their house was
full of big noisy boys, some of them just the same ages as
mine-a great bond between young mothers; handsome
boys, wild and troublesome in later life, but with that
stout commercial thread in them which brings men back
to a life which is profitable when they have sown their
wild oats,-not the highest motive, perhaps, but a recuperative force, such as it was.
I had introduced Mr Blackett by his desire to Miss
Muloch in London,-he, apparently with some business
gift or instinct imperceptible to me, having made out
that there were elements of special success in her.
Probably, however, this instinct was no more than an
appreciation in himself of the sentimentalism in which
she was so strong. He had at once made an arrangement with her, of which 'John Halifax' was the result,
the most popular of all her books, and one which raised
her at once to a high position, I will not say in literature,
but among the novel-writers of one species. She made a
spring thus quite over my head with the helping hand
of my particular friend, leaving me a little rueful,-I
-did not at all understand the means nor think very
highly of the work, which is a thing that has happened
several times, I fear, in my experience.  Success as
measured by money never came to my share.       Miss
Muloch in this way attained more with a few books,
and these of very thin quality, than I with my many.




84


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


I don't know why. I don't pretend to think that it
was because of their superior quality. I had, however,
my little success too, while I lived in Ealing. I began
in 'Blackwood' the Carlingford series, beginning with
a story called 'The Doctor's Family,' which I myself
liked, and then 'Salem Chapel.' This last made a
kind of commotion, the utmost I have ever attained
to. John Blackwood wrote to me pointing out how
I had just missed doing something that would have
been made worth the while; and I believe he was
right, but the chapel atmosphere was new and pleased
people.  As a matter of fact I knew nothing about
chapels, but took the sentiment and a few details from
our old church in Liverpool, which was Free Church
of Scotland, and where there were a few grocers and
other such good folk whose ways with the minister
were wonderful to behold. The saving grace of their
Scotchness being withdrawn, they became still more
wonderful as Dissenting deacons, and the truth of the
picture was applauded to all the echoes. I don't know
that I cared for it much myself, though Tozer and the
rest amused me well enough.   Then came ' The Perpetual Curate' and ' Miss Marjoribanks.'  I never got
so much praise, and a not unfair share of pudding too.
I was amused lately to hear the comments of Mr David
Stott of Oxford Street, the bookseller, on this. He told
me that he had been in the Blackwoods' establishment
at the time, and of the awe and horror of Mr. Simpson
at the prodigal extravagance of John Blackwood in
giving me the price he did, f1500, for 'The Perpetual
Curate.'  One could see old Simpson, pale, with the
hair of his wig standing up on his head, remonstrating,
and John Blackwood, magnanimous, head of the house
of Blackwood, and feeling rather like a feudal suzerain,
as he always did, declaring that the labourer was worthy
of his hire. Stott had the air too of thinking it was
sinful extravagance on the editor's part. As for me,
I took what was given me and was very grateful, and




. CARLYLE IN A NEW LIGHT.


85


no doubt sang praises to John. On the other side, it
was Henry Blackett who turned pale at Miss Muloch's
sturdy business-like stand for her money. He used to
talk of his encounters with her with affright, very
grave, not able to laugh.
This was also the time when I wrote the 'Edward
Irving.' It must have been my good time, the little
boat going very smdothly and all promising well, and,
always my burden of happiness, the children all well.
They had the measles, I remember, and were all a little
ill the day of the Prince of Wales's marriage, Cyril
least ill of all, but feverish one day, when, as I stood
over him, putting back his hair from his little hot forehead, he said to me with a pretty mixture of baby
metaphor, which I was very proud Of and never forgot,
"Oh, mamma, your hand is as soft as snow."   How
like him that was, the poetry and the perception and
the tenderness! Cecco too had a momentary illness,a little convulsion fit which frightened me terribly,
one of the few tiues when I quite lost my head.  I
remember holding him in his hot bath, and all the
while going on calling for hot water and hearing myself
do so, and unable to stop it. It was a day on which
Mrs Carlyle was coming for the afternoon. When she
arrived I was sitting before the fire (though it was
summer), with my baby wrapped in a blanket, just
out of his bath, and humming softly to him, and he
had just startled me out of my misery and made my
heart leap for joy, by pulling my face to him with a
way he had and saying, all himself again, "Why you
singing hum-hum? Sing 'Froggy he would a-wooing go,'"
He was only two and a-half. Mrs Carlyle sat by me, so
kind and tender and full of encouragement, as if she had
known all about babies, but did not stay very long. I
think I can see her by the side of the fire, telling me all
kinds of comforting things; and by the first post possible
that same evening, I got a letter from her telling me that
Mr Carlyle had made her sit down at once and write to




86


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


tell me that a sister of his had once had just such an
attack, which never was repeated.  God bless them,
that much maligned, much misunderstood pair! That
was not much like the old ogre his false friends have
made him out to be.
Here is a pretty thing. I should like if I could to
write what people like about my books, being just then,
as I have said, at my high tide, and instead of that all
I have to say is a couple of baby stories. I am afraid
I can't take the books au grand serieux. Occasionally
they pleased me, very often they did not. I always
took pleasure in a little bit of fine writing (afterwards
called in the family language a "trot "), which, to do
myself justice, was only done when I got moved by my
subject, and began to feel my heart beat, and perhaps a
little water in my eyes, and ever more really satisfied by
some little conscious felicity of words than by anything
else. I have always had my sing-song, guided by no
sort of law, but by my ear, which was in its way
fastidious to the cadence and measure that pleased me;
but it is bewildering to me in my perfectly artless art,
if I may use the word at all, to hear of the elaborate
ways of forming and enhancing style, and all the studies
for that end.
A good deal went on during that short time at Ealing.
I had visitors, Miss Blackwood for two months, and
much driving up and down to London to the Exhibition
of 1862, which I loathed; but she enjoyed and dragged
me, if not at her chariot wheels yet in the " rusty fly,"
which added very much to my expenses and wasted my
time, with the result of being set down by her as very
extravagant,-a reproach which has come up against me
at various periods of my life. Dr Story came with her,
or at least at the same time, and afterwards Principal
Tulloch and his wife, whose acquaintance I had made
at Edinburgh, St Andrews, and Roseneath in the intervening summer of these two years, which I spent at
Roseneath, for which I had taken a great fancy-the




. ROSENEATH.


87


beautiful little loch and the hills. I must have gone
then to Willowburn, a small house on a high bank,
with a lovely view of the loch and the opposite shore,
all scattered with houses among the trees, with the
steamboat bustling up and down, and a good deal of
boating and singing and Highland expeditions,-all very
amusing, almost gay, as I had seldom been in my life
before. There was always a youthful party in the manse,
and the Tullochs generally for a time, and various visitors
coming and going,-from the high respectability of Mr
Edward Caird, now Master of Balliol, and Mr Moir, to
all sorts of jocular and light-minded people. I remember
coming home from some wildish expedition, sunburnt
and laden with flowers,-a small group full of fun and
laughter sitting together on deck,-when suddenly the
handsome serious form of Mrs M., always tire  quatre
iingles, always looking propriety itself, was seen slowly
ascending up the cabin stairs, to the confusion and
sudden pallor of myself in particular, to whom she was
coming on a visit. I doubt if I had ever been so gay.
I was still young, and all was well with the children.
My heart had come up with a great bound from all the
strain of previous trouble and hard labour and the valley
of the shadow of death. There was some wit, or at least
a good deal of humour, in the party, and plenty of
excellent talk. The Principal talked very well in those
days-indeed he always did, but never so well as at that
time; and Mr Story, too, was an excellent talker, and his
sister very clever and bright; and my dear padrona,'
if she never said very much, always quick to see everything, and never able to resist a laugh. We got to have
a crowd of allusions and mutual recollections after all
our boatings and drivings and ludicrous little adventures
on the loch and the hills, which produced a great deal of
laughter even when they were not witty-Jack Tulloch's
appetite, for instance, when he was taken with us on
one occasion, and looked on with exquisite contempt
1 Mrs Tulloch.




88


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


at our admiring raptures over the scenery, but, came
to life whenever lunch was going, and was devotedly
attended by the Highland waiters, who entered into the
joke and plied him with dish after dish. He was only
about eleven, poor boy. We were like Farmer Flamborough and his daughters, just as much amused by all
these small matters as if they had been the most amusing
things in the world. Miss Blackwood continued to make
part occasionally of our expeditions, and always an.
amusing part. She was full of the humour and drollery
of her family, gifts in which they were all strong,.
with many little eccentricities of her own, fits of temper
almost always redeemed at the end by a flash of fun.
which made the incipient quarrel end in a burst of
laughter.
I worked very hard all the time, I scarcely know how,
for I was always subject to an irruption of merry neighbours bent on some ramble, whom, when they came in
the evening, my big Jane, now more cook than nurse
and general factothm, fed with great dishes of maccaronim,
which she had learned to make in Italy, and which was
our social distinction: everything was extremely primitive at Willowburn. We had one cab in the place,
which took me solemnly now and then to dinner at
the manse and other places, and which was driven by
a certain Andie Chalmers who was our.delight, who
spoke in a soft, half-articulate murmur, all vowels,
very tolerant of the pouring rain through which he
drove us occasionally through many a wet mile of road,.
allowing with a smile that it was a "wee saft" whenthere was a deluge, and who used to come to the cab
door at the foot of a hill with mild insistence, inaccessible
to remonstrance, till we one by one unwillingly, yet
with merry jests, got out to ease the horse.
I suppose after all that I only went for two summers
to Roseneath, but it seems to have bulked very largely
in my life: there was a third later, but that was in
another age, as will be seen, and I was not quite three




THE TRAGEDY OF A FALSE QUANTITY.


89


years in Ealing. Here I had often with me, as I had
a fancy for having, a young lady on a long Visit.  It
would be cruel to name by name the dear good girl,
who was brought by her mother to join us one time
where we were living, the whole party of us,-myself,
big Jane, and the three children. The girl was very
tearful and pale, and her mother whispered to me
to take no notice, that she had been fraying for
strength to pay me this visit, in which, however, she
enjoyed herself very much, I believe. This was, I fear,
too good a joke to be kept from my friends.
It was in the summer of 1863 that Geraldine Macpherson came to spend some time with me at Ealing. She
was much shattered with Roman fever, and she had a
very bad illness of another kind, almost fatal, in my
house. The high-spirited creature never gave in, kept
her courage and composure, through everything, but was
as near as possible gone.  How one wonders vainly
whether, if some one thing like this. had not happened,
the tenor of one's entire life might have been changed.
It was she who persuaded me to go back to Rome when
she returned. She persuaded the Tullochs also, to my
great surprise, and I daresay their own. The Principal
had been ill. It was the first of those mysterious illnesses of his when he fell under the terrible influence
of a depression for which there was no apparent cause.
He was in the depths of this when he and his wife were
with me in 1862, and he told me the whole story of it.
It originated (or he thought it did) in (of all things in
the world) a false quantity he had made in some Latin
passage he had quoted in a speech at some Presbytery
or Assembly meeting. He told it with such impassioned
seriousness, with his countenance so full of sorrow and
trouble, his big blue eyes full of moisture, that I was
much impressed, and, I remember, gave him out of my.sympathy and emotion the equally inconceivable advice
to call the men together to whom that speech had been
made, and make a clean breast of it to them. I remem



90


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


ber he was staggered in the extravagance of his talk by
this queer insane suggestion, and perhaps a touch more
would have awakened the man's wholesome humour and
driven the strange delusion away in a shout of laughter;
but I was deadly serious, as was he. He was beginning
to mend, and had been ordered a sea-voyage, and somebody offered him a passage in a Levant steamboat to
Greece. And now, what with Geddie's persuasions and
a spring of eager planning on my part how and when to
go, Mrs Tulloch made up her mind to come to Rome to
meet her husband, then on his way back, bringing her two
eldest girls while he took his eldest boy. There was a
crowd of little children left at home, and I have no doubt
if I heard of such a proceeding now I should think it the
wildest plan.  But we carried it out notwithstanding,
with a delightful indifference to ways and means which
makes me shudder when I look back upon it. We set
out the merriest party, ready to enjoy everything, the
padrona, as I soon began to call her, with her daughters
Sara and Fanny, Geddie, myself, my Jane, and the
children, all so small, so happy, so bright, my three little
things-Maggie approaching eleven.  We took out a
French governess with us for the sake of the children, a
Mdlle. Coquelin, I think, who soon dropped out of my
life after the great calamity came. But in the meantime
we were all gay, fearing nothing. I remember very distinctly our journey from Paris to Marseilles, because
it was a cheap journey, second class, and monstrous in
length, twenty-seven hours, I think; but we were all very
economical to start with. The endless journey it was!
We were all dead-tired when we arrived, but when we
reached our hotel and got round a table, and well warmed
and refreshed with an innocent champagne, St Peray,
which I made them all drink, our spirits recovered. I
was always great in the way of feeding my party,-would
not hear of teas or coffee meals, but insisted upon meat
and wine, to the horror but comfort of my companions.
That, I believe, was one reason why there were never any




THE LONG DREARY LANE OF LIFE.


9i


breakdowns among us while travelling.  I think with
pleasure of the pleasant tumult of that arrival,-the delight
of rest, the happy sleepy children all got to bed, the little
party of women, all of us about the same age, all with
the sense of holiday, a little outburst of freedom, no man
interfering, keeping us to rule or formality.  I don't
know why it should present itself to me under so pleasant
a light, for I never liked second-class journeys, nor discomforts of that kind. How often have I travelled that
road since, but never so free or light of heart! Heavy
and sad are its recollections now, but it is a blessing of
God that a happy moment (which is so much rarer) is
more conspicuous in life, lighting up the long dreary lane
like a lamp, than the sad ones. Oh, the bonnie little
dear faces! the rapture of their wellbeing and their
happiness, all clinging round mamma with innumerable
appeals,-the "bundle of boys," as my Maggie said with
sweet scorn, who left no room for her arms to get round
me, but only mine round her. I am old and desolate and
alone1 but I seem to see myself a young mother, the two
little fellows in the big fauteuil behind me, clinging round
my neck, and their sister at my knee. God bless them,
and God bless them,-are they all together now?
We went next day, I think, in the great Messageries
steamboat, by Genoa and Leghorn, to Civita Vecchia,
and got to Rome in three days, with time enough in
Genoa to get a glimpse of the town, and in Pisa next
day, making a run from Leghorn. All was well when
we got to Rome, where my poor brother William was
with Robert Macpherson, helping him to sell his photographs, and pouring out his stores of knowledge upon
all the Visitors, to good Robert's great admiration. The
Tullochs and I got a joint-house in Capo le Case. We
had two servants-a delightful donna da facienda, called
Leonilda, and the only detestable Italian servant I ever
saw, Antonio; but the two did everything for us somehow. We had our dinner, I think, from the Trattoria.
And we had a month, or a little more, of pleasant life




92


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


together. The Principal arrived from Greece-or was it
Constantinople?-and all was well.
Ah me, alas! pain ever, for ever. This has been the
ower-word of my life. And now, it burst into the murmur
of pain again.
ROME, 1864.1
I did not know when I wrote the last words that I was
coming to lay my sweetest hope, my brightest anticipations for the future, with my darling, in her father's grave.
Oh this terrible, fatal, miserable Rome! I came here
rich and happy, with my blooming daughter, my dear
bright child, whose smiles and brightness everybody
noticed, and who was sweet as a little mother to her
brothers. There was not an omen of evil in any way. Our
leaving of home, our journey, our life here, have all been
among the brightest passages of my life; and my Maggie
looked the healthiest and happiest of all the children, and
ailed nothing and feared nothing,-nor I for her.
Four short days made all the difference, and now here
I am with my boys thrown back again out of the light
into the darkness, into the valley of the shadow of death.
My dearest love never knew nor imagined that she was
dying; no shadow of dread ever came upon her sweet
spirit. She got into heaven without knowing it, and
God have pity upon me, who have thus parted with the
sweetest companion, on whom unconsciously, more than
on any other hope of life, I have been calculating. I
feared from the first moment her illness began, and yet
I had a kind of underlying conviction that God would not
take my ewe-lamb, my woman-child from me.
The hardest moment in my present sad life is the
morning, when I must wake up and begin the dreary
world again. I can sleep during the night, and I sleep
as long as I can; but when it is no longer possible, when
1 These pages, written in Rome at the moment of her bitter grief for the
loss of her daughter, seem most suitably inserted here, though Mrs Oliphant
left them detached.-ED.




THE MYSTERY OF THE " UNSEEN."


93


the light can no longer be gainsaid, and life is going on
everywhere, then I, too, rise up to bear my burden.
How different it used to be! When I was a girl I
remember the feeling I had when the fresh morning: light
came round. Whatever grief there had been the night
before, the new day triumphed over it. Things must be
better than one thought, must be well, in a world which
woke up to that new light, to the sweet dews and sweet
air which renewed one's soul. Now I am thankful for
the night and the darkness, and shudder to see the light
and the day returning.
The Principal calls ". In Memorian" an embodiment of
the spirit of this age, which he says does not know what
to think, yet thinks and wonders and stops itself, and
thinks again; which believes and does not believe, and
perhaps, I think, carries the human yearning and longing
farther than it was ever carried before. Perhaps my own
thoughts are much of the same kind. I try to realise
heaven to myself, and I cannot do it. The more I think
of it, the less I am able to feel that those who have left
us can start up at once into a heartless beatitude without
caring for our sorrow. Do they sleep until the great day?
Or does time so cease for them that it seems but a matter
of hours and minutes till we meet again? God who is
Love cannot give immortality and annihilate affection;
that surely, at least, we must take for granted-as sure
as they live they live to love us. Human nature in the
flesh cannot be more faithful, more tender, than the
purified human soul in heaven. Where, then, are they,
those who have gone before us? Some people say around
us, still knowing all that occupies us; but that is an idea I
cannot entertain either. It would not be happiness but
pain to be beside those we love yet unable to communicate with them, unable to make ourselves known.
The world is changed, and my life is darkened; and all
that I can do is to take desperate hold of this one
certainty, that God cannot have done it without reason.




94


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


I can get no farther. Sometimes such a longing comes
upon me to go and seek somebody, as I used to go to
Frank to the studio in the old times. But I have nobody
now: my friends are very sorry for me; but there is
nobody in the world who has a right to share my grief,
to whom my grief belongs, as it does to myself-and that
is what one longs for. Sympathy is sweet, but sympathy
is for lighter troubles. When it is a grief that rends one
asunder, one's longing is for the other-the only other
whose heart is rent asunder by the same stroke. For me,
I have all the burden to bear myself. My brother Frank
writes very kindly, speaking as if it were his sorrow too;
but oh, do I not know he will go back among his
unbroken family, and feel aHl the more glad in his heart
for the contrast of my affliction, and thank God the
more! I don't blame him.     I would, perhaps, have
done the same. Here is the end of all. I am alone. I
am a woman. I have nobody to stand between me and
the roughest edge of grief. All the terrible details have
to come to me.    I have to bear the loss, the pang
unshared. My boys are too little to feel it, and there is
nobody else in the world to divide it with me. 0 Lord;
Thou wouldest not have done it but for good reason!
Stand by the forlorn creature who fainteth under Thy
hand, but whom Thou sufferest not to die.,




95


IV.
1894.
ON the 27th of January 1864 my dear little Maggie
died of gastric fever. I have written about it all elsewhere.  I had escaped, I thought, from the valley of
the shadow of death, and had been happy, in sheer
force of youth and health and the children: now I was
plunged again under the salt and bitter waves. I laid
her by her father, and it seemed to me that all light
and hope were gone from me for ever.     Up to five
years ago I could not say her dear na'me without the
old pang coming back; since then, when there came to
be another to bury in my heart, my little girl seemed
all at once to become a tranquil sweet recollection; and
now that all are gone she is but a dear shadow, far in
the background, while my boys take up in death as in
life the whole of the darkened scene. All three gone,
and only I left behind!  I must try not to dwell on
that here. There is enough of distracted thoughts and
fancies elsewhere.  I have never ventured to go back
to Rome.   I dared not while I had still the boys to
think of. Twice fatal to us, I did not venture to face
it a third time. I used to say that if I knew I had a
fatal disease, or was sure that they needed me no
longer, I would go by myself, and would be happy to
die there, but never that they should go. I feel as if
-I should like to go now, but not to die there, for I
must, if it is possible, lie beside my Cyril and Cecco
at Eton. But this belongs to a later time.




96


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


We left Rome in May, the party still together, the
Tullochs and I. I felt that if I left them then I could
never bear to see them again; and thus it was that
Sara and Fanny Tulloch were left with me for a, year,
their parents returning home.  I remember very little
in Rome. The people I met there, the things I saw,
seemed all wiped out of my mind, except some strange
broken scenes.  The first week after that calamity
Geddie took me out to Frascati, to their house there,
for a little change; and I never can forget the aspect
of that summer place, where we had once lived through
the hot July and August, in the desolation of the winter
and of my misery. We were on the upper storey of a
great cold Italian house, the cold penetrating to the
heart, cold such as never was seen or felt surely in the
North,-no servants, no comforts, sitting crying over
the fire through a dismal day or two in a great, gaunt,
half-empty room, my heart breaking for the children.
It did not last long, but I have never forgotten these
dismal days.  There is another day in my memory
like a dream. It was then March, and we had gone to
Albano and were living there. The Macphersons came
out to visit us, and, as they could never be without
company, asked some of their friends out from Rome
on the Sunday to go to Nemi. Then, finding how I
shrank from the strangers, Robert took me through
the woods,-a wonderful, wild, beautiful way,-leading
my donkey to the place where we were to dine.    I
recollect a kind of soothing in the sensation of the
spring, the wild freshness of the wood; a party of
charcoal-burners, whose encampment we passed, appear
to me like a picture,-wild men, not safe to meet, but
my kind old Robert knew them all and their dialect
and their ways. Nemi, the wonderful blue lake, bound
within the circle of its deep banks, and an old Palazzo
with frescoed rooms looking sheer down into the wonderful metallic water, which looked something like
molten sapphires, but of a warmer colour. I had half




PARIS.


97


a mind, I remember, to take an apfartamento in that
house, and throw myself into the rut of artist life,
though my instincts were not of that kind,.-a life not
exactly disorderly, but a little wild and wandering and
gregarious.  I wonder, if I had stayed at Nemi, and
brought the boys up so-how bewildering the thought
is of things one might have done.
After that we went to Naples and Capri, where we
stayed a long time and got to know all the guides and
people, riding about every day over all the lower island
and up to Anacapri-all like a drpam. And Sentella,
the good hunchback maid whose face the Principal
said was so full of moral beauty, and Feliciello, who
was not by any means so good, but whom we liked
and petted.  I wrote, I think, a little sketch of it
afterwards, called " Life on an Island," or some such
name, in 'Blackwood.'1
In May we left Rome finally and moved northward
to the Lake of Como, where we stayed at Bellaggio;
then into Switzerland, where we spent the summer,
chiefly on the Lake of Geneva; then to Paris, where
we passed the winter. The Principal and the fadrona
had gone home long before, and my party in Paris consisted of my two little boys, the two girls, Sara and
Fanny, Jane, and a Swiss - French governess, Mademoiselle Pricam, whom we had picked up at Montreux.
In Paris we got a cheerful apartment on the Champs
Elysees, the sunny side. It was at the height of the
gaiety and prosperity of the Empire, and I used to
say that the sight of all the gay stream of life from
the windows, all the fine people coming and going, the
brightness and the movement, were a kind of salvation
to me in that dark and clouded time.    I remember
going off to St Germain to spend the first afiniversary
of my Maggie's death, taking my delightful boy with
me; and the dark gloomy evening after I had put him
to bed in the inn, once more sitting desolate and
1 "Life on an Island," 'Maga,' January 1865.
G




98


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


crying over the fire; but next morning the terrace
in the wintry sunshine, and all the thoughts that came
to one then, and still more the going back to the
cheerful rooms in Paris, which were a kind of home,
and my other dear little fellow rushing with his shout
of welcome to mamma, brought a little sunshine back;
though it was not till the 4th of April after that, when
I found the rooms crowded with flowers which they
had all gone out to get for me on my birthday before
I was up, that I began to feel as if I had passed again
from death into life. I took them all out to St Cloud
in reward for their flowers, and they were all so gay,
and the morning and the drive so bright.
In Paris I saw a good deal of the Montalemberts.
I have described how I translated the Count's book when
I first went to Scotland after my widowhood. He had
been pleased with it, I don't know why, for it was badly
done; and by John Blackwood's desire and introduction
came to see me in Paris, and I dined there once or
twice, though under protest, for I had never gone anywhere or cared to see anybody. There was one party
I remember which was interesting, where were PrevostParadol and some other literary people.  I was too
shy and out of my element to make much of them,
and have never been proud of my French; so I did
not get the good I ought out of this glimpse of society.
On one occasion Miss Blackwood, who came to Paris
and paid me a long visit, was with me,-a little alarming in her large bare shoulders'in the small party with
the other ladies all decorously covered. There was, I
remember, a pretty graceful Madame L'Abbadie, whose
husband came up to me, a man with a dreadful brogue,
and said, "I speak English better than Montalembert;
the reason is I am born in Dublin, and he is born in
London."  Montalembert's English was delightful, perfect in accent and idiom; I don't remember any mistake
of his except the amusing and flattering one with which
he expressed his surprise when we first met to find me




COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT.


99


" not so respectable" as he had supposed. I daresay
it was a mistake made on purpose; for to be sure I
was still young, and perhaps, in the still lingering exaltation of my sorrow and the tears that were never far off
from my eyes, looked younger than I was. It was then
1865, and I must have been thirty-seven, and had grey
hair.  Montalembert himself was, I think, one of the
most interesting men I ever met. He had that curious
mixture of the-shall I say?-supernaturalist and man
of the world (not mystic, he was no mystic, but yet
miraculous, if there is any meaning in that) which has
always had so great an attraction for me, - keen and
sharp as a sword, and yet open to every belief and to
every superstition, far more than I ever could have
been, who looked at him and up to hiin with a sort
of admiring wonder and yet sympathy, not without a
smile in it. He was a little like Laurence Oliphant
in this, but Laurence was not a highly educated man
like Montalembert.i M. de Montalembert struck me as
the most delightful, benign, and genial of men when
I saw him first; but afterwards I used to say that
he was one of the few men I was afraid of, and that
he had a fine way of picking one up as on some polished pair of tongs, and holding one up to the admiration of the world around, in all the bloom of one's
foolishness. I remember on one occasion, when there
was great talk of vacant fauteuils in the Acad6mie, and
of the candidates, two of whom in particular were being
discussed, I asked him, rather sillily, whether there were
two vacancies or two candidates for one vacancy-something of that sort,-when he turned to the company and
called their attention to the orderly, temperate, English
mind, in which there was no rush at a prize, but a wellbalanced competition of two, as I had suggested. There
was a great deal of laughter, in which, of course, any
shy explanation of mine was completely drowned. I
doubt whether an Englishman of equally fine manners
would have held up a French stranger to the gentle




I00


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


ridicule of the company in this way. And yet I always
liked him in the midst of my alarm, and he was very
kind. I gave him the 'Life of Irving,' with a little
protest, which was quite true, that it was not because
I had written it, but because of the man Irving that
I wished him to read it, which protest he received
with a little banter and look of seeing through me; but
afterwards avowed that he was touched by the character
of Irving and its truth, mightily apart as it was from
all his own prepossessions, which were so strong, however, that he could not bear Scotland,-could not even
persuade himself to permit the glamour of Sir Walter
to excuse the black anti -Catholic desolation of that
dreadful country, all but lona.  Happening to speak
of Carlyle, he expressed great dislike for him. I had
mentioned that unfortunately Carlyle had no children.
"Why unfortunately?" said Montalembert; "happily,
rather, for he was not a man to have the bringing
up of children."  I made some sort of indignant reply,
but added, "I don't believe in education."  He paused
a moment, laughed, and said, "Neither do I."  Carlyle
had an equal dislike of him, and shot forth a thunderbolt at him on one occasion when I mentioned him;
but spoke of Lamennais in a half tender tone,-" There
is no hairm in him, no hairm in him," he said. Lamennais was tragic from the Montalembert point of view,
-a name to be spoken of with bated breath.
It was Count de Montalembert who gave me tickets
for one of the side chapels in Notre Dame, where Pere
Felix was preaching to men during Lent,-a scene I have
described somewhere, and which I read a description
of lately in the life of Mrs Craven. The nave was packed
closely with men, a dark mass, their immovable faces
whitening the whole surface of that great area under
the not abundant lights, and the spare figure of the
monk in the pulpit, his face whiter still, like ivory. It
was very dark in the side chapels, and we did not hear
very well; but the sight was very impressive, and specially




NOTRE DAME,


IO1


so on, I think, the Thursday of Holy Week, when this
immense crowd of men sang the Stabat Mater in unison,
-the most wonderful volume of sound, which was quite
overwhelming in the depth and strength of it, rolling
like a kind of regulated and tempered thunder, or like
the sound of many waters,-a perfectly new and extraordinary effect.  (I remember finding out afterwards,
to my great confusion, that these tickets had been given
to me only for one night, and that I had kept other
people out of them--the sort of horrible ridiculous want
of sense which makes one hot all over when one discovers it.)
On the Easter morning we went very early to Notre
Dame to see the communion of these men, which was
also a very touching sight. There was an old lady in
the gallery where we were who looked down all the time,
crying and talking to herself, "Dix soldats-et un petit
bon homme en blouse."  I, more profane, smiled a little,
and was a little ashamed of myself for doing so, at the
air of conscious solemnity with which most of the men
came up to the altar, very devout, but yet with a certain sense of forming part of a very great and ennobling
spectacle.
I made little of the ladies of the Montalembert household on this occasion, my attention being chiefly attracted
to him. The girls were quite young, and I did not see
enough of them to make friends as afterwards with
Madame de Montalembert,-a person to whom it is difficult to do justice in words, the fine, ample, noble Flamande, grande dame au bout des ongles, ready and capable
to do anything in the world of which there might be
need, to defend a castle, or light a fire, or nurse the
sick, but helplessly unable to "do " her own hair,-a
characteristic failure which amused me much when I
found it out, which was not, however, till much later.
As usual I did not make half the use of my opportunities
which I ought to have done, was shy of going to see
them, and held back generally after my fashion, which




102


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


I always regret afterwards. I am not sure that I ever
saw Montalembert again.
At the other end of the social scale we picked up a
curious pair in Paris,-a man who was an Oxford man,
far from a refined specimen, indeed, who advertised in
" Galignani' for pupils, and whom I engaged to begin my
boy with Latin.   He. came, I think,' every morning,
and Cyril, aged eight, began his serious education under
him. He was of a species of which I saw various specimens later,-the half rustic, half vulgar son of a country
clergyman, gone all wrong at the University, but not a
bad scholar, and, above all, not a bad man-coarse, redfaced, perhaps a little vicious, certainly addicted to drink.
He had a wife, a kind of falsely pretty creature, or with
a false air of being pretty, very pink and white, with
one leg a little shorter than the other in consequence
of some illness, who had come to Paris to be under
Nelotan, the great doctor. There was a baby and an
English, or rather Welsh, nurse, who stood by them
through thick and thin, strongly disapproving of both,
but faithful all the same. It was she, I think, probably
through. Jane, from whom we heard how the man
had been engaged to his wife before her illness, and
had helped to nurse her through it and made light of
the defect it left, which he would not permit to interfere with their marriage. This prepossessed me much
in his favour. Then came the report that she had a
dreadful temper, and threw plates and cups at him in
her fury, which made his good-humour and apparent
devotion to her more touching still. Afterwards it appeared that she had a tolerable income and he not
a penny, besides being in innumerable scrapes, which
discouraged us a little. They used to come and spend
one evening in the week with us, and I think -  did
his preliminary teaching very well. Fanny was his pupil
too, as well as Cyril; they were both, it is true, exceptional scholars.
We had another regular evening visitor once a-week



AN ITALIAN REFUGEE..1O3


a man whom, though I never saw more of him than those
regular weekly visits, I got to think of as a dear friend,
and I think he had the same sort of feeling for meGiovanni (or, as he wrote himself, John) Ruffini, the
author of 'Dr Antonio,' an Italian refugee of the 1848
times, and for years a resident in London, where he
had written that delightful book in English. His written
English was beautiful, but he spoke it badly and with
difficulty. He was a large mild man, with blue eyes,
heavy-lidded and large- large externally, and specially
remarkable when they were cast down, which sounds
nodd but was true. He lived with an English family,
with whom he had been for years-partly brother, partly
lover, partly guest. I did not know them, and I don't
-know the rights of the story. The father had died some
time before, but he still kept his place among them,
and went about with the mother of the house, both of
them growing old with what seemed to me a delightful
innocence and naturalness. They made their villeggiatura,
these two together, sometimes in a couple of chalets on
a Swiss mountain, as if there had not been such a thing
as an evil tongue in the world, which interested me
exceedingly; and indeed his weekly visit, his pensive
Italian mildness, the look of the traditional exile, though
in so perfectly natural a man, was very interesting: that
exile look with the faint air of fiction in it, and its absolute sincerity all the same, has gone out of mortal ken
nowadays.
Another queer pair that I used to see were old Father.Prout (Mahony, or O'Mahony, as he called himself) and
the old lady about whom he circled, and who was a
very quaint old lady indeed, with 'the air of having been
somebody,-a very dauntless, plain-spoken old person
in old shiny black satin and lace, and looking as if
everything was put on as well as the satin-hair, teeth,
and everything else.  I don't know if there had been
anything wrong in the connection-it was certainly patriarchal then,-they were so old and such bons canamrades,




104


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


and so entirely at ease with each other. It was wicked
of me, I fear, but it amused me to think that these old
people had perhaps indulged in a grande passion and
defied the world for each other. I thought no worse of
them, somehow, which I am aware is a most immoral
sentiment. But perhaps there had never been anything
in the least wrong. Peace to their ancient ashes!--they
were a strange pair. She-I have forgotten her name
-came to see me, and I went to her house once in the
evening, somewhere in the heart of Paris, up a great
many stairs, where she had an apartment exactly like
herself, with much dingy decoration and a great many
curious things, and the air somehow of being dressed
like its mistress, and scented and done up with an artificialness which, as in the lady's case, by dint of long
continuance had growni to be perfectly sincere.  She
bade her old gentleman sing me his great song, "The
Bells of Shandon," which he did, standing up against
the mantelpiece, with his pale head, like carved ivory,
relieved against the regular garniture de cheminee, the
big clock and candelabra.  He had a fine face with
delicate features, almost an ascetic face, though his life
had been not exactly of that description, I fear. He
was an unfrocked priest, and I think was one of the
Fraser group, Which was, more or less, an imitation
of the Blackwood group, with much real or pretended
rivalry, and had knocked about a great deal in his life,
and was poor. I think I heard that the old lady died,
and that he became poorer still. There were thus two
elderly romances, in old fidelity and friendship, under
my eyes, made innocent, almost infantile, especially in
the latter case, as of old babies, independent of sex and
superior to it, amid all the obliterations of old age. I
had several curious visitors of this kind, chiefly sent to
me, I think, by Robert Macpherson,--one of them Miss
Cushman, the actress, whom I had met in London and
had not liked, but who touched my heart with her
evident deep knowledge of trouble and sorrow. I think




A MIRACULOUS EASE OF MIND.


IO5


I have described her and others in some other places,
though I can't tell where. I had visitors too from
home,-Mrs Fitzgerald, Miss Blackwood, and Principal
Tulloch, who came to take the girls home, and in his
turn brought some odd Scotch -cosmopolitan people.
Not cosmopolitan, however, was the Scotch minister,
who held his little conventicle in the Oratoire, and who
said sturdily, and with the courage of his opinion, that
he had not learned French, and did not mean to do so,
as he disapproved of it altogether.
We were about six months in Paris, in the little bright
apartment which I remember cost over a thousand francs
for wood and coal during that time, and was as warm as a
nest. The party consisted of the two girls, my two dear
little boys,-Cyril so full of wit and fun, Cecco always
so original even in his babyhood, learning to read in
Mademoiselle's wonderful way in a fortnight without a
tear,-Mademnoiselle herself, Jane, and a servant and a
half-the bonne a tout faire and her child. The Champs
Elys6es, full of sun and brightness and fine carriages,
ahd all the fine people passing in a stream every afternoon, did me much good, and it all bears a radiant
aspect now as I look back, heavy though my heart
often was. I heard then for the first time of our afterwards familiar and beloved cousin Annie, in reality
a second cousin, whom   I had never seen, but who
vrote introducing herself to me, with some literary
aspirations, taking at that time the shape of poetry,
against which I remember I advised her, suggesting a
novel instead.  I cannot remember what I was then
doing, nor how I was in the matter of money, but I
presume I must have been going on with a flowing
sail, working a great deal and not requiring to take
much thought of my expenses, which, alas! was my
way. I ought to have been saving, of course, but I
didn't, with a miraculous ease of mind which some
people have thought criminal. I sometimes think, too,
that it was so, and also have sometimes lately (1895)




0o6


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


pondered    upon    a  sadder1 theory     still, as if that had
something    to   do  with    the  great   sorrows    that   have
clouded the end of my life. I never had any expensive
tastes, but loved the easy swing of life, without taking
much thought for the morrow, with a faith in my own
power to     go  on working, which up         to  this time    has
been wonderfully justified, but which has been            a great
temptation and danger to me all through in the way
of economies.      I had always a conviction that I could
make up     by   a little exertion    for any    extra   expense.
Sickness,    incapacity,    want    of  health    or   ability  to
work, never occurred to me, I suppose.              At the same
time, I never was very highly paid for my work, and
perhaps this had its effect too on my carelessness in
pecuniary    matters.     I made     enough    to  carry  me    on
easily, almost luxuriously, but not enough to save, never
a large sum     which    could   be partly put away at once
and   give one    a  taste   of the   sweetness of possessing
something.     I could not do this, and I fear it was not
in me to practise that honourable pinching and sparing
by which some women do so much.             I had not the time
for it, nor, indeed, I am ashamed to say, the wish. I am
ashamed too to make the confession that I do not in the
1 This is what I thought-that I had so accustomed them to the easy going
on of all things, never letting them see my anxieties or know. that there was
a difficulty about anything, that their minds were formed to that habit, that
it took all thought of necessity out of my Cyril's mind, who had always, 1 am
sure, the feeling that a little exertion (always so easy to-morrow) would at any
time set everything right, and that nothing was likely ever to go far wrong so
long as I was there. The sentiment was not ungenerous, it was in a way
forced upon him, partly by my own insouciance and partly by the fact that he
was always saved from any practical effect of foolishness, so that at the last,
what with the growth of habit, there was no other way for it but that," There is no way but this," words I used to say over to myself. And my
Cecco, who had not these follies, but who was stricken by the hand of God,
until that too rendered further going on impossible, by the drying up of my
sources and means of getting anything for him-so that I seem sometimes to
feel as if it were all my doing, and that I had brought by my heedlessness
both to an imipasse from which there was no issue but one. It was a kind of
forlorn pleasure to me that they had never wanted anything, but this turns it
into a remorse. Who can tell? God alone over all knows, and works by our
follies as well as our better ways. Must it not be at last to the good of all?




NORMANDY.


107


least remember what I was working at at this time. It
is not that I have ever been indifferent to my work. I
have always been most grateful to God that it was work
I liked and that interested me in the doing of it, and it
has often carried me away from myself and quenched,
or.at least calmed, the troubles.of life. But. perhaps my
life has been too full of personal interests to leave me
at leisure to talk of the. creatures of my imagination,
as. some people do, or to make believe that they were
more. to, me in writing than they might have been in
reading-that is, my own stories in the making of them
were very much what other people's stories (but these
the best). were in the -reading.. I am no more interested
in my own characters than I am in Jeanie Deans, and do..not remember them half so well, nor do they come back
to me with the same steady interest and friendship.
Perhaps people will say this is why they never laid
any special hold upon the minds of others, though they
might be agreeable reading enough. But this does not
mean, that I was indifferent to the work. as work, or
did not beat it out. with interest and pleasure.  It
pleases me at this present moment, I may confess,.
that I seem to have found unawares an image that.quite expresses what I mean.-ie., that I wrote as I
read, with much the same sort of feeling.   It seems
to me that. this is rather an original way of putting it
(to disclose the privatest thought in my mind), and
this gives me an absurd little sense of pleasure.,
We left Paris in the summer-my little boys, the
governess, Jane, and I.  I did not want to go back
to England till the end of the year, and we strayed
about a little.  The tutor aforesaid and his wife. had
taken a house in Normandy with the intention of having boarders, and there it. occurred to me to go for a
short time - especially while Jane went home for her
holiday.  The house called itself the ChAteau de Montilly, which sounded well.  It was, however, a new
square house in a garden, without any attractions what



lo8


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


ever; and the unfortunate pair were rather insufferable
at such close quarters, and I was very thankful to get
away in about a fortnight - staying that time merely
for decency's sake. Mr Story, who was in Paris, came
down to visit me, I remember; and we went to see
Bayeux and the tapestry, jogging along in a country
shandrydan with a huge red umbrella. That fact and
a wonderful thunderstorm there was- which he and I
sat at an open window to watch, much to the annoyance and terror of bur hosts, who would have liked to
shut it out with bolted shutters-are about all I recollect, except the discomfort of the forced stay with
people totally out of my way and kind, and the little
meannesses of the household, and the annoyed interest
we began to take in what there would be for dinner
as soon as we discovered that the fare was sure to be
scanty and bad.   We escaped as soon as we could,
having taken in a few views of French village life,
and made the discovery that to take out an ill-tempered
Mrs -- for a little diversion-even if it were no more
exciting than a Norman fair, and the drive thereto in
a carriole-was good for her soul's health, poor thing,
and cleared the skies.  I am a little hazy about what
followed. We went to Avranches, to the little country
town hotel, where the good people of the place came
in to dine, and tied their dinner napkins round their
half-finished bottles of wine; and we went to Mont St
Michel, which delighted me, and where I had half a
mind to take one of the many empty houses left by
the prison officials when it ceased to be a prison. One
imposing white house dominating the village I was told
I could have for a hundred francs a-year! There would
have been economy, and a certain amount of interest
and picturesque surroundings, but the sea and the vast
sands were very grey.  We bivouacked in an almost
empty house, containing little but what are called boxbeds in Scotland, and a table and chair or two, which
belonged to an old priest, very snuffy and shabby, who




A RASH ADVENTURE.


IO9


was called M. L'Aumonier, and had, I suppose, filled
that office in the economy of the great prison, though
I don't quite know what office it is. He took me to
window after window to show me little shelves of garden
which he had on the slopes of the rock-one here and
another there, but each provided with certain conveniences, on which the good man insisted much.   The
first night there I was seized by a sudden panic to find
that I had lodged myself and my helpless little party
in the midst of a strange, unknown, and rather rough
community-in a house which had not a key even to
its outer door,-and sat up till daylight to watch over
them. The light reassured me, and the thought of my
big and dauntless Jane, who was worth two men, and
who would have faced an army for her two little boys.
Oh, my little boys! and the happiness of watching
over them and all their ways and sayings, though I
was sad enough then, thinking there was no sadder
mother, longing for my Maggie wherever I went.
We spent a long time at St Adresse, near Havre, in
a house which belonged to Queen Christina of Spain,
where there was capital sea-bathing; and the children,
or at least Cyril, began to learn to swim, and enjoyed
themselves in all the amusements of the sea-side. One
half tragic experience we had. Setting out to row, I
and my little man, only eight, with a recklessness which
I shiver now to think of, we were caught by the current,
and had not our plight been seen from the shore and
a man sent after us, I don't know what might have
happened. The current was well known, only not to
me, newly arrived and, as it appeared*, very imprudent.
We had rowed a great deal on the Gairloch, and we
were close inshore, and the shining sunlit water looked
like burnished glass or gold, or both. Mademoiselle
was with us, and as bold as a little stout Swiss lion.
I had luck in that way at least. How much would have
been spared if that boat had drifted out to sea! many
years' toil coming to so little, many years' misery and




IIO


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


sorrow, though many happy too-and this long tragedy
at the end! To have ended all together under that
rippled sheet of gold, what an escape from all that came
after! But it would have been hard on Mademoiselle
and her old mother at Lausanne. It makes one's head
go round, however, to think how little difference it would
have made had such a little catastrophe taken place,
and made a paragraph in the papers,-an innocent, not
undesirable, not unlovely catastrophe, all over sweetly
and suddenly that has taken so many years to get over,
and yet is over or soon will be: how little important to
any one else! probably so much better for ourselves!
I feel a kind of envy now of the situation and of the
possibility-but this is all so vain.
I suppose it must have been after St Adresse that
we went to St Malo, where the delightful bay, crowded
with rocky islets and downy white sails, delighted me.
We found a small cabin of a house on the very edge of
the cliff at Dinard, which was then a little village, very
primitive and quiet, whence we crossed to St Malo in a
small boat with a big sail,-always somewhat alarming
to me, notwithstanding my rash boating. It was called
the bateau de poissage, I remember, in the Norman-French
that always sounded to me like Scotch. We had a noble
Marie for our bonne, a woman with the finest thoughtful
face, whom I had photographed in her beautiful cap, in
spite of her protestations that it would have been much
better to take her niece, a commonplace, pretty little
girl. Probably they do not wear those caps now, in
which they looked like medieval princesses, wandering
after the procession of the Fete Dieu, which took place
while we were there. But these are all very trivial
recollections. I remember being extremely touched by
the playing of the local band in the Dinard church,
I suppose on this occasion. They played where the
anthem would come in in the English service, and what
they played was Ah che la morte, and other airs from
the " Trovatore," which shocked me at first into the




A PLEASANT COACHING JOURNEY.


III


usual English sense of superiority, and then affected me
greatly with the thought that it was absolutely the best
thing they could do which they were offering to God,
whether very worthy or not, and what could the finest
genius do more? My other best recollection is of the
country doctor, whom I called to see my dear little
Cecco in some illness, just enough to make an anxious
woman more anxious, and who laughed and prescribed
the galette of the place, a kind of cracknel, and confitur
and cider, the drink of the place. I could have hugged
him for his laugh, which proved how little was the
matter, and administered the cracknel and the jam, but
not the cider, which was sour. So little a thing dwells
on one's mind, but it was not little at that moment,
when these infantile vicissitudes were the most important matters in life.
We had rather a wild, rather a wearisome, but in some
ways an amusing, journey from St Malo to Boulogne.
There was a boat direct from St Malo, which, if I had
been a wise woman, I should have taken, and so got
home quite cheaply. But I had a great dislike to the
sea; and with some compunction for the expense and
more pleasure in the adventure,-though adventure there
was really none, except that the manner of the journey
was by that time a little out of the way,-we set off by
land.  So far as I remember, we went sixty miles the
first day, if that is possible, but I don't recollect where
we halted or how many days we took to the journey
altogether. We started with that perfect ignorance of
where we were going, and perfect confidence that everything would go well, which, I suppose, is peculiar to
women (when they are not nervous and timorous). The
carriage was packed with toys and books and all kinds
of things for the children, and the progress through the
air, the little exhilaration of the start, the glimpse of
village interiors as we rattled past, the arrivals and
departures, were quite enough amusement for me.  I
suppose Mademoiselle must have liked it too, for she




II2


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


threw herself completely into the frolic.  And as for
Jane, it was all in the day's work to her. I think we
passed one night at Granville. I remember distinctly
that we all lunched in the middle of the day at an
unknown and nameless village, upon potatoes en robe
de chambre, which Mademoiselle sagely advised as a
thing we could be quite sure of, whereas other dishes
might be doubtful, and the fragrant tray of fresh sponge
biscuits, taken warm and sweet out of the oven while we
were there and added to our meal as desert, which made
me feel that the capabilities of the place were greater
than we thought.   The rush across a broad level of
country without many features was monotonous in the
end; but the quiet and fresh air, and long silences and
sense of progress, were all soothing and pleasant. I have
a kind of shadowy recollection of the journey, like a
dream, that is refreshing still. We spent a day or two in
Dieppe, intending at first to take the boat there, but having
got into the habit of driving, with the old delightful connections of the vetturino coming back, we finally decided
to continue our drive along the coast to Boulogne, and,
though we did not deserve it, were rewarded at last by
the smoothest of passages across the Channel-a thing
which in those days I always dreaded. We found rooms
in London in the Bayswater Road, opposite Kensington
Gardens-a place I have always liked; and then I set to
work to find a home for us, where there should be means
of education for the boys.  My mind was at first inclined for Harrow, but something, I forget what, induced
me to come to Windsor, which captivated me at once.
Either then or later I wrote a letter to Mr Warre, now
the Head Master, then young and " rising," whom I
found very agreeable, and who decided, but with some
reluctance, that it might be possible to educate my sons
at Eton in all respects like the other boys there, but sleeping at home; which possibility, combined with the beauty
of the river and the castle, and the air of cheerful life
about, decided me very quickly to settle here. And a




WINDSOR.


II3


house was found very quickly; not this in which I now
sit, and where almost all the events of my later life have
taken place, but one in the same Crescent, within two
doors of me, smaller than this. We came into it in
November, I think, 1865. I have been here ever since.
The house was very bright, the sun on it almost from its
rising to its setting, a pleasant little garden behind, and
the Crescent garden-a piece of ground of considerable
extent, which we called, I don't know why, the plantation, beautifully planted, and, considering its position, a
wonderful little piece of landscape gardening,-of which
we took possession by acclamation. Very few people used
it in these days: the day of lawn-tennis was not yet, and
I suppose most of the people were elderly, for we had it
almost altogether to ourselves. I never knew till a long
time after of how much importance it was in the first
chapter of my boys' life, this bit of town garden with its
fine trees and wild nooks and corners. Lately my Cecco
has told me of so many things that were done there,
"when we were small," as he always said.     It lies
under my windows now, but I can't trust myself to go
into it.
Here we got to know gradually various people about.
The Hawtreys, a family of old brothers and sisters, relatives of the old Provost Hawtrey of Eton, were in themselves a very characteristic household. They lived 'in a
large red-brick house near the church, the centre of an enormous connection, married brothers and sisters, nephews
and nieces innumerable.  The Windsor portion of the
family were known universally by their Christian names,
Stephen and Anna, Henry and Florence. They have all
lived in my ken to be very old people,-the two first
having both died over eighty, while the younger pair still
survive, still ascending towards the snows. It was a
house full of entertainment, of family gatherings, Christmas festivities, in which the overwhelming atmosphere
of Hawtreyism  pervaded everything.  They were all
kind naturally, but anything so bland as John Hawtrey,
H




114


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


who was an Eton master, or so effusively benignant as
old Stephen, I never saw. The last was full of schemes,
almost always benevolent, always more or less as people
thought, profitable, as exemplified in certain transactions
which are not worth telling, which were mere gossip,
though if I had time or was sure to give pain to nobody,
they were not without amusing points. A wicked wag
at Eton declared that Stephen got up in the morning
to build the walls of his new mathematical school out of
the materials which were lying ready for more slothful
workmen to build Mr Somebody's house hard by,-a story
everybody laughed at as ben trovato, though I cannot say
I ever knew these good people to do anything to the disadvantage of their neighbours. They were good people,
whether or no.  They had all kinds of parties continually going on,-dinner-parties, garden-parties, musicalparties. In one of the last a family quartette played
what was rather new and terrible to me, long sonatas and
concerted pieces, which filled my soul with dismay. It is
a dreadful confession to make, and proceeds from want of
education and instruction, but I fear any appreciation of
music I have is purely literary.  I love a song and a
" tune"; the humblest fiddler has sometimes given me the
greatest pleasure, and sometimes gone to my heart; but
music properly so called, the only music that many
of nmy friends would listen to, is to me a wonder and a
mystery.  My mind wanders through andantes and
adagios, gaping, longing to understand. Will no one
tell me what it means? I want to find the old unhappy
far -off things or battles long ago, which Wordsworth
imagined in the Gaelic song. I feel out of it, uneasy,
thinking all the time what a poor creature I must be. I
remember the mother of the sonata players approaching
me with beaming countenance on the occasion of one
of those performances, expecting the compliment which
I faltered forth, doing my best not to look insincere.
"And I have that every evening of my life!" cried the
triumphant woman. " Good heavens! and you have




AUNT NELLY.                  115
survived it all this time," was my internal comment. I
can see the kind glow on her face and the mother's pride,
and thought myself, I am glad to say, a very poor
creature to be left so helplessly behind, though not without a rueful amusement too.
I had a little neighbour in one of the smaller Crescent
houses, whom the children soon got to call Aunt Nelly,
and I "Little Nelly,"-I hardly know why, unless for
the too perfect reason that she was Nelly and very little,
which of course was much too simple to be the true
meaning of the name. She it was who, dying in her
sleep without so much as the movement of a fingerlittle happy woman, always of the angel kind-put the
story, if story it can be called, of "The Little Pilgrim"
into my mind. -Many simple people here had a sort of
grotesque notion that there was something of her in it
more than the suggestion, as if, alas! it were possible to
follow and describe the ways of those who are gone.
She was far from being wise or clever, generally reputed
rather a silly little woman; but with a heart of gold,
and a straightforward, simple, right judgment, which
was always to me like the clear shining of a tiny light.
She was, perhaps, a silly little woman, in fact, in some
ways. There are kinds of foolishness I like for my own
part, as there is also a kind of benignant gentle dulness
which always soothes me, and which I constantly recommend as so good a relief from the intellectualism some of
my friends love; but then they do love the intellectual,
and I don't-much. My little Nelly had been trained
to be unselfish, which, being far better than unselfish
without training, was the only little fictitious trait in her
-but so superficial and innocent.  I often point the
moral to the girls of that kind of technical unselfishness,
by telling how little Nelly on a muddy road exhausted
herself in finding a dry part for me, while she hobbled
through the mud, as if I was to be outdone in that cheap
generosity! But the woman was of the. angel kind, and
breathed goodness round her. She was the guardian,




n6


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


when I first knew her, of an old, old mother, whose
head and memory were gone, and of a brother with a
nervous disease-a poor man cast out of life in the
middle of his days, and feeling himself to the bottom
of his heart a cumberer of the soil. Her life was spent
in amusing and caring for these two invalids, playing
cards for hours with them.   My little Cecco used to
go in the evening, rather proud of being wanted, seven
or eight years old, in his little velvet suit, to make the
fourth at whist, and when he was a man would speak,
of the long whist "which was Aunt Nelly's way." The
invalid brother was rarely visible, but sometimes I found
a bouquet of flowers laid on my balcony, which was low
enough to be reached from outside, which he laid there,
stealing unnoticed into the garden.
Both these poor people died after long years, and left
my little Nelly free -- to take other burdens on her
shoulders, and save other wounded creatures of God.
"Orce when I was in great straits, and very anxious
and unli2pDy, I asked her to help me in praying for
the great boon T desired. I am not of the kind who
do that usually, ana perhaps when the trouble had been
softened away I forgot even that I had done it; but
thinking of it all years after, in the great and deep joy
of knowing that the change I desired had come to pass,
though without knowing what had led to it, I suddenly
remembered how in my trouble I had sought her help,
and it seemed to me like a flash of light upon the road
by which we had come, not knowing. I have never
asked any one else to do that for me.
Notwithstanding, she was the object of perpetual
banter in the house.  There was almost always some
current joke about what little Nelly had done or said,
at which she herself was the first to laugh. How many
of those foolish, dear, affectionate mockeries I remember!
Not mockeries-the word is too harsh: the ring of the
laughter, the shining of the young eyes, and the light in
her own, as beautiful as the youngest eyes among them,




THE DESERTED HOUSE.


Il7


worn and faded as she was, are as fresh as ever. I wonder
sometimes if what has been ever dies! Should not I find
them all round the old whist-table, and my Cecco, with
his bright face and the great blue vein that showed on
his temple, proud to be helping to amuse the old people,
if I were but bold enough to push into the deserted house
and look for them now? I have so often felt, with a
bewildered dizziness, as if that might be.
Then there was another near neighbour, one whom I
have seen to-day, who lives on as I do, lonely and forlorn, with all the elements in her then of a brilliant life,
-clever, witty, pretty, a woman not to be passed over,
and who, had her lot fallen otherwise, might have filled
any position almost, and perhaps been a leader of
society, had life been more auspici6us to her. When
I knew her first she lived in one of the most important houses in the place, with a delightful old mother,
in a delightful house and much apparent comfort. She
had a handsome son in London, a beautiful daughter
who had made a distinguished marriage abroad. She
herself had read a great deal, was an accomplished
musician, spoke the purest French, knew foreign society
tolerably well, and had been one of the " county"
people more or less, but when I knew her first was
very lonely, not in perfect intelligence either with son
or daughter, and either negligent or frettingly, insufferably kind and anxious over her mother. I don't know,
and have never desired to know, notwithstanding the
eagerness of many people to inform me, what her past
had been. It was not the least a past such as is now
meant when a woman with a past is spoken of, but
there had been some foolish rash attempt to secure
a very brilliant marriage at home for the beautiful
daughter, which had prejudiced the little society about
against her, and she was very solitary, her mother old
and an invalid, one of the prettiest and most charming
old ladies possible, with a delightful endowment of Irish
wit; but there was to her mind certainly nobody who was




r 8


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


in the least her equal in her way. There are some people
who never get any credit for what is good in them, and
some who get too much credit. My friend was one of
those who are never done justice to, and indeed, if one
may say it, did not deserve to be done justice to, if such
a contradiction were ever true. She thought or said that
she had been more than done justice to in the former
part of her life,-that she had been admired, followed,
and adored with more than her share of devotion; and
indeed this might have been quite true, for she must
have been beautiful when she was young, and full of a
sparkle of wit and cleverness and accomplishments. But
certainly there was very little of this in the latter part
of her life, though she was still a pretty woman at fortyfive, and infinitely'superior to many of those who had
no good word for her. It might be because she was
abandoned by her fine friends, or it might be that she
found something sympathetic in me, who have always
been a very good listener, and apt to admire and be
interested in attractive people, but she fell into a great
intimacy with me, and used to spend at least half of
her time in my house.  I believed at first, of course,
all she told me of the unkindness of others: some of it
was true; some of it, it became apparent in the course
of years, was not true, or at least not all true, though
probably she was not aware of this, and took her own
part always with a zeal and vehemence which made
her feel everybody else more completely in the wrong
than it is safe to believe everybody who is against
one can be. She had not the merry heart which goes
all the way, the happy blood that Mrs Craven speaks
of; and yet she had a certain version of the merry
heart, and threw herself into all the little entertainments
and pleasures which I gradually began to be drawn
into, by reason of the household of girls I soon had.
Cousin Annie, whom I did not know before, drifted towards me almost as soon as I came to Windsor, and as
she was an orphan without a home, stayed with me for a




AMATEUR THEATRICALS.


119


nutmber of years; and Sara and Fanny Tulloch paid me
long visits; and my boys began to spring up and carried
me along on the stream of their rising life. My neighbour threw herself into all we did, and we soon began
to do a great deal. It makes me wonder, looking back,
how, after the despair of my grief, which found so much
utterance, I should have risen again into absolute gaiety
thus, twice over. But so it was. I thought it was for
the young people round me, and no doubt it was so, but
equally without doubt my own life burst forth again
with an obstinate elasticity which I could not keep
down. The merry heart goes all the way. I worked
very hard all the time, but could always spare a day
or any amount of evenings to please the girls, still
more to please the boys. For the children, after my
Cyril went to Eton, we began to have theatricals, which
grew into more and more importance, till we used to
play Shakespeare and Moliere in my little drawing-room,
alternating with innocent versions of "Barbe Bleue,"
&c., but that in the earlier days.  I never attempted
any performance myself but once, that of Mrs Hardcastle in " She Stoops to Conquer."  Of course the great
inspiration of these performances was Mr Frank Tarver,
an Eton master, an excellent amateur actor, who, as
he very soon fell in love with Sara, made himself prime
minister, or, at least, master of the revels, with great
energy, and helped to keep up the circle of amusement.
There were others, too, full of character, and as interesting in their way as if they had been great lights in
the literary or any other world, whom I might describe,
and who made up a very intelligent and light-hearted
society; but as not one of them turned out remarkable
in any way, I need not insist upon them. One, who
was one of the first to break the circle, my young friend
Captain Gun, an engineer officer stationed here, I may
mention. He was the Tony to my Mrs Hardcastle,-a
large plain young man, full of ability and force. Had
he lived he would no doubt, have come to something.




120


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


He had the readiness and resource of a soldier, seeing
in a moment in a way that seemed magic to me where
there was any kind of danger. I remember in Romney
lock, in the dusk of a summer night, a sudden incomprehensible movement of his which filled me with alarm
for a moment, as he suddenly made a step out of our
boat, which shivered with the motion, into another close
by and dimly seen. He had perceived that it was in
unskilful hands, and that the bow had caught in the
side of the lock,-a dangerous position, which his sudden
additional weight at once remedied. This to my ignorance was wonderful, though, of course, it was the simplest
thing in the world; but the quick sight and the quick
action were delightful to witness, as soon as one understood them.   Captain Gun married a few years later
a lady wonderfully like Fanny, who died soon, and he
died shortly after, on which last occasion there were some
very curious incidents took place with the table-rapping,
to which we had given ourselves, with much levity, for
the moment,-the only serious experience we ever had.
Into the midst of this half-childish gaiety there came
a very sudden and alarming interruption. My brother
Frank had married at the same time as I myself did,
and had lived a very humdrum but happyish life with
a wife who suited him, and had now four children-a
boy and three girls. He had been in rather delicate
health for a year or two, and had fallen into rather a
nervous condition, his hand shaking very much so that
it was difficult for him to write, though he still could
do his work. For this reason I heard from them rarely,
as Jeanie, his wife, was a bad correspondent too. One
morning very suddenly, and in the most painful and
disagreeable way, I heard that he had got into great
trouble about money, and was, in fact, a ruined man.
It was the thunderbolt out of the clear sky, which is
always so tremendous. I spent a day of misery, expecting
him to come to me, not knowing what to expect, and
fearing all sorts of things. A day or two after I went




A THUNDERBOLT FROM A CLEAR SKY.


121


to look for him, and found him absent and his wife in
great trouble. His health, from what I now heard, was
altogether shattered; and it was that as much as anything
else which had brought his affairs into the most hopeless
muddle, from which there seemed no escape. They
had not very much money at any time, but what they
had had somehow slipped through his fingers. His wife
and I did everything we could, but that was very little.
He was a man without an expensive taste, the most
innocent, the most domestic of men, but what he had
had always slipped through his fingers, as I well knew.
Poor dear Frank! how well I remembered the use he
made of one of my mother's Scotch proverbs to justify
some new small expense following a bigger one which
he would allow to be imprudent. "Well," he would say,
half-coaxing, half-apologetic, "what's the use of eating
the coo and worrying [choking] on her tail?"  Alas!
he had choked on the tail this time without remedy,
and the only thing to be done was to wind up the
affairs as well as was possible, and to further the little
family, whom  he could not live without, after him,
which was what we did accordingly, with a prompt
action which was some relief to our heavy hearts. We
neither of us had a word of blame on our lips or a
thought of anger in our hearts. Frank and Nelly, the
two elder children, came to me, and Jeanie with her
two little girls (my two girls this many a year, and
now the only comfort of my life) joined her husband
in France. It was a terrible break in life, and affected
me in many ways permanently; but after the shock of
seeing that chasm opening at our feet, and all their life
shattered to pieces, everything quieted down again. The
children were well. Oh, magic of life that made everything go smooth! they had taken no harm. They had
their lives before them, and unbounded possibilities of
making everything right. I am not sure that I had not
a sort of secret satisfaction in getting Frank, my nephew,
into my hands, thinking, with that complacency with




I22


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


which we always look at our own doings, that I could
now train him for something better than they had
thought of. This was in 1868. My Cyril was twelve
and at Eton, having his room at his tutor's, and living
precisely like other Eton boys, though coming home to
sleep, which was one of the greatest happinesses in
my life.  Frank was fourteen, a big strong boy.     I
planned to send him to Eton too, but coming home
for his meals, which was much less expensive, as I
could not afford the other for him, and it answered very
well. He was always the best of boys, manful, and a
steady worker. Cyril had begun to be by this time
noted as one of the cleverest boys, far on for his age,
and promising everything, besides the brightest, wittiest,
most sparkling little fellow, as he always was. I used
to make it my boast that both my boys received Frank
as a true brother, and never would have allowed me,
had I wished it, to give them any pleasure or advantage
which he did not share. Nelly after a while went to
her mother's sister, Mrs Sime, and so we all settled
down. But it is not likely that such family details would
be of interest to the public.
And yet, as a matter of fact, it is exactly those family
details that are interesting,-the human story in all its
chapters. I have often said, however, that none of us
with any of the strong sense of family credit which used
to be so general, but is not so, I think, now, could ever
really tell what were perhaps the best and most creditable
things in our own life, since by the strange fate which
attends us human creatures, what is most creditable to
one is often least creditable to another. These things
steal out; they are divined in most cases, and then forgotten. Therefore all can never be told of any family
story, except at the cost of family honour, and that pride
which is the most pardonable of all pride, the determination to keep unsullied a family name. This catastrophe
was tremendous in appearance, and yet was more or less
a good thing for the children, whose prospects seemed to




THE TRAGEDY OF A TELEGRAM.


123


be utterly ruined,-not for the parents. Poor Jeanienot strong enough, I suppose, to bear what fell upon her,
as she had not been strong enough to do anything to
prevent it-died most unexpectedly in her sleep, in a mild
attack of fever which excited no alarm. My brother had
been glad to get an appointment among the employees
of a railway that was being made, of all places in the
world, in Hungary, and went there with his wife and
the little girls. I forget how long they were there,-only
a very short time. The shock of their downfall was over,
they were more or less happy to be together, and Frank
and Nelly were happy enough here. We had returned
to all our little gaieties again, our theatricals,-our boating, and the rest,-without much thought on my part,
I fear, of the additional responsibility I had upon me
of another boy to educate and set out in the world. We
were all assembled, a merry party enough, one summer
evening, after an afternoon on the river, at a late meal,
-a sort of supper,-whenr a telegram was put into my
hand. I remember the look of the long table and
all the bright faces round it, the pretty summer dishes,
salad, and pink salmon, and ornamented sweet things,
and many flowers, the men and boys in their flannels,
the girls in their light summer dresses,-everything light
and bright. I have often said that it was the only telegram I ever received without a certain tremor of anxiety.
Captain Gun, who was there, had been uncertain of his
coming on this particular day, and a good many telegrams
on that subject had been passing between us. I held the
thing in my hand and looked across at him, and said,
"This time it cannot be from you."  Then I opened it
with the laugh in my mouth, and this is what I read:
" Jeanie is dead, and I am in despair." It was like a
scene in a tragedy. They all saw the change in my face,
but I dreaded to say anything, for there was her son
sitting by, my good Frank, as gay as possible. He was
only about fifteen, or perhaps sixteen. We managed to
keep it from him till next morning, not to give him that




124


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


shock in the midst of his pleasure; and somehow the
supper got completed without any one knowing what
had happened.
A very short time after my poor brother came home
with the two little white-faced, forlorn children, with
their big eyes. I never thought but that it must kill
him, but it did not; though, when I met them at Victoria,
I thought I never should have got him safely back, even
to Windsor. He was completely shattered, like a man
in a palsy, for a time scarcely able to stand or' to speak,
but not so overwhelmed with grief as I expected. Grief
is the strangest thing, or rather it is very wonderful in
how many different ways people take those blows, which
from outside seem as if they must be final. Especially
is it so in the closest of human connections, that between
man and wife. People who have seemed* to be all the
world to each other are parted so, and the survivor, who
is for the moment as my poor brother said "in despair,"
shows the most robust power of bearing it, and is so
soon himself or herself again, that one, confounded
and half-ashamed, feels that one -is half-ridiculous to
have expected anything different. Frank, poor fellow,
had got over his sorrow on the long journey. He came
to me like a child glad to get home, not much disturbed
b.out anything that could. happen. He lived for about
six years after, for a great part of the time in tolerable
comfort, but, so far as work was concerned, was capable
of no more. The shaking of his hand was never cured,
nor even sufficiently improved to make writing of any
kind possible. He settled down to a kind of quiet life,
read his newspaper, took his walk, sat in his easy-chair
in the dining-room or in his own room for the rest of
the day, was pleased with Frank's progress and with
Nelly's love for reading, and with his little girls, and so
got through his life, I think, not unhappily.  But he
and I, who had been so much to each other once, were
nothing to each other now. I sometimes thought he
looked at me as a kind of stepmother to his children,




GOD OR MAMMON.


125


and we no longer thought alike on almost any subject:
he had drifted one way and I another. He did not even
take very much interest in me, and I fear he often irritated me. Poor Frank! it was sometimes a great trial,
and I often wonder how the life went on, on the whole,
so well as it did. He entertained delusive hopes for a
time of going back and of being able to do something; but
they were evidently from the first delusions and nothing
more, and it did not hurt him so much as might have
been thought when they vanished,-he had too little
strength to feel it, I suppose.
Of course I had to face a prospect considerably
changed by this great addition to my family. I had been
obliged to work pretty hard before to meet all the too
great expenses of the house.  Now four people were
added to it, very small two of them, but the others not
inexpensive members of the house. I remember making
a kind of pretence to myself that I had to think it over,
to make a great decision, to give up what hopes I might
have had of doing now my very best, and to set myself
steadily to make as much money as I could, and do the
best I could for the three boys. I think that in some
pages of my old book I have put this down with a little
half-sincere attempt at a heroical attitude. I don't think,
however, that there was any reality in it. I never did nor
could, of course, hesitate for a moment as to what had to
be done. It had to be done, and that was enough, and
there is no doubt that it was much more congenial to me
to drive on and keep everything going, with a certain
scorn of the increased work, and metaphorical toss of my
head, as if it mattered! than it ever would have been to
labour with an artist's fervour and concentration to produce a masterpiece. One can't be two things or serve
two masters. Which was God and which was mammon
in that individual case it would be hard to say, perhaps;
for once in a way mammon, meaning the money which
fed my flock, was in a kind of a poor way God, so far as
the necessities of that crisis went. And the wonder was




126


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


r


that we did it, I can't tell how, economising, I fear, very
little, never knowing quite at the beginning of the year
how the ends would come together at Christmas, always
with troublesome debts and forestalling of money earned,
so that I had generally eaten up the price of a book before it was printed, but always-thank God for it!-so far
successfully that, though always owing somebody, I never
owed anybody to any unreasonable amount or for any
unreasonable extent of time, but managed to pay everything and do everything, to stint nothing, to give them
all that was happy and pleasant and of good report.
through all those dear and blessed boyish years. I confess
that it was not done in the noblest way, with those strong
efforts of self-control and economy which some people
can exercise. I could not do that, or at least did not,
but I could work. And I did work, joyfully, with pleasure in it and in my life, sometimes with awful moments
when I did not know how I should ever pass some
dreadful corner, where the way seemed to end and the
rocks to close in: but the corner was always rounded, the
road opened up again.
I recollect one of these moments especially, I forget
the date: I always do forget dates, but the circumstances
were these.  We were a family of eight, children included, two boys at Eton, almost always guests in the
house,-every kind of thing (in our modest way) going on,
small dinner-parties, and a number of mild amusements,
when it so happened that I came to a pause and found
that every channel was closed and no place for any im-.
portant work. I had always a lightly flowing stream of
magazine articles, &c., and refused no work that was
offered to me; but the course of life could not have been
carried on on these, and a large sum was wanted at brief
intervals to clear the way.  I had, I think, a novel
written, but did not know where I should find a place for
it. Literary business arrangements were not organised
then as now--there was no such thing as a literary agent.
Serials in magazines were published in much less




A CRITICAL MOMENT.


127


number, magazines themselves being not half so many
(and a good thing too!). The consequence was that I
seemed to be at a dead standstill. It was like nothing
but what I have already said,-a mountainous road
making a sharp turn round a corner, when it seems to
disappear altogether, as if it ended there in the closing
in of the cliffs. I was miserably anxious, not knowing
where to turn or what to do, hoping every morning would
bring me some proposal, waiting upon God, if I may use
the word (I did the thing with the most complete faith,
-what could I else?), for the opening up of that closed
way. One evening I got a letter from a man whose
name I did not know, asking if he could come to see me
about a business matter. I forget whether he mentioned
the name of the 'Graphic,' then just established,-I think
not; at all events there was nothing in the letter to make
me think it of any importance. I replied, however (I didn't
always reply so quickly), appointing the second day after
to receive him. I had decided to go to London next day
to see if I could persuade some one to take my novel and
give a good price for it. I think it was to Mr George
Smith I went, who was very kind and gracious, as was
his wont, but would have nothing to say to me. I fancy
I went somewhere else, but I had no success. I recollect
coming home in a kind of despair, and being met at the
door when it was opened to me by the murmur of the
merry house, the cheerful voices, the overflowing home,
-every corner full and warm  as if it had a steady
income and secure revenue at its back. My brother, I
remember, who I suppose had seen some cloud on my
face before I left, came forward to meet me with some
trivial question, hoping I had not felt cold or taken cold
or something, which in the state of despair in which
I was had a sort of exasperating effect upon me; but
they were all dispersing over the house to get ready for
dinner, and I escaped further notice. No one thought
anything more than that I was dull or cross for the rest
of the evening. I used to work very late then, always




128


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


till two in the morning (it is past three at this moment,
x8th, nay, I9th April 1895, but this is no longer usual
with me).   I can't remember whether I worked that
night, but I think it was one of the darkest nights (oh,
no, no, that I should say so! they were all safe and well),
at least a very dreadful moment, and I could not think
what I should do.
Next morning came my visitor. He came from the
'Graphic': he wanted a story, I think the first they
had had. He wanted it very soon, the first instalments
within a week or two; and after a little talk and negotiation, he came to the conclusion that they would give me
f1300. The road did run round that corner after all.
Our Father in heaven had settled it all the time for
the children; there had never been any doubt. I was
absolutely without hope or help. I did not know where
to turn, and here, in a moment, all was clear again-the
road free in the sunshine, the cloud in a moment rolled
away.
It was not, however, the story which I had finished at
the time which I gave them (which did not seem suitable). I began another instantly, and went on with it in
instalments, I think. It was the novel called 'Innocent,'
and was not very good, so far as I can remember, though
the idea was one that had pleased me,-the development
by successive shocks of feeling of a girl of dormant intelligence. I believe the trial scene in it was very badly
managed-not unnatural, for I never was present at a trial,
though that, of course, was no excuse. It was seldom
that an incident so dramatic as this little episode I have
described took place in my life; but it was checkered
with similar, if lesser, crises. It was always a struggle
to get safely through every year and make my ends meet.
Indeed I fear they never did quite meet; there was always
a tugging together, which cost me a great deal of work
and much anxiety. The wonder was that the much was
never too much. I always managed it somehow, thank
God! very happy (and presuming a little on my privilege)




AN ELASTIC SPIRIT.


129


when I saw the way tolerably clear before me, and knew
at the beginning of the year where the year's income was
to come from, but driving, ploughing on, when I was not
at all sure of that all the same, and in some miraculous
way getting through. If I had not had unbroken health,
and a spirit almost criminally elastic, I could not have
done it. I ought to have been worn out by work, and
crushed by care, half a hundred times by all rules, but I
never was so. Good day and ill day, they balanced each
other, and I got on through year after year. This, I am
afraid, sounds very much like a boast. (I was going to
add, "but I don't mean it as such.") I am not very sure,
however, that I don't mean it, or that my head might
not be a little turned sometimes by a sense of the rashness and dare-devilness, if I may use such a word, of my
own proceedings; and it was in its way an immoral, or
at least an un-moral, mode of life, dashing forward in the
face of all obstacles and taking up all burdens with a
kind of levity, as if my strength and resource could never
fail. If they had failed, I should have been left in the
direst bankruptcy; and I had no right to reckon upon
being always delivered at the critical moment. I should
think any one who did so blamable now. I persuaded
myself then that I could not help it, that no better way
was practicable, and indeed did live by faith, whether it
was or was not exercised in a legitimate way. I might
say now that another woman doing the same thing was
tempting Providence. To tempt Providence or to trust
God, which was it? In my own case, naturally, I said
the latter, and did not in the least deserve, in my temerity,
to be led and constantly rescued as I was. I must add
that I never had any help from outside. I never received
so much as a legacy in my life. My publishers were good
and kind in the way of making me advances, without which
I could not have got on; but they were never-probably
because of these advances, and of my constant need and
inability, both by circumstances and nature, to struggle
over prices-very lavish in payment. Still, I made on
I




130o


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


the whole a large income - and spent it, taking no
thought of the morrow. Yes, taking a great deal of
thought of the morrow in the way of constant work and
constant undertaking of whatever kind of work came to
my hand. But, indeed, I do not defend myself. It would
have been better if I could have added the grace of thrift,
which is said to be the inheritance of the Scot, to the
faculty of work. I feel that I leave a very bad lesson
behind me; but I am afraid that the immense relief of
getting over a crisis gave a kind of reflected enjoyment
to the trouble between, and that these alternations of
anxiety and deliverance were more congenial than the
steady monotony of self-denial, not to say that the still
better kind of self-denial which should have made a
truer artist than myself pursue the higher objects of art,
instead of the mere necessities of living, was wanting too.
I pay the penalty in that I shall not leave anything behind me that will live. What does it matter? Nothing
at all now-never anything to speak of. At my most
ambitious of times I would rather my children had
remembered me as their mother than in any other way,
and my friends as their friend. I never cared for anything else. And now that there are no children to whom
to leave any memory, and the friends drop day by day,
what is the reputation of a circulating library to me?
Nothing, and less than nothing-a thing the thought of
which now makes me angry, that any one should for a
moment imagine I cared for that, or that it made up for
any loss. I am  perhaps angry, less reasonably, when
well-intentioned people tell me I have done good, or
pious ones console me for being left behind by thoughts
of the good I must yet be intended to do. God help us
all! what is the good done by any such work as mine, or
even better than mine.? "If any man build upon this
foundation... wood, hay, stubble;... if the work shall
be burned, he shall suffer loss: but he himself shall be
saved; yet so as by fire." An infinitude of pains and
labour, and all to disappear like the stubble and the hay.


0




INJUDICIOUS COMPLIMENTS.


13r


Yet who knows? The little faculty may grow a bigger
one in the more genial land to come, where one will have
no need to think of the boiling of the daily pot. In the
meantime it was good to have kept the pot boiling and
maintained the cheerful household fire so long, though
it is smouldering out in darkness now.
There is one thing, however, I have always whimsically
resented, and that is the contemptuous compliments that
for many years were the right thing to address to me
and to say of me, as to my "industry."  Now that I
am old the world is a little more respectful, and I have
not heard so much about my industry for some time.
The delightful superiority of it in the mouth of people
who had neither industry nor anything else to boast of
used to make me very wroth, I avow,-wroth with a
laugh and rueful half sense of the justice of it in the
abstract, though not from those who spoke. The same
kind of feeling made me angry the other day even,
comically, not seriously angry, at a bit of a young person
who complimented me on my 'Beleaguered City.' Now,
I am quite willing that people like Mr Hutton should
speak of the 'Beleaguered City' as of the one little-thing
among my productions that is worth remembering (no,
Mr Hutton does nothing of the kind-he is not that kind
of person), but I felt inclined to say to the other, "The
'Beleaguered City,' indeed, my young woman! I should
think something a good deal less than that might be
good enough for you." By which it may perhaps be
suspected that I don't always think such small beer of
myself as I say, but this is a pure matter of comparison.
I need scarcely say that there was not much of what
one might call a literary life in all this. I was very
seldom in town, Windsor being near enough to permit
of almost all that one wanted to do inr town, except
society, being done in a day, between two trains so to
speak, which was the most convenient thing in the
world, and the most impossible for any sort of social
intercourse. Even a dinnermparty, which could only




132


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


be done at the cost of a visit, thus became much more
out of the question than if I had lived at a greater
distance, and thus been compelled to pass a week or
two occasionally in London.   Now and then I went
to a luncheon-party or an afterrioon gathering, both of
which things I detested. Curiously enough, being fond
on the whole of my fellow-creatures, I always disliked
paying visits, and felt myself a fish out of water when
I was not in my own house, - not to say that I was
constantly wanted at home, and proud to feel that I
was so. The work answered very well for a pretence
to get me off engagements, but I could always have
managed the work if I had liked the pleasure, or supposed pleasure. I need not speak, however, as if I had
been a person in much request, which would be giving
an entirely false view of myself. I never was so in the
least.  From the days when my Jewish friend complained that I did not do myself justice, with the
aggrieved tone of a woman to whom I had thus done
a great injustice by not doing anything to make myself
agreeable or remarkable, being asked to her house for
that purpose, I have always been a disappointment to
my friends. I have no gift of talk, not much to say;
and though I have always been an excellent listener,
that only succeeds under auspicious circumstances.
I think I never met so many people as in the days of
Mrs Duncan Stewart, that dear and bright old lady who
used to fill her little rooms in Sloane Street with the
most curious jumble of entertaining people and people
who came to be entertained, the smartest (odious word!)
of society, and all the luminaries of the moment, many
writers, artists, &c., and a few mountebanks to make up.
She herself was very worthy of a place in any picture-gallery. There is a very droll sketch of her by Mr Augustus
Hare, which does no justice to the subject. She was an
English and nineteenth-century shadow of the French
ladies who take up so much space in the records of the
eighteenth, and who were, indeed, I suppose, of no more




A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL.


133


personal consequence than she, were it not for the mention they have secured in so many records of a memoirwriting time, and the numbers of great people who circled
round them. Mrs Stewart had known almost everybody
in her day, which of itself is a wonderful attraction. She
had at one time seen much of Disraeli-almost at one
time run the risk of having her head turned by him.
The loves (but this never came to be a love-on her side
at least; "For, my dear," she used to say, "I had the
great preservation of being in love with my husband")
of a lady of eighty are always amusing and pathetic.
Age takes all the doubtfulness out of them, and gives
them a piquancy as of the loves of children. She had
ancient suitors, worshippers of her old age, always about
her. I believe she refused a proposal of marriage after
she was seventy. She was at the time I knew her of the
most picturesque appearance, with a delicate small face
of the colour of ivory, fine features, except that always
troublesome mouth, which is imperfect in almost every
face that is good for anything, and those dim blue eyes
which have a charm of their own-half veiled and mystic.
She was one of those people who do not grow grey, and
she wore a peculiar head-dress-a kerchief of fine muslin
and lace falling upon her shoulders, and softly veiling her
small erect head. In the middle of the flutter of general
company about her, she had always (as indeed every one
has) a constant circle of intimates always the same, and
sometimes not quite worthy of the idol they surrounded.
It seems a law of nature that this should be so, and that
every remarkable person should have a little ring of commonplace satellites, who are apt to make the object of
their adoration a little absurd, out of pure love and desire
to do her or him honour, with perhaps the leaven of a
little hope to do themselves honour too, by being known
as her or his friends. This delightful old lady was very
fond of seeing and knowing everything. She went to every
entertainment, grave or gay, and was all agog to go to
the Greek play at Eton, where it came to entrance us




134


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


from Oxford, with a chorus Pour rire of a dozen dreadfully recognisable young Dons and scholars affubles in
inconvenient robes and beards; as well as to see Sarah
Bernhardt, or any and every novelty that turned up.
"La piece m'interesse," she said, looking out upon her
parties with her dim eyes that saw everything, and never
so pleased as when the crowd fluttered about her, and a
little special court gathered round her sofa. Some vile
young journalist, I remember, made a cruel sketch of her,
which was published in a cruel and wicked series then
giving great piquancy to the 'Saturday Review' (I think
it was in the Girl of the Period and Mature Siren time,
which are all so forgotten nowadays), for which I hope
he has had his deserts somewhere. Of course, nothing
could be easier than to travesty this sweet and bright old
lady into a spectre of society, clinging on to the last to
social dissipations, and incapable of being alone - and
nothing more absolutely untrue.  Her grandchild said
of her after she was dead, in the hush of that pause in
which the longing to know what they are doing, what
they are thinking who have left us, is overwhelming,
"Oh, she will have no time to think of us, she will be
so much interested in seeing everything."  Even in
the shock of loss it was impossible not to be consoled
by the thought of that vivid curiosity and interest and
enjoyment with which she would find a new sphere
before her, with everything to be found out.
Whom did I meet at Mrs Stewart's? I forget; nobody, I suppose, of any great consequence. She had
little boxes of rooms over a tailor's shop in Sloane
Street, and there gave the most elaborate luncheons,
all sorts of delicacies, to which a number of very fine
people would crowd in, sitting at all the uneasy angles
of a table with adjuncts to it, which completely filled
the room. Her income, I believe, was as small as her
rooms; and her pleasant way was to tell her daughter
or some intimate friend she had so many people coming
to lunch, and then to prepare her pretty head - dress




A SLOANE STREET SALON.


I3S


and her careful little mise en scene to receive them, with
no further thought of more substantial preparations.
But the table groane.d all the same, and there was
every costly and delicate viand on it that was to be
had, and  heaps of flowers, thanks always to her
daughter or her loving admirers.  There used to be
Lady Martin often, in a large Rubens hat and long
sweeping feather, though long past the age of such
vanities, seventy or thereabouts, with all the old world
graces, and the consciousness of having been more admired than any woman of her day, which gives an ineffable air to an old beauty. Her husband, the excellent
Sir Theodore, was so evidently and so constantly the first
of all her admirers, leading the band, that the group was
always interesting and touching in its bygoneness yet
perfect sincerity and good faith. She wrote her book
after this about the Shakespeare parts she had played,that strange, elegant, antiquated expression of the graceful feminine enthusiast accustomed to applause which,
at least in the case of a good woman, at her age is so
touching as to make one ashamed of the smile which
fades away almost into sentiment while we look on
and are ashamed of ourselves. There was the twinkle
of Bon Gaultier in Sir Theodore's eye on other matters,
but never where his wife was concerned. And a very
frequent visitor was the kind, the gentle, the sympathetic Censor of Plays, dead only this year, Mr Pigott,
a man to whom    everybody's heart went out, I don't
know exactly why or how, except from an intuition of
friendship, a sort of instinct.  He was always interested, always kind,-a sort of atmosphere of humanity
and warm feeling and sympathy about him, his little
round form and round head radiating warmth and kindliness. He is the only man I have ever met, I think,
from whom I never heard an unkind word of any one.
This, to tell the sad truth, is apt to make conversation
a little insipid; but he had the most extensive acquaintance both with people and things, and had many a




136


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


happy turn of expression and mot of social wisdom which
preserved him from that worst of faults: he was never
dull, though always kind, which, is almost a paradox.
I have my own way of dividing people, as I suppose
most of us have.   There are those whom I can talk
to, and those whom I can't. With the first no subject
is needed, the conversation goes on of itself; with the
other all the finest subjects in the world produce no
result. (I remember as I write one story of Mr Pigott
which slightly, but very slightly, contradicts this statement that he never said an unkind word.    We were
talking once of the son - in - law of a friend of ours,
who had most gratuitously and unnecessarily appeared
against her in a trial in which she was unhappily involved, to prove (as if any one could prove such a
thing) that certain anonymous letters were written by
her.  We were discussing his conduct with indignation, when Mr Pigott looked up with a smile,-" Look.
in his face and you'll forgive him all," he said.  It
was true that the man was a fool, and bore it on his
face.)
It was with Mrs Stewart that I first saw Tennyson.
She had, I suppose, asked leave to take me there with
her to luncheon, and I was of course glad to go, though
a little unwilling, as my manner was. I forget where
it was - an ordinary London house, where they were
living for the season.  Mrs Tennyson lay upon her
sofa, as she did always - though able to be taken to
the luncheon-table by her excellent son Hallam, whom
I knew a little, and who was always kind and pleasant.
I have always thought that Tennyson's appearance
was too emphatically that of a poet, especially in his
photographs: the fine frenzy, the careless picturesqueness, were almost too much.  He looked the part too
well; but in reality there was a roughness and acrid
gloom about the man which saved him from his over
romantic appearance. He paid no attention to me, as
was very natural.  The conversation turned somehow




TENNYSON.


137


upon his little play of "The Falcon "-now more forgotten, I think, than any of his others, though it seemed
to me much the most effective of them. I said something about its beauty, and that I thought it just the
kind of entertainment which a gracious prince might
offer to his guests; and he replied, with a sort of indignant sense of grievance, "And they tell me people
won'-t go to see it."  I am afraid, however, that I did
not attract the poet in any way, to Mrs Stewart's great
disappointment and annoyance. She was eager to point
out to me that he was much occupied by a very old
lady - a fair, little, white-haired woman, nearly eighty,
the mother of Mr Tom    Hughes (Tom   Brown), who
was just then going out to America to the settlement
in the backwoods which was called Rugby, in Tennessee, where the young Hughes were, and which was
going to be the most perfect colony on the face of
the earth, filled with nothing but the cardinal virtues.
I think the old lady died there, and I know the settlement went sadly to pieces and ruined many hopes.
However, feeling I had not been entirely a success,-a
feeling very habitual to me,-I was glad of Mrs Stewart's
sign of departure, and went up to Mrs Tennyson on
the sofa, to which she had returned, to take my leave.
I am never good at parting politenesses, and I daresay
was very gauche in saying that it was so kind of her
to ask me; while she graciously responded that she
was delighted to have seen me, &c., according to the
established ritual in such cases. Tennyson was standing by, lowering over us with his ragged beard and his
saturnine look. He eyed us, while these pretty speeches
were being made, with cynical eyes. "What liars you
women are! " he said. There could not have been anything more true; but, to be sure, it was not so civil as
it was true.  I never saw him again till that recent
occasion when my Cecco and I went to Farringford
when he was Lord Tennyson, and very old and infirm,
and his wife was a shrunken old, old lady, laid upon




138


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


a sofa from which she never moved, the flood of life flowing past her but never touching her,-a pathetic sight.
It was after Lionel's death, and after my Cyril's death,
and I sat by her and cried; but she seemed in her
old age as if she could weep no more.     That time
Lord Tennyson was delightful-kind and friendly and
full of stories, talking a great deal, and in the best of
humours. He read the "Funeral Ode" to us afterwards, and one or two shorter poems (" Blow, bugles,
blow"); and I was so glad and thankful that Cecco
should see him so, and have such a bright recollection
of him to carry through his life. Alas! alas! It had
always been a regret that he had never seen Carlyleso little as it matters now!
It is rather a fictitious sort of thing recalling those
semi-professional recollections.  It is by way of a kind
of apology for knowing so few notable people.  I met
Mr Fawcett once, the blind politician, a huge mild man,
cheerful in talk and amiable in countenance, whom somebody (not me, I am afraid) overheard saying to his wife
when she came back to him from another room, to takethe small smiling woman she was-his colossal person in
charge, "Oh, Milly, your step is like music." He spoke
to me very kindly, magnifying my work, though I don't
remember how, except the pleasant impression. At the
same party was Sir Charles Dilke, who, on being introduced to me, began at once to speak of his books and of
his publishers, as if he and not I were the literary person.
The same thing happened with a great lady I afterwards
met in the same house,-a Roman Catholic lady, and
a very great personage. There had been several invitations given to her at one time and another by the
mistress of the house, but they all failed somehow, and
at last the one she could accept fell on a Friday. The
great lady took the trouble to write the day before to
remind my friend that it was Friday, and consequently
to her a fast day. This put C. R. on her mettle, as any




A VEGETARIAN TRIUMPH.


1.39l


one who knows her will understand, and we were served
with the most exquisite and luxurious meal, I don't know
how many mctigre dishes-fish, eggs, and vegetables, all
beautifully cooked and.seductive to the last degree, about
as little like fasting as the imagination could conceive.
I like fish and vegetables better than any other kind of
food, and, beguiled by the variety, followed Lady -'s
example and kept up with her as long as I could. But it
was a vain attempt, and I had to sit and look on for some
time while she travelled valiantly through every dish.
She, too, chose as the theme of her conversation her
own books, their success or rather their relative successes,
and the troubles she had with her publishers, and all the
rest, while I sat with rueful amusement listening, feeling
my little ri'le taken from me.  The worst was, I had
never heard she had written anything, and was in mortal
terror of betraying my ignorance I What with her literature, and her beautiful appetite, and our beautiful meal,
the occasion was delightful.  There were some actorgentlemen of the party,-I know not if the great lady bad
a liking for actors, but there they were, furtively regaled
with beef after the lighter quips and fancies of the feast,
and rather ignored in consequence by us finer people who
had fasted on about twenty of the daintiest dishes in the
world.
The year 1875 was an era in my life-a great many
things happened in that year. Frank, my good Frank,
my nephew, who had grown the most trustworthy and
satisfactory boy in the world, loving home, fond of
amusement and diversion, but only in the ýright ways,
-such a one as is a stand-by and tower of strength in a
family,-completed his work at Cooper's Hill very well,
taking a high place, and so having the right to choose
what part of India he would go to.  Things had so
developed in the family that this event seemed an
occasion for various other changes, especially as at
the same time Cyril was to go to Oxford. My brother




140


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


had been getting feeble and less easy to take care of,
and I was anxious that he should live in a doctor's house
and be watched and cared for, as his state seemed to
demand; and he was himself desirous of making a
change, although his plan for himself was quite different,
and he preferred the freedom of going off by himself
somewhere as my father had done, and living in his
own way, for which he was evidently not strong enough,
though he did not perceive it himself. We settled, however, that when the elder boys, as we called them, went
away, Frank to India and Cyril to Balliol, this further
move should be decided on; and that the little girls,
whose education ought to be seriously thought of, should
go to Germany at the same time. I think the pressure
of my poor brother's illness, though he was not ill then
but only ailing, and of his different way of looking at
things and perhaps unconscious criticism and often disapproval of my ways, had become a little too much for
me, and he wanted to be free himself, and when hischildren were gone would no longer have had anything
to bind him to my house. But all this was made unnecessary, these plans and arrangements, as often happens
in such a breaking up. Death is often opportune, as
Mr Pigott said. I was trying to make Frank's last
summer at home pleasant, and wanted him within the
limitations of our small ways to see and do everything
possible.  There is an incident in one of my own
books, in ' Kirsteen,' which is a sort of illustration of
my feeling about him. It was not my own invention,
but told me as the family custom in the large, poor,
proud family which formed the model of the family
in that book,-the bottle of champagne solemnly produced and drunk by the whole party on the night
before the boy went away. I wanted Frank to have
his bottle of champagne. I had settled to take them
all to Switzerland for one thing, and I took them up
to an opera for another, and to stay a night or two in




THE. SHADOW OF DEATH.


141


London, and to see everything they could see in the
small amount of time. There was a match going on at
Lord's, I think, which filled the morning, and then we
were to dine at Miss Blackwood's, and stay in the same
house in Half Moon Street where she was. All was
very lively and pleasant for the boys, who went up in
the morning all so bright and gay, with their little bows
of blue ribbon, and button-holes with a bit of forgetme-not, to serve the same purpose. How often have I
come out with them to the door, seeing them off, so
spruce, in the bright morning (surely the days were
always bright when they went up for that Eton and
Harrow match), so full of pleasure. I found one of these
little blue bows in my Cyril's room after-God bless
him!-and it lies with other treasures. I can see them
now setting out, the little hall full of the little bustle,
and I half scolding, telling them they were sure to be
late, and so proud-the three of them-all well, not a
cloud, the most hopeful youths, Frank tall and strong,
my Cyril with his beautiful face, my Cecco only a boy
and little, straining to keep up with them, all dressed in
their best, with that keen regard to the fashion which
I laughed at and loved, - but what did I not love in
them? They' were my all in this world. I was always
anxious; but there was not a cloud upon the skies, and
what had I to fear?
Next morning we were called back by a telegram. My
brother had been taken ill, and the little scheme of
pleasure was broken up. I found him very ill, scarcely
conscious, when I got home, and in that state he remained, with a few lightenings, till he died. It lasted
only a few days. He was not quite sixty, but worn out,
and his life withered away to the barest skeleton of
living. Often, often have I been vexed with thoughts
that I might have been more tender to him. I did all
I could for him, grudging nothing, but we had veered
far away from each other, and I do not know that I was




142


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


always kind. But it was not in unkindness, but with
a full heart, that I thanked God for his release then.
He was taken away from the partings which would have
been hard to bear, from the evil to come  he had not
to give up his son or to part with his little girls; and
I was glad for him. He was delivered just in time, and
slept and dreamed away, without any trouble in going
so far as any one knew.    He had not taken very
much part in our life; the children, who were much with
him, were too young to mourn except for the moment.
There was one thing that it was a balm to me to think
of. At first it was supposed that he might rally and go
on for some time, for two years perhaps, the doctor said.
I took my own boys into council, and they both said
warmly, with all their hearts, that there must be no
thought now of any change,-that we could let him go
into no stranger's hands now that he was ill. It cost
my Cecco something to make such resolutions as that,
I knew after, but only -long after.  To Cyril it cost
nothing, but they both agreed cordially, both the boys,
as to a thing that could not be gainsaid. But they were
not put to the proof-and he was saved seeing them all
go away.
Cyril left Eton at the end of that half, a little while
after. When he went down to see if the lists were out
before we left home, the man at Drakes told him, smiling,
that he could not tell him the names, but he could tell
him this, that in the first three, two were Oppidans.
This was very rare, and there was little doubt that
he was one of them.    He and Frank came rushing
up with this exciting news to tell me.  I have had
great trouble, but also I have had many joys.    I
forget who the Colleger was who was first,-I think
it was Ryle, or perhaps Harmer, now Bishop; then
Farrar, Oliphant.  These two went to Balliol, both
with scholarships from Eton, Farrar also with a Balliol
scholarship, which Cyril ought to have got too, but




THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN.


143


did not. Both of them now are, I hope and believe,
fulfilling their lives in a better place than this, Farrar
very young. He was more regular, more dutiful; he
had not the wayward touch in him, the careless heart.
He did far better after. At that time there was no better
possible,-it was all triumph and anticipation of every
good. Eton is very dear, very bright to me in all its
recollections. No brighter being than my Cyril ever
came from it, a boy unharmed in every way, handsome,
winning, clever, gay, the most light-hearted, the most
generous in feeling, full of understanding and of tenderness, nothing about him commonplace or dull, looking
as if he would not subdue but win the whole world. I
used to think that if one could desire to have another
personality than one's own, his would have been the
thing to dream of at that bright moment. And I used
to apply to him the description of the young squire in
Chaucer," Singing he was, or flyting, all the day,
He was as fresh as is the month of May."
There was no prouder woman in the world than I was
with the three. Frank was twenty-two, Cyril nineteen,
Cecco sixteen - he doing so well too, with his strange
little ways and shyness and close clinging always to his
mother. It is just twenty years ago. I think often if
all had gone well, as might then have been so confidently
expected,-had Frank been a prosperous man in India,
perhaps sending home his children to be educated, and
Cyril been a rising lawyer as was hoped, and Cecco, if
delicate, still able with care to keep on,-it would all
have been so natural, not anything wonderful, just the
commonplace of life for which other fathers and mothers
would scarcely pause to give special thanks, it being all
so usual, exactly what might have been expected. And
ah, the difference to me! But, thank God! we did not
know what was coming in these days.




144


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


We went to Interlaken, Cecco and I and our dear
"little Nelly."  The older boys took the little girls to
their German school at Arolsen, and joined us after,
coming round by the Lake of Constance. We found
Annie Thackeray, attended by Miss Huth, a gentle little
soul, very much like my little Nelly, and making great
friends with her at Interlaken; and here it was that
Annie and I became fast friends. There never was any
one more fascinating or a more delightful companion, so
pleased to please, so ready to see the best of you-a
little, perhaps, too ready to perceive a best that might
not be in you, yet with a keen observation underneath
that was-though if the report was unfavourable would
scarcely permit itself to be-critical.  She was always
more effusive than myself, delightfully flattering, appreciating.  I used to say that if you wanted the moon
very much, she would eagerly, and for a moment quite
seriously, think how she could help to get it for you,
scorning the bounds of the possible. We went to Grindelwald together and were in the same hotel-the old
Bear in its homely days - for about a fortnight, and
grew intimate.  She was joined there by the Leslie
Stephens, meaning her sister Minnie and Minnie's husband. It was Mrs Stephen's last summer in this world,
but we did not know that either. She was not strong,
but there were reasons for that, and no sort of alarm
about her. Little Minnie, her one little girl, was the.baby of the party-a little, fragile, quaint thing, whom
I remember standing by the great St Bernard, Sultan,
with her hands in his deep fur, a curious little picture.
She was full of quaint sayings and wondering lo6ks,
looking on at the boys and asking solemnly, "What are
they ninking about? " with the gravest observation, and.defending her little basket of cakes from Cyril's pretended attacks with a serious discrimination of him as
the greedy boy, which became one of our little jokes.
It takes but a small matter to make a joke when all




A SUCCESSFUL EXPEDITION.


145


is well and one's heart inclined that way.  I made
acquaintance with Mr Leslie Stephen at that time,-a
man with whom I had had a slight passage of arms by
letters about some literary work, he being-the editor of
the 'Cornhill,' a prosperous magazine in those days. I
fell into a chance talking with him one evening in front
of the Bear, when the sky was growing dim over the
Wetterhorn, and the shadows of the mountains drawing
down as they do when night is coming on. I recollect
we walked up and down and talked, I have not the
smallest *remembrance what about. But the end of it
was that when I went in we had become friends, or so it
was at least on my side.
Leslie Stephen was kind to the boys, taking them for
walks with him up among the mountains; and, egged on
by the ladies, he was so far kind to me that he took two
of my stories for the 'Cornhill,' which meant in each
case the bulk of a year's income.
This expedition was altogether very successful and
delightful, the last time the three boys were to spend
together, for many years, we thought,-for ever in this
world, as it turned out. One thing happened in it on
which I look back with a mixture of feeling and amusement. It was the coming to life of the two who were
then called the little girls.  They had been very unresponsive children, not "forthcoming" as Mrs Freshfield says; little shy mice, half-shy, half-defiant, as I think
children often are whose childhood has been broken up
by transplantation to another house. They had not had
perhaps so much as they should have had of the petting
of the nursery. The household when they came into it
was preoccupied by the boys, who were so much older;
and though everybody was kind, they missed, no doubt
unconsciously, poor little souls, the something more than
kindness, the indulgence, the mother. At all events they
were very chilly, scared, distrustful little things. They
left home with no apparent feeling at all, and much com.
K




146


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


ment among us (most of the bystanders were always
rather against these two little impedimenta) at the
absence of feeling. Of course they were excited by the
prospect of the journey in the care of the two big
brothers, and all the novelty. But when they were left
in Germany among strange-speaking people, among new
ways, in such a strange place, the two little hearts gushed
out all at once. They wrote to me the most pathetic,
imploring letters. "Oh, come and take us home; oh
come, come and take us home.    We will be as good
as angels," said Madge, "if you will only come and
take us home."  It was rather hard work refusing. We
were in Interlaken, I think, when these letters came, and
we made up a basket of all the toys and pictures and
cakes that would carry, to console them. And they soon
got over their first home - sickness.  And they never
relapsed into those chills and mists of their childhood,
but have always been since my true children, the unquestioned daughters of the house, and with no further
cloud upon the completeness of their adoption-they of
me, as well as I of them. The first is often the more
difficult of the two.
With that year began a new life, one of which I cannot
speak much. That was the burden and heat of the day:
my anxieties were sometimes almost more than I could
bear. I had gone through many trials, as I thought,
and God knows many of them had been hard enough,
but then I knew to the depths of my heart what the
yoke was and how heavy. Many times I have woke in
the morning feeling in myself that image of Shelley's
"Prometheus," which in my youth I had vexed my
husband by not appreciating, except in what seemed
to me the picture rather than the poem, the man chained
to the rock, with the vultures swooping down upon him.
Their cruel beaks I seemed to feel in my heart the
moment I awoke. Ah me, alas! pain ever, for ever,
God alone knows what was the anguish of these years.




RELIEF FROM PAIN.


147


And yet now I think of ces beaux jours quand j'etais si
malheureuse, the moments of relief were so great and so
sweet that they seemed compensation for the pain,-I
remembered no more the anguish. Lately in my many
sad musings it has been brought very clearly before
my mind how often all the horrible tension, the dread,
the anxiety which there are no words strong enough
to describe,-which devoured me, but which I had to
conceal often behind a smiling face,-would yield in a
moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the sound of
a voice, at the first look, into an ineffable ease and
the overwhelming happiness of relief from pain, which
is, I think, our highest human sensation, higher and
more exquisite than any positive enjoyment in this
world. It used to sweep over me like a wave, sometimes when I opened a door, sometimes in a letter,in all simple ways. I cannot explain, but if this should
ever come to the eye of any woman in the passion and
agony of motherhood, she will more or less understand.
I was thinking lately, or rather, as sometimes happens,
there was suddenly presented to my mind, like a suggestion from  some one else, the recollection of these
ineffable happinesses, and it seemed to me that it meant
that which would be when one pushed through that last
door and was met-oh, by what, by whom?-by instant
relief. The wave of sudden ease and warmth and peace
and joy. I felt, to tell the truth, that it was one of them
who brought that to my mind, and I said to myself,
"I will not want any explanation, I will not ask any
question,-the first touch, the first look, will be enough,
as of old, yet better than of old."
I do injustice to those whom I love above all things
by.speaking thus, and yet what can I say? My dearest,
bright, delightful boy missed somehow his footing, how
can I tell howv? I often think that I had to do with
it, as well as what people call inherited tendencies, and,
alas! the perversity of youth, which he never outgrew.




148


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


He had done everything too easily in the beginning of
his boyish career, by natural impulse and that kind of
genius which is so often deceptive in youth, and when
he came to that stage in which hard work was necessary against the competition of the hard working, he
could not believe how much more effort was necessary.
Notwithstanding all distractions he took a second-class
at Oxford,-a great disappointment, yet not disgraceful
after all. And I will not say that, except at the first
keen moment of pain, I was in any way bitterly disappointed. Tout peut se riarer.  I always felt so to
the end, and perhaps he thought I took it lightly, and
that it did not so much matter. Then it was one of
my foolish ways to take my own work very lightly,
and not to let them know how hard pressed I was
sometimes, so that he never, I am sure, was convinced
how serious it was in that way, and certainly never
was convinced that he could not, when the moment
came, right himself and recover lost way. But only
the moment, God bless him! did not come till God
took it in His own hands. Another theory I have thought
of with many tears lately. I had another foolish way
of laughing at the superior people, the people who took
themselves too seriously,-the boys of pretension, and all
the strong intellectualisms. This gave him, perhaps, or
helped him to form, a prejudice against the good and
reading men, who have so many affectations, poor boys,
and led him towards those so often inferior, all inferior
to himself, who had the naturalness along with the folly
of youth. Why should I try to explain? He went out
of the world, leaving a love - song or two behind him
and the little volume of "De Musset," of which much
was so well done, and yet some so badly done, and
nothing more to show for his life. And I to watch
it all going on day by day and year by year!
My Cecco took the first steps in the same way; but,
thanks be to God, righted himself and overcame-not




BLINKS OF HAP0INESS.


140


in time enough to save his career at Oxford, but so as
to be all that I had hoped,-always my very own, my
dearest companion, choosing me before all others. What
a companion he was, everybody who knew us knows:
full of knowledge, full of humour-a most accomplished
man, though to me always a boy. He did not make
friends easily, and he had few; but those whom he
had were very fond of him, and all our immediate surroundings looked up to him withf an affectionate admiration which I cannot describe.  "I don't know,
but I will ask Cecco," was what we all said. He had
not much more than emerged from the desert of temptation and trial, bringing balm  and healing to me,
when he fell ill. When his illness first was declared,
it seemed to me that my misery was more than I
could bear. I remember that we all went to the Holy
Communion together the Sunday before we left for
Pau, and that as I went up to kneel at the altar I
was so nearly overcome, that Cyril put his hand on
my arm and gripped it almost roughly to recall me to
myself. And then the whole world seemed to come
back again into th6 Sun after a time; he got so much
better, and the warmn summer of the Queen's Jubilee
year seemed to complete what Pau had begun. And
he passed his examination for the British Museum,
coming out first, and his life seemed now to be ordered
in a safe place --in the work he loved. Alas! Then
Sir Andrew  Clark would not pass him, but other
doctors gave the best of hopes.  And he did a great
deal of good work, and finally went to the Royal Library
here; and we had many blinks of happiness, both in
the winter on the Riviera and at home. I cannot tell
what he was to me-consulting me about everything,
desiring to have me with him, to walk with me and
talk to me, only put out of humour when I was
drawn away or occupied by other things. When he
was absent he wrote to me every day. I never went




150o


AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


out but he was there to give me his arm.   I seem to
feel it now-the dear, thin, but firm arm. In the last
four years after Cyril was taken from   us, we were
nearer and nearer. I can hear myself saying "Cecco
and I."  It was the constant phrase. But all through
he was getting weaker: and I knew it, and tried not
to know.
And now here I am all alone*
I cannot write any more.


END OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.




L-E TTE RS








LETTERS.
T
AMONG the considerable number of letters from different
correspondents which Mrs Oliphant left behind her, the
earliest-or at any rate the earliest of any general interest
-is from the redoubtable Francis Jeffrey. He was at
the very end of his long and brilliant literary career when
there came to him an offering-the first work of a young
and unknown writer-which seems to have touched the
springs of kindness and sympathy in a way very charming
and attractive.' The letter of the old critic was, naturally, most highly valued by the neophyte. She seems
never to have lost a sense of the pleasure it gave her; and
Jeffrey's death, shortly after she received it, made it even
more of a relic. Here is the missive, sent to her through
her publisher:185o.
To the A utihor of 'Passages in the Life of 3Margaret Maitland.'
EDINBURGH, 5k h7anmary I850.
I was captivated by 'Margaret Maitland' before the
author came to bribe me by the gift of a copy and a too
flattering letter-which I am now taking the chance of
answering-though not trusted either with the name or
1 Passages in the Life of Mrs Margaret Maitland. Colburn: London, I849.




154


LETTERS.


[1850.


address of the person to whom I must express my gratitude and admiration! Nothing half so true or so touching (in the delineation of Scottish character) has appeared
since Galt published his 'Annals of the Parish '-and this
is purer and deeper than Galt, and even more absolutely
and simply true. It would have been better though and
made a stronger impression if it had copied Galt's brevity,
and is sensibly injured by the indifferent matter which
has been admitted to bring it up to the standard of three
volumes. All about the Lectures and Jo Whang, and
almost all about Reuben and the ladies at the Castle,
is worse than superfluous; and even the youthful Poet
and his allegory, though the creation of no ordinary
mind, is out of place and de trop.
The charm is in Grace and Margaret Maitland, and
they and their immediate connections ought to have had
the scene mostly to themselves. It is debased and polluted by the intrusion of so many ordinary characters.
The conception of Grace, so original and yet so true to
nature and to Scottish nature, is far beyond anything
that Galt could reach; and the sweet thoughtfulness and
pure, gracious, idiomatic Scotch of Margaret, with her
subdued sensibilities and genial sympathy with all innocent enjoyments, her ardent but indulgent piety, and the
modest dignity of her sentiments and deportment, make a
picture that does equal credit to the class from which it is
taken and to the right feeling and power of observation of
the painter. Claud perhaps is scarcely made thoroughly
deserving of Grace, though it certainly must not have
been easy to finish a male character either so highly or so
softly as these two delightful females-and Mary, especially in the later scenes, is nearly as good as they are.
When I first read the book I settled it with myself that
it was the work of a woman-and though there are pronouns
in the letter of the author now before me which seem to
exclude that supposition, I am so unwilling to be disabused
of this first impression that I still venture to hope that it
was not erroneous, and that these words were introduced




850o.]


INTRODUCTION TO 'MAGA.'


I55


only to preserve the incognito which the author (though
I am sure I cannot guess for what reason) seems still
anxious to maintain.
I have no wish certainly, as I have no right, to violate
the incognito, but write now merely to return my humble
and cordial thanks for the honour the author has done
me, and to express the deep and most pleasing sense I
have of the great merit of his (if it must be his) personnel,
and with all good wishes transcribe myself the said
author's very grateful and sincere humble servant,
F. JEFFREY.
After the date of this letter there is a gap of about two
years, and then begins the long series of those written
by Mrs Oliphant to the Blackwoods-chiefly to Mr John
Blackwood, but also to Mr William   Blackwood, the
present head of the house; to Miss Isabella Blackwood,
with whom she maintained a very long and intimate
friendship; and to some of the younger members of the
family. It may be permitted here to insert the account
given by Mr John Blackwood himself, and noted down at
the time by one of his hearers, of Mrs Oliphant's very
first introduction to the pages of 'Maga.' On the 25th
anniversary of that introduction Mr Blackwood and
many of his old contributors were invited to spend a
lovely summer day on Magna Charta Island, within
a few miles of her house at Windsor, and to lunch on
the spot where King John met his barons. Mr Blackwood began his short after-luncheon speech by a humorous parallel between the earlier sovereign and himself
-the barons of Magna Charta and the bold barons
of Blackwood; then, falling into a more serious tone,
passed on to relate the commencement of his acquaintance with his hostess. He described the young woman




156.      LETTERS.                 [185o,
new to literature and' shy, but with the same bright
eyes full of intelligence as in later years. "She talked
to me," he said, "among other things, about Thackeray
and Dickens, and I thought I had never heard anything
better said. I asked her to write it down, and she did
so; and that was the beginning of her work for the
Magazine."
'Katie Stewart' was the first book of Mrs Oliphant's'
published by the Blackwoods, and, as she has herself
recorded elsewhere, the family adopted a fashion of
speaking of her by the name of her heroine.




i852.]1


' KATIE STEWART.'


I157


1852.
To Mr John Blackwood.           BIRKENHEAD, 4th February.
I am conscious that there is rather too much Scotch in
particularly the first chapters of ' Katie Stewart'; but
considering the time and the rank of the characters, I
think any alteration in this point would make the book
less true. I think I mentioned before that there is no
fiction in the history, except indeed in the introduction of
some of the subordinate characters; the incidents-all of
them-are simply and strictly true: this, however, I am
aware is quite a doubtful advantage, since it is somewhat
difficult to be at once true in fact and true to nature-but
Katie Stewart and Lady Anne Erskine were both of them
real existences.
BIRKENHEAD, 25th March.
Since you are so good as to repeat your offer for ' Katie
Stewart,' I shall merely accept it with thanks, trusting
that your liberality will be justified by the success of the
little book.
BIRKENHEAD, 26th April.
This is the last week I shall spend in this place, and
there are now very few days to spare.     Do you still
intend that the first number of my story should appear
in the Magazine for May?
This is the last letter signed M. 0. Wilson.    The
proofs of 'Katie Stewart' were delivered to Mrs Oliphant
on her wedding-day.
HARRINGTON SQUARE, LONDON, 29th May.
I am sorry that the proof of ' Katie Stewart' should
have been so long detained, and also that your remittance
was not, I believe, properly acknowledged. It did not
arrive until after I had left Birkenhead at a time when




158


LETTERS,,


[1852.


there was much commotion and business in the household, and I trust you will excuse the omission on these
grounds.  I think I have done as much to prune the
Scotch as was practicable without a complete change in
many of the earlier scenes. I am, like my heroine, not
much of a Jacobite; and as I do not wish to claim loftier
sentiments than she possessed for Katie Stewart, I must,
I think, suffer her opinion of the Chevalier to remain as
it is. I think it accords better with the character than
anything of that imaginative poetic loyalty which seems
to have belonged by some strange right of inheritance to
those unhappy Stuarts.   As to the Chevalier himself,
my opinion of his face is formed from a youthful portrait
taken before the vices of his later life could at all affect
him.. It may be that I judge wrongly of its expressionstill I do judge so; it is an honest opinion, and this also
I think must stand as it is.... I am obliged by your
kind interest in Lady Anne, and should willingly give up
the thin shoulders and the long arms; but then these are
fully balanced by good qualities which Katie Stewart does
not profess to possess, and for the sake of contrast I must
be content to do the good Lady Anne even a little injustice. She is loftier in many respects than her humble
companion, and for the sake of due individuality Lady
Anne must preserve her angles.
The following letter, written by Mrs Wilson, Mrs
Oliphant's much-beloved mother, to her brother, is interesting as showing how that vivacious old lady flung
herself into her daughter's interests and enjoyed her
successes:Augest 22, 1852.
'Katie Stewart' seems to have made a great sensation.
Maggie has had two letters lately from Mr Blackwood,
both of them exceedingly kind; the first saying that he
had not said to any person who the author was, but that




1854.]


" FIFE IN A FERMENT."


159


Sir Ralph Anstruther had written asking if he might
know, whereat I was very proud, as it was a testimony
to the truthfulness of my memory, his own grandmother
being the Lady Janet. The reason Mr Blackwood gave
for not saying who the author was, was that it might be
good for her to have an anonymous reputation,-honest
man, he little knew of 'John Drayton' and his neighbour,i
-and that the other contributors were Professor Wilson,
Sir A. Alison, Sir E. Bulwer, and Samuel Warren, and
he hopes she is pleased with her company. His next is
still more gratifying: he says Fife is in a ferment,-that
is, not our Fife but literary Fife,-and the authorship is
divided between Sir Ralph Anstruther and Lord Lindsay.
The letters of 1853 are again missing, but from the
beginning of 1854 the supply is continuous.
1854.
To Mr Blackwooa.
I shall thank you very much for giving me an opportunity
to say a kind word of Miss Mitford, and I have now got the
books, and will send you an article, I daresay, within a
week. But 'Atherton' is really and truly a new story, as
avouched by Miss Mitford herself in her preface, and by a
most confidential friend of hers, to whom I referred.
She has long meditated writing it, and has had it, name
and all, in her mind for many years; but this past winter
has produced the story written in great pain and weakness, a sort of last effort, as it seems.... The Professor's
death must leave a wonderful blank in Edinburgh, but he
has had a longer day and reign than falls to the lot of
most.
1 Novels published anonymously for the benefit of her brother William,
which some ingenious critics have supposed to be written by him.




16o


LETTERS.


[18S5.


1855.
To Mr Blackwood.
I am afraid what you say about my labours is scarcely
complimentary, but a naturally restless temperament
makes it almost a necessary of life for me to be constantly
occupied, and Providence has added just such an amount
of pressure as makes it desirable for me to do what I can.
The only thing I can grumble at in the matter is that
now and then some one like yourself, whose good opinion
I should be very sorry to lose, is disposed to blame me in
consequence; but I cannot help this, much as I regret it.
The book ' Lilliesleaf' has been announced for a month
or more in Hurst & Blackett's list, though not by name.
It is a continuation and conclusion of 'Mrs Margaret
Maitland,' which is the reason, I should fancy, that its
name is familiar to you, and is written by that old lady who
terminates her existence in the act. I have long intended
to conclude the series so, and (as I surely told you)
designed 'The Days of My Life' as the first of a new
anonymous series, not desiring to be stereotyped as the
author of ' Mrs Margaret' any more.
' The Days of My Life,' I am sure, would not at all
suit the Magazine. The book is less a story than a
monologue, and though I have a kindness for it myself, I
quite feel that it could not bear the ordeal of periodical
publication. But-if you and your readers are not tired
of me - I think I have something in my mind which
might be made a tolerable successor to 'Zaidee.' Some
time in the spring, if everything goes well in the meantime, I shall speak to you of this; though I am sometimes doubtful whether in your most manly and masculine
of magazines a womanish story-teller like myself may not
become wearisome.... In the meantime, I have a great
desire to say my say once upon the subject of poetry. I




1s55.]


A GROUP OF NOVELISTS.


t61


shall not touch upon anybody else's ground, but I wish
very much to put in my word upon the Tennysons and
Dobells; and if it does not interfere with anything,
would like much to follow my Art article with one on
poetry.
November 8.
I had begun to Ruskin before I got your note; but
what I say about him will not be at all like what has been
already said in the Magazine, so that I do not think you
would desire me to stop; but I will not enlarge upon him,
only he is an indispensable individual in any collection of
men who are wiser than their neighbours....
I have been much amused already by the little commotion which the appearance of Mr Steele in the late
numbers of 'Zaidee' has made amongst sundry good
people here. This character is a very slight sketch of our
friend Lance the fruit-painter, whose wit and eccentricities and goodness are very well known; and it seems to
have been already recognised by a great many. He has
been told of it himself, and takes it very well. I shall
have very great pleasure in making Colonel Hamley's
acquaintance, and hope you will not forget your promised
introduction.
Novoember 24.
In respect to what you say of a review of' Hard Times,'
I thought, immediately after seeing you, of a plan I should
like very well if it pleased you-to give you three short
articles on Novels or Novelists: the first Bulwer, the
second Dickens and Thackeray, and the third, the indiscriminate multitude of fictionists. Bulwer's cheap editions would do very well for a text in the one case, and
Dickens' ' Hard Times' and Thackeray's new Christmas
book (if it is good) in the other.
Since seeing Captain Blackwood yesterday I have read
over 'Night and Morning,' and put in a few words about
it; but I really do not feel that I can do more in conscience. For my own part, I think a true partisan of
L




162                   LETTERS.                   [1855.
B3ulwer's ought to drop all his intermediate works. To
say the best of them that one can, they are still only
novels-more interesting than many, and perhaps rather
more objectionable than most-freaks of his genius,whereas his last works show all the nobler qualities of a
great mind....
I do not like Disraeli's works either, but they are
always clever, and I wanted a poise for Warren. I wish
I could have altered this article a little more, since you
would have liked it, but indeed I do not feel that I could
do it conscientiously. I think the later works as near
perfect as.possible, but I cannot be pleased with the.
others.




1856-57.]  THE HISTORIAN OF SOPHISTICATION.


I856.
To Mr Blackwood.                7 ULSTER PLACE, Friday.
About Macaulay, if you can give me a very late day I
will try and be ready with a bit of him for the June number. I say a bit, because I think I should like to try a
more elaborate criticism than any I have done yet, possibly reaching to two articles. I do not know whether
there is anything in the Penn controversy, or how far
Marlborough is defensible; but I will send to Mr Langford for Sir Archibald Alison's book, which is favourable
to him, is it not? Macaulay seems to me the historian
of sophistication, a man who writes only and always for
"society," and knows as little of any primitive existence
as a New Zealander could know of Mayfair. Everybody
admires him, of course, but nobody believes in him---at
least, so far as my experience goes.
I am sure you do not mean any harm; but I must say
that your suggestive glimpse of open windows facing St
Andrews Bay is somewhat aggravating to people shut up
in London in September; but for an invalid I get on
tolerably well. The Queen of Oudh has had the politeness to bring her "troupe," which is a picturesque one,
to the house next to us. I expect, accordingly, in a few
days to be quite up in Eastern costume, and ready for
anything in that way you may have on your hands.
1857.
I enclose the concluding proof of 'The Athelings.'
'Charles V.' I will send after you on Monday, if that
Will do, as I trust it will. We set off on Saturday for
Birkenhead, and I have innumerable babies' frocks to




164


LETTERS.


[D858.


look after, begging your pardon for postponing the dignified demands of literature to such small considerations.
December 21.
I have intended for a few weeks back to ask you
whether you thought you were likely to have an opening
for a story of mine at or about Midsummer next. I have
something in my mind which I daresay will get worked
out by that time, and which I should like to send to you.
I mention this so long beforehand because we have been
making arrangements to go abroad at the end of next
summer, and to spend the winter in Italy, the principal
inducement being my husband's health, which has not
been very strong lately, and which that I trust would set
to rights. We shall require, of course to make considerable preparations for this.
1858.
We have quite made up our minds about going abroad,
and are working towards that end now,-a troublesome
operation enough, as it will be a temporary breaking up
of our household.
I enclose the proof: all my superlatives apply to Irving
himself rather than to his genius. I knew nothing whatever of him till his 'Last Days' fell by chance into my
hands. Try the 'Orations' and you will come over to
my opinion: it is Irvingism which has smothered them,
but Irvingism has very little in common with Irving.
I agree partially with what you say about the Disruption,-partially, for my prejudices are all on the other
side.
If you wish me to take up Mr Caird's Sermons I will
be glad to do it. I think myself that there is a little
want of human experience, in them,--the troubles of this
life-which one thinks, the more of by a natural selfishn.ess when one seems to have a double portion of them,




1858.]


THE SORROWS OF A COMPOSITOR.


165


This deterred me from offering to review them, but I
don't doubt that there are excellences which quite make
up for this.
I think it is rather a feather in my cap to have produced a MS. undecipherable even       to you: printers
fortunately can read everything,1 but I did not know
the Christopher was worse than usual. We shall get
away, I trust, in about three weeks. We should be glad
of some kind of introduction to the English Minister at
Florence,-could you help us in that?     I daresay we
could manage it otherwise, but you are in and influential.
We were much obliged by the introduction you kindly
obtained for us. Many thanks. I suppose we may consider the country specially pledged to pick us up out of
all scrapes when we carry credentials from    so great a
person as the Foreign Minister.
I have had some correspondence with Mr Drummond,
and almost think we shall run down to Albury one day
next week to see him. A dear old friend and relation of
ours, who is the sister of the late Mrs Irving, is very
anxious that I should undertake a life of Edward Irving:
she has all the materials within her power. However,
this is far in the future. But it makes me more disposed to find out what Mr Drummond has to say on the
subject.
We hope to get away next Saturday, Mr Oliphant
having now got all his work completed and nothing but
arrangements to make.
We spent Wednesday and the morning of the next day
with Mr Drummond. He is an interesting old man-I
1 On the 9gth of October 1872 Mrs Oliphant had seen reason to doubt the
omnisCience of printers. She writes to Mr Blackwood: " You seem to have
some wicked wag in the printing office whose performances are most bewildering. Fancy printing 'Troplemus' instead of 'hopelessness'! There is
something in the interpolation of an unknown name spelt with a big capital
that takes one quite aback. One feels it ought to be some classic personage
worthy of veneration."




166


LETTERS.


I858s


have no doubt, as you say, a very good type of an English
country gentleman, and almost too tempting a study for a
novel-writer. To listen seriously while a man of indisputable mind and knowledge of the world talks with the
most serious good faith of people possessed with devils,
and the manner of exorcising familiar spirits, is no small
exercise of one's self-control, and a very piquant variation upon ordinary life. I am afraid I am committed to
the Life of Irving, which I think a noble subject, but I
shall not think of entering upon it till we return.
Mr Drummond lives rather in the grand style, his sonin-law and daughter, Lord and Lady Lovaine, sharing his
household. He seems one of those happy men who are
interested about everything, and ready to speculate upon
any subject from an election up to the greatest of spiritual
mysteries. These last formed the bulk of my conversations with him, and his explanations were more odd than I
can describe. He smiles at the mere idea of anything
less than perfect belief of the Spiritual Utterances, which
still, it appears, guide the Church which bears the name
of Irving, but which has gone far beyond anything in his
intentions-and assumes the reality of these with a confidence which one can only wonder at, though, I confess,
under strong temptations to smile. He is evidently full
of speculation of the oddest character, supported partly
on very good sense and good reason, and partly by the
most delightful non sequitur which, takes away one's
breath. He was extremely kind, as were his daughters.
We spared the time with great difficulty, but I was glad
we had done so.
We will get away, I trust, some day next week, though
I cannot exactly say which. Mr Oliphant has been and
continues very indifferent in health, but we have great
hopes from the doctor that he wants chiefly rest and
change.




1859.] THE IDENTITY OF GEORGE ELIOT-A GUESS. 167


1859.
To Mr Blackwood.                VIA MAGGIO, FLORENCE.
We are very curious and interested about 'Adam
Bede,' which we see advertised and criticised in the
'Athenaeum.' We shall be having a parcel sent out to
us shortly,-might I ask for a copy?-which if you will
kindly send along with my copy of the Magazine to my
brother, would be forwarded to me here, and would be
a great gratification, as English books are not plentiful.... I am sure you must be very much gratified by the
extraordinary success of 'Adam  Bede.'  I have never
yet had an opportunity of getting the book sent out, so
I am still ignorant of it, but the flutter of curiosity in the
newspapers is sufficiently exciting. I don't want to pry
into the secret, but pray tell me one thing: I cannot
believe that the author of the 'Scenes of Clerical Life'
is a woman-is that extraordinary guess correct? I shall
feel quite satisfied if you say no. My husband, reading
for the first time one of the first books of Anthony Trollope, thought he perceived a considerable resemblance in
that writer to Mr Gilfil and the Rev. Amos Barton-but I
will not ask you whether that guess edges upon the truth.
We are shortly going into Rome for the winter-everything is quiet and going on as usual. What does anybody suppose is going to happen to this country? These
'Times' articles about Florence are very cruel and unjust
so far as regards the visible habits of the people. They
are very gay and idle certainly-how can they be otherwise? but I know that many cadets of the best Florentine families went off long ago as volunteers to the
Sardinian army, serving there as privates, and writing
joyous letters home about their fatigues and privations,
which is somewhat different from the account we see of
them now.




168


LETTERS.


[1859.


The time of deep sorrow and struggle which followed the
writing of this letter is described in the Autobiography,
and need not be recapitulated here. Mr Oliphant died in
Rome; and six weeks later the baby son who, as he grew
up, always retained his baby name, "Cecco," was born.
It is hard to imagine anything more desotate than the
young widow's position at this time, yet her letters show
how bravely she kept up her heart, and how indefatigably
she worked for the three little ones dependent on her.
Perhaps one secret of her amazing power of work was
that she never lost interest in the lives and work of other
people.
BABUINO, December 17.
I am very glad to let you know that I am likely to be
soon better and on my way home. I have another baby
son who is doing well also, and everything promises
satisfactorily for us both.  I hope soon to be able to
make my acknowledgments of your kindness in a manner
more satisfactory, and to resume work.




X86o.]


]  THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.'


169


i86o.
To Mr Blackwood.                 BIRKENHEAD, 61h March.
I should like very much to put in a claim beforehand
for the new book by the author of 'Adam Bede.' I wish
very much you would tell me whether this mysterious
personage is a woman. I shall feel very much humiliated
if it is so, seeing I have staked my critical credit on the
other side, and I fear shall scarcely believe it even if you
tell me; but my curiosity is great.  Thank you very
much for the Magazine - I am      charmed with 'St
Stephen's.' It is Sir Edward's, of course.
23rd March.
Many thanks for your kind exertions in the matter of
Hampton Court.     I am  sorry her Majesty does not
think it worth while to exert her royal bounty on my
behalf; but I had not placed my hopes very high. Indeed I wanted more a bond which should oblige me to fix
some definite place to live in than the place itself. I feel
my entire freedom of choice in this particular a very forlorn liberty, and, always accustomed to consult another
will, would be thankful now, when I have but my own to
think of, to have an obligation or necessity, anything
almost which would fix me to one place, without giving
to my indolence and lassitude the pain of choice. I am
very much obliged not the less by the kind trouble you
have taken on my behalf.
The article I trust you will let me postpone till next
month. I have been falling out of one cold into another
since ever I arrived here. The change of climate is very
perceptible, and this is one of the windiest corners in all
England; so that I think I have gone through almost
all the varieties of cold and influenza, and may now hope
for a little exemption.




-O70


ý LETTERS.


[I1860.


7uly.
I send you enclosed the first chapter of 'Montalembert.' I think it very likely you won't like the execution,
and pray don't hesitate ini the least to say so, for I am
not vain of my French. If, however, by chance you
should think it would do, I shall like the work very well;
and will have pleasure in undertaking it. But I beg you
will not feel any delicacy in saying, if you think so, that
the translation is too bad for using.  I am quite prepared to believe as much.
ELI, FIFE.
I send by this post the proof and French text. One
or two of M. le Comte's corrections I rather object to,
as mere substitutions of one word for another, not always
(with humility) to the improvement of the sound. A
glance at the proof will show you these, which I have put
notes to. Thank you for your kind confidence in me:
I will spare no trouble to improve the translation.
Montalembert's corrections are very mild, I think; his
opinion is a different matter. I enclose his letter which
you kindly sent me: it is not exactly the kind of autograph which one would ask to retain. If he mollifies, or
his French politeness suggests some little bonbon of approval afterwards, I will ask you for that as the autograph
of so notable a person.  If not, with your goodwill, I
will take it out of him in the Magazine. It's consolatory
to think that he can be cut up into little pieces so easily
-never man surely left himself more open to criticism.
Have you his book about England, which was translated,
I think? I should like to see the translation very much.




1861.]


A HALTING POINT.


17l


1861.
To Mr Blackwood.               FETTES Row, EDINBURGH.
It would be affectation to say that I was not much disappointed and mortified by receiving your packet last
night. I should be glad to console my amour Irofre by
thinking that the stronger fare to which you are accustomed has given you a distaste for my womanish style.
One finds it always odd somehow to account for being
stupid in one's own person. But at all events I am not
sulky. Greater people than me have had a run of failures, and I shall still hope to recover myself. I write
now to ask you whether it is any use to send you a
revised version of the other condemned article. It would
be, of course, a great salve and solace to my wounded
soul, and if you are disposed to keep a corner open for
me I would send it up to-night. But if not, it is a pity
to give you the pain of rejecting another effort, which
I am glad and obliged to be able to think is a pain
to you.
This is the moment already alluded to when Mrs
Oliphant's work came to a kind of standstill. Worn out
by sorrow and physical suffering, it is little short of
miraculous that she was able to gather up her forces
again, and with admirable success. She has told the
story of these days in her Autobiography, and, briefly,
in 'Annals of a Publishing House.'
WILLOWBURN, ROSENEATI.
I am very glad, though I confess a little surprised, to
find you speak so favourably of the little story1 which I
now return corrected. I had my fears about it when I
1 "The Rector," ' Maga,' September 1861.




172


LETTERS.


[i861.


sent it to you. I cannot tell you how much gratified and
affected I am by what you kindly say of my writing. I
take it as one of the most valuable compensations for a
lot more laborious and heavily burdened than that of
most of my neighbours, that Providence has given me
friends who judge my endeavours so kindly: I should be
forlorn enough else. But you were quite right in winter;
and if I do better now, I reckon it greatly to the account
of your own family and my friends here who have taken
the pains to shake me out of my shell. Though I retire
into that tub again for the winter, I hope the brighter
influences may not forsake me.... I have got into a
scrape with Mrs Hall, that most persevering of littirateurs.
I gave her a morsel of a story on condition that it should
be anonymous; and now she makes the most touching
appeal to me as a personal favour for my name. I fear
you will think a person whose name has to do penance in
Mrs Hall's magazine most unworthy of the honour of
appearing in ' Maga,' but it is only for once, and I cannot
help it.
Many thanks for yotir charming long letter. I return
Buckle, and have done according to your orders, though
it was not without compunction I interfered with your
sentences, about which you appear quite too humble.
You know I don't agree with you about Carlyle, and am
delighted to think I have the means of raising him in
your estimation by telling you that he seems to have
loved and honoured Edward Irving more than any other
human creature. I don't know that I have ever been
more gratified in my life than by your praise of this bit
of biography. I feel quite exhilarated and set up in consequence, your previous truculencies having inspired me
with the profoundest confidence in your judgment. The
worst of it is that I feel a certain awe upon me in proceeding, with dreadful doubts of keeping up to the mark,
and the profoundest alarm lest I should lose the ground
I have gained.... I see a book mentioned in the papers
which I should like very well, if agreeable to you, to take




0861.]


A SURFEIT OF SERMONS.


173


up if it proved practicable. It is 'Recollections of Welby
Pugin,' the famous architect. If you could let me do
it I should be pleased. He was a great friend of my
husband's.
WILLOWBURN, ROSENEATH.
Your note of this morning put me in great spirits:
I am more pleased than I can tell you that you approve
of Irving. I have been in great doubt and trepidation,
and am still alarmed lest further reading may change
your opinion, but in the meantime thank you very
much.... We all continue to enjoy the freedom of
our primitive existence exceedingly, and have (for the
West Country) wonderful weather. We had a most
delightful excursion up Loch Long to Loch Lomond
the other day.
I have got what I suppose must be a curiosity of
littleness in the shape of a house at Ealing near London, to which I am going with some regrets and doubts
of my own wisdom-a quality of which I am never too
confident.
Would you please to send me the manuscript of
Irving? The London people would like to have it and
put it in hand. I am getting on, I hope, with some
success in the more difficult and delicate part of the
Life, which I should be very glad to submit to you also.
It is harder work than the first, and I trust you will
sympathise with me in the terrible amount of sermons
which I have to read and remember.   If Irving had
been an ordinary preacher I must have succumbed long
ere now.
To Miss Blackwood.
MY DEAR DONNA ISABELLA,-Are you really going
to Ross -shire? and if so, could we not meet and do
Loch Katrine? on which my Cockney soul is still set,
I should really like, having had my appetite whetted
by the glorious three days, to see the Trossachs, which




174


LETTERS.


[x86s.


would be done with only a single night's absence from
home-especially in your charming society.... The
flitting will be accomplished in less than a month now,
but I have been somewhat appalled by hearing the size
of the rooms.   I fear the house must be tiny to an
unexpected degree, therefore I beg you to prepare for
the dread necessity of dispensing with crinoline when
you come to see me. By all appearances I shall be in
the most favourable circumstances for making great
economies, as the French say-and don't you wish I
may do it!... I want to know whether it has rained
incessantly for a month at St Andrews. It has here;
and, oh! the dreariness of a persistent wet day with
four children shut up in the house. Yesterday I plodded
through the wet to hear Dr Robert Lee preach, and did
not in the least like him - a galvanic cast - iron man,
quite unworthy of a mile's walk through the rain. All
the children are well. Tiddy (I really think I must
begin to call him Cyril, his present name written is
not euphonious) was much impressed by little John's
quoting him as an example for roaring, a fact of which
he has been duly and zealously reminded.
To Mr Blackwood.               WILLOWBURN, 281A August.
Now I want to ask you a great favour--do please
look at young Story's book.   Next time I send you
anything I give you free leave to hang it up indefinitely
between earth and heaven and take it out of me. But
I shall take it as the greatest kindness if you will let
the new pretender to your favour have his verdictnow pray be merciful. Once upon a time we too were
young, and did not know whether we were to succeed
or fail. I think that sentiment is worthy of you, and
for the sake of that touching reminiscence, do, pray,
grant me my prayer. You know an hour or two at
it would determine your rapid (and always infallible)
judgment. Do please, dear Mr Blackwood! and I shall




1861.]"


THE FATIGUE OF STUPID SOCIETY.


175 -

be your devout bedeswoman - can you resist such a
feminine appeal?
To Miss Blackwood.
To-day Mrs Tulloch and I have had a little maternal
picnic with all our chicks at the head of the loch. We
had the servants with us, but nobody else, and had a
great success, the children enjoying themselves to the
top of their bent. I have not been at Shandon at lunch
to-day, though you say I was to go. I had declined,
not seeing very well how I could get away. The day
has been glorious-staying indoors was quite impracticable, so I took my work outside, the first time for
many weeks. I scarcely think I ever saw the Gareloch
look so beautiful, but it begins to get cold, and notwithstanding all its attractions the wandering impulse
is once more upon me, and I long to be off again,
though only to the prim retirement of Ealing. I shall
look forward to your visit even more pleasantly than
you kindly say you do. It will be something to think
of during the winter, which I expect I shall spend dolefully enough.... I can't get on with my work just
now, after having been packed up and made uncomfortable by my domestic tyrant, Jane, and miss my.
Maggie mightily; so that I am extremely useless and
good for nothing, and a little friendly abuse would do
me good. Many thanks for your former letter. You
are very right about the blessing of a spirit that rebounds. What should I do else? with all my toils and
necessities.
"You have all spoiled me for stupid society, do you
know? I had an experiment the other day, being obliged
to visit some people in Greenock, and the fatigued condition in which I came home is something indescribable.
How am I to endure Ealing? I begin to be appalled
when I think of it. In ordinary circumstances I am




LETTERS.


[i86r.'


stupid enough for anything in my own person, but your
exhilarating and stimulating society makes dulness dreadful. I feel a premonition of the forlorn sensations that
will steal over me, of the fond thoughts which will revert
even to Fettes Row. Ah me! Why are you all so bright
and all the London side of the question so stupid? When
I get into my doll's house I hope your thoughts will
dwell upon me sympathetically sometimes. It will be
hard enough, even without any considerations of society,
settling down among the familiar things under circumstances so different. Just now, as for the last two years,
always moving about and changing from one place to
another, everything has seemed exceptional.  I shall
seem to be setting out anew upon the dread reality when
I get settled. However, I must comfort myself with the
economies which you don't believe in.
To Mr Blackwood.
I am very sorry to hear of your accident, which certainly, however, must have been a trick of Apollo-isn't
he the patron of your trade?-in the interests of literature.
I will give your message to Mr Story, who is at present
suffering all those qualms of fear and hope and suspense
common to literary aspirants, and regarding you, I suppose, as I remember doing, as a mysterious fate whose
decisions are as absolute as they are inscrutable. The
pangs you inflict upon poor authors ought to overshadow
your dreams; only I fear our sighs and sorrows awake
but little emotion in the flinty editorial bosom.
To Miss Blackwood.                  EALING, OctoberII.
I like biography. I have a great mind to set up that as
my future trade and tout for orders. Do you know anybody that wants his or her life taken? Don't fail to
recommend me if you do. In the meantime, however,
Mr Blackett is printing another novel of mine written in
Edinburgh last winter--should you care for a copy?
And speaking of novels, tell me if you like the 'Doctor's




1861.]


FRENCH NOTIONS OF COPYRIGHT.


177


Family.' I thought it rather a failure myself, to start
with, till your brother's approbation raised it in my
opinion.'
We have shaken down on the whole very comfortably
into the new nutshell. J. M. is a great help and comfort
to me, and if not brilliant, an exceedingly sweet good girl,
much more lovable than those dreadful clever people
whom you and I equally appreciate. Maggie, I think, is
going to school.
Sunday Evening.
Though it is again Sunday evening I don't write in the
perfect state of quietness which the words suggest. My
circumstances are as follows: Tiddy is seated behind me,
or rather on the arm of the easy-chair which I occupy,
and is driving it for a cab, so if you see any sudden jerks
in this letter you will know the cause.    The table is
heaped with picture-books, and Maggie, rather sentimental with a bad cold, is reading      Mrs Jameson's
Legends of the Saints, so there you have a peep of our
interior. Good J. is at church, under the guardianship of
my able-bodied factotum, and I am taking my moment
of leisure to write to you.
Thank you very much for your letter. Why don't you
tell me the plans you have in your mind for the termination of my story?  It will not be finished till the January
number. Now that you have read a little more of it, you
will see that I want to represent one of my women as a
fool, which character, I think, wants elucidating, and has
not received its due weight in the world of fiction. As for
your question about whether I think a woman sure to dislike one of her own sex who comes out when she cannot,
I answer most decidedly no. There are many women
who, obliged to be inactive themselves, follow the labours
1 Many years later the family at Windsor were greatly amused by the discovery in the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' of "The Doctor's Family," not
exactly translated, but "rendered " (without any notice of its origin) by the not
very appropriate method of making the doctor tell his own story. Those who
remember Dr Rider will understand that it was really funny.
M




178


LETTERS.


[i861,


of other women with such generous sympathy and admiration as makes me feel very small when I think of it. To
be perfectly candid, I don't think I could do it, otherwise
than very imperfectly, myself. I imagine I should find it
very hard to play second for any length of time, or in the
estimation of anybody I much cared for; but I do believe
there are many women who can do that most magnanimous of acts, and I honour them accordingly.   But
recollect my secondary character in the present instance
is a fool. I am charmed to have your criticism. Without
being sentimental in the least on this subject, I have
nobody belonging to me now to do me that good office,
and you could not possibly do me a greater kindness than
by pulling me up whenever you dislike my work and
giving me the benefit of your freest criticism. I mean
every word of what I say. Sometimes I find it totally
impossible to form any opinion of what I have done, and
send it off in hopeless perplexity, not knowing whether it
is.good or bad; so speak out, I beg of you, Isabella mia,
and be quite sure that you will always do me a service by
so doing. You shall have an early copy of the new novel,
which I know you will cut to pieces. I have tried my
hand in it at a wicked woman, and the reason why, as you
say, I give softness to men rather than to women, is
simply because the men of a woman's writing are always
shadowy individuals, and it is only members of our own
sex that we can fully bring out, bad and good. Even
George Eliot is feeble in her men, and I recognise the
disadvantage under which we all work in this respect.
Sometimes we don't know sufficiently to make the outline
sharp and clear; sometimes we know well enough, but
/   dare not betray our knowledge one way or other: the
result is that the men in a woman's book are always
washed in, in secondary colours. The same want of
anatomical knowledge and precision must, I imagine, preclude a woman from ever being a great painter; and if
one does make the necessary study, one loses more than
one gains. Here is a scientific lecture for you! Did not




1861.]


CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD.


I79


you call me a blue-stocking, and am I not proving my,
title to be called so?
To Mr Blackwood.                      November 4, 186x.
I send you with this the third part of the 'Doctor's
Family.' One number more will conclude it. But I
should like to go on with a succession of others under the
main title of ' Chronicles of Carlingford,' if it so pleases
you.... My cares, as you can easily understand,
came up by express before me, and were waiting my
arrival. However, they were not such as appalled me,
only the certainty of having a little reserve on which I
could draw would be a comfort. If you will think this
over and let me know I shall be very glad. I should continue to send you the said stories part by part only; for I
think it seems to succeed better that what is read bit by
bit should be written in the same way. One looks more
carefully to one's points, and by dint of requiring to keep
up one's own interest, has a better chance of keeping up
one's reader's. Your approbation lately has given me
great encouragement: a person in my position feels afraid
to say much on the subject of her own cares and prospects, lest it should look like an appeal for sympathy; but
at the same time it was cheerless work last winter, when
necessity and failure came in such forlorn conjunction.
Notwithstanding, fortunately, I could not help being
hopeful if I tried; and indeed I suppose the over-exuberance of that quality must have wanted all the heavy
weight I have had to keep me steady. However, this has
nothing to do with the matter in hand.... I should like
to send you perhaps three more stories of equal length
with the ' Doctor's Family,' and fill up with shorter ones
if you approve.
I enclose proof of ' Pugin.' Just one word in reference
to your note about his being sent to Bedlam. He was
actually sent, as pauper lunatics are, by what extraordinary chance or device of Satan nobody knows. Ferrey in




118o


LETTERS.


[1861.


the Life admits without apparently being in the least able
to explain the fact; and all the little world which knew
Pugin is entirely aware of it. He was removed only when
a commotion was made about it in the papers, and Lord
John Russell wrote to the 'Times ' offering [tlo to a subscription in his favour, and nobody has ever attempted to
explain the mystery.
May I get Ruskin's late volumes of ' Modern Painters'
from Mr Langford? I have got the ' Life of Turner,' but
I believe the last of these volumes is much occupied with
that strange, shabby divinity. I suppose it does not much
matter in choosing a god what sort of creature it is you
choose, as persistent worship seems always to gain a
certain amount of credit for the object of it.
I heard something about your friend George Eliot the
other day from my friend Mrs Carlyle (wife of that great
Tom whom you have set your heart so entirely against).
Her opinion, I am sure, will amuse you. She says " Mrs
Lewes " has mistaken her r6le-that nature intended her
/    to be the properest of women, and that her present equivocal position is the most extraordinary blunder and contradiction possible.
I am rather anxious at present about my youngest little
boy, who has hurt the bone of his arm by a fall, and is
quite crippled by it.
To Miss Blackwood.                          EALING.
When I say I shall be glad to have you, and will enjoy
your coming, I mean the words not to their scantiest but
to their fullest extent, which is the utmost demonstration
of attachment that my constitution permits me to make.
The doll's house is as follows: A little hall from which
open two little rooms, one on either side, two windows in
each: one, the drawing-room, with a little balcony opening into the garden; the other looking across another little
bit of garden into the road; both very bright and nice,
capable of entertaining some half-dozen very select and
congenial convives. Up-stairs two rooms exactly the same




861.]                  EALING.                    18I
size, and very good size, considering the locality, for bedrooms. Up above these, very tolerable attics; and a
nursery on the basement floor, already plastered all over
with pictures, and inhabited by a rocking-horse, a world
of broken toys, and the three chicks, monarchs of all they
survey. The garden is a long, narrow strip of ground,
but things grow in it notwithstanding- strawberries,
currants, &c., a hope of peaches, and in the foreground
undeniable roses. On the whole, I am quite pleased with
the tiny place, which seems entirely adapted to my condition and estate.




182


LETTERS.


D1862.


1862.
To tite Rev. R. H. Story.
Thank you for giving me something to talk to you
about this Sunday evening, which is of all times the one
I like best for letter-writing.  I was extremely glad to
get your MS.... I have of course some small criticisms
to make, but none of importance.... Is it quite necessary to mention distinctly Maurice and F. W. Robertson
as leaders of the " Advance of Christian Thought"? We
have all a prejudiced unreasonable world to deal with,
and you may possibly have enough to do to answer for
your own thoughts without taking the burden of other
people's. This is mere female cowardice, you understand,
and you will take it for what it is worth. To rush into
premature collision with prejudice and the old world is
not any way desirable. Pardon me! I am aware I am
speaking dreadful poltroonery, not to speak of the outrageous presumption of counselling on such a subject my
spiritual guide of recent days; but notwithstanding that
inferior feminine and lay position, I am, you must admit,
your senior by some of the hardest years of life, and I so
entirely wish you the best and brightest of fortunes that
you will forgive me whether you relish my advice or not.
I have done nothing more to Irving, but have been busy
upon the ' Doctor's Family,' the end of the stupid story
in Mrs Hall's magazine, and a paper on Pugin, the architect. That is all I have accomplished since I came here:
very poor work, but interrupted by perpetual consultations about carpets, chintzes, bookcases, &c., and how to
put the doll's house becomingly tidy. It does not look so
bad now it is done, but, oh me! the society! Fancy a
man calling those two wonderful angels of the San Sisto
Madonna cupids! I did not faint-a fact which ought to
be recorded to the honour of female nerves and fortitude.




l862.]


A BUOYANT MIND..i83


To Miss Blackwood.
I was plunged into dismay by your last letter. What
kind of a dissipated life yoa mean to lead me into with
your " charming little luncheon" in Jermyn Street and
journeys to Brighton is more than I can make out.
What is to become of my small family if you demoralise
their mother? Since J. left I have got more entire possession of my chicks, and they are not at all bad company. Maggie is improving, and makes a nice little
companion, and on the whole I find life very endurable
in their society... I don't yet know exactly when the.book of the season, as you so flatteringly call it, is to be
out; but I have been half killed with proofs, and am just
about finishing. I don't expect you to like it. However,
there is no use anticipating evil.  I do believe I have
done my best, and the issue will most likely be more
critical and important to me and my bairnies than anything I have ever done. For their sakes I regard with a
little awe and trembling this new step into the world.
When by any chance I look gravely forward, which
happily for me is a thing my temperament does not much
oblige me to, the prospect sometimes appals me more
than is quite consistent with all these absurd letters,
laughters, &c. But I don't suppose I could have existed,
much less made progress, but for the buoyancy with
wbich I have been mercifully endowed beforehand. But
in every way this Irving publication is an important one
for me. I am obliged to write in haste, and as Checchino
is with me and hammering with all his might, I trust you
will put down any little incoherencies in this epistle to
his small score.
The weather already begins to brighten delightfully;
and I have made my own room, which is very sunny and
cheerful, my study. I begin to like this little place: it is
intensely tame, of course, but has a kind of village aspect
and a wealth of those green lanes which do not seem
practicable out of England, when one has any time to
walk.... What preposterous thing do you imagine I




184


LETTERS.


[1862.


am doing in the midst of my serious labours? Writing a
little drawing-room play, founded upon a most ludicrous
real incident, and called "The Three Miss Smiths."
Thank you very much for liking the Pugin paper. I
am not badly pleased with it myself. I begin to think
biography is my forte! It is very pleasant work, at least.... I am just about to launch into the life of Turner the
painter-old beast-in which I hope I shall give you equal
satisfaction.... I have just finished the 'Doctor's
Family,' and don't at all like the termination. Sometimes one's fancies will not do what one requires of
them, and when that happens it is excessively disheartening and unpleasant.
A very affectionate young lady friend is distressing. I
get alarmed when I throw myself back in my chair and
take a moment's rest, lest I should have sudden arms
thrown round me, and be kissed and embraced without
any warning. All very well, you know, when there is any
occasion, but to have a caress always impending over
you is highly alarming and not comfortable.
I have been in the most dreadful pressure of work
finishing my Irving book, and now I am snowed up with
proofs. I must say in confidence that I should be much
disappointed if this book does not make some little commotion. There never was such a hero-such a princely,
magnanimous, simple heart.
To the Rev. R. H. Story.
After Irving is well out of hands I mean (but this in
the profoundest confidence) to disclose the tribulations of
a historian in search of information to the sympathetic
world.... I fear I don't follow you in your benevolent
aspirations for the benefit of his Satanic Majesty. I
don't see my way to the reformation of a vast intellectual
impersonation of wickedness. So far as we have any
light upon the character of that great spirit, it is all mind
and no heart; and how can you convert an intellect?
Perhaps that after-act of the great drama is reserved for




x862.]


A COMPLIMENT REPUDIATED.


185


another dispensation, but I confess that to me the
annihilation of evil is a mystery still greater than its
origin. The idea of puzzling one's female brains over v
anything of the kind! That is luckily your business, my
dear young friend, and not mine: mine is to tell mild
stories of which the superior intelligence is indulgently
critical, and which have some attractions for minds only
partially accessible to reason.
To Miss Blackwood.
Now about your literary questions, scoffer! Know
that I read everything (except the politics,-I am a
Radical, you know) which has the honour of appearing
in 'Maga.' And I like some of David Wingate's poems
very much, other some I don't particularly care for;
"My Little Wife" is delightful.... The previous portion of this note up to the above mark was written at
two o'clock A.M. this Sunday morning, at which period
it was interrupted by the sudden waking up and vigorous
summons of my Cecchino, who shares my room with me.
He is getting the funniest little passionate fellow imaginable-but this by way of parenthesis. I am rather
curious to know whether Mr John will do me that
friendly office which he has done to almost all his contributors except myself, I mean get me a review. I shall
enjoy a little leisure when you come.
To Mr Blackwood.
Much exhilarated by your favourable judgment. I had
almost written you yesterday a note at which you would
have laughed, being a protestation called forth by an
article in the 'Saturday Review.' That discriminating
critic, as you will most likely have seen, announces that
the' Chronicles of Carlingford' can be written by nobody  /
but George Eliot-a high compliment to me, no doubt;
but women, you know, according to the best authorities,
never admire each other, and I mean to protest that the
faintest idea of imitating or attempting to rival the author




186


LETTERS.


of 'Adam Bede" never entered my mind. I hope you
don't think so. This protest is made for my private
satisfaction, and because I should not like you to think
me guilty of imitation or of any intention that way.
Critics as a race are donkeys, and may say what they
please.
I must say I think the 'Woman in White' a marvel of
workmanship. I found it bear a second reading very
well, and indeed it was havingait thrown in my way for a
second time which attracted so strongly my technical
admiration.... Dickens is not a favourite of mine; I
think it would go against the grain to applaud him highly
in his present phase.' I had the pleasure of dining at Mr
Warren's the other day in humble attendance upon your
sister. He came out famously, showed me the manuscript of ' Ten Thousand a-Year,' and was as amusing
as possible. Such simple-minded and effusive vanity is
charming at first sight. We are going to look up old
David Roberts, whom I know a little, after Miss Blackwood returns from Brighton.
From Mrs Carlyle to Mrs Oliphant.
5 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA.
DARLING WOMAN,-Already the Exhibition has borne
me the fruit of one Scotch cousin, who will be coming
and going all this week, and I have other things laid on
my arms, like the baby in the omnibus! And on the
whole I fear I must put off my visit to you till the week
following. But if you will name any day of that, I shall
take care that no pigs run through it, D. V.
I do long to see you to tell you, not what I think of
your book but what Mr C. thinks, which is much more to
the purpose! I never heard him praise a woman's book,
hardly any man's, as cordially as he praises this of yours!
You are " worth whole cartloads of Mulochs, and Brontes,
and THINGS of that sort."  "You are full of geniality
and genius even"! "Nothing has so taken him by the
1 After the publication of 'Great Expectations.'




1862.]


CARLYLE ON MRS OLIPHANT.


187


heart for years as this biography"!   You are really
"a fine, clear, loyal, sympathetic female being." The
only fault he finds in you is a certain dimness about
dates and arrangements of time!-in short, I never heard
so much praise out of his head at one rush! and I
am so glad!
For me, I am not in a state to express an opinion yet,
having read only here a little and there a little, in whichever volume Mr C. was not occupied with, and admit " a
pressure of things "!-all the worse for being trivial
things. But to-morrow I shall begin at the beginning.
Mr C. got to the end last night, and the last part was the
best of all, he says; and that he is "very glad-very
glad indeed that such a biography of Edward Irving exists."  Now tell me a day next week, if you are to be at
home and leisure, and believe that I love you very much,
and try to love me a little.      J. W. CARLYLE.
To Mr Blackwood.                            EALtNG.
MY DEAR MR BLACKWOOD,-I am perfectly charmed
to hear that you continue to like 'Salem.' I am afraid
the machinery I have set in motion is rather extensive
for the short limits I had intended. The second part
should have reached you before now but for my baby's
illness, but I hope the little fellow is mending, and that
I shall be able to send it off in a day or two....
I am delighted with your approbation.  I mean to
make what one of the poor London painters despised by
the Academy calls an 'it if I can with this story. Did
you go to Osborne? The Prince Consort paper is beautifully got up, and a credit to us all who have the honour
of being included under the mantle of 'Maga.' I am
proud of having my own verses appended to anything so
graceful and fine.1
I am   the most mild and placable of women and
authors, but at the same time your report of Lewes's
criticism on my paper strikes me, now I think of it, as
1 "The Nation's Prayer," ' Maga,' January 1862.




188


LETTERS.


[r862.


mighty impertinent. I don't take offence, but I think
I have as much right to the due consideration of my
standing and age in literature as if I were asserting myself in society, or even had done something equivocal
to pique the curiosity of the world.  I have never taken
much credit to myself nor cared overmuch for it, but I
know I have done as much honest work in my day as
most people of my years; and patronising approbation
of the kind you told me of does not quite suit me.
I am, as you may imagine, delighted with your letter
and verdict upon ' Salem.' After all you have kindly
said on the subject I get so nervous, and am haunted
with such a conviction that this luck is much too good to
last, that I bewilder myself and fall into panics over
every chapter. I suspect some kind fairy has thrown
glamour in your eyes.
I have just been expressing my congratulations to Mr
William.  I hope to do so, if I live so long, on the still
more auspicious occasion when the " little Editor," who,
I have a conviction, was specially born for the Magazine,
takes up the old ensign, till which time all glory and
prosperity to the flag which has braved for how many?
years the battle and the breeze.  I hope by that time I
shall have a cadet too, able to do better work than His
mother.1
I spent last evening with Thomas Carlyle, whom I am
sorry you don't like, but whom I do like heartily and
more than ever. He has added to all his great qualities
a crowning touch of genius-he likes my book! and has
spoken of it in terms so entirely gratifying that for the
space of a night and day I was uplifted, and lost my
head. He was at home and alone, with his clever and
original wife, and I never was more delighted with any
man. I am ready henceforth to stand up for all those
peculiarities which other people think defects, and to do
battle for him whenever I hear him assailed.
1 The "little Editor" died in M88.  Cyril Oliphant died in I890.




1862.]


A HARD FIGHT.


189


You have given me too much money for my little
paper. I am very glad it pleases you, but you have been
too liberal, and I feel uncomfortable with overpay.
How delightful are Sir Edward's [Lytton's] Essays.
One seems to see his own special creation, the accomplished man of the world, not entirely worldly, a quintessence of social wisdom and experience, sweetened by
imagination. I don't know whether he is actually such a
man himself. I suspect not by a long way so good as
Alban Morley and the others, of whom the Essays seem
to me a kind of embodiment over again.
To Mr William Blackwood.
Let me congratulate you on the pleasant news Mr John
sends me, that you have become one of the actual pillars
of the house. I trust it may go on prospering to the
highest height of the good wishes of "our connection,"
which I am sure have no bounds but possibility, and that
the young generation may be as kind, genial, and strong
as their predecessors -like a woman I put the softer
qualities first.
To Mr Blackwood.                        December 12.
The only possible objection I can have to make to your
proposal about ' Salem' is that it is too favourable to me.
I have, however, to ask you, if it is not disagreeable to
you, to divide the five hundred pounds which you are
going to pay me into two halves, to let me have one of
the said halves at Christmas-that is, now-and to make
the payment of the other contingent on the success of
' Salem.' I have had rather a hard fight, and without
having the faculty of economics much in me, which of
course makes it all the harder and diminishes any little
complacency one might have in one's work. I cannot thank
you for the way in which you have stood by me through
my troubles. But for that I must have given in at
sundry times when the sky was darkest; but that debt is
one which I am glad to bear and proud to acknowledge.




190


LETTERS.


[1i8630


1863.
To Mr Blackwood.
I am very glad you like "David Elginbrod," and my
anxiety to get the article admission I may explain by
telling you that it was at my urgent recommendation
(having read the MS. and made such humble suggestions
towards its improvement as my knowledge of the literary
susceptibility made possible) that Mr Blackett published
it; and that the author is not only a man of genius but a
man burdened with ever so many children, and, what is
perhaps worse, a troublesome conscientiousness; so please,
if you are persuadable, let me have my way this time, and
I will assault or congratulate, haul down or set up, anybody your honour pleases hereafter.
I asked Mr Langford to get me ' Savonarola,' which he
did. I can't see any objection in respect to George Eliot,
for what I do would, of course, only be a biographical
sketch and no way interfere with her; but the idea had
never occurred to me. I don't think there's anything in
it; for he is by no means the hero or leading character in
her book, and indeed so far has only been brought in as
the inevitable priest in a medieval novel. However, I will
do as you like about that.
I am delighted with Kinglake: has he steered quite
clear of action for libel, or is it not within the bounds of
possibility that you may be defendants in an imperial
plea?  Such a concentration of suave hatred, malice,
and uncharitableness surely never was. The narrative
is perfectly delightful. It reminds me more of the oral
narrative of a perfect speaker, perfectly master of his
subject, than anything I ever saw in print.
1 'The Crimean War.'




1863.]1 CAPTAIN SPEKE'S. LITERARY DIFFICULTIES.   191
ST ANDREWS,
Tuesday Mforning, j-ast I o'cock.
I see nothing possible to be done with this terrible
muddle of your unspeakable Captain [Speke] but to rewrite it. I send you enclosed a small specimen. If this
sort of thing will do, it would be better for him (if he will)
to bring me the MS. and to give me oral elucidations page
by page, and I will put it in shape accordingly. As for
the improper bits, you two must do them up yourselves,
and I will undertake that the rest shall be articulate.
Between ourselves, the corrections are worse than the
text; and this is the only way that I see any possibility
of making it presentable.  If he does not mind being
translated, and you approve, and the gallant Captain
remains at hand to explain and describe, I daresay I
could get through quantities of it while I am here, without injury to the "Perpetual Curate,.' who is the sharer
of my inmost thoughts. But I don't see what can be
done otherwise. Perhaps you will let me know what you
think.
i8th May.
I am very much comforted and exhilarated by your
favourable opinion of his Reverence. He is a favourite of
mine, and I mean to bestow the very greatest care upon
him; but I think, if it suits you, I should rather like the
first part to appear next month. Though I am not sure
that I approve of it in theory, it seems to suit me in
practice, and the publication and the talk stimulates and
'keeps me up. Very likely this is because I have nobody
at home nowadays to talk it over with; but I think it is
for the advantage of the work to be written just as it is
published; and I see my way, and am not afraid that you
~will tread too closely upon my heels. I think I have
materials in my hands for a little exhibition of all the
three parties in the Church. I mean my curate's brother
to go over to Rome, and we will not be neglectful of the
'claims of Exeter Hall. As to his own position, a per.
petual curacy is independent, but it is because Mr Went



r92


LETTERS.


[1863.


worth is working in the parish with which he has nothing
to do, and which it is in reality high treason for any one,
even the bishop, to interfere with, that he comes under
the rector's displeasure.  So good an Anglican would
never have taken such a step but for the sanction of the
late rector, which I think may be held to justify Mr
Wentworth for carrying on his work until he is absolutely interdicted by the new incumbent.
It is rather hard to be interdicted from other work-you
must let me do a little now and then, for the disease has
got to be chronic with me, and I must work or die; not
to speak of the daily--nay, hourly-necessity of bread and
butter, and the determined disinclination of my small
steeds to wait till the grass grows. I wish they would
with all my heart: it would simplify matters greatly.
In the autumn of this year, 1863, Mrs Oliphant went
with her two friends, Mrs Tulloch and Mrs Macpherson,
to Rome. The earlier part of the winter there must have
been very cheerful. Mrs Tulloch had taken with her the
two eldest of her daughters, girls a little older than
Maggie Oliphant, while Mrs Oliphant had her three
children, all well and bright. The two mothers shared
a house, as Mrs Oliphant has told us in her Autobiography; and it was there that the eleven-years-old
girl-her mother's one daughter and most beloved little
companion-was suddenly struck down.      After only a
very few days of illness she was laid beside her father in
the English cemetery.
No wonder that at this time there is a gap in the long
series of Mrs Oliphant's correspondence. She probably
wrote no letters that could possibly be avoided, until in
the spring of 1864 she had removed with her little boys,
and the two girls, who had been her child's beloved
companions, to Capri.




1864.]


THE VOICE OF GRIEF.


193


1864.
To Miss Blackwood.       HOTEL QUISISANA, CAPRI, May I5.. It is not because I am careless or don't appreciate
your kindness in writing to me that I have been so slow
to answer your letters.  There are some exercises of
patience and self-denial that are possible, and some that
are beyond my powers.    I have managed to regain
possession of myself in the presence of other people, and
no longer obtrude my sorrows on the strangers I meet;
but when I am by myself and begin to write I am no
longer capable of keeping on the veil. When my mind
is full of one subject I cannot keep from expressing it,
and I know that the monotonous voice of grief grows
soon tiresome even to one's dearest friends.  We have
been here about six weeks, and I am better than I was;
if not more resigned as people say, at least more accustomed to the impossible life to which God has seen fit,
He alone knows for What mysterious reason, to ordain
me. The very possibility of becoming accustomed to it
is one of its bitterest aggravations.  One feels as if,
having survived such a blow, one could survive anything
and everything, and that the worthless life would still
hold out although all that madie it worth having was
withdrawn. I sicken at it every morning when it comes
back, but nevertheless I go on with how much more
trembling and how much less hope, not to speak of the
sharp pangs of present grief, I cannot describe to you.
You will understand by this why I hated to write letters,
for whatever I start from I come back unawares to the
same point.
Though I am reluctant to form any plans, I don't think
I will leave the Continent till after next winter. We are
going to Switzerland now, and afterwards may perhaps
stay in Paris; but that I make no arrangement about as
N




194


LETTERS.


[1864.


yet. This island is very lovely, very quiet, and has a
softening influence which I am very glad to feel. It lies
just at the entrance of the bay, looking towards Vesuvius,
and the white line of towns which mark the coast, Naples
being the centre; on the one side the noble hills above
Sorrento, and the point which rounds off into the Bay of
Salerno; on the other the line of islands drawn out seaward and terminating in Ischia, which forms the other
arm of the Bay of Naples. I don't suppose there is anything more lovely on earth; and we have it in all lights
always varying. When we came the mountains were
covered with snow; now they have dressed themselves in
inexpressible colours, with the soft foreground of olives
and young vines that belong to Capri itself, and a sea
which is always blue, of a blueness which does not seem
to be adequately described by the mere name of the
colour. I doubt if you would care for Capri, however,
for there is not a carriage of any description on the island,
and you must either walk or ride. We go everywhere on
ponies, and have got to feel at home in the place.
To Mr Blackwood.                   ioS CHAMPS ELYSAES.
I have meant to write ever sihce I got your last letter
to say that I could not send you any miscellaneous paper
this month-at least, in case you expected to hear from
me-as I am busy with a book which has been for a long
time, so long that I am ashamed of my delay, promised to
my kind and excellent friend Mr Blackett.1
Thank you for sending me the' Times' with the review.
It is very gracious and good, and its praise of my freshness after twenty years' work went to my heart, though
the date is slightly extended. I don't know whether I
am alone in thinking so, or if the opinion is general, but
it seems to me that the writing of the ' Times' just now
is wonderfully bad. Not having seen it for a long time,
it came upon me with something of the force of a sur'
prise. There was in the same paper which reviewed the
1 'Agnes.'




1.864.].        A 'TIIES' CRITIQUE.            195..
"Perpetual" another critique of Lady Strangford's book,
which, I think, was as vulgar and stupid a piece of writing as I remember to have seen.
CHAMPS ELYSg.ES, December '64.
I cannot say much of myself, except that I keep on
living' and working without having much interest in
either; but my little boys are well, which is the summit
of all blessing. I don't know what a poor soul such as I
am can say to you, to whom I am bound by so many:
years of kindness and good offices, at this season of good
wishes, except that I wish you everything that is prosperous and happy, and that God may bless your house and
keep your children safe.




1:96:


LETTERS.


[1865.


1865.
To Mrs Tulloch.               CHAMPS ELYSfES, J.7a. 22.
MY DEAREST PADRONA,-Many happy years to you,
my dear and sweet sister. Your birthday last year was:
about the last day of my happiness. I had little thought
df ever looking back upon it as the end of the brightest
period of ny life, but it must be that God knows best.
He has given me a painful and troubled passage through
life, but to you the years are still pleasant and full of.
hope, and you know I wish you all that is best and most
blessed in the world. I am not capable of much just at
this time, as you will understand; but perhaps I may
have more courage after this week is over. I think of
going away to the country for a day or two, to fight it
out by myself. Think of me a little when you say your
prayers. It is hard to go out in the streets, to look out
of the window, and see the other women with their
daughters. God knows it is an unworthy feeling, but it
makes me shrink from going out or facing the world...
As for the little boys, they have got on astonishingly.
I cannot quite support Cecco's own opinion of his proficiency, but he really commences to read French, and
when he picks up an English book spells out the words
after the pronunciation, which Mademoiselle has taught
him in the funniest way.... I have grown an old
woman all at once, reluctant to move and impatient of
having my routine disturbed, and the arrival of a visitor
intent upon amusement is a kind of horror.
To Mr Blackwood.
I send you with this the second number of 'Miss
Marjoribanks,' which I hope you will like. I am not
quite sure myself that there is enough progress made,




1865.]


NOT IN THE LEAST A JACOBITE.:197


and I am afraid I am   getting into a habit of overminuteness. Thank you for your letter and the cheque.
I am quite content to leave myself in your hands about
money; indeed I have myself very little idea as yet how
long this story may be: I meant it to be only four or
five numbers, but I have already put in too many details
to make that possible, and it seems to suit my demon
best to let it have its own way. Only on the money
question don't look severe if I should be driven to
making claims upon you after a while. I don't want
anything just now, but there is no telling what one
may come to. My wonder is that all the Parisians are
not hopelessly bankrupt: as far as I am  myself concerned I live like an oyster in its shell, but the very
air is dear, and to breathe is- expensive.  It has not
been so cold as I expected, and the most of the winter
seems over now. Happily the air here seems to agree
very well with my boys, who can bear the cold much
better than the heat, and the little one, Cecco, begins
now and then to get a little hazy in his English, and
finds French come handier.    I was at St Germains
for a few days in the end of last month, and was so
impressed by it that perhaps I may send you a little
paper about it one day or another. I am not in the
least disposed to be a Jacobite, and Dundee and Culloden and Professor Aytoun sort of thing have very
little effect upon me. But there was something wonderfully touching in that long silent terrace and the thought
of all the weary days and miserable hopes and disappointments that must have passed without any recordthat and the other terrace at Frascati where poor Prince
Charlie lies. I was sad enough myself at both places,
and no one, being Scotch, could be unmoved by their
associations.  I got some time ago a most gracious
letter from M. de Montalembert, whom I took courage
to remind that I had brought a letter to him last year.
He writes from La Roche en Bressy with that graceful
French politeness which is 'quite.xcessive and uncalled




"198


LETTERS.


[1865.


-for, and at the same time quite delightful. He is to
be in Paris after March, and is coming to see me.
March 8.
* Don't frighten me, please, about ' Miss Marjoribanks.'
I will do the very best I can to content you, but you
make me nervous when you talk about the first rank
of novelists, &c.: nobody in the world cares whether
I am in the first or sixth. I mean I have no one left
who cares, and the world can do absolutely nothing
for me except giving me a little more money, which,
Heaven knows, I spend easily enough as it is. But all
the same, I will do my best, only please recognise the
difference a little between a man who can take the good
of his reputation, if he has any, and a poor soul who
is concerned about nothing except the most domestic
and limited cohcerns.
The difference in my books is natural enough when
you reflect that the first one was written when I was
twenty, and the others were the work of a troubled
life not much at leisure. It is only to be expected that
one should do a little better when one has come to one's
strength. I remember that once upon a time I refused
to be convinced that 'The Caxtons' was by Bulwer
Lytton. As for your courteous critic's remarks (but it
is incredible that a 'Saturday Reviewer' should write
such a pretty hand), I am quite conscious of the "to
be sures" and the " naturallys," but then a faultless
style is like a faultless person, highly exasperating; and
if one didn't leave these little things to be taken hold
of, perhaps one might fare worse.
April 12.
I am quite delighted with Montalembert. There is
a kind of cream of graciousness and cordiality about
him which smooths one down all over. JI dined there,
much, I confess, to my panic, for I don't feel sufficiently sure of my French to be quite comfortable in
society: however, they were all very kind. Montalem



1865.]

AN AFFECTING ADVERTISEMENT.


199


bert gave me the first half- dozen sheets of his third
volume, which is now going through the press, to let
me see, as he said, what it was like. What do you
think about it? He told me that he didn't think you
would care about having it, and I did all I could to
represent to him that everybody read French nowadays,
and especially everything in French that bore his name;
but he has evidently a hankering after a translation. I
wish you would give me your mind on the subject. Of
course it will be rather a loss of time to me, but still
I would do it if it is to be done. A fropos of French
literature, there is an advertisement of Lamartine in the
papers which goes to one's heart, offering, not even by
a publisher but in his own name, a rabais of so many
francs on the price of his entire works to anybody who
will buy them. Will you let me do a paper on him
and his books that I may feel myself justified in buying
them.? It is only two hundred francs for which he
humbles himself in this distressing way-shouldn't you
like a set for yourself? One feels so ashamed and sad
that at his age he should have to do such a thing. To
be sure, I suppose he has been a prodigal; but then we
are all prodigals more or less-at least I can speak for
myself.
To Mrs Tulloch.                    AVRANCHES, Blay 28.
MY DEAREST PADRONA,-I was very glad to get your
letter and that of Fanny. They were a great pleasure to
me in this cold, raw country, which is not particularly
pretty nor inviting. The situation of the town is very
fine, on a hill; but what is the good of getting up on a
hill only to look at a dead level of green fields and weird,
impoverished trees?  To be sure there is far in the
distance a margin of sea with Mont St Michel, a greyish
rock with a castle and very fine chapel on it stuck in the
middle of a vast extent of sand,,and looking at a distance
not at all unlike a great pie (don't be shocked by the
comparison) set out on a brown uncovered table. It is




200


LETTERS.


[1865.

very curious and interesting all the same, but I believe
Tiddy means to make it the subject of a letter which
Mademoiselle is incubating, and I have other things to
do than to be topographical.  We can get nothing in
the shape of a house, and are staying at the hotel, which
is of very equivocal cleanliness and much more distinctly
nasty than cheap. In the course of next week we will
go on to St Malo again for a few days, where we will be
for half our time surrounded by sea; and then to Dinan
in Brittany, where please address to me...
I am thinking of staying here longer than I first intended, to wait for a great popular fete, or feet, as Jane
calls it, in Brittany, which may do service in the book
Mr Blackett has engaged me, without any great will of
my own, to write.... I got an anxious letter from
my brother Frank the other day, in consequence of his
having heard in a roundabout way that I was in very
poor health; and though it had never occurred to me
before that I was not well enough, it is ridiculous what
an effect even such a little bit of idle talk has on the
subject of it, and how it makes one begin to think
whether perhaps there may be some reason for one's
languors and weariness. If these good people had as
much to do as you and I have, Padrona mia, they would
not have leisure to make so many commentaries upon
others.
You ask when shall we meet? In my own house, I
hope, if I get a 'house at Harrow or elsewhere.  It is
not dislike of St Andrews that would keep me from going
to it-I need not explain what the other reasons are.
You know I love you and all yours, and therefore you
will think no harm of. it, and indeed will anticipate what
I say, that there are comparisons that I cannot bear.
I have to put force upon myself when I go into the
streets, and especially to church, and wonder and ask
myself if it was that God found me unworthy of bringing
up a woman. It was her birthday the day after we came
' here-twelve she would. have been, and how different my




1865.1


ST MALO.


201


life! You must come' and see me, Padrona mia, and let
it be understood that you have a house in England
always happy to receive you whenever you can come.
Tell S. that Mr Ruffini on his last visit presented me
with Leopardi, to my great content-that I might have
a pleasant association with him, said the courtly Dr
Antonio. You will be quite charmed with him.
To Mr Blackwood..      yne x.
I want to consult you about a proposal the ' Good
Words' people have made-me. They ask me to give
them a story, beginning in November, for which they
offer me ~1ooo, leaving the copyright, after it has gone
through their periodical, entirely in my hands. Of course
it is a little tempting, but I will make no answer, either
one way or another, until I hear from you. I don't in
the least know what your feeling may be about it. My
own feeling is that in any and every case the best I can
do and the first is at your service, and if you have any
dislike to seeing the name of your contributor in Dr
Macleod's somewhat ragged regiment, I will not think
of it further....  I have been captivated on my way
to Dinan by the delicious blue-green water and bristling
rocks of St Malo, and have got a little nest on the beach
opposite the town, where I mean to stay till the end of
the month, when there is a great Breton fite not far off
which I want to see.  The water comes in upon the
rocks immediately under the windows, and I crossed to
'St Malo to-day to church through the waves under
heavy sail in a little boat, which you will allow was a
piquant way of performing one's Sunday duties. I am
afraid Tiddy at least was more captivated by the crossing than by the sermon.
To Mrs Tulloch.                     DINARD, 7une 14.
In place of going to Dinan, which is English, we have
settled here on the bay of St Malo in a pleasant village.which struck my fancy. The sea is lovely, and broken by




202


LETTERS.


'[i865.


no end of bristling rocks and fortifications, with clouds of
white-sailed boats floating about perpetually. You know I
have a weakness for seeing my fellow-creatures, or at least
the signs of them. I have got a tiny little house perched
on the very edge of the rocks, so near that when the tide is
full one can imagine oneself in a boat, for the rocks are
steep and go sheer down into the water. It is very tranquil
and sweet, and I think will do us all good, though Cecco
has been for the moment a little upset by the change-not,
however, in his old feverish way. I have got all your
letters sent on from Dinan; they do me no end of good.
I began to get persuaded that I had no such thing as a
friend in the world, that nobody cared for anybody, and
that to expect sympathy or friendship was folly. Your
letter, which is like yourself, heals me again. I think you
must have been intended by Providence to be my better
half and not the Principal's, which is a sentiment he may
laugh at with safety under the circumstances.  Please
tell him with my love that I am taking Strahan's proposal into serious consideration.  It was very kind of
him to be the medium of conveying it, and it is an extremely good proposal, and one I would jump at but
for the idea that it might perhaps hurt me with the
Blackwoods, who are, you know, my great dependence.... You speak of my being alone here, but I am no
more alone here, you know, than it is my lot to be anywhere, and I am not sure that one does not feel one's
loneliness more when settled down at home than when
wandering as I am doing. Here I can cheat myself into
the idea that there are some people who will be glad to
see me when I go back; but then when one has gone
back, and when the old life, as it was and yet so different,
is resumed once for all, it is then that the hardest part
of it comes. That is no reason why one should not go
back and settle to one's duties, which I mean to do if all
is well in a month or two, and accept as best I may my
position as shadow in the landscape. The Blacketts are
looking for a house for me, but as I should not like to




.865.]


THE CARLINGFORD SERIES.


'203


take one definitely without seeing it, I think most likely
in September I will return to London.
To Mr Blackwood.                          yune 23.
I send you with this a paper upon the Italian Leopardi,
which I hope very much you may like. I am so destitute of anybody to speak to here, on literary subjects,
that I cannot feel sure whether my author will impress
you as he does me, or whether I have done him anything
like justice. The paper is very long, I am afraid.
It is hard that a poor woman should have to decide as
well as to work for herself; it is the more difficult business of the two.   How can I possibly tell whether
' Miss Marjoribanks' will be a great success or not? I
am working at her with all my might and power; but you
know yourself that if I happen to have a favourite bit for
which I have a kind of natural weakness, it is always
precisely on that bit that you snub me, so that I am the
worst judge in the world as far as that goes. At the
same time, I never would for an instant dream of giving
Sa story by the author of the Carlingford Series to any
periodical whatever on any terms, unless indeed you
were first to throw me overboard. I have decided to tell,the 'Good Words' people that they may have a novel
by Mrs Oliphant or the author of 'Margaret Maitland'
if they wish it. The other I should never have thought
of under any circumstances.
I am sure your week at Ascot must have been very
pleasant. I told a coachman I had in Normandy of the
victory of the French horse at the Derby, and the grin of
intense satisfaction that came over his face was something beautiful to behold.
To Mrs Tulloch.           ST ADRESSE, HAVRE, September I.
I suppose you are all still enjoying your woodland
walks and mountain rides, while I am lingering out here
the end of my wanderings. I should be half disposed to
envy you being where you are if I had not occasion to




'204


LETTERS.


[IS65.


envy you so many other things that it is not worth while
beginning with that. There is nothing attractive here to
speak of except the sea, which is in a rage half its time,
and knocks one down with mighty tawny waves, stronger
and more violent than I ever saw anywhere. Tiddy has
learned to swim, and performs very triumphantly when it
is calm-which is not often; and Cecco is full of plans to
attain the same proficiency, but I don't expect he will
succeed this year. I'have promised him that he is to
write his name in this letter to let you see how far he has
got. It is an accomplishment he is very proud of. They
are both very well, thank God, though Cecco has amused
himself by having the chicken-pox. We have got a very
pretty house, which belongs to Queen Christina of Spain,
who lives here in summer. There is a pretty little garden
and a nice view of the sea, and the internal arrangements
are so satisfactory that I should be very glad to take it
up and transplant it bodily to Harrow or Eton. I am
beginning now to turn my thoughts to the latter place.
Houses are not to be had at Harrow, and if I could satisfy
myself that Eton was equally good for the boys, it would
be much more interesting to me than the other. I begin
to weary much to be settled, even though being settled
will make very little difference one way or the other:
indeed I think the sense of being abroad and away is.rather a kind of ease, and permits one to cherish the
delusion that there is something better at home-if one
was but at home,--whereas there is nothing better anywhere, and the only thing one has before one is to learn
to be content.
To Mr Blackwood.                          September 20.
I send you with this the next number of' Miss Marjoribanks.... As for what you say of hardness of tone, I
am afraid it was scarcely to be avoided. I hate myself the
cold-blooded school of novel-writing, in which one works!out a character without the slightest regard to whether it
is good or bad, or whether it touches or revolts one's sym



1865.]


A RAMBLE BY THE SEINE.


20S

pathies. But at the same time I have a weakness for,
Lucilla, and to bring a sudden change upon her character
and break her down into tenderness would be like one of
Dickens's maudlin repentances, when he makes Mr Dombey trinquer with Captain Cuttle. Miss M. must be one
and indivisible, and I feel pretty sure that my plan is
right. It is the middle of a story that is always the trying
bit-the two ends can generally take care of themselves.
To Mrs Tulloch.
CARISSIMA PADRONA MIA,-I was very glad to get your
letter. I got it just after returning from a ramble on the
banks of the Seine, with which I have been diversifying a
little my quiet life. The country is nothing particular, but
the lovely Gothic churches everywhere are quite wonderful. In a little bit of an insignificant town or village you
come suddenly, without any warning, upon a grey, glorious, sometimes mouldered, old church of (what Mr Ruskin
would call debased) Flamboyant Gothic, all clad in solemn
stony lace and embroidery, which nobody ever said a word
about or ever heard of, unknown to Murray and unfrequented by tourists. We were three days gone and saw
no end of such, and the lovely ruins of the Abbey of
Jumieges. Do you remember when you were at Ealing
that time when the Principal was so ill, I took a great
fancy for a semi-pedestrian tour on the banks of the Seine
if you would or could have gone? Ah me! If I had but
contented myself with that and not gone to seek sorrow
farther off. This is the last week we shall be here. I
think of leaving on Friday, as Jane and the boxes are
going direct from Havre, and I have still Rouen to take
a glimpse of and to get to Boulogne, where there is a
shorter passage across the Channel. If all is well we
shall probably be in London on Monday the 25th.
To Mr Blackwood.          15 BAYSWATER TERRACE, Sept. 29.
I write simply to tell you that I have got here safe and
sound, and have established myself for a few weeks en




20o6


LETTERS.


[1865.


attendant a more definite settlement. We had on the
whole an agreeable journey across country and finally by
Boulogne here. London looks wonderfully well even after
Paris, and I think can bear the comparison, and I find my
simple-minded Swiss governess, who evidently laboured
under the idea that les Anglais went abroad because they
had no inducement to stay at home, quite overwhelmed
with great astonishment to find that the island is wonderfully habitable on the whole.
I have been in communication with Mr Collins, to whom
I narrated in my innocence that Tiddy had had six
months of Latin, and who takes me up in a note I received
on coming here, chuckling much over my womanish idea
that six months' Latin was a sufficient preparation for
Eton. I had no such idea, of course, but I think it is best
to tell you the joke myself, as naturally you will hear it
some time and have a laugh at my simplicity. I have
made no decision as yet as to my final abode, as Mr
Collins says decidedly Eton instead of Harrow, and a
friend of mine here in whose judgment I have much confidence says with equal decision Harrow instead of Eton.
I find myself a little in the position of the old man with
the ass, being, as you and all my friends know, one of the
most pliant and advisable of women.... It is easy to
laugh, but it is horribly hard work coming back here,
and I am very little disposed in reality to be amused or
amusing. Let me hear from you, please.
The question which Mrs Oliphant had so anxiously
debated as to the respective advantages of Harrow and
Eton was finally settled in favour of the latter; and a
very pretty cheerful little house, No. 6 Clarence Crescent,
Windsor, was taken. Six years -on the whole, very
happy ones-were spent here, and the following twenty,
much checkered, in a larger house close by. This second
house she bought, but during the last year of her life it
was let.




1866.]


AN EVENING WITH CARLYLE.


207:


i866.
To Mrs Tulloch.             15 BAYSWATER TERRACE, W.
MY DEAREST PADRONA,-I have had a copy of 'Agnes'
addressed to you for a week, but have not sent it away.
I hope you will like it, though I feel that it is dull and
long-winded; but then when one is so happy as to have
a pfadrona, one knows that one has an indulgent critic. I
have been in a very bad way, fadrona mia, since ever I
came here. I suppose this translating work, though it is
very hard work, is not engrossing enough; and while I am
writing about S. Columba mechanically, I am going over
and over all the details of those four days that made
such a terrible change in my life. I begin to understand
better the Principal's illness, for now and then my mind
fixes on one point till I get almost to feel as if it was I
who had sacrificed my child. First one thing and then
another, and my thoughts settle on that and go round
and round it till I feel as if my head was going; and then
Ellen Blackett comes to see me with her children, and I
ask myself why God makes such a wonderful difference
between one and another, and the loss and void seem to
grow greater and greater, and life more hard. I feel
thankful now that I did not come to England sooner.
It is bad enough now. Life to me seems to be so very
little worth the pains that I have to take to keep it going.
I can say this to you, dear, to relieve my heart, but of
course at the same time I am going on and making my
arrangements all the same as if I loved it, as one must do.
I have taken a very pretty little house at Windsor: it
is about a mile from Eton, which is a drawback, as the
boys have to be there so early.
I spent an evening last week all alone with Thomas
Carlyle and his wife. She has had a dreadful illness and
looks like a weird shadow, not quite canny, but nothing




20o8


LETTERS.


Cx866.

could be kinder or nicer than both of them. She has to
drive three hours every day, and has got a little brougham
in which she performs that penance, making the best of
it by driving her friends about. As for True Thomas
himself, he expounded the Schleswig-Holstein business to
me from a few hundred years before the beginning of it,
to his wife's intense horror. But notwithstanding this
dull choice of a subject his talk is delightful.
To Miss Blackwood.
SI have had a good deal of trouble to find a house, but
have finally taken one at Windsor from which Tiddy, and
Cecco when he is old enough, can go to Eton. It was
Harrow I was thinking of when I spoke to you of my
plans, but then the place though pretty was very monotonous, and Windsor is so pretty and cheerful that I
have let selfish motives prevail with me a little-especially
as my boys have brains enough to get on, I think, even
amid the hurly-burly of such a great school. The children
are very well, I am glad to say, and Tiddy is full of excitement about the long trousers and tall hats of Eton,
the most frightful boy's dress that ever was invented.
He will have to be at school at half-past seven in the
morning, poor little soul!
To Mrs Tulloch.               WINDSOR, Sunday Evening.
MY DEAREST PADRONA,-I was very glad to get your
little note, which must have been crossed by my still less
one, and Cecco's important communication. Poor little
man, he was so pleased to write. I wonder if you have
the wind howling at your ears as I have? One thing,
however, I am sure of, that you are not sitting by yourself listening to it as I am, which makes it doubly
eerie....
I have got acquainted with one parsonic family-a
family of four, all parsons, two brothers and two sisters,
very nice and most wonderful to behold, up to their necks
in school feasts and soup-kitchens and flannel petticoats,.




1866.1


CARLYLE'S DIGESTION.


209


and, so far as I can see, with no other aspirations in particular-a sight t6 make a Scotch revolutionaty admire
and wonder; but they, except a few ladies who have
called upon me (one of whom asked me if I was fond of
reading!), are all the people I know here, and I have
made up my mind to keep myself to myself and retire
altogether into private life.
Tell the Principal if anything interesting in the way of
the Church controversy comes in his way to send it to me:
I want to try to do a paper on the subject. Mr Story has
just sent me sundry sermons, &c. Let me know about
your movements, carissimt namic, and don't forget I am
looking (and wearying) for you as soon as you can come.
To Rev. Dr Story.                         WINDSOR.
*.. I have had a little visit from Mrs Carlyle, who is
looking very feeble and picturesque, and as amusing as
ever, and naturally has been taking away everybody's
character, or perhaps I ought to say throwing light upon
the domestic relations of the distinguished people of the
period. I was remarking upon the eccentricity of the
said relations, and could not but say that Mr Carlyle
seemed the only virtuous philosopher we had. Upon
which his wife answered, " My dear, if Mr Carlyle's
digestion had been stronger, there is no saying what he
might have been!"
To Mr Blaclcwood.                  WINDsOR, 17114 May... a I was much pleased to see that you were to
publish 'Felix Holt.' One goes away and tries "to
better oneself," and then one returns to one's first love,
which is creditable to one's good sense as well as to
the first love in question.
As for 'Miss Marjoribanks,' I am a little disgusted
with her, and with novels in general-with the latter so
greatly that I have been contemplating an indignant
address to all who are worth their salt in the trade,
praying them to give it up and take to some more honest
0




210


LETTERS.


[i866.


mode of livelihood. Let us take people's lives, or anything that is worth the trouble. I have a great mind
to come down upon the miserable mass of novels that
make one ashamed of one's trade.
Victor Hugo will take a little time. His last book is
very leisurely, and I daresay tedious in one point of view,
but wonderfully fine in most others, and perfectly free of
moral blemish, which is no small matter. The passage
that struck you is grand in its way.
WINDSOR.
Most unreasonable and exacting of editors, what would
you have? Was it not only the other day that you were
abusing me for Lucilla's want of heart, and now, when
the poor soul finds herself guilty of caring for somebody,
you think she has too much! It is the sad fate of gifted
women in general never to be appreciated. For my own
part, I think my poor dear heroine always had a very
good heart, and though it was silly of her to like Tom,
still we never set up for inhuman consistency, neither
Lucilla nor I. The last part shall come on Monday, and
I hope Tom will give you satisfaction, and you will find
that Miss M. has not done so badly for herself after all.
I have got two copies of 'Felix Holt'-the last sent
me by Mr Langford. I suppose as an equivalent for the
six copies of' Miss Marjoribanks,' which f ought to have;
and I fear I have got them on false pretences, for I don't
think I could say anything satisfactory about it. It
leaves an impression on my mind as of" Hamlet" played
by six sets of gravediggers. Of course it will be a successful book, but I think chiefly because 'Adam Bede
and 'Silas Marner' went before it. Now that I have
read it, I have given up the idea of reviewing it.
WINDSOR, 30thi 7une.
I hope you don't think me so utterly stupid as to have
any doubt about the perfection of George Eliot's writing:
I don't suppose she could express herself otherwise than
exquisitely if she were to try, and there are a thousand




1866.]


J. S. MILL.


211


tones of expression which nobody else could have hit
upon, and which give one a positive thrill of pleasure
to read them. All that is pretty well implied in her
name, but I am mightily disappointed in the book all
the same. One feels as if a great contempt had seized
her for the public and her critics (quite legitimate in
some respects, I think), and she had concluded that it
was not worth her while to put forth her strength,-that b
this would please them just as well as if it was twenty
times better. And I think the praise of the 'Saturday
Review' and the 'Times' - evidently both much dissatisfied with the book, and neither daring to say so,
except in the most timid way-proves this conclusively.
Perhaps it is the height of literary triumph to strike
criticism with awe-I think it is, and a very comical
effect.
This year Mrs Oliphant went back to Roseneath, where
she had spent so many happy years with her children.
In the church there she put a memorial window, a tribute
to her little daughter.
THE MANSE, ROSENEATH, August 16.
I send you a little paper I have just finished about Stuart
Mill and his mad notion of the franchise for women. I
daresay there are repetitions in it, but that (if you like it)
I could remedy in proof; and probably you will think it
too respectful to Mr Mill, but I can't for my part find
any satisfaction. in simply jeering at a man who may do
a foolish thing in his life but yet is a great philosopher.
I shall be glad if you like it.




212


LETTERS.


[i867-.


1867.
To Miss Blackwood.                         4th Feb.
MY DEAR ISABELLA,-I think you took me up as
meaning more than I did mean in what I said in my last
letter. I never dreamt for a moment that you did not
sympathise with me in my grief, but there are moods
which are as much a part of grief as sorrow itself, and in
which nobody can or ought to be expected to sympathise, which made me say that I was pitched upon a
different key. The fact is, that people are sometimes in
discord with everything - with common life and the
will of God as well as with the more natural thoughts
and feelings of their friends. I was still in that condition
when I was in Paris, Heaven knows, often enough, and
-especially in the anniversary which has just passedI am so still. It would have been unnatural and impossible, and even wrong, if anybody could have gone
with me into that valley of the shadow of death. And
there are few worse aggravations of grief than just this
sense that one is out of tune and harmony with everything and everybody. Your own experience must show
you what I mean. There was not a shadow of reproach
in it-far from that-but only a sad enough recollection
of the state of my own mind at the time.
Sad as this letter is, and most genuine in its sadness,,
the time when it was written is that of the beginning of
several very happy years. Eton, where Cyril was now
settled, was becoming an immense source of interest.
Numbers of small boys came about the house, and there
was always something going on for them or their elders.
WINDSOR, 25Mk Feb.... You talk of theatricals, and, oddly enough, I am




1867.]


MARIOLATRY.


213 -

Pp to the eyes in preparation for a very mild kind of
theatricals now-charades. I had meant to have a party
of little Etonians before I left home, and to amuse them
with a little performance of this kind; but I had forgotten that Lent was coming on, and as my right-hand
man is a clergyman, I have been obliged to hurry matters
on, and it is to come off next Saturday. I have written a
small skeleton drama for one of the charades, with one
great scene, a trial, which promises to be rather successful. You shall have the reversion of it if you like. The
word is schioolfellow, and there is a quarrel between two
heroes about a pretty girl, and a row, which ends in one
of them being brought to trial. I was in hopes I might
have been able to have had this at the time when Emma
came next month, but that is now impossible...
I shall be rather dissipated this week, as I am going up
to the House of Commons on Thursday evening in hopes
of hearing a debate on the Reform business, unless indeed your friend Disraeli makes too great a mess of it tomorrow for further proceedings.  This sober kind of
dissipation is the only one I have been guilty of since I
came back to Windsor, where we have been living like
hermits. As for my Paris excursion, it will be all work
and very little play, which, after all, is not so delightful
as you seem to think. One gets tired sometimes, and
feels one's courage flag and one's spirits give way.
This letter refers to an article in 'Blackwood' entitled "Elizabeth and Mary."
To Mr Blackwood.                  WINDSOR, x5tk March.
I think it best since receiving your letter to send you
my MS. No. I at once, without waiting for the other. I
hope you will like it-it has given me no end of trouble:
in short, I have felt that I would gladly strangle both the
ladies in question with my own hands, simply to get rid
of them. I wonder how history-writers survive it.  I
trust the admiration which Mary has extorted from me




214


LETTERS.


[1867.


will reconcile me sufficiently with ' Maga's' chivalrous
creed in respect to her.  All the same, I think you are
all doing that wonderful woman the greatest injury by
setting her up as innocent. Mary innocent! You might
as well say at once that she was a fool, which comes to
much about the same thing. It is ticklish work saying so
in public, yet there does seem to be a kind of glorious
human creature that is incomplete without crime-witness
your Davids and Marys The way in which she shakes it
all off her-love, murder, Bothwell, and all,-takes as it
were a bath of tranquillity at Lochleven and comes out
fresh, innocent, and indomitable,-is, I think, one of the
most marvellous things in history,...
We have dreadful weather-snow for three days, and
everything looking miserable. Have you a Correspondent
in Paris for the Exhibition, or do you mean to give me
that post? I shall be going there in the end of this
month-a doleful prospect enough.
P.S.-I have written all this without saying what I
meant to say first of all, that I am much gratified by Mr
Burton's letter. I am very glad that he was pleased with
the paper, and that I succeeded in catching his favourite
meaning, for which, however, as directing me to it,
thanks to you.
To Miss Blackwood.                         March 18.
MY DEAR ISABELLA,-I have not been writing to a
soul for some time past, for I have been ferociously busy,
wearing my very heart out with history, which is worse
than any amount of writing. What is the good of facts?
Don't you hate them?-impertinent intruders that are
always coming in one's way. I have only time for a
word, for I haven't finished 'Brownlows' yet, and your
brother would tear his hair if he saw me spending the
precious moments on letters....
I am very glad you liked my verses: I had, however,
the greatest difficulty in getting your brother to publish




1867.]


THE PARIS EXHIBITION.


215


them. He declared they were unintelligible, and yet you
don't seem to have had any difficulty in entering into the
spirit of them. I was very pleased with your letter about
them, though I was too busy to answer it.
Tids is going on very nicely. I go down to Eton
chapel every Sunday afternoon and bring my small hero
up with me, finding, of course, the chief interest centre in
him; but it is a fine sight, about seven hundred of them
altogether.
I suppose I must start for Paris next week, always
hoping the weather in the meantime will modify itself.
The Exhibition apparently will not be ready for some
time yet, which I shall be very glad of, as things will not
be so horribly dear in that case. I mean, if I can, to get
into a convent for a week or two as a boarder.
To Mr Blackwood.                      PARIS, 3rd May.
MY DEAR MR BLACKWOOD,-I can't do it. I have
been labouring on it at every spare moment for some
time back, and only getting deeper and deeper into the
mud. I am very sorry if it will disappoint you, but the
fact is, I detest Exhibitions. Even the pictures are not
striking, and how, I appeal to your feelings, can one write
about cotton or flannel, or machinery, or manures, as
'Galignani' does to-day? I don't have headaches in a
general way, but I have had half a dozen literary ones
over this wretched place.  Mea culpa.  I beg you ten
thousand pardons. I will send you a paper about French
sermons and religious literature under a very novel development, but spare me the Champs de Mars! If you
would make a vigorous crusade against the wretched
rubbish of exhibitions, then I will with all my heart write
you a paper descriptive of these miseries-shall I?-in
prose or verse, as you will. I feel equal to that. I confess I envy you men your power of swearing at such
prodigious humbug. There is my MS. lying before me,
ever so many sheets, as bad as its subject, mere loss of
time and unutterable weariness, when I might have been




206


LETTERS.


[1867.


getting on with my legitimate work. It would be a kind
of satisfaction to my mind in my present state of feeling
to go down to the Champs de Mars and break a lot of
windows, but I fear that is a gratification impossible to
anything but a boy.
HOTEL ROYAL, BERLIN, I3/It May.... I am much afflicted in my mind about the ' Monks'
-both the proofs and the MS.-but what can a poor
woman do? I can work thirteen hours a-day at home,
but I can't do that abroad upon the world in this way,
cultivating the German clergy and other strange species.
I am willing to go down on my knees to Mr Simpson if
that will do him any good; but I shall be home in the
first week in June, and after that will work double speed.
I am getting on with my notes, but I will be unable to
make any use of them till I get home. The dreadful
responsibility of paying bills and getting railway tickets
in an unknown tongue comes in the way of other mental
work. I begin to think, however, with modest satisfaction, that I must speak better German than the Germans
themselves, for they understand me, but I don't understand them!
PRAGUE, 251h May.... I am here for three-quarters of a day, and am
just going to look for Nina Balatka's bridge, &c.- a
pilgrimage which Mr Trollope (I beg your pardon, I
forgot he was anonymous) should take as a compliment
from a veteran novel-reader like myself...
Did anybody ever go up the Elbe before me, I wonder?
I don't remember any record of its beauties.  It is a
glorious river-worth twenty Rhines, so far as natural
beauty is concerned.
WINDSOR, Aug. 8.... I enclose Mr Martin's letter. One thing the
Queen certainly has the power of doing, and that is,
fascinating anybody-or is it only all the men?-who




1867.]


THEATRICALS.


217


approach her. The Principal sweats by her, and Mr
Martin is evidently sentimental on the subject....
I have been-to make a jump-thinking over my biographical scheme, and I think George the Second's would
be a good period - fresh ground; and there is Queen
Caroline, Duke John of Argyle, Prince Charlie, and
quantities of interesting people,-an age that has not
been touched by any recent historian, except, by the
way, Carlyle in his Frederick, but only very slightly
there. I think I could throw myself into it, and make
a collection of sketches worth paper and print. Tell me
what you think.
The admirable ' Historical Sketches of the Reign of
George II.,' after appearing in ' Maga,' went through
three editions-1869, 1870, and 1875.
To Mrs Tulloch.                            Nov. 26.
PADRONA CARISSIMA,-I daresay you must be thinking
everything that is dreadful of me, but I have been so
harassed and bothered that I have never had a moment
for anything. Our theatricals (an awful business to take
in hand) went off very successfully at last, but took no
end of trouble.... Cecco made his appearance as a
little herald in a tabard with Bluebeard's arms, and was
greatly appreciated by the audience, as was also Mr Tids,
whose health was drunk afterwards...
I am just getting sucked into the vortex of hard work
with my dreadful religious life book, and am up to the
eyes in every kind of historical and religious French
productions I can lay my hands on. When I shall get
through them Heaven only knows. It will be much
more serious work than I had any idea of, and it will not
pay, which is an awful consideration, especially after all
the expense it has already put me to. I expect to have a
very busy winter, and it is a real hindrance to me now
that people have come about me, even such people
as Mrs Macdonald and little Nelly, not to speak of




218                  LETTERS.                 [i867i
Mrs S. My time is constantly liable to be broken in
upon, and I get grumbly and cross and ill-natured. I
wish you would come and be my wife, as is your dutyand behave yourself as such: the Principal might give
me half a quarter of you, but men are such selfish
wretches.
I have been hearing pretty regularly from Rome during
these stirring times; they are all well, though they were
rather frightened at one time. William says in his last
letter that Robert and he had visited the battlefield of
Mentana, and he encloses a bit of a love-letter he picked
up on it, signed "tua, per sempre, amanti, Colomba."
Poor Colomba! I wonder if her Luigi was killed or taken
prisoner, or only ran away.




1868.1


x868.]     A SUBLIME EXAMPLE.,1


219


1868.
To Air ]3lackwzood.                       WINDSOR.
600It is very disheartening that the writers who
talk about all the rubbish that is published should let
the best efforts of one's life fall flat without a word. I
don't understand it, unless it is that under the present
system only those 'Who have connections in the critical
world get any notice. One must bear it, of course, alongr
with one's other burdens. I hope at least that this silence
will not occasion any loss to you.
I have been stimulated by the sight of a printed letter
addressed by Ruskin to his friends, to carry out an idea
of reviewing his late brief productions. Shall I do it?
The letter itself would throw you into fits of laughter.
He is "about to enter on some work which cannot be
well done except without interruption," he says, and
therefore begs his friends "to think of me as if actually
absent from England, and not to be displeased though I
must decline all correspondence" Shouldn't you like to
follow such a splendid example? It is positively subl ime.
I am extremely glad you like the historical papers.
With modesty so do I!. Poor Chesterfield 1-one's heart
aches for the disappointed man.
WINDSOR.
Iwas very sorry not to be able to write to you before
you left town, but I have been quite ill since I got your
letter, and kept in a flutter with the Court ladies who
are. arranging my visit to the Queen. That great event
is to take place this afternoon, the plenipotentiaries on
both sides having settled all the preliminaries. I don't
know whether I feel most like the Queen of Sheba or
the Pig-faced lady!1
ST ANDREWS. Sept. is.
I have at the present moment two families to
support, which is not easy to be done when one has




220


LETTERS.


[1868.


nothing but one's head and hands. The additional and
unexpected burden has made me stagger a little, but I
hope it will come round all right...
The pension of ~1oo granted to Mrs Oliphant at this
time came to her as a most pleasant surprise.  She
speaks of it in the following letter
To Mrs Tulloch.                  WINDsoR, 3rd October... I am so unused to pieces of luck that I find
myself wondering on what principle this is-or is there
no principle (except Him of St Andrews) but only royal
grace and favour involved?  I enclose the necessary
certificate, which looks formal enough for anything. It
is very nice to get a hundred totally unexpected pounds.
I don't think it ever happened to me before. Curiosity,
however, mingles with my rapture. Are pensions of this
kind generally paid in the lump once a-year? It is very
good of the Queen-if she has anything to do with it,
which you will say is a doubt of the profanest kind.
To Principal Tulloch.                    WINDSOR.
MY DEAR PRINCIPAL,-They tell me, or rather Mr
Blackett tells me, that I am indebted to you for xioo
a-year. I was quite taken by surprise by the announcement, though Mr Blackett spoke to me some time since
to know whether I would accept such a thing or not, but
I thought it was a business to be done by him and not by
you. A thousand thanks for your kindness and delicacy,
and the way in which you have done this. The money is
nothing to the kind care and thoughtfulness, which is
worth it a hundred times over. Many thanks. I shall
always consider it is a gift from you-that you have given
me a house, or, as Mr Blackett puts it, three thousand
pounds in the Funds, which is excessively pleasant; but
I am sure you who know me will believe me when I say
that I like your kindness and brotherly thought for me
much more than I care for the 100 pounds.




z869.1


RICHARDSON AND FIELDING.


221


I869.
To Mr Blackwood.                WINDSOR, 3rd February.
I have been and still am extremely busy, so busy
that anything which I possibly can put off I do. I am
working at Richardson now, and will send you the paper
by the end of the week. I suppose I ought to be ashamed
to confess that, tedious as he often is, I feel less difficulty
in getting through him than in reading Fielding, and that
as a matter of taste I actually prefer Lovelace to Tom
Jones! I suppose that is one of the differences between
men and women which even Ladies' Colleges will not set
to rights. Pray don't tell of me; if I betray my sentiments in public they shall be laid upon the heavily burdened shoulders of what Clarissa would call "my sex,"
and your contributor shall sneer at them as in duty
bound.
I have been intending for some time to consult you
about a long-projected book of mine, 'Religious Life on
the Continent,' which Mr Blackett begged me to let him
advertise a long time ago for the benefit of some list he
wanted to make up, with the proviso that I should not be
asked to produce the MS. until my own time. As, however,, he has on the one side become impatient, and I on
the other am resolved that nothing shall make me rattle
together an unsatisfactory book, we have mutually agreed
to break our contract in respect to it. I have, however,
collected such a heap of material and spent so much
money on it that I rather grudge giving up the idea. My
plan was to have devoted one volume to France, giving a
narrative of the singular revival of religion there thirty
years ago, with personal narratives of Lamennais, Lacordaire, and the other notable men concerned, perhaps
including our friend Montalembert, and concluding with
an account of France in its religious aspect at the present




222


LETTERS.


[1869.'


time-an aspect which I rather imagine will be new to a
great many English readers. The second volume was to
be concerned with the " Religious Life of Germany," but
there I confess my ideas had not shaped themselves to
any distinct plan. Now, do you think you would feel
inclined to go in for a work of this kind? or that there is
any chance of making it pay for all the labour that would
be involved? Detached chapters of it, perhaps the whole,
might be interesting enough for the Magazine, but of
course you are the judge as to whether they would be suitable. Don't be afraid of disappointing me by a simple
negative, for I have not wrought myself to the height of
enthusiasm about it, and it would still require a great
deal of work.  I like the subject, however, and have
already done and spent so much that it would be a
kind of waste to do nothing more. I have a couple of
shelves full of books on the subject just over my head,
and painfully apparent as I write, and another heap at
the other side from Rolandi, waiting the leisure I have
never yet had to bestow upon them.    If you thought
the project feasible I should go to Germany for six
months in order to go thoroughly into that half of my
subject.
I have always meant to mention to you what I suppose Mr Trollope must have done, since he wrote to me
through your hands, that I am   to follow him in his
magazine, 'St Paul's,' as soon as his present story is
completed.
"WINDSOR.
I am very glad you liked the paper on Richardson: I
hoped you would. You do not make any reply to my
questions in a previous letter, especially about my Religious Life book.  I presume this means you do not
care to hear anything more of it. But as I am anxious
to make my arrangements well in advance, I should like
if you would let me know distinctly.1
1 This book was never carried beyond the embryo stage.




1869.] 'SKETCHES OF THE REIGN OF GEORGE II.'    223 -WINDSOR.
I enclose proof of 'John,' of which Mr William has
just sent me a reminder, and am working at Froude,
with some difficulty I confess, having so lately said my
say about Mary; and the article will not be a long one,
but I hope to be able to send it off to you on Saturday
(to-morrow), and I trust you will find it do. This is
a long month! We are all in a state of excitement
about Tids, who has gone and won the Prince Consort's
prize for French,1 quite promiscuous, neither himself
nor anybody else having the least idea that he could
possibly succeed, as he is the very youngest of the
competitors, and only went in at the last moment with
ten days to do the preparation in, which all the others
have been busy with for at least half a year. It is his
first appearance as public prizeman, and naturally we
are all somewhat elated.
I don't find that I get on well with my essay on the
period of George the Second. I fear I should only repeat myself, and that my attempt to give a general view
would but come into weak comparison with Macaulay's
famous description of the state of affairs in the end of
the previous century, which indeed in many respects
might stand for any period. As I don't see my way
to doing it well, perhaps I had better not attempt to
do it at all. If you think there is not enough in the
twelve biographies to make up the size of book you
propose for the reprint, I will throw in another, which
will be sufficiently easy to do. I am sorry to have been
negligent in sending back the proof, but I wanted to
keep the Sketches by me while attempting this summary in which I have failed. Will you let me know
whether you would like me to add a thirteenth (unlucky
number), or whether I shall get those I have in hand
ready at once for press? I might take Duke John of
1 The Prince Consort's French prize was won by both the Oliphants. Cyril
was just over twelve at this time.




224


LETTERS.


[1869.


Argyle, and with him a sketch of Scotland of the time
of the Porteous Mob, &c., which I should rather like.
Pray tell me your mind on the subject. As you have
kindly paid me for this paper, I am anxious to do it
one way or another, but I would not send you work
which I feel to be unsatisfactory. I have been pottering
over it for some time, and am immensely dissatisfied
with it and myself. Do tell me also, please, if I am to
ask leave to engrave Queen Caroline. I hope you mean
to have some pictures.
The following letter from Tennyson refers to a
request made by Mrs Oliphant that he would permit
the publication of some stanzas of "In Memoriam,"
very beautifully set as a part song by Mr Bridge, then
organist of Holy Trinity, Windsor, and now Sir F.
Bridge of Westminster.
From Lord Tennyson to Mrs Oliphant.
BLACKDOWN, IHASLEMERE, October i8.
MADAM,-I forwarded your request to Mr Strachan,
because to him - properly belongs the right over my
published poems. What he says of my objection to
having any part of " In Memoriam " published to music
is perfectly correct. Those portions which you have
seen so published have been granted to the solicitations
of friends not to be refused, as this is now granted to
Mr Carlyle's, and would, I have no doubt, have been
granted to your own, had I had the privilege of your
friendship. Pardon my seeming, discourtesy, and believe
me, your faithful servant,          A. TENNYSON.




s870-.]


AN ACCOMPLISHED COURIER.


225


I870.
To Mr Blackwood.                WINDSOR, 2nd February.
You would not care (would you?) to send me as
your own commissioner to report upon the state of Italy?
I am doing a Life of S. Francis of Assisi for Macmillan's
Sunday Library, and I wish some benevolent person
would send me out to Umbria.     I should not mind
taking a situation as courier at ~1oo a -month to a
party of inexperienced tourists. Recommend me, please!
My acquirements are mild French and a little Italian,
and a capacity for getting up any given subject so as
to be able to filter it into the millionaire mind, and I
would not mind dedicating the book to my patron or
patroness! Do find me a place.
WINDSOR.
The 'Edinburgh Review,' in the person of Mr Reeve,
is coming to see me to-morrow. Do you think he will
eat me? I feel very nervous. If you should never hear
anything more of me you will know how to account
for it.
Please tell Mrs Blackwood that I have just finished the
most enchanting little pole-screen, made out of a series of
heavenly little coloured French pictures supplied by our
friend Mr Patch. He is willing to send whole portfolios
of them to be chosen from, and I have no adjectives
superlative enough to describe the dainty little Marquises
and Cherubinos. Please to convey this message in its
integrity, without any fear of being ruined by the consequences-they are so cheap!.
I hope your nephew is better. I am in the doctor's
hands myself, and ordered not to work!!!
WINDSOR.
The question I am going to ask you is not one I had
any idea, of asking you yesterda-y nor will your answer in
P




226


LETTERS.


[1870.


the negative at all disappoint me. Do you care for having a story from me, a full-sized story, during next year?
I have (ca va sans dire) something planned, though not
written as yet, three - volume size. And yesterday an
American publisher called upon me, offering me some
money for the advance sheets of my next serial story.
He offered me the appalling sum of two hundred pounds!
and my head is a little turned with the intense novelty of
the notion; therefore I write to ask you whether you
would be disposed to have my story, and aid me in spoiling the Egyptians. My Yankee friend wants something
beginning in January. Tell me, please, whether you are
disengaged, and if you have room for anything of mine;
but pray don't have any feeling on the subject if your
answer is No, for I shall not be disappointed-except of
the undercurrent of delight of getting some money out of
those transatlantic robbers. My visitor was so flattering
about my popularity in America that I felt mightily disposed to fling a sofa cushion at his head, or else to impound him, and hold him to ransom, which perhaps
would have been the better way.
WINDSOR.
With this I send proofs of both 'John' and the t'other
papers, feeling rather spiteful at myself, and a little at you
in respect to the former. I wanted to cut the half of it
out, and I have not done it, lacking encouragement. And
I am wounded to the depths of my soul by one word in
your criticism-Cuddling 1 Good heavens, that I should
have lived to hear such a word spoken of my heroine!
It is a sign that I should abandon novel-writing and take
to plain sewing, for the rest of my life, I suppose.
I am up to my eyes in the 'Acta Sanctorum' at present, and unless you would like a review of one or two
volumes of that elegant and light work, I don't think I
shall attempt anything further this month.  Tiddy is
going down to St Andrews with the bridegroom in about
ten days. In respect to the war, the said bridegroom is
like you golfers.  I asked him just at the moment of




LAURENCE OLIPHANT.


227


greatest excitement whether there was any news, and he
answered me complacently, Yes, he had got a letter by the
midday post 1 Our interest here, however, has been much
enhanced by the excitement of my friend Mrs Macdonald,
who has gone to France to join her daughter. I had a
great mind to have gone over to Paris with her, and sent
you a paper to pay my expenses withal.
Mrs Macdonald, who was a very near neighbour of Mrs
Oliphant, was the mother of Madame Canrobert, and of
course all the events of the Franco-German war became
more vividly interesting as they affected these two ladies.
WINDSOR, 918th Autgust.
I am very glad you liked the Piccadilly paper. I feel
rather strongly on the subject myself, and consequently (I
suppose) thought it rather bad. I have made most of
the corrections you suggest. Mr Oliphant told me he
had the intention of returning to his original work, and
I rejoiced like you; but what if he should fall into an
ordinary man of the world again, and like to hear his
book praised, and himself applauded like the rest of us?
In that case would you not rather have had him stay
away? It is so difficult to know what is the right way.
It is all very well for Mr Stopford Brooke (his letter is
very good and clear, and I have quoted from it), but I
had rather, for my part, having a high esteem for Mr
Oliphant and great admiration of his powers, that he
went in for any amount of extravagance and enthusiasm
than that he fell back into your banal world, and contented himself like other people. I do not agree with you
in thinking that he has begun to find out the weakness of
his system, and I trust he will not find it out. When he
does it will kill him, either body or soul-or such at least
is my conviction.
This war is too frightful. I cannot say I sympathise
really with either party, but I know much more of the




228


LETTERS.


[187o.


French than of the Germans, and, right or wrong, one's
heart goes with the losing side.
Thanks, very much, for your kind invitation.
WINDSOR, 21st October.
You put me into rather a whimsical puzzle by your
letter.  You say you like my paper, and then object to
almost everything in it. If you remember, my object in
beginning these criticisms was to speak the truth and
shame the newspapers - praising and blaming without
fear or favour. Of course when my opinion is opposed to
yours, it is but right and natural that mine should go to
the wall; but I cannot stultify myself and deny my judgment, you know, with my own hand. I can hold my
tongue, but if I do speak it must be according to my own
judgment. I think the Oliphant 1 book extremely vapid
(by the way, they are not my family in the least; I daresay my forebears were quite as stupid and not half so well
off, but at all events they were totally distinct), and I sympathise most warmly in a great deal that is said in the
'Ginx's Baby' book, and do actually express my own
sentiments in what I say about it. And I admire immensely the " Peasant Life."  What is to be done? I
will strike out as far as my own judgment will permit me,
but I cah't do any more.  Of course the final excision
of it, even of the entire paper, remains always in your
hands.
WINDSOR, 2nd November... I am glad Mr Oliphant is out of town, for I had
been; half disappointed not to hear anything of him. I
have just had a letter this morning from a lady who. is a
medium, and who' invites me to inspect a drawing made
by her under spiritual guidance of my own " crown of glory
in water-colours."  What do you suppose it can be? I
have the Scriptural requisite for a crown of glory in the
shape of grey hair, but you don't suppose she' can have a
hair-wash to recommend? It is very funny.
1 Not Laurence Oliphant.




1871.1


'THE BATTLE OF DORKING.'


229


1871.
To Mr Blackwood.                 WINDSOR, iSt March.
Mr Blackett's sudden death without any arrangement
for the care of his family has impressed me so much that
I am very anxious, to set my affairs in order, and I write
to ask you whether you would kindly consent to be my
executor and a kind of guardian to my boys in case of my
death before they are grown up? I have asked Principal
Tulloch to accept the same charge....Should my death
take place while the boys are still under age I have no
doubt my pension would be continued to them, so that I
think there would be enough properly managed to bring
them up, especially as they both show promise of being
able to help themselves in the way of scholarships, &c.
4t1 April.... I will make any reasonable sacrifice to please
you, but one of the passages you have marked I cannot
see my way to leave out.  It seems to me the very
secret of all Cowper's weakness, and one which it is for
the good of everybody, and especially of religious people,
to have fully indicated; and besides I take pains to say
their Calvinism is not to blame, and that a Jesuit director
would or might do the same as Newton did. So much of
Cowper's life is involved in this, that to take it out would
be to omit the chief explanation of many of its mysteries.
I will try if I can soften it, but even that I doubt.
4t/ May.
If your old contributors had to yield the pas to such
writers only as the author of the 'Battle of Dorking' we
should have little to complain of. It is wonderfully fine
and powerful. Is it Laurence Oliphant? I can't think
of anybody else with such a power of realism and wonder



230


LETTERS.,


[1871.


ful command of the subject. It is vivid as Defoe. I had
it read to me last night, and I have done nothing but
dream of invasion all the night through. The effect is
almost too vivid.  I hope you will make a separate
publication of it. It -ought to have a very great effect,
unless, indeed, the public which consumed by the hundred
thousand all that flat rubbish about 'Dame Europa'
should be unable to understand this infinitely higher
effort. I hope I have guessed rightly, and that it is my
interesting namesake who has written 'it. If it is so, I
wish you would convey to him the expression of my
unbounded admiration, not to say emotion, in reading
it. But how do you come to suffer such reflections on
your friends the Prussians?
I had better put off my "New Books " paper until next
month, as it is rather aggravating to fret and hurry to
have a paper ready in time, and then find it cannot be
used. Of course the Editor has to fume and fret enough
on his side too-but we are all mortal. Perhaps we may
have an opportunity when you come to London of talking
on the " Cowper" paper, as I feel strongly that he is the
beginner of the modern school, and my course will be
incomplete without him.
WINDSOR, 18th/ November.... I am glad to hear you are going to Paris. I am
sure a little rest and change will do you good. I shall
stay a day or two there, I think, as I come back,-about
the 20oth of December,-and should like much to see Mr
Oliphant. I thought of trying to do so, and to speak to
him about the Continental series of books I once talked
to you of. I don't know whether you have dismissed the
idea, but I have not, and he looks as if he might be a
likely man. Talking of that, I had a distant notion of
the pleasure of editorial surprises by a sudden proposal
from the beautiful Marechale, Mrs Macdonald's daughter,
to do Heine, whose family she knows and from whom she
thought she could get unpublished matter! It was very
funny. You or any mortal man would of course have




1871.]


A TRYING WINTER EXPERIENCE.


23 T


undertaken to publish anything on the spot, for the sake
of her beaux yeux. She is a very lovely young woman,
and clever too, but whether in the way of books I should
doubt.... I had the most comical account of Mr Oliphant's
colony the other day from Miss S. She said they held
"community of wives and children" -or at least she
knew the children were in common, and she supposed
he had not mentioned the wives because of her presence!
Don't tell him.
A terrible winter visit to the Chateau of La Roche en
Bressy-the country seat of the Montalemberts-was
undertaken at this time for the purpose of obtaining
materials for Comte de Montalembert's biography. Mrs
Oliphant took her little Cecco with her for company, and
had great need of the solace, for she hated to be out of
her own house (except with one or two beloved friends),
and she felt that her time and labour were being wasted.
Some of the following letters are to the cousin who for
several years was her intimate and housekeeper.
To Cousin Annie.             LA ROCHE EN BRESSY, Dec. I.... Nothing can well be less comfortable or more
dreary than my life here, and but for the absolute duty
I should have left La Roche before now. It has been
raining more or less for three days. Yesterday and the
day before Cecco and I (the only people in the house who
thought of such a thing) ventured out a little, wading
through the snow. This morning it is worse than ever,
snowing fast, and nothing but a sheet of white visible
from the windows. To crown all other desagrements, Lina
[her maid], who was to have left for Switzerland to-day,
is laid up, having had two of her attacks in succession.
My materials come to me very slowly.
The course of life here is odd enough. I don't know




232


LETTERS.


[1i871.


that it would suit you badly, but I can't say I like it.
We leave our rooms at midday only for the dejeuner.
After that, unless there are visitors, all disperse again to
their rooms, meeting only at dinner, which is at half-past
six. We then go to the drawing-room till ten. So that
the social life of the household is entirely confined to the
three hours and a half in the evening. Sometimes, as
this is an exceptional moment, and the family are all
employed more or less upon M. de Montalembert's
papers, they all go to the library for an hour or two after
the dejeuner; but this is evidently an accidental matter,
and the natural way is what I have said. Of course
they visit each other in their rooms, I suppose. Some
times I feel as if this leisurely reading of a dozen pages
or so of a journal might go on for ever and ever, and I
grow intensely impatient, knowing how little time I have
to give. But the idea of a life like mine of course could
never enter into the heads of these good people, who
are kind as kind can be, but evidently think my work
is entirely a work of predilection, and that I can spend
upon it as much time as pleases me-Alas!
To Mr Blackwood.             LA ROCHE EN BRESSY, Dec. 2.
The vie de chdteau is the coldest vie I ever had anything
to do with. The journey was terrible, five hours driving
after the railway; but the chateau might be (must be, I
sometimes think) in Siberia instead of the C6te d'Or. I
never in my life felt such cold. Everything is stone and
ice.  I inhabit a vast tapestried chamber, and have a
section of a tower for my dressing-room, in the midst of
which grandeur I shiver. I tremble too with impatience
to find myself in the midst of masses of papers which
would make my work most interesting and easy, but which
I am not permitted to have access to. Montalembert, it
appears, kept a journal from his twelfth year to the end
of his life, and I am tantalised with the sight of these
volumes, which Madame de M. reads to me for a couple
of hours in the afternoon. We have been at it a week,




1871.]


A COMICAL POSITION.


233


and have got to his eighteenth year! Imagine my feelings.  I have, however, raised a standard of rebellion,
and declared that I cannot give more than next week
entire, which begins to quicken the movements of my
most kind hostess. It is very difficult, however, to intimate delicately to people whom any part of his life
interests that all the details are not equally interesting to
me.   They are all extremely complimentary about the
little paper in the Magazine, and I have been congratulated on all sides on having so thoroughly understood
Montalembert's character, which is satisfactory so far,
though I have had such hours of explanation about his
attitude in regard to the Infallibility question, that I wish
the Pope at Jericho a hundred times in a day. The
position is comical, and I think some time or other I
must write a paper on the tribulations of a historian in
search of information.
Letter from Cecco (aged eleven years).
-HOTEL MIRABEAU, PARIS, I4/h Dec.
MY DEAR COUSIN ANNIE,-The principal reason why I
have not written to you is that I have been working at
the Montalembert genealogical-tree trying to get it done.
I hope everybody at home is all right. I received all
the letters on Wednesday. Last Friday at La Roche
we drove to a stone cross in the woods (all of which
nearly were planted by M. de Montalembert), which
was also erected by him.   The drive was cold and
miserable enough for me as I sat on the box.  I got
some stamps and seals the other day from Mdlle. Le
Duc; most of them I had got already, but there were
some Belgian new issue which I had not got.    We
have no proper coachman here. A labourer called La
Motte generally drives us, but not always, Sylvain the
regisseur sometimes taking his place.  On Tuesday, my
birthday, we left for Semur.1 It was a very pretty road,
but Semur, we found, was much prettier..The whole
1 Semur is the Scene of " A Beleaguered City."




234


LETTERS.


[1871.


town slopes up to the middle, where stands the cathedral,
which is very large and beautiful both outside and inside,
though all the images had been torn from their niches in
the front of the church. There were also four curious
old towers at the gate.  The rampart has within it
another rampart of trees, which looks very pretty. A
pretty broad stream runs through the town, and the
view from the bridge is very pretty. The gardens, one
above the other, only separated by little walls on the left,
and to the right a dark pine-wood with a path quite white
with snow leading up to it, which made a very pretty
contrast. We arrived at Paris at half-past ten, but could
not get into our cab before eleven.  The roads were
covered with snow, not white but brown, and it was
about twelve when we reached the Mirabeau. Here we
got apartments looking on the court, which we didn't
want them to be. I was out buying presents this morning in the Rue de Rivoli. Mama was this afternoon at
Versailles, and is now at Lady Oliphant's at dinner.
I can't think of anything else to tell just now, so with
love to Tiddy and Frank, I remain, your affectionate
cousin.
To Mr Blackwood.                    WINDSOR, i8t 2Dec.
On the whole, though our sufferings were great, I am
glad to have been at La Roche.    It is impossible to
understand any fashion of life without sharing it, and
the curious little village community of a place so far out
of the world is extremely quaint. Mme. de Montalembert begged me to say mille choses to you from her, and
was very sorry she had not the chance of seeing you.
She says her husband gave them a most charming account of Strathtyrum and all your surroundings. She
intends to make a run over to England and Scotland in spring, coming in April, in order to take her
daughter, a very charming girl, to all the places which
Montalembert visited and described.  The said Mdlle.
Madeleine would give her ears to hunt, and describes her



187-.]      THE DELIGHTS OF HUNTING.           235
self as no end of a horsewoman. I told her that she
must absolutely make acquaintance with Mrs Blackwood,
though I fear that the delights of hunting would scarcely
be attainable in April.... Mr Oliphant showed me the proofs of your new
photograph, which is lovely. It is by much the best and
most true likeness which I have ever seen of you, though
perhaps just a trifle too spruce. In short, it represents
you as much too dangerous an individual to be allowed to
go about gallivanting by yourself, and Mrs Blackwood
ought to look to it. Please let me have a copy when you
get them. Lady Oliphant's was extremely good alsovery like her, but cutting at least thirty years off her age
at one stroke. What a very delightful process!




236


LETTERS.


[1872.


1872.
To Mr Blackwood.                WINDsoR, 2nd February.... My idea in coupling Southey and Keats wastheir absolute unsuitability. They are the very opposite
poles, and as one has a sort of artificial connection with
the Byronic school, so has the other with the Lake school;
so that I thought I might treat them together as hangerson of these two real fountains of poetry. I am very much
afraid that you and I will come to blows about Byron.
I did not read him young as most people do, and accordingly have never worshipped him, and he is to me a
gigantic sham in everything but poetry. Of course I
shall keep clear of the mud in which he is embedded,
and especially of the last mud thrown by Mrs Stowe, and
will endeavour to do him poetically all the justice possible. I should like to take in Campbell. He and Moore
might come very well together, but Moore is nothing in
my opinion, and never would have been anything but for
the lovely music he is identified with. Crabbe, too, I
should like to take up. I enclose a little note of the poets
done and proposed. Please make what corrections you
like.
When you have time, pray look at my story, and tell
me if you like the beginning, for "my barmy noddle's
working prime," and if youf don't like that I want to write
to you about something else.
WINDSOR, 28/k February.... I did not go to London yesterday.... We had'
grand doings here, however. There is a curious sort of a
man called Richardson Gardiner, who has contested the
borough more than once on the Conservative side (don't
be angry, he was a red-hot Radical first, but found, I suppose, that that did not answer), and whose efforts to keep
himself before the public are very funny. He heard, it is
said, a report, which was false, that the member for




A MOTHER'S FORECAST.


237


Windsor meant to roast an ox whole on the Thanksgiving
Day, and he accordingly sent orders to roast three oxen,
which was done yesterday in presence of a delighted
crowd. There was a large bonfire in addition, and fireworks and illuminations, in which delights Jack shared
with my boys. I must wind up this long history, however, by telling you a capital remark of a poor woman who
is to benefit by the beef. In answer to some suggestion
that such a benefactor of the people should be returned
at next election-'" No, no," said this philosopher; "let's
keep him out: if he were elected he would be just as useless as Roger [our member], and we'd get nothing out of
him!"
WINDSOR, 301h March.
As you have been my very kind friend always, let me
tell you once more exactly what my position is. My
money is almost always spent before I get it, or received
only just in. time for pressing necessities, so that the
pleasant sensation of feeling even three months clear
before me is one which very rarely occurs to me. I have
four people, an entire family, three of them requiring
education, absolutely on my hands to provide for. My
only chance of ever escaping from this burden is to train
and push on my nephew into a position in which he can
take this weight upon himself. This process of course
involves a great additional expense, and I cannot let my
own boys suffer for what I am obliged to do for him.
For the next three years, during which I shall have all
three at work, I can look forward to nothing but a fight a
outrance for money: however, it is to be honestly come by.
I don't care how much or how hard I work, and fortunately
my sanguine temperament and excellent health save me
from the gnawing of anxiety which would kill many people.
At the end of these three years Frank, I hope, will have a
capital position, and be able to relieve me to a considerable extent, and Tiddy will have reached the age to which
scholarships are possible, and according to all' human
probability will be able to do much of what remains to his
education for himself. Now, perhaps, it would be wiser,




238


LETTERS.


[1872.


with this tremendous struggle before me, to retire from
my pretty house and pleasant surroundings and go to
some cheap village where I could live at less expense. I
hold myself ready to do this should the necessity absolutely arise; but you will easily understand that while still
in the full tide of middle life I shrink from such a sacrifice, and would rather work to the utmost of my powers
than withdraw from all that makes existence agreeable:
at the same time, I hold myself ready to make the sacrifice
should it prove absolutely necessary. My life is insured,
and I trust I will always, as long as I live, be able to do
something small or great, so that I think I am justified, as
long as strength and work hold out, to pursue the career
I have marked out for myself. I never can save money,
but if I can rear three men who may be good for something in the world,; I shall not have lived for nothing.
Twelve years ago I began my solitary life a thousand
pounds in debt. I don't think in all my life-since I began
my independent career that I have ever got five pounds I
did not work for. I tell you all this not to complain but
to explain. Pardon me for it. I shall not do it again;
but I hope it will make you understand better the principles of my life. What I am doing is not done without
much and serious thought, nor am I insensible to the
fact, perhaps the hardest of all, that I must resign myself
to do second-class work all my life from lack of time to
do myself full justice. I make this sacrifice, however,
with my eyes open, not deceiving myself on the subject.
One of my boys, perhaps, may take up my imperfection
and make it into something worthy to live.
Pardon me for this exposition-of self. I don'task for
anypity, for I am probably as happy as most people with
it all, but I should like to think you understood me.
I am very glad to hear you are thinking of going abroad,
and applaud Puck immensely for her diplomacy. You
will enjoy everything twice as much for the sight of her
enjoyment. I hope I shall see you on your way through
London.




1872.]


THE TROUBLES OF BIOGRAPHERS.


239


Some letters written at this time are amusing as a
picture of the troubles sometimes befalling biographers.
When Madame de Montalembert departed after her
second visit, during which she had been most urgent
about certain alterations, she left her hostess absolutely
exhausted, and almost ready to yield anything.
To Mr William Blackwood.           WINDSOR, IStk 7une.
Thanks for your letter: it will answer the purpose
admirably. I send off by post to-day Ioo pages for press,
which will clinch the matter. But alas, pity me! the
Countess has just written to say that she is coming down
here again to-day to read over the second volume with
me. I hope I shall be alive at the end of the reading, but
what with the hot weather, and a most eloquent and
energetic member of the noble house of De M6rode, I
don't know what is to become of me...
What with my flitting and this invasion of the-not
Goths, but delightfullest and troublesomest Gauls, I am
rather hardly called upon just now.
WINDSOR, 17kth uly.
S. Heaven be praised, indeed, that this terrible book
is now out of hands! If the public are as much pleased
as his friends are, we shall have nothing to complain of.
WINDSOR, 22nd October.... By the way, I have never had your last word
about the Continental Classics.  Pray give it me. I
should not wish to begin any such series without at least
six unquestionable names secured, which should take
away all likelihood of loss.
I have begun, partly to amuse myself, and on a sudden
impulse, a new seriesý of the ' Chronicles of Carlingford'
to be called ' Phcebe Junior,' and to embody the history
of the highly intellectual and much-advanced family of
the late Miss Phcebe Tozer. I don't know whether you
will have any interest in this or not, but you have a right
to be told of it at least.




240


LETTERS.


[i8736


1873.
To Mr Blackwood.                  WINDSOR, 21st yanuary.... I am a good deal amused and rather flattered in
my amour propre by the revelations of the ' Times' this
morning about Lord Lytton. His name had occurred
to me in connection with the 'Coming Race,' but I
dismissed the idea as impossible. The second number
of the 'Parisians' I was convinced came somehow from
him,, but circumstances seemed so much against it that
I propounded to my friends the notion that the author
must be Mrs Lytton, which might account for the unquestionable Bulwerism of the book. I feel quite pleased
that I was so close on the heels of the mystery. I hope
it is true that the story is finished.
WINDSOR, 61h February.... I enclose Mr Kinglake's letter. Thanks for sending it to me. Your other correspondent is hypercritical.
That I should extract the only amusing thing out of a
slight and dull book may, I think, be easily pardoned me.
As for the Hares, I refrained from saying anything about
the sonship, which was no sonship, simply because it
seemed to take away the only excuse for the mawkish
worship of the book; and seeing I expressed my opinion
of it fully, I did not think it necessary to dwell upon
this detail. The book was (before I opened it) more
interesting than usual to' me, from the fact that I knew
Mrs Julius Hare very well. But your correspondent's
opinion, even had I had the advantage of knowing it
before I wrote my paper, is not mine, anid I can only
review books at all on the condition that I express my
own feelings in respect to them. It is of course in your
power to bid me refrain from reviewing any particular
book or any books at all, but I can only say what I think




I873-]


FICTITIOUS REPUTATIONS.


24-1


and not what other people think, whatever the universities may say. I read every word of both the books
mentioned, to my pain and sorrow.... The tremendous
applause which has greeted this performance is a good
specimen of the sort of thing which I am anxious to
struggle against-the fictitious reputation got up by men
who happen to be "remembered at the Universities,"
and who have many connections among literary men.
WINDSOR, 13th May.
What a terrible question you ask me about the sequence
of my books! Thank Heaven, I don't remember much
one year what I wrote the year before, which is a special
dispensation of Providence, I think, in my behalf; for
how could I write another word more if my conscience
was oppressed with a recollection of all the rubbish
I have poured upon the world? 'Katie Stewart' I was,
I think, the third-the proofs of it came to me, I remember, on the morning of my wedding-day; and there
was a book called 'Merkland,' of which I have a faint
recollection, between. The Carlingford books were begun
in the year '60 or '61, when I was very low in spirit and
hope, and after you had snubbed me very much, as you
have been doing lately! Please don't let anybody upbraid me with writing too much until the year 1876, if
we live to see it, by which time I hope the bulk of the
schooling will be over, and I will not mind it.
I am  sorry that Browning's last appearance is not
worthy of him. The only amends Miss Thackeray can
make him for seducing him to choose such an absurd
title for a book2 is to marry him, it seems to me.
"WINDSOR, 5t/h une.
By that curious chance which seems to rule over accidents, the Magazine never arrived this month, and I
1 ' Katie Stewart' seems to have been really the fifth book, the order being:
'M.rs Margaret Maitland,' 'Caleb Field,' 'Merkland,' 'Adam Grmme of
Mossgray,' ' Katie Stewart.'
2 Red Cotton Nightcap Country.'
Q




.242


LETTERS.


[1873-.have only seen it for the first time this morning, having
written to Mr Langford to ask for a copy. A thousand
thanks for the friendly thought which suggested the review. The article itself is excellent and full of good
feeling, but let me thank you first for thinking of it. I
have not had too many encouragements of the kind.
Your contributor says so much that is most flattering
and delightful to me, that I am sure he could have said
much that would have been valuable also in the way
of criticism had he chosen; but probably I should not
have liked that so much1! I am very much gratified by
-his notice of my earlier books, sad stuff though many
of them seem to me now, and by his appreciation of
some special characters which have not caught the public
eye perhaps so much as I thought they might have done,.and especially by his notice of the ' Son of the Soil,'.which was written at the most sorrowful moment of my
life, when I was wading very deep in grief and doubt
and all the discouragement which grief brings. I do
not venture to guess who the author is, but I should
be very glad to know. Certain geographical deficiencies
prove his confession that he is not Scotch. Will you
tell me to whom I am indebted for so kind an appreciation of my work? Anyhow, I am heartily grateful
to him (I suppose it is him?) and you.
WINDSOR, 261t November.... I have entirely given up the notion of writing a
story at present for the ' Graphic.'...
Tids has just come back from Oxford, where he was
trying for the Balliol scholarship (though without the
least idea of getting it, as he has still two years at Eton).
I hear that he passed a very creditable examination, and
that his English essay was the second in order of merit.
I am sure you will sympathise with me in my special
pleasure in this respect. I had not had much confidence
in his literary powers.




1874.]


ANONYMOUS REVIEWING.


243


1874.
To Mr Blackwood.                    WINDSOR, 9tgi Febry.
Thanks for letting me read Lord Lytton's letter. I see
no reason why he should not know who his reviewer is,
except that I think one usually thinks much less of the
praise when one is aware of the identity of the writer.
However, as it is an object worth considering, to connect
the name which my boys, I hope, will make something of,
with here and there a favourable prepossession, I have no
objection to your telling him.  In cases where the prepossession will be unfavourable, it is always known!
I am not doing anything for this month but 'Valentine,' which I am anxious to get on with. I wish I could
have the advantage of reading this out to you: even the
mere fact of hearing how it reads is such an advantage to
a writer, and it is one of the drawbacks of getting old
that domestic criticism becomes impossible-at least to a
person in my position.  I am going to Florence in the
Easter holidays to revive my impressions of the place for
a book to be published with illustrations which Mr Macmillan has asked me to do. I shall take Tids with me,
but the trip will be a very rapid one, as we shall only
have about three weeks. Should you care to have one or
two articles about the subjects which I am going to
study? Dante, Michael Angelo, and Savonarola are my
three chief points, and I should not like to lose any of my
material. I should be very glad of any introductions you
could give me in Florence, as you have been so lately
there-or were you there?   Perhaps I am making a
mistake.
What a curious change in the political world! I hope
Mr Disraeli, who I suppose must come in, will be able to
work with everybody, and will have a good majority. I
have no great sympathy with your side, but the Emperor




244


LETTERS.


[i874 -

Gladstone has been getting really too much. We have a
terrible man here as the successful Conservative candidate,
which does not help one to get over one's prejudices.
WINDSOR, 12t March.... I meant my Val to be the least good of the two
lads, but I am getting to like him! The other must turn
out to be the eldest. I will revise it all carefully, and if I
can find anything to shorten will do so. I want to have
an election for the county with Valentine, grown up, as
candidate, which should bring up all the floating stories
about him, and give the other side a chance of saying
their worst; but the boyhood is perhaps too attractive
to me, surrounded as I am by boys,.
I shall send you my paper on Saturday. The books I
have taken are Mrs Somerville (with which I am enchanted, and which recalls to me my mother and even
my own recluse childhood in the most delightful way),
Ampere's pretty touching story, I think the letters of
Merim6e ('A une Inconnue'), on which you can conclude
when you see them, and your prodigious Elliot book,
which does not charm me so much. The Merimee letters
are absolutely spotless so far as morals go, and very
pretty in many parts. I suppose the Inconmswu must be
Connue; but there is sufficient mystery to permit the
critic to deal with it as an entirely dark matter, and there
is much that is very charming, humorous, and tender in
the letters themselves. If you do not like what I say
about them, you can cut it out. Dr Guthrie I meant to
treat as the most rampant specimen of the good-natured
complacent Philistine I have met with for a long time.
The smug self-content of the book is simply odious to me,
and gives a very miserable exhibition of what his public
like and esteem as the best. Must I not be permitted to
say so? On this question too you must decide when you
get the paper.  I don't mind doing it, even if you don't
publish it at all, for it serves the purpose of one of those
little walks an artist takes away from his picture which he




1874.]


A LORD MAYOR'S DINNER.


245


is in the act of painting-letting me see my more important work from a little distance.
WINDSOR, 24th uly.... About the Classics. I think the most effective
review of them would be done from the unlearned point
of view, without any pretence of knowing better-in short,
as one of the English readers for whom they are intended:
don't you think so? You might put an editorial note to
say that this was done on purpose.
Have you no mind for my Continental Classics, now
that the others are done? I think they would be quite
as attractive.
We have been roasted and baked and grilled here to
such an extent that the coolness of St Andrews is very
tempting. Fortunately even here the heat has moderated.
The Lord Mayor's dinner was amusing.    I sat nextt
Matthew Arnold, with whom I struck up an acquaintance,
and liked him better in his own person than in his books:
He, Anthony Trollope, Mr Hughes, Charles Reade,-and
myself were the sole representatives of literature (barring'
the press) that I could see; but oh! my ladies of the
Opera, how fine they were! The dinner was bad! fancy
that in the Mansion House II offered Tiddy 5s. for a cOpy
of verses on the occasion (he was with me), but the
monkey thinks the price too small, and wants to knowc
first how much I get for mine!
To Miss Blackwood.                WsDSbR, 22nd Sept.
S. Tids has attained the dignity of sixth form, arid
thinks no small-beer of himself, and Cecco is: already arin
old and experienced Etonian. I am sure you will be
pleased to know also that my nephew Frank has done
admirably, gained himself a scholarship at his college,
Sand quite justified me in my expenditure for him, which
is a great comfort.
WINDSOR, Ig h October.
I have, I trust, done what you want in respect to the
paper enclosed. I agree with you that Mr Collins's




246


LETTERS.


11874.


volumes are very good, but I don't agree With you about
Mr Trollope, whose 'Caesar' I cannot read without laughing-it is so like Johnny Eames. I hope your supplementary series will include Lucretius. The two little bits,
from Virgil in this paper are Tiddy's, as were the Greek
quotations in my last, so I can scarcely put a name to
them. They are his first appearance in print.
WINDSOR, 269k December.
S.  Tiddy, I am sorry to say, was not successful in the
Balliol examination. I said all along that I did not hope it,
as he was a year under age; but I suppose I must have
hoped all the same, for I was considerably disappointed.
He was mentioned as having distinguished himself in the
examination, but did not get anything. However, I hope
he will get either a scholarship somewhere else or an
exhibition at Balliol next year. He will be just a fortnight too old next November to try for the scholarship
there again, which is very annoying. The others have
been getting on very well...
Let me hear about yourself and your boys, poor fellows,
scattered as they are. As this is Frank's last Christmas
at home, we are doing all we can to make it a merry one
for him.  Next year I expect everything to be changed.
The little girls are going to a school we have found for
them in Germany, and my brother will also leave me for
a time at least. And Frank goes to India and Tids to
Oxford, and I mean to let my house and try six months'
utter retrenchment in a lodging at Eton.  But all this, I
think, I told you before.






-NINO  pa


Y1:-y 4




IOFJ




1875-]


A MASSACRE OF-INNOCENTS.


247


I875.
To Mr Blackwood.                WINDSOR, 15th February.... I am much gratified by the kind messages from
Mr Kinglake.  It is a great pleasure to think that my
work is liked by any-one so well able to judge. Pray tell
him that I have been an admirer of his for-Heaven
knows how long!-since the days when I was shocked and
delighted by 'Eothen.'  I remember being very much
amused by the opening out of two old neighbours of mine
at Ealing, after a discussion of his first volume. In the
enthusiasm created by it one of them, an old Peninsular
officer, instructed me carefully how to make a pontoon
bridge and get my (!) troops over it; while the other,
Admiral Collinson, burst forth into naval experiences.
WINDSOR,,19h March.... My nerves were a good deal upset with illness,
which reacted, I suppose, upon my work. By the bye,
adversity has brought me acquainted with such a swarm
of ridiculous novels that I feel a great desire to let loose
my opinion on the subject. The badness, the silliness,
the utter futility of them is something quite appalling,
and really ought not to be put up with. Next month
perhaps I might be allowed a massacre of these not
innocents, for they seem to have got the length of a positive plague.
I enclose Mr Kinglake's letter; very many thanks for
letting me. see it?  I am much flattered by his good
opinion.
We are beginning to get better weather here, so I hope
it may soon reach you. My unwellness is not in the
least, I believe, of a kind to touch life, and is therefore not interesting, but it is very worrying and uncomfortable.




248


LETTERS.


[1875.


This illness was an extremely painful form of neuralgia,
which returned once or twice, but seems to have made no
serious attack upon Mrs Oliphant's wonderfully sound
and vigorous constitution. She could endure the most
amazing amount of fatigue, except in walking, which was
for many years painful and laborious to her.
WINDSOR, x16t fuly.
My anxieties have come to an end in the saddest way.
My poor brother died on Wednesday night. Notwithstanding the inevitable severance which long yeafs and
difference of sentiments makes, I feel the natural pang of
the parting more than I expected, and am almost glad
that it is so. However (and that is saddest of all), there
is no feeling possible but that it is best that his shattered
life should have ended now, while still his children are
with him, and all the last pious offices can be paid him
by his son's hands. I am writing out of the gloom of the
shut-up house, which is so trying to the nerves. The
funeral takes place to-morrow.
To Miss Blackwood.                  WINDSOR,.u2y 20.
S. All has been got over quietly. I am so much
more affected in every way by the event than I had,
expected, that I am. going away for a day or two in the.
hopes of coming back to; my work more fit for it than I
feel now. One cannot but feel that the best thing that.
could have happened was that my poor Frank should
have been taken away before his children left him,.and
yet I feel the loss as much, perhaps more, than I should,
have done had his life been brighter and more valuable.
It seems altogether so sad, and saddest of all in that it is
the best that could have- happened. He who was never
out of one room seems now to pervade all the. house, and
with remorse I miss him dead: of whom. I was so often
impatient when he was living.




1875.]1


BOCCACCIO BOWDLERISED.


249 -

To Mr Blackwood.                     WINDSOR, uly 27.... I wanted to ask you about a little matter I have
been thinking of. I have been obliged, in preparing for
my Florentine book (of which ornate production I hope
to send Mrs Blackwood a copy at Christmas by way
of guide-book for the tour I hear you are thinking of), to
rummage through Boccaccio's and Sacchetti's stories. A
great many of them are very unsavoury; but there are,
as I daresay you. know, the most wonderful bits of medieval life in them, and I think a selection, quite unimpeachable and very interesting, might be made.  This
idea came into my head in connection with my poor
friend Mrs Macpherson, whom you may recollect, and
who has been left very badly off, struggling as best she
can to get a poor living, by all manner of little occupations. Summer is a bad season for poor people in Rome
who are dependent. upon the vagaries of rich people, and
I thought, if you. would entertain the idea of making, a
volume such as I have described of the innocent.
"Novelle" from the ' Decameron' and the other productions of Boccaccio,. and from the much less known
and less objectionable Sacchetti,, she and I might manage
it between us-I as editor and expounder, making myself
responsible for the style and arrangement, which of
course I should do with great care, and she taking the.
rough work of the translation.  What do you think
of it?
My nephew has. finished his studies at Cooper's Hill,
taking a first-class. He has chosen the Punjaub, as it is
the privilege of the highest placed students to choose
their district, and goes out in October. Nothing could
be more satisfactory than his career at Cooper's Hill, and
I trust he will do no less well in the future. Thus one
of my anxieties is- disposed of. Death has taken away
another, and I trust my life may be less burdened in the.
future; but in the. meantime this is a somewhat tremendous moment.




250 -

LETTERS.


[1I875.


To Miss Blackwood.            GRINDELWALD, 24/ Agus.
I intended to have written to you long ago, but you
know how little time one seems to have in a strange
place, and I have been working more or less all the
time..
We have been getting along very pleasantly on the
whole. We came straight through to Interlaken-that
is, Cecco and I-and were there joined by Tiddy and
Frank, who had taken the little girls to their school in
Germany, and came round by Constance and Zurich to
meet us...
We have met with Miss Thackeray and her sister, and
have seen a great deal of them for the last ten days; and
now the sister's husband, Mr Leslie Stephen, a great
Alpine man, has just arrived, and the boys are going off
with him to the ice to-morrow, to their great satisfaction,
though I feel a little nervous. They have already been
up a big hill on their own account and walking a great
deal, and are enjoying their expedition thoroughly. We
had glorious weather at Interlaken, only very hot, but up
here among the mountains it is rather. stormy and wet.'
On Saturday we are going to Miirren for a few days, where
I intended to have gone long ago, and then to Chamouni,
and then by Geneva and Paris, home, where, notwithstanding all the glories of Switzerland, I shall be glad
to be.
WINDSOR, 27/A September.
My engineer boy leaves on the 24th October
for the Punjaubl, I 'should' be very much obliged, if you
know anybody thereabouts (!), if you would kindly give:
him a word of introduction.  He is a very good boy,.
and will do no one any discredit, I feel sure.
How about Jack? Does he go to Christ Church thisl
term? I hope we may perhaps see more of him from.
Oxford, as the boys are constantly coming and going. I.
shall go with Tids to settle him, and if I can be of any
use to Jack at the same time I should be very glad. I
suppose they are the better of a little aid in settling their




THE LAUNCH INTO LIFE.


25 I


small domesticities. One's heart quakes a little launching them off into the world-at least the feminine heart
does. I suppose you men who have gone through it and
know the dangers take it more easily than we do, to
whom it is all terrible in the mystery of the unknown.
Alas that they can't remain children always! I don't
know whether you feel as I do the inherent absurdity of
the idea that we should be getting old and they should be
getting men. It feels preposterous, and rather a bad joke
sometimes.
To Miss Blackwood.                   WINDsoR, October.... I have been so very much occupied that I have
had no time to do or think of anything except the boys
and their manifold preparations. I went: to Oxford with
Tiddy on Friday, and left him on Saturday settled in
very nice rooms at Balliol, and amidst so many friends
that I don't think he will feel the separation much,
though I do. Two of his chief cronies, Farrer and
Brodrick, both of whom you met here and heard at the
Speeches on the 4th of June, are in the same quadrangle
with him. He has got a charming, big, lofty sittingroom on the first floor, with a bedroom opening from it.
I had a party of youths to luncheon before I left, all his
intimates, and he is surrounded by acquaintances.  I
hope he will be a good boy and work well. One cannot
but have many tremors at thus launching one's child
into life. Frank's launch is a more thorough one, it is
true, but he has got over the first probation. Tids' trials
are all to come. His scholarship is called the Bryant.
It is about ~50 a-year for three years. I hope he will
get something else before long. Frank is to sail on
Saturday in the Crocodile from Portsmouth. When you
are writing to your nephew George will you recommend
him in case they should come across each other?
WINDSOR, 2nd December.
I am sure you will be grieved to hear of Mrs Leslie




252


LETTERS.


[1875.


Stephen's death, Thackeray's youngest daughter, with
which I was brought most sadly into connection by the
fact that her sister was staying with me at the time. I
think I told you that we had met and seen a great deal
of them in Switzerland. Mrs Stephen was in a delicate
state,... and Miss Thackeray, whose perfect devotion
and alrmost subjection to her I never saw equalled; had
made up her mind with some doubt to be absent from
her for one evening' to come to me, partly to see me,
partly to do honour to poor Mr Oscar Browning...
She was telegraphed for next morning, and hurried to
London,... but her sister was dead before she got
there. I had asked one or two people to dinner to meet
her, andr you may imagine the ghastly effect of a vacant
place so caused. The final news came just as we were
sitting down to dinner. I cannot get over the heartbreaking effect of it.
WINDSOR, I3th December.... I have not enjoyed Tids' abserice at all, as ybu
may well suppose-; indeed'the three months seem to have
flitted over inain aknd-ofa dream, not even good for work,
though: the loneliness arnd quiet ought to have been of
use for so much as- that, at lIeast; but now the holidays
are close at hand, and' my boy will be back on Wednesday. I have the best: accounts of him: he seems to have
gotr nice friends, and even my ferocious anxieties which
feed upon nothing have been' kept under.  Cecco hasg
been very good andd cdnfortable in his brother's absence,
his only fault being that he is too fond of home, and
prefers my society to that of other boys, which I don't
thirik quite- good for him.
To Mr Blackwood.                   WINSoR, Chrisntmas.
Let me wish you:all the good that can be put into a wishfor this time and all times. Thank Heaven, so long as
the children are about, Merry Christmases and Happy
New Years are still possible, and don't hurt instead of
giving pleasure. Thoughl  e are growing old, I suppose,




1875-]         MATERNAL ANXIETIES.             253
the sensation is still half amusing and not very severe.
God bless you and yours not only for the New Year but
at all times and seasons. Pray give my affectionate good
wishes to Mrs Blackwood, Mary, and Jack. I suppose
the latter hero will be an Oxford man next year, like my
own freshman, who has come back after his first term, I
am glad to say (though -my heart has been in my mouth
all the time), rather improved in homeliness, kindness,
and simplicity than otherwise..I got a very good.account of him, but he did not get an exhibition at Balliol
as I hoped. He was one out, I believe, only, which is
rather aggravating. He seems to have formed a friendship with a young brother (he thinks) of Major Lockhart.
By the bye, how good and clever his (Major Lockhart's)
verses are which you sent me, *..




254


LETTERS.


[1876.


1876.
To Mr Blackwood.                WINDSOR, 4th 7anuary..  Just before your letter came I had been reading an old letter of my dear mother's written in 1852,
recounting with great delight and pride your complimentary letters to me about 'Katie Stewart,' and blowing her own little trumpet, dear soul, over her "little
Maggie"! It was sent back to me by a relation by
the same post which brought yours. And this reminds me
to thank you very much indeed for what you say about
'Whiteladies.'  I thought the book was not bad, but
as no critic except the singularly stupid one who "does
for" the 'Times' has even noticed it, I had begun to
feel that I must be mistaken. Dreadful penalty of too
much writing, but I am glad indeed that you approve
of it.
To her Nephew, Mr Frank Wilson.  WINDSOR, i3t yanuary.... Tids has come back from Oxford since I wrote
you last, and I think in my last letter to you I talked
to you of the anxiety I could not help feeling about
his first start in independent life. Thank God, in everything he seems to have acted so as to put my fears all
to flight and to give me confidence for the future, and
has come home not only quite unchanged but even more
completely Tids than he was before-as fresh, as boyish,
and as good as a boy can be. I can't tell you how
thankful and how happy I am in this. I was very much
frightened for the ordeal, and he seems to have come
through it scatheless. He has not succeeded about the
exhibition, but that is a very much lesser matter. There
is some talk at present about standing for the Cowper
Scholarship, but this is not yet decided-you shall hear
about it after.




1876.]


A HORNET'S NEST.


253


To Mr Blackwood.                 WINDSOR, ioth February.... I met Mr William Blackwood at Colonel Chesney's last night, and hope to see him here to-day. I had
heard of Mr Oliphant's arrival.  He came over from
New York in the same ship with my friend Mrs M.'s
son.   Has he fallen into telegraphy1 and prosperity,
and abandoned the wilder side of life and opinion? I
should like to see him. I am glad to tell you that Miss
Thackeray liked the little paper on her father. I had a
note from her about it.
I am glad to hear so good an account of you all in
health and welfare. Your nephew tells me you are seriously thinking of Italy in the spring. Lucky people!
To Mr Frank Wilson.                 WINDSOR, Ist March.... There is not much news to give you. I am
better (I think I grumbled last week), and working
through the mountain of work under which, however,
I still groan.  Did I tell you that I have brought a
hornet's nest about my ears by describing the Military
Knights in my new story? I think cousin Annie has
sent off the first number to you (the 'Cornhill'), and
we will keep it up as long as the story goes on. I am
very sorry to have vexed the old men, though of course
I had not the least intention of doing so, and did not
expect the sketch to be so readily recognised. You will
see I have kept the Castle out altogether, which I thought
would mystify the people. However, I have been too
close.... Everybody is still in great doubt and suspense about the war, afraid one morning that we may
be drawn into it, and reassured the next, only to be
plunged back again. Do you ever come in contact with
the Mussulman population, and what do you think of
them? There is a novel not very long published by a
Mr Allardyce called the ' City of Sunshine,' entirely about
Indian (not Anglo-Indian) life, which gives a very fine
1 Mr Laurence Oliphant had been occupied with the affairs of the United
States Cable Company.




2.56


LETTERS.


[1876,


picture of an old Mohammedan officer in the old sepoy
army. It is a very clever book. I don't know if it would
interest you, who have the real thing under your eyes,
as much as it interests us, or I would put it into the
next box that is sent.
WINDSOR, 241h t a2rch.... We have had the most villainous winter, which
is dying hard, and yielding most unwillingly to such a
burst of sunshine as we are rejoicing in now. Tids, who
came home on Wednesday night, is sitting on the steps
of the greenhouse working at Homer and Philology (he
says), and even across my desk while I write there is
a glimmer-nay, a blaze--of sun. And the greenhouse
is full of hyacinths mixed (alas!) with a little tobacco!
Don't you see it all? I wish I could have a photograph
or a picture or something to give an idea of your surroundings, your tent and your canal and your dusky
people: I wish it could be done, but I suppose you will
very soon be going to the hills now, or at least when
you get this letter,
The events since I wrote to you last have been the visits
of cousin Annie and Mr Ralston.... Mr Ralston has
developed into quite a new man. He startled- me from
the first by his jocosity and a new strain of self-importance. But the "lecture" (!) so-called, which he had come
on purpose to give to the Eton boys (I think I told you),
it was a string of most amusing but very absurd stories,
as funny as you can imagine, and keeping the audience
in fits of laughter, told with the broadest yet the deepest
comicality, but as little like a dignified lecturer as you
can imagine. Dr Balston was in the chair, and he, I
understand, was considerably shocked, and declared that
he had never been at a literary society meeting before,
and that he would not have known that the entertainment had anything to do with literature had he not been
told. "Who is your low comedian?" somebody asked
Mr Hale. So you see our friend produced a sensation.
The ' Chronicle,' however, is most complimentary to him,




1876.]


THE CHAMPION OF 'MAGA.'


257


and promises him an enthusiastic reception when he
comes again, and he himself was delighted with the
cheers and laughter. He sat up talking till past three
in the morning, and gave me a whole history of his
feud with the Museum. I am trying now to get Anthony
Trollope to come down to lecture.
To Mr Blackwood.                  WINDSOR, th April.
I have begun Macaulay, and you shall have him in:
the end of the week,; if possible.  I think the fact of
the very foolish, bitter, and useless remarks about ' Maga '
and Professor Wilson makes it highly expedient that the
book should be reviewed in a loftier and more generous
spirit, with one very distinct arid dignified notice of the
equal injustice and bad taste of this reference, which I
shall try to make as pointed as possible. The book is
interesting and curious as. one of those studies of mankind which are said to be the best employment of man
(or woman-?). How rich arnd how poor a life!
In great haste (but I thought you would like to know
whether or not I was at work).
WINDSOR,- r5th April.
I am sorry to send this [review of Macaulay's Life]
incomplete, but youi shall have the last little bit on
Tuesday morning if all is well.... I hope we shall not
come to blows over it, though it is ticklish ground. I
think, however, that the Magazine can be nothing if not
magnanimous in treating such a man, and I do not mind
if you throw in a bit of Toryism on your own account,
though I think I am gloriously Tory here and there.
Whatever we can agree upon, however, will come in the
proof. Poor Macaulay, his household loss and disappointments touch me much.
WINDSOR, 20th April.... I have notseen the 'Edinburgh,' but will get hold
of it as soon as possible. How very good of Mr Kinglake
to interest himself about the poor little reputation which,
alas! "thae muving things ca'ed weans " have forced me
R




258


LETTERS.


[1876.


to be so careless of. Will you tell him how very much
more I feel gratified and honoured by such kind interest,
as coming from him, a critic whose personal approval is
better than vulgar praise? But no.praise will do for me
what was done for Thackeray, and reason good. I think,
though, if ever the time comes that I can lie on my oars,
after the boys are out in the world, or when the time
comes which there is no doubt about, when I shall be
out of the world, that I will get a little credit-but not
much now, there is so much of me! What a blessing to
be born -with Macaulay's temperament and never spend
more than one has! It is the best nurse of reputation.
But please say to Mr Kinglake all my gratitude for such
true friendliness, which I feel to the bottom of my heart.
To Mr F. Wilson.                     WINDSOR, 5th May.... The systematic way in which Mr Trollope grinds
out his work is very funny. It must have answered,
however, for he seems extremely comfortable; keeps a
homely brougham, rides in the Park, &c. I envy and
admire, and wonder if daily bread is all I shall ever be
able to manage, and whether I shall have to go on in the
same treadmill all my life,-I suppose so.
My new story begins in the 'Cornhill' next month. I
saw Miss Thackeray and Leslie Stephen for a few minutes
the other day-she looking very much herself, he looking
very miserable. I asked them to come here, while their
things are removed from one house to another...
God bless you, my dear boy. Good-bye for a week. I
hope you are not suffering from the hot weather.
To Mr Blackwood.                    WINDSOR, 7t yune.... I was charmed with Mr Kinglake, and extremely
glad to make his acquaintance. By the way, I congratulate you on your new contributor. Of course you will
tell fibs about him, and declare the 'Woman-Hater'1
1 The ' Woman-Hater' was the last, or almost the last, novel written by
Charles Reade.




1876.] FOREIGN CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS.    259'
to be by nobody in particular. There is no one I admire
so much. There is a swing of easy power about him
which is beyond praise.
This and several of the following letters refer to the
Foreign Classics Series, which Mrs Oliphant edited.
GOLF PLACE, ST ANDREWS, 20M1 September.
Thanks for letting me see the letter to Mr Reeve. I
perfectly agree with what you say:. he is not a man to be
affronted, but neither is his aid of any special importance.
I think, however, that he might make a sufficiently interesting volume.
Mr Collins's list is very like mine--indeed, of course
every list of the kind must be like every other. Do you
incline to let him try his hand at Camoens?  People who
are learned in Portuguese are not common. I have been
arranging what seemed to me a very feasible succession
to begin with, if we can keep our men to time. I have
bound over the Principal to be ready if called upon with
Pascal. Have you mentioned Rabelais to Colonel Hamley?  Shall I write to him about it.? You will see that I
have put myself down for a couple of volumes in the first
year. This is simply because I can be sure of my own
punctuality, and of course the arrangement is merely as a
convenience to settle some order of starting. I shall set
to work to get my German brushed up when I get home.
It is not good for much at present. If Mr Lewes will do
Goethe that will be admirable, and we should secure it as
soon as we can. The series should be made as interesting and important as possible at the beginning. Shall I
draw out a prospectus?
By the way, I know Mr Reeve tolerably well, and have
written two or three papers for him, though I almost
forget what they were about.
WLNDSOR, 4 h November.
I enclose you a small story of a ghostly description,
which pray put in the Magazine if it happens to suit you;




26 0


LETTERS.


[D87&


but if not, send it back to me, as I should like to have it,
published for Christmas. It was called forth by a discussion of the Glamis Castle mystery which I was a party
to the other night, and is intended for a possible solution
of that. I cannot, remember whether there is a Lord
Gowrie; if there is,. of course the name must be changed.
I should be pleased if you liked it.
Colonel Hamley will not: reply to- me about Voltaire.
In case he does not do it, as. Rabelais seems for the
moment out of the question,, have you: any more Frenchreading authors, in. your pocket to supply this volume,
as I don't know whether you care for my independent
researches? Mr Sime, the." literary editor" of the 'Globe,'
a connection, of my own whom I mentioned to you, I
think, wishes to do. Lessing; and as he writes well,. judging from several interesting articles of his- I have seen,
in the. 'Pall Mall' and other papers,: I am disposed to
accept: but that of course would not. come in the first
year. Have you heard from Mr Martin?
I am amused at the novel crusade Mr Reade has:
beguiled you into.  I heartily agree with him, but. I
should not have thought you would do so.
The story mentioned above is called "The Secret.
Chamber."   Whatever it did afterwards, it certainly had
a success when it was read, as Mrs Oliphant's stories
occasibnally were., in the family circle. The reading had
been begun rather late, and midnight passed as the
climax was approaching.   The reader, her nerves all
excited and tense, came to the place where the old
sword in the haunted room suddenly fell with a crash'..
At that very moment outside the closed door of the drawing-room something fell![-something that crashed and
shivered!  Every one started up, the d'oor was flung.
open, but the long. passage outside was dark and silent.
The servants had gone to bed, and the lights were out.




1876.]


A VERY BIG "SWELL."


26I


There was nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard.
What had fallen? Was it an echo of the ghostly sword
as it fell that we had heard? Half an hour later the
rmystery was cleared.  The reader of the story, going
cautiously in the dark towards bed, trod on the broken
glass of a fallen picture.
WINDSOR, 28th November.
When I heard from you that Mr Martin would not
undertake Goethe, I asked Mr Kinglake, with whom I
have been having some correspondence lately, whether he
thought Mr Hayward would undertake it. He thought
not, but said he would speak to him.about it, without
committing us in the least. Then he wrote to me that
he thought Mr Hayward seemed disposed for it, and
asked all the details as to time of publication, remuneration, &c., and last night I got the enclosed letter from
him, which I think it best to submit to you as it stands.
Of course I say nothing about the money. I am rather
aspiring myself to make the series an amateur one (in the
right sense of the word)-books done for the love of the
subject. Mr Hayward is a very big "swell," and I confess I should be proud of him....
Mr Kinglake's hint about writing to Mr Hayward in very
afpreciative terms is amusing. If you don't know him
personally (as, however, I have no doubt you do), perhaps
it would be better that I should do this. The necessary
admiration and enthusiasm might come easier to me than
to you!
N.B.-I am not at all sure that I ever read a word of
his writings.
WINDSOR, 8/t December.
I send you to-day a copy of my book, the 'Makers of
Florence': you will see a good deal about Dante in it;
and pray look at the translation in a footnote beginning
on page 7, which is a specimen of the translations I am
doing. The book is too pretty (I don't mean my part of




262                   LETTERS.                  [1876.
it) for business purposes, so I hope Mrs Blackwood will
accept it. I have put her name in it.
WINDSOR, 26th December.
I respond with the most hearty goodwill to your good
wishes. I trust Mrs Blackwood and you will find the
years more and more happy as the life of the young
generation develops and is enriched: after all, it is upon
them that all our hopes depend as we get past the time
of personal hope.... My boys are very well and all.that I could wish them, though Cyril disappointed me
and himself (horribly) by getting only a second class in
Mods. We felt terribly cast down for a while, but the
Master of Balliol cheered me up again, which was a
wonder, as he is not too genial generally on the subject.




1877.]


HARRIET MARTINEAU.


263


1877.
To Mr Blackwood.                   WINDSOR, 8th March.
I entirely agree with you in respect to Miss Martineau.
The curious limited folly of her apparent common-sense
struck me in St Andrews, and I thought it would make
a good article. The autobiography seems much worse
than could have been expected. How such a commonplace mind could have attained the literary position she
did fills me with amazement. How did she manage it?
I can only look and wonder. I will send the paper rather
late, I fear, but I think it is worth while doing it.
GRANVILLE HOTEL, RAMSGATE, March.... Why-how-did Miss Martineau get such a reputation? There is nothing so puzzling.  I wanted to
have put in a word or two about some curious comments
of hers on public-school life as illustrated by Tom Brown,
and the enormous depravities and low vices caused bythe boys breakfasting alone, and cooking sausages for
themselves! which I got in St Andrews, when I first
contemplated this paper; but I have not the book, and
the article, I fear, is already too long.
WINDSOR, 19th April.
I send the concluding chapter of the 'Divine Comedy.'
I am very sorry to have been so long with it, but the
work has been serious. It has given me a great deal of
trouble. One's brain needs to be very clear to follow all
the theological arguments that go on in heaven.  One
hopes it is less doctrinal now up there, or one would certainly prefer the sunny hillside low down in Purgatory!
There is only a short chapter now on the Prose works
(with a little about the Canzoniere) to complete the book,
which is a very good pennyworth, so far as labour goes;




264


LETTERS.


[1877.


I will slip over the prose as lightly as possible: with a
bad cold, and a considerable degree of unwellness otherwise, and various domestic cares, the Convito, &c., are
far from easy reading-and this east wind...
In June of this year Mrs Oliphant celebrated the
twenty-fifth anniversary of her connection with ' Maga.'
Mr John Blackwood was, of course, the guest of the day;
but there were many notable and interesting people present, few indeed of whom now survive.
WINDSOR, imne.
The day I had decided on for my party was the i6th
[of June], that being Saturday and the most convenient
day; but the Igth or 23rd would do equally well. Pray,
as you will be the special guest, choose which you prefer,
and let me know: if you would send me word by return
of post it would be kind, as I must ask my people, and
had forgotten how time is running on.
I propose to hold the solemnity at Magna Charta, a
charming little house on the banks of the river which a
friend of mine sometimes lends me.
From A. W. Kinglake to Mrs Oliphant.
28 HYDE PARK PLACE, MARBLE ARCH, W.,
-une 20, 1877.
DEAR MRS 'OLIPHANT,-Your fete of yesterday was a
charming one, and for once a fulfilment of what one
imagined it might be if all should go well. You reigned
so brightly over your guests that everybody seemed
pleased.
And.this morning I receive the Dante.  I had learnt
accidentally from Mr Langford that you had kindly
directed that a copy of the volume should be sent me,
and am greatly pleased.
But there is yet another blessing that yesterday
brought me. When I came back to London last even



0877.]

SOCIETY SMALL-TALK.


265


Img, I went to one of my clubs to have some tea, and look
-with but little hope--for a. novel really attractive to me
after having finished 'Mrs Arthur,' and then-a happy
surprise, for I had never been prepared for it by any advertisement-I found awaiting me 'CaritI'! As far as
I have gone I like it immensely.
With my kind regards to your guest (Miss Blackwood)
and to your sons-both such nice young fellows-believe
me, dear Mrs Oliphant, very truly yours,
A. W. KINGLAKE.
To Mr Frank Wilson.                WINDSOR, 20th uIy.
Don't suppose for a moment (I am answering
your last letter, which perhaps you have forgotten all
about by this time) that we think, from our experience,
Anglo-Indians to be bores. Your letters would be interesting even if everything about you was not so interesting
as it is at home. I find your letters always you, which is
the very best thing letters can be. At the same time, I
can. understand the temptation of getting gossipy and
grumbly among yourselves. But: it really is the same
everywhere. All society is made up of small circles, and
talks its own special small-talk. I at least have never
found yet the bigger kind that some people talk grand
about; and yodrs, though it may be flat to you, is piquant
and strange to us...
Tids is by way of working tolerably hard. He also
does a tolerable amount of cricket, and it is very pleasant
to have him at home. You say I used to say you had.no
energy: I suppose we elder people are inclined to think
so with all boys. I can only hope Tiddy will take heart
o' grace as you have done as soon as he gets real work in
hand, though I don't think (this in my own defence!)
that I said you were without energy the last year or two
before you went away.
Cecco's first "summer examination " is just coming on,
and I am rather anxious about it.  He will be dreadfully
disappointed if he does not get into sixth form next half,




266


LETTERS.


[1i877.


and that of course depends entirely on the number of
boys who leave.... The children go away next Saturday, the 28th, and we follow a week later; so that the
summer, we may calculate, is now about over. And it
has been, on the whole, a coldish one, though with breaks
of hot weather.
To Miss Walker.                        ST ANDREWS.... I am deep in De Quincey, on whom I am doing
a paper. Please do the proof as soon as you possibly
can. The boys are very busy, as you may suppose, what
with work (of which a little does get done), golf, and
lawn-tennis. Tids especially is much in request, as it
seems he is really a very good lawn-tennis player. Cecco
seems going into literature in a funny kind of subterraneous way. He showed me a rather impassioned speech out
of a tragedy, which he seems to be doing in fragments,
and I came upon a bit of a story the other day in his
beautiful handwriting, neither of them bad at all. But
I fear he is less good at steady study of the plodding
kind than I supposed. How curiously appearances deceive.  I believe now that he is right in what he has
always said, that he does less work than Tiddy. He is
full of fragmentary literary occupation much more than
Tiddy, but I fear, I fear he does not "plod," that grand
necessity of scholastic success, any more than his brother.
ST ANDREWS.... Did I tell you that the boys were getting up a
ball-a bachelors' ball (save the mark! Cecco being one
of the bachelors). It is to come off to-morrow night,
and we are all in a state of excitement about it, this
house being the headquarters, and Cyril the treasurer
and everything. You will hear all about it from Cecco.
We have been hearing the Principal preach this morning,
a fine, eloquent, striking, inconclusive sermon, preached
with a good deal of emotion. He must take a great deal
out of himself in preaching.




1877.]


FUTILE ATTEMPTS TO DRAW.


267


To Mr Frank Wilson.             ST ANDREWS, Sept. 25tk... I am very glad to have had so many more of
your letters lately, though sorry to see that you have
had an attack of fever.... It could not be hoped that
you would always escape fever, and I am thankful your
first attack has not been very serious. I shall be anxious
till I get your next letter. Is it not a little rash of you
to take no change this year? or can you not get away
from your work?...
This new outbreak in Affghanistan is very alarming.
Do you know anybody that is in it, or do you hear much
about it? It is complicating the elections here, which
adds to the usual excitement on the subject. It was
expected that Parliament would be dissolved, but now
it is supposed that it will go on till its full time is over,
as Government is not anxious to face the constituencies
after this new misfortune. I am very glad that the
retrenchments in India won't affect you. I hope they
may do you good and bring promotion. I should like
very much to have some photograph of your works.
Couldn't you make the man do your house and surroundings? I should so very much like to know your
scenery, so to speak, and be able to picture you and
the things and people about you to myself.
WINDSOR, 12th October.... Here we are at home again, and a great contrast it
is to St Andrews. The trees in the Crescent are growing
so tall and so thick that there seems no sky at all after
the great vault that is over the Links, and which every
year I continue making the most futile attempts to draw.
" Your hills, mamma," the boys said derisively as we went
past Leuchars. I wish that you, who can draw, would
only be as persevering. If you would do a little scratch
from your window at your various " cholsies " (isn't that
the word?) it would be such a pleasure to me, and help
me to realise your surroundings, which it is so very difficult to do,-do, there's a good boy...




268


LETTERS.


[D877.


I suspect that what you say about having lost or not
sufficiently used your time at Cooper's Hill is what every
one feels when formal education is over. But education
never stops, and perhaps if we.did not always feel "how
much more I might have done," we would be intolerable
prigs or cease to be human creatures at all. I feel as if I
were only beginning to get into the heart of work and see
what may be made of it now, and the mere learning of
that will have cost, no doubt, on the other side, perhaps
more than it is worth-limitations and formalities and
want of spontaneousness. I can perfectly understand your
interest in mile 10. I have always thought that to make,
to bring order and meaning and use out of nothing, must
be the most delightful sensation in the world. My first
hero was to have built a lighthouse..,..
To Mr Blackwood.                WINDsoR, I6tik November.... This is Cyril's twenty-first birthday, a great family
event. We are to keep it to-morrow, when he is coming
home with two nights' leave, graciously granted by the
Master.   How these children spring out of nothing-!
Jack will be following his example in a month or two:;
but Jack has more to come of age for than my poor Tids,
who is "lord of his presence and no land beside."  He is
a very good sweet-hearted boy, and very tender to me,
but I can't help feeling doubtful whether he has enough
of the sterner stuff in him to get success in those thorny
ways of law (not to say life) which he is bound for. I am
going to enter him directly at the Inner Temple. If all
these boys of ours had but ten thousand a-year what
delightful fellows they would be! I fear that is what
our modern education trains them for, more than anything else.
To F. R. Oliphant (when at Oxford for his matriculation).
WINDSOR, November 24.
MY DEAREST CECCO,-You can't think how miserable
and empty the house looks, and how hard it is to realise




1877.]


A GREAT FAMILY EVENT,


269


that you are not coming in late or early. I don't at all
like this first experiment in loneliness. When you are
both at Oxford I shall either have to go there too or hang
myself, which latter experiment would be uncomfortable.
I hope I may hear from you to-morrow how you have got
on these two days. I am anxious to know all about it,.
and I hope you will be more explicit in your descriptions
than Tids is;. indeed, I trust you will adopt rather the.
Frankian than the Tiddy-ish style of literature, for
though a clever and entertaining letter is very nice, it is
better to know really what you are about day by day,
respecting which Mr Tids leaves one much in the
dark. I hope you have been getting a little pleasure
out of your first flight from. home as well as doing
well in the examination   Was the Master gracious
to you?
If you have not written to-day be sure you do so tomorrow, and make Tiddy also do so. I want to hear all.
about you both to keep me going, which otherwise
would be dismal work.   I don't know that anything
has been going on since you went away, except the
dinner-party at the Ritchies' which I told Tids about..Captain Maurice, who is a neighbour of ours now in
Park Street, and who went with us, is rather an acquisition. He is the author of one of the clever military essays, the one (if you remember the story) that
was pitched in at Colonel Hamley's door (he being the.
judge) just as the clock was striking the very limits of
the hour allowed for "'showing up" (c la Tiddy); and
which got the first prize.
Mr Tarver is going to give.a reading at St.Stephen's
on Monday evening, Hamlet and the Gravediggers, Mr
Smith of Eton being Hamlet!--very like Hamlet, indeed,
Mr Tarver thinks.
I wonder what you two will do with yourselves to-morrow. I trust it will not be a hopeless day like this. God.
bless you, my dearest boy, and my Tids too. Be sure you
both write.-Your loving mother,     M. O. W. O.




270 -

LETTERS.


[i877 -

The next letter is addressed to Mrs Richmond Ritchie,
who had only very recently ceased to be Miss Thackeray.
To Mrs Richmond Ritchie.               I4k December.
Here is your autograph, my dear Annie. I have never
done such a thing for anybody before, but I am delighted
to have a word from you (even though you have so cunningly disguised your new initials that I protest I don't
know what the last one is!) and to hear something about
you. I have been gleaning what scraps of information I
could from the dear people at Brock Hill, who, alas! are
at Brock Hill no longer. My holidays have begun-that
is, I have got Cyril home, and Cecco's labours will soon
be over, and that, you know, is my special argument for
happiness. We must manage to get up to town early in
the year, and get a glimpse of you among other pleasant
things. I am glad the darkest of the dark winter days is
over for you, dear, and that you have now support and
solace by your side to counteract all the heaviness of
recollection,
The new will never quite push out the old, but happiness is certainly the one elixir of life.
We have been having Mr Ruskin here again havering
in his usual celestial way, and we are planning theatricals
with Mrs Cornish in the part of Portia, which I think is
altogether suitable to her.  Won't you come and see
her? I am busy as usual spinning continual webs that
never come to much. I am very glad to see that you
have begun again. I always feel you to be of the party
with your pretty Felicias, and keep looking for you round
the corner of every sentence.
God bless you, my dear, in all ways. I suppose I may,
notwithstanding his dignified position as the head of a
house, send my love to Richmond.
To Mr Frank Wilson.             WINDSOR, 281h December.
I have not written to you now for two or three mails,
and here we are in the midst of the holidays, Christmas




18z7.1         THE DESIRE FOR LIFE.           271
over, and the end of the year close at hand. I have been
a little gloomy in myself, thinking how noiselessly and
certainly these passing years bring one towards the end;
but I need not trouble you with these fancies, which I
hope will not come to anything except passing clouds,
which at my age are rather desirable than otherwise, for
it does not seem a good thing to get too much into the
habit of living, as one is tempted to do, more as one gets
old than when one is young. Christmas will be entirely
out of everybody's thoughts and 1878 well begun before
you get this, so I need not say very1much about it, but
wish you a very happy year, my dear boy, and a good
one.
What a comfort, my dear Frank, that you have found
the career that suits you, and are doing well in it and
liking it. Nothing gives me so much consolation.




272


LETTERS.


1878.
To' Mr Frank Wilson.             WINDSOR, i8th 7anuary.... Last week we were in London, which was the
cause of failure in writing then, where we have spent a
week. It is the time of theatres, as you know, and we
went at that branch of pleasuring systematically, going to
four plays, one the most idiotic performance I ever saw,
the latter part being a burlesque of Faust intended to be
funny, at which we all assisted with solemn countenances.
I never was more ashamed of myself than I was of spending several hours of time and a good deal of money upon
such miserable conventional fooling. The other plays
were better; one a posthumous 'production of Lord
Lytton's, very high-flown and magnificent. It was, however, played to an empty house, which was very dismal,
and made one very compassionate of the actors. (It is
an odd proceeding on my part to plunge into plays at
once, before I tell you anything else!) Our stay in town,
however, was distinguished this time by a perfectly novel
feature. I told you of an old Mrs Stewart, a wonderful
old lady of seventy-four, who has twice paid us a visit
here. We got lodgings through her means close to her
house, and she had a succession of luncheon-parties for
my gratification and exhibition. The lionising process,
you know, is not one that I encourage. I saw, however,
a good many people, and I suppose even where there is
the least possible enjoyment in it that is more or less an
advantage....
Dr Bridge gave us a rather peculiar performance at the
Abbey one of the evenings we were in town. We dined
with him at his quaint little house in the cloisters, and
after dinner went into the choir, while he played to us.
The Abbey was all dark except the light in the organ-loft
and a solitary lantern, and the effect was very fine. He




.878.]


c MARMORNE.'


273


played an old "Ave Maria," evidently intended for a
Litany with responses, and made great use of the stop
which is called the vox humana. It was most dramatic and
picturesque, the organ sounding exactly like the singing
of monks far off in an unseen chapel. He took us afterwards about the church with a lantern; and to look down
from a high chantry, down the long nave, with only the
light from the organ-loft in the centre to show it, was
very wonderful,
Now we are back again at home, to my great satisfaction. I know nothing more fatiguing than what is called
pleasure, and longed for my work.
To Mr Blackwood.                 WINDSOR, 271h 7anuary..,. I think the Principal's little book admirable.
The Goethe is very good, but I have taken the liberty to
ask Mr Hayward (with trembling) to remember that we
address a public which is not expected to understand
allusions, but must have everything explained to it. He
sent me, the other day, 'that potent, grave, and reverend
signior, a little volume of society verses, the lightest of
airy trifles, compliments, and gallantries. It took away
my breath.
I should like very much to have 'Marmorne,' please.
Mr Pigott, the licenser of plays, was speaking to me about
it the other day with the greatest enthusiasm. He says
he has not seen anything so pretty for a long time, and
asked me anxiously who was the author. I promised to
ask you, though I told him I did not hope to get any
information from youl
To Mr W. Blackwood.                WINDSOR, k4t Apri.... I hope to be able to get the ' Moliere 'done, but
I am at present kept back from everything and kept in
great anxiety by the illness of Cecco, who has got gastric
fever, and who fully occupies all my time and thoughts.
It is not as yet a very severe case, the doctor assures me;
but it is always a very anxious business, and as I am
S




LETTERS.


[1878.


painfully anxious by nature, you may imagine that my
mind is not very free for work. He was taken ill on the
4th, on the day before the beginning of an examination
'for which, poor boy, he had been working so hard, but he
has been too ill to feel this disappointment. Would you
tell your aunt Isabella this when you see her? I ought
to have written to her, but cannot.
Cecco had been for some months working hard for the,Newcastle Scholarship, to be even in the "select" for
which is one of the greatest honours attainable by an
Etonian. The night before the examination day he came
home late from his tutor's, where he had been doing some
final work in preparation. He was ill, but declared he
would be all right next day. In the morning, however,
the fever had declared itself, and for the following thirteen
days he was very ill. Through this time and the early
days of convalescence his mother nursed him unremittingly, leaving him only for the two hours after midnight,
when she lay down, allowing " cousin Annie " to take her
place. And she worked as well as nursed!
To Mr Blackwood.                   WINDSOR, 17t April.
I am very happy to tell you that Cecco is now on the
way to recovery, the fever having subsided on Thursday
-in thirteen days instead of the three, four, or even six
weeks with which we were threatened. The relief, I need
not say, is unspeakable. I shall hope to be able to get
him away to the seaside in a week or ten days. After
that, if he recovers his strength, we may or may not cross
the Channel; in any case I will send you a paper for the
June number. I should like to go to Paris on account of
the ' Moliere' as much as anything else, and if I send you
'anything on the subject of the Exhibition (I hate exhibi'tions), it will be more about the theatres and Paris in
general thanri the Thing itself.




1878.]


AN OUTBURST OF ENTHUSIASM.


275


Chez M. Develle, prbs du Casino Rosendael,
DUNKERQUE, I4t/ August... We have got settled down in the sand here, and
live roughly in a way which we should think very disagreeable indeed at home.   I confess I don't much
admire it here, but nothing better can be had. It is a
very fine sea, and at the present moment much ruffled
and out of temper, and looking its best in consequence.
I have just had a little run in Bruges and Ghent.
How delightful they are!  One forgets the stateliness
and old-world grace of them, so homely and kindly too.
Please tell Mrs Blackwood that I was tempted and fell
in the way of lace-old lace-and if she ever goes to the
Beguinage, when they show her the commonplace productions of-to-day, let her ask for a certain box of old
lace which is kept in reserve. I wish I had not seen it,
but she ought to see it. There is nothing so costly as
bargains, and there are such bargains to be had! Pardon
an outburst of enthusiasm.
WINDSOR, 3rd October.
S. I am planning to go to Oxford for six months or
so in January if I can let my house here, which I hope
to do. Cyril and Cecco will both be at Balliol, and I.see no good in staying here when' both the bits of my.heart will be in another place.
I have been thinking of preparing the "Beleaguered
City" in two parts, as it wants carrying out, leaving the
supernatural portion for the January number. I almost
fear, however, that you will not care for another story,
now that you have commenced the " New Ordeal " (how
capital it is!).  Will you kindly tell me about this,
whether you would have room for it or not? as it seems
to be specially suitable to the time of the year.
WINDSOR, 9th October.
S.. I think very highly of Daudet as a novelist, but I
know nothing of him personally. Unfortunately for me,
neither did I of Balzac, which has made Mr Reeve gum




276


LETTERS.


[i978.


on a reminiscence of his to a paper of mine (which you
would not have), and which I suppose will be in the
'Edinburgh' next number-to my great discomfiture.
WINDSOR, 4t December.
I am sending yo'u, after all, the " Beleaguered City."
It is not quite enough for a volume, and perhaps it is too
much for two numbers of the Magazine. As I think,
however, that it is worth something, I send it to you. If
you like it for the Magazine, it might come in very well
for the "Tales" afterwards. It is very much enlarged
and altered, you will perceive. I have wasted a good
deal of time upon it, which is foolish, but the subject
struck my fancy.
The Principal [Tulloch] preached a noble sermon in
Westminster on Saturday.    I never heard anything
finer. The place was crowded, a great many people
standing; and the nave of the Abbey lighted up and
filled with people, with all the misty distances of the
aisles, and mystery of the lofty roof overhead, is a sight
to.see. The Principal had the sense, however, to 'leave
the mist and mystery in the beautiful arches above him,
and himself struck the most clear hote of Christian sentiment and faith which I have almost ever heard from
him. I was considerably nervous abouit the business
altogether, not to say highly antagonistic, but nothing
could have been finer.




1879.1


CASAUBON              2


277


1879.
To Mr Frank Wilson.        Ciuic ROAD, OXFORD, 2oth Feb.... I came here more than a fortnight ago. I say I,
for the boys had gone before me. It was excessively
cold at the time, the end of the frost, and since it has
been very wet and muddy. Unfortunately the house is
a good way out of the centre of Oxford, as far off as
Windsor is from Eton, which is much against us. On
the other hand, it is pleasantly situated and among a
great many pleasant people. Many of the great persons
of Oxford have already called on me, and I have been
asked to several solemn dinners, to one of which I am
going to-night and to another to-morrow. The people
are all very civil, but I am sometimes doubtful whether
I have been wise in coming. Cecco seems to have begun
very well indeed. It is difficult to realise him as a Balliol
man, but such he is, and has taken to smoking, which
I never thought he would do, and talks about "other
men" as if he had not been the baby a very little while
ago. He has a good many friends, and seems to be quite
cheery and happy, which is a great satisfaction to me, for
I was always a little nervous about his start.....
Since I wrote the above I have been out to a dinnerparty where all the people were profoundly learned and
clever; the chief guest (after myself, in whose honour the
party was given) being the rector of Lincoln, a man who
is supposed to be the Casaubon of 'Middlemarch'-at
least I believe his wife considers herself the model of
Dorothea. He is a curious wizened little man, but a
great light, I believe. He wrote a life of the great scholar
Isaac Casaubon, which I reviewed some years ago, but
this of course the good man does not know. I am going
out again to dinner to-night. We leave here in about a
month, and will return somewhere about the i8th of April.




278.


LETTERS.


To Mr Blackwood.          4 CRICK ROAD, OXFORD, Feb. 28.
I ought to have written last month to thank you and
your able contributor for the flattering mention made of
me in the article on Magazines, but the coming here
complicated my other businesses, and I did not even
read the article till somewhat late in the month. I am
now again overwhelmed by Mr Shand's (is it Mr Shand?)
civilities in the present number. It is very kind of him,
and of you, to whose good word I am sure I am indebted
for so honourable a place. My best thanks to both. It
is very pleasant, especially when one's life has not been
exempt from  snubs, to have so kind and generous a
recognition of one's efforts-not to say that it is always
a feather in one's cap to appear as a member of that
goodly fellowship, that noble army, which fights under
the banners of 'Maga.'
Your contributor seems to know various secrets of the
craft which I have not found out. I suppose Mr Trollope
and Mr Reade are deeply learned in all those by-ways,
colonial and otherwise, which a poor woman out of the
way never hears of. I have had various colonial applications made to me, but they never came to anything.
I have been thinking lately of asking you whether you
would mind introducing me to Lord Salisbury with the
view of asking him for a Foreign Office nomination for
one of my boys. As they are now both in the last stage of
their education, and Tids will be done with his in June,
the question grows more and more important. The Bar
of course is the finest career of all when successful, and if
Tids takes a very good degree.it will encourage me to
screw myself up for barrister's fees, and the legal education which has yet to come; but it is a horribly long process, and as there are two of them to provide for I should
be very glad to have a public office nomination to fall
back upon. Would this be asking too much of you?
There seems no chance of getting at a Minister without
introductions. Lord Salisbury's sons were in Mr Marindin's house along with my boys, and I suppose he will




1879.]-1


OXFORD.


279:


know my name. I do not care to ask a mere society
acquaintance for such an introduction, but no doubt
I could get it, if you don't care to do it.
To Mr Blackwood.                  OXFORD, 96th March.... I am glad you like the " Hamlet" paper, proof of
which shall be returned directly. I will say a word or
two about Irving's unquestionable power over his audience.
There is nothing so strange as popular success. I begin
to think that it is only when one gives oneself credit for
doing a thing with great difficulty and labour that one
gets due credit with the public, and that what is apparently done with ease is never so impressive, even where
it may be really better.
I have been seeing a great many notabilities here, without, I am afraid, being very much impressed by them.
Almost everybody who is anybody has called, I think;
but intellectualism, like every other ism, is monotonous,
and the timidity and mutual alarm of the younger potentates strikes me a good deal. They are so much afraid
of committing themselves or risking anything that may
be found wanting in any minutiae of correctness. Scholarship is a sort of poison tree, and kills everything.
To Mr Frank Wilson.                OXFORD, 20th March.... The term at Oxford is just finishing, and we go
home next week. I can't say that I have much enjoyed
being here. There has been a good deal of bad weather,
and in bad weather Oxford is depressing to the last
degree. Now spring is beginning very unwillingly with
many relapses into winter, but I hope next term will be
pleasant.... Everybody at Oxford of any importance,
or almost everybody, has called on me, and I have been
asked to a good many dinner-parties, to which I have
gone resignedly. My last was at the Max Mtillers to meet
our old friend Mr Ralston, whom you will remember.
He came here to tell stories, which has become his
speciality. He does it very well, and is very amusing.




28d


LETTERS.


[r879.


He had a large audience in a sort of theatre connected
with the Museum here-heaps of children, whose attention and awe and amusement were very funny and a very
pretty sight. He is as long and as thin as ever; but
though he is always having bad illnesses, he looks much
better than he used to do..
Cecco gave us a luncheon to-day at Balliol. Cecco
as a man cohtinues to be a constant wonder and
amusement to me.    His set is entirely distinct from
Tiddy's.
To Miss Blaekwood.                WINDsoR, It April.... We came home about a fortnight ago, and in a
week more will be back in Oxford if all is well, the
vacation being so short. My stay there last term was
both pleasant and unpleasant: the weather was simply
horrible, and of all abominable places in bad weather
Oxford is one of the worst, Besides, our house was a
good way from the centre, in a sort of suburb, full indeed
of very notable persons and Dons of all descriptions,
male and female, but not otherwise attractive. I reserve
my opinion as to the attractiveness of the said Dons. A
great many people called on me, and I had a sprinkling
of dinner-parties of the most superior description; in
short, everybody was very kind, and I got a great deal
of attention. I rather think I was set up as the proper
novelist in opposition to Miss Broughton, who has gone
to live at Oxford and has much fluttered the dove-cotes,
though I don't exactly know how. Cecco was all the
more comfortable in his beginning from having his home
at hand, and has got thoroughly into the Oxford life,
which is a great comfort to me, and I think Tids' work
too was all the better for his mother's presence. The
latter personage has his final examinations next term,
which is a very anxious business.  They all seem to
expect him to do well. He is just now at Malvern on
a visit to the Master of Balliol, who seems to have a
very peculiar opinion of the meaning of the word holiday.




1S79-]


JOHN BLACKWOOD..


28r


He and his guests work all day with brief intervals for
meals and walks. Tids regarded the prospect of this
visit before he went with rueful gratification, but he does
not seem to dislike it, being there, and I hope it will
have done him good. Mr Jowett has been on the whole.
very kind....
I am quite unsettled about my summer arrangements.
I am trying very hard to let my house for six months
from now till October, but with no success as yet...
If I don't succeed in getting a tenant, which is most
probable, I should be very glad to see you here in July,
but I am all uncertain. Education is a fearsome business. Two young men at Oxford cannot, so far as I
can see, cost less than five hundred a-year; and even
when Tids takes his degree, there. are his law studies
to come on. All the other young men seem to have
to go on studying, one here, one there, and Heaven
knows when their profitable work is to begin!  It is
rather appalling for a person in my position. However,
it is to be hoped that I shall be able to hold out for a
few years longer and pull them both through, though
sometimes my heart fails me a little.
In the autumn of this year Mrs Oliphant lost her
faithful and warmly valued friend Mr John Blackwood.
He had been for a considerable time in failing health,
and died at his house, Strathtyrum, near St Andrews,
at the end of October 1879.
OXFORD, 3rd Nov.
My DEAR ISABELLA,-So it is all over-all your anxiety
and trouble, and dear John's suffering and patience. I
felt that you were prepared for it, and that, notwithstanding the hope to which you clung, this was all that was to
be looked for. What can we say but thank God that for
him at least it is all over? We none of us can look forward to that passage with less than some pang of fear as
to how we shall get through, and he has passed it safely




2822


LETTERS.


[i879.


and got over upon the other side. Amen. And thank
God for him...
Dear Isabella, I know you will be heart-broken.  I
wish I had been with you, but you will have many round
you. Many a sad thought of the others who are gone
will be passing through your mind. I think I know how
you will be feeling, perhaps better than most people, and
now Edinburgh will be a desert to you indeed.
I was away from home last night, and therefore have
had no letters.  I feel sure I will find something from
you when I return, and then I will write to you again.
In the meantime, dear Isabella, God be with you! Try
to take what comfort you can in the thought that he at
least, dear John-I can't call him anything else this sad
day-is no longer in any pain or trouble.-With love
from the boys, and the tenderest sympathy, affectionately
yours.
November 4.
I have just got your letter. Very hurriedly I wrote to
you yesterday, and was interrupted at the conclusion and
obliged to end when I had much to say. I wish so much
you had added the one word " Come " to your telegram.
I would so gladly have gone to you; but knowing how
deep your feeling would be, I could not convince myself
that you would like any one with you but your very own,
otherwise it would have been a comfort to me to be
there. The flowers, a very beautiful wreath, were sent
off on Saturday, directed in Charlotte Square. I hope
they did reach in time; if not, and they still come, may
they be laid upon the grave? I shall be sadly disappointed if nothing of me, not even my wreath, was there.
I told you we had a little service in St Stephen's at two
o'clock, and followed him in spirit with prayers for you
all to that last resting-place. How grieved I am that I
was not bold enough to go to you at once. I do not like
to ask now what you are going to do. Remember that
you will always be welcome here....
I am glad to think that dear John Blackwood was laid




S79.]


SUSPENSE.


283


to his rest by his own chosen friends. Every one of us,
present and absent, feel what we have lost in him.
Thinking about my. book on Cervantes the other day,
I felt suddenly as if I had come to a dead stop. Who
is there now for whose opinion one will care as one did
for his?
To Mr Craik.                      WINDSOR, ecember 8..I am most grieved to be so negligent. For the last.
fortnight I have been, first in the most terrible anxiety
and then in the deepest grief for my dear boy Frank)
Wilson, my nephew whom I brought up, and who died in
India now five weeks ago of typhoid fever. I had trained
hiim with pain and trouble, and sent him out to India
with every hope and blessing four years ago, and here is
the end, so far as this sad world is concerned. We were
for a week waiting an answer to a telegram which never
came-in an anxiety I cannot describe, and which ended
on the 29th in an official announcement of his death.
This is my only excuse for the neglect. The proofs
came, I suppose, in the midst of this terrible suspense, I
will get them off as soon as I possibly can.
To Mrs Craik.                  WINDSOR, Ckrislimas Eve.
It is very kind of you to write to me. I have had a
long spell of peace and quiet, all well with my children,
which is the one thing that matters after all. And of all the
family my boy Frank was the one I was most secure about
and had least anxiety for. All seemed so well with him,
he was so robust and vigorous, nothing wrong about him
either real or fanciful. And now in a moment all is over
-for this world. It is the most inscrutable blow. Thank
you most warmly for your sympathy. It is good to have
an old friend to think of one in one's trouble. We have
seen little of each other for many years, but we, will not
forget how long it is since we first joined hands, young
and fresh to life.  God keep your doors, dear friend,
from the shadow that has so often darkened mine, and




284


LETTERS.


[1879.


give you many happy years with those you love. I have
my three orphan nieces, now deprived of the last prop
that absolutely belonged to them, under my roof this
Christmas. The children, thank God, always make shift
to be happy, by times at least, even in the midst of
trouble, but you will give a pitying thought I am sure to
these three poor girls.
My best and warmest wishes for yourself, Mr Craik,
and your child, and with love and thanks, believe me.
To Mr W. Blackwood.             WINDSOR, Christmas Eve.
I had not the heart to enter upon business matters
when I saw you, the shadow of death was so much
about us, and my own heart so full of anxiety....
After all this long array of business it seems out of
place to return to private friendship and good wishes.
But at the same time these are never out of place, and I
hope that under your reign, as under that of dear and
kind John Blackwood, private and old friendship will
always continue to sweeten our business transactions.
Will you give your mother and sisters my kindest good
wishes and greetings?-" Merry Christmas " is out of my
way this dark and heavy year, but I wish you every
blessing and prosperity.




.88o.]


A TIME OF PEACE.


285


i880.
Mrs Oliphant's Autobiography was broken off-as a
connected narrative-at about the time when Cyril left
Oxford. That he should have taken only a second-class
was a disappointment to her, but yet, as she herself says,
in no way a disgrace, and she was very hopeful of his
future. He was to live at home and read for the Bar.
Cecco had apparently taken to Oxford life with a certain
amount of enjoyment.   He was naturally a student,
though perhaps not after the academic model, and there
was no occasion for anxiety about him. A great grief
fell on the household in the autumn of 1879, when Frank
Wilson, the nephew whom Mrs Oliphant had educated
with her own sons, died in India. He had been always
a most satisfactory and delightful young fellow, full of
talent and energy, and succeeding in whatever he undertook, so that the dreadful news of his death after only
a few days of fever seemed almost incredible. Except
for this sorrow and the void left by the loss of her old
and faithful friend Mr John Blackwood, the time was
one of peace, and the cheerful house at Windsor was
brightened as usual by the comings and goings of visitors.
Cyril went to town to work in the chambers of a barrister, and when he was at home his mother tried to
keep him to his books, much as she had done when




:286


LETTERS.


[1880.o,


he was a very little boy, but with less success. Still
she was happy in having him at home, and bore the
tremendous burden of her own work with a light heart,
To Mr Blackwood.                   WINDSOR, 7/th May.
I want to publish an article called "School and College," with some special reference to the recent rows
at Oxford. Will you have it? I think it might be interesting, as it will treat practically of Eton and Oxford.
It could even be ready for June if you considered the
appropriateness to the moment of consequence enough
"to put it into your programme at this late period,
xwhich I don't suppose likely.  If, however, it should
by chance strike your fancy, would you kindly telegraph to me at once?   If not, let me know as soon
as it is convenient if you would be disposed to put it
in in July. I prefer to have it appear in ' Blackwood'
if possible, and must beg you to keep it a complete
secret anyhow.
To Mr Craik.        LOWICK RECTORY, THRAPSTON, 25th Aug.... Did you happen to see a story of mine called
"A Beleaguered City " which was published last Christmas in the 'New Quarterly Magazine'? It is a story
which I like-a thing that does not always happen with
my own productions-and I should like to republish it.
It would make, I think, only a very small volume, but I
might add a short new story of a similar description
to make up. Would you care to undertake the republication? I have a fancy of making a kind of Christmas
present of it to my unknown friends. I should like it
to come out exactly at Christmas, and to be published
quite cheaply, as an experiment. Please let me know
what you think. I fancy it would interest you.
"We are pausing here in a sort of happy island of
absolute tranquillity and leisure amid all the commotions




i880.]


A RýARE EVENT.


287


of the world, a calm country parsonage, on our way to
Scotland.  Then I am going to the other end of the
moral scale, to the Potteries, on Wednesday. We hope
to be in Golf Place, St Andrews, this day-week, and
perhaps you will reply to this there.
At the end of this summer Mrs Oliphant did what
she could very rarely be persuaded to do-she paid one
or two visits. The first was to Mr and Mrs Lucas Collins at Lowick Rectory; and while there she heard a
legendary story of the neighbouring old house of the
Sackvilles which by-and-by shaped itself in her mind
into "The Lady's Walk."   It is curious how constantly
some real scene or incident gave birth to one of her
stories, and yet how very rarely any real person appears
on her pages. People often thought they found their
own portraits in her books, an imagination which only
goes to show how. very little we know ourselves or how
others see us. From Lowick Mrs Oliphant went on with
her sons to visit Mr Woodall, M.P., at Burslem. She
was much interested in the work of the Potteries-the
"throwers." with their immemorial "potter's wheel"
especially; but what makes this visit really remarkable
in her life is the fact that for a whole week she laid
aside her work!   Never before, and never afterwards:until the illnesses of her last year forced it upon her,
did she take such a spell of idleness, and she gave herself up to the enjoyment of it with the zest that belongs
to novelty.
From   Staffordshire she went to Wales, and spent.two or three weeks at Barmouth. The following letter
*refers: to the great anxiety felt with regard to the fate




288


LETTERS.


[i88o.


of George Blackwood, brother of the Editor, and son of
her first friend in the family, Major Blackwood.
To Mr W. Blackwood.                 BARMOUTH, Septr. 9.
I send you now the final proofs of 'Cervantes.' I am
very glad it is not too long.
I have been looking to see if any further news had
come-with much anxiety. I can most truly enter into
the long and painful endurance of your suspense, and I
feel most deeply for you personally with so much work
and so many anxieties on your head. I know well how
every care is doubled by anxiety and grief.
The following letters explain themselves. The business caused Mrs Oliphant the most intense annoyance,
and destroyed the pleasure of her short residence in
town.
14 VICTORIA SQUARE, S.W., Octr. 4.... I am greatly annoyed just now about a most
arbitrary and unjustifiable proceeding on the part of the
proprietors of the 'Graphic,' for whom I wrote a Life of
the Queen some time ago. It was written exclusively for
the paper, and no idea of any further use was in my
mind. I was horrified the.other day to see it advertised
in book form by Messrs Low.     I immediately remonstrated, but was met by a copy of my receipt, in which
I had, it appears, given the "entire copyright" to the
'Graphic.' I suppose I had never read the receipt at
all when I signed it, and certainly no idea of republication had ever been suggested. I don't know what may
come of it. I have asked Sir James Stephen to give me
his opinion, which perhaps, as he is a judge, he may not
like to do, but I shall certainly take legal advice upon the
subject. I hope you will take my part in the matter.
The thing was written with the idea of being a mere




188o.]


A LIFE OF THE QUEEN.


289


accompaniment to very good illustrations-in which point
the 'Graphic' people broke their contract with me, to
begin with-and is quite unfit to be published as a book.
I am unspeakably annoyed about it, all the more that it
was not even a profitable bit of work.
14 VICTORIA SQUARE, S.W., 22td October.
I am iri a great fright about the law business. I
hoped the solicitor, who is a very moderate and sob-e
person, arid was greatly against ptoceeding to extremities, would have managed a compromise. This is still
possible, but only by a sacrifice on my part- buyifig back
the copyright, which I never had thi slighteMt inteitioh
of sellihg. I have been entrapped by a supplementary
receipt, which I suppose I signed without reading it. I
am in great ttouble about it. Harper's hew proceeding
is indefensible, I think, considering the line they have
taken ii the copyright question. I should like to Write
an article upon their circular which wias sent to authors
-I don't know if you ever saw it - saying that they
were most anxious to favour us, but were determined to
prevent English publishers from flooding the American
market, which was their reason for standing out against
our improved copyright.
14 VICTORIA SQUARE, S.W., Nov. 3.... I have beeh obliged to pay the 'Graphic' people
thirty pounds to redeem the Queen's Life. I hear that
some friends of mine are trying to represent that it is a
shabby proceeding to take money from me, with some
hopes of getting it back.
In the midst of her own troubles and antieti&s she was
never deaf to an appeal for help. The following refers to
a piece of work which was her present to a less successful
literary woman---a piece of work done too while her son
T




290


LETTERS.


[188o0.


Cecco was ill with typhoid fever and being nursed devotedly by her. His illness was, it is true, of a mild type,
but she could never be less than acutely anxious.
To Mrs Richmond Ritchie.            14 VICTORIA SQUARE.
DEAREST ANNIE,-Mrs Craik writes to say that her
-name may go along with ours, and that -she will send
something if I can tell her the last possible day, as she
is going to France to-day, and has nothing by her. Will
you find.out, dear, from Mrs Riddell, what time she must
have the things?  (It sounds like things for the wash!)
I have done part of mine.
What dreary wretched weather! one needs to be
happy at. home to make it bearable at all....
I fear my story for Mrs Riddell will run to not less
than 20 pages. I cannot be brief, but she will not mind,
and perhaps it will save her a little work. I have written
to Laurence Oliphant.
To Mrs Craik.               14 VICTORIA SQUARE, 24t/ NoV.
I know nothing more of Mrs Riddell than her address.
She wrote to me thanking me for the story I sent her,
and I answered her letter, begging her to send me her
advertisement for her Christmas number, that I might
get it put into the ' Spectator,' which I thought, would
help it on a little....
I have just been explaining sundry delays to Mr Craik
by telling him about my Cecco's illness. He had been
very queer and unwell some time, and on calling in the
doctor at last a day or two after I saw Mr Craik, the boy
was pronounced to have been struggling with an attack
of typhoid for some time. It has turned out quite a mild
case, and he is now getting better; but for a little while
I was very anxious, and have been kept in constant
attendance upon him all this time. The very name of




188o.] THE NECESSITY OF PERPETUAL WRITING.      291
course brings one's heart to one's mouth. The grievous
thing is that he was just going in for " Mods," which was
of the utmost importance to him, and for which he had
been working hard. Alas..! the examination began yesterday, and here he is in bed tearing his hair.
The very same thing happened to him once at Eton.
I am very sorry to think I shall not see you, but hope
you will have less shutting up this winter than you anticipate. Are you not tempted in such a case to run away
to the south? After a month or two in London I prize
the sunshine more than ever.
To Mr Craik.                    WINDSOR, 24th December..I don't know whether the ' Beleaguered City' is to be
out immediately or not, but when it comes, I should-like
to have a liberal supply of copies, for which I must be
charged if I ask too many. I have wanted to make a
kind of present of it to my unknown friends, as you will
see' by the dedication, and there are a great many known
friends to whom, as about the best I can do, I want to
give the book itself.
I wonder if you, who are in the world and hear of
everything that is going on, think it at all possible that
I could get something to do of a permanent character,
which would relieve me a little from the necessity of
perpetual writing. I don't mean to say that I am tired
of writing or that it exhausts me, or that I don't like it
better than any other occupation, for these assertions
would not be true. But as I am growing old I have
more and more desire for a regular quarter day, a regular
occupation, and so much money certainly coming in.... This is where men have such a huge advantage over
us, that they have generally something besides their
writing to fall back upon for mere bread and butter. I
think if I had enough of steady income to justify me in
getting a small house in town, I should be thankful-but




292


LETTERS.


[188o.


at least for the steady income I should be thankful
anyhow,.
Oh, what a sad Christmas!-everybody mourning,
everybody fearing. I know two families who have lost
sons at this miserable Cabul.  I take a little comfort
in thinking that my boy died in bringing good and
comfort to the district where he was in India and not
blood.
I am going to write a word for Christmas to your dear
kind wife.  This will wait you at Bedford Street till
you go back to business again. In the meantime may
every good thing attend you at this season and all
seasons.
To Mr W. Blackwood.             WINDsoR, 26t December... Christmas is just over with all its many memories,
and I am glad of it. It will not have been very merry for
you, and it is the worst of such anniversaries that they
bring so strongly before us the consciousness of every
empty place. Accept. my best wishes for the new year
on which we are so soon to enter, and give my kindest
messages to your mother and sisters. I trust Mrs Blackwood, surrounded as; she is with the devotion of the good
children who remain to her, is strengthened to bear the
griefs of which I know she has had no small share. And
let me congratulate you, on the other hand, on having got
so bravely and prosperously through the first year of your
great responsibility.  It does not seem to me that the
Magazine has suffered in the least, and that is a very great
deal to say, and must give all concerned great confidence
for the future....
It seems to me. while I write that probably you will.
be in London for: George Eliot's funeral.  How sad it
is!... There is something very solemn in the thought
of a great spirit like hers: entering the spiritual world
which, she did not believe in.  If we are right in our
faith, what a blessed surprise to her!




188o.]           A SOLDIER'S DEATH.                 293
14 VICTORIA SQUARE, GROSVENOR GARDENS, S.W.,
22fd September.
S..  read with sad interest the references to your
brother's1 battery in the 'Times' this morning. If indeed he fell among his men so, it was a soldier's death,
and one to call forth more envy than pity. " Here where
men sit and hear each other moan " it is fine to thitk of
a career so bravely accomplished.
1 Killed at Maiwaid.




294,


LETTERS.


[i1881.


i88iI.
The following letter to Mr Craik is interesting, as
expressing certain very strongly held opinions about
what are called society papers. Messrs Macmillan had
some thoughts of publishing a weekly paper, with Mrs
Oliphant as editor.
To Mr Craik.                      WINDSOR, 7anuary 29.
I wonder how it would answer if a (I do not say the)
projected new paper were got to be somehow under the
patronage of the Queen? The idea has just shot across
my mind, and I don't know if anything could be made of
it, or if even that patronage could be secured. But I am
sure her Majesty must feel (as she is one of the chief
sufferers) the iniquity of these society papers which we
would essay to combat on their own ground.
I should like very much to attempt some social sketches
of an impersonal kind in the style (con resfietto parlando) of
the 'Spectator,' by which one might do all (I think) that
the gossip papers pretend to do, without the gossip.
How I might succeed is another question, but I should
like to try.
And, I think, that a sort of creaming of the foreign
press might be done, so as to give the public the chance
of seeing what different parties say abroad of themselves,
which is what it is most difficult for dwellers at home to
know.
There are a great many other matters which would
enter into the constitution of such a paper, or weekly
magazine as you suggest, if you are really going to
entertain the idea, which it would be a pleasure to
work out in detail. I must say, however, that I don't
think my name would be half so much good to it as that




1881.]


THE ' MAKERS OF VENICE.'


295


of your own firm. With the name of Macmillan to it as
publisher the public would be sufficiently assured that it
was neither to be scandalous nor impertinent.  I see
great capabilities in the social way, while entirely rejecting the vulgar aid of personality: the uses of fiction
have not yet been half exhausted, and its legitimate
licence is large.
This scheme seems to have been entirely abandoned,
and Mrs Oliphant's next work for Messrs Macmillan was
the ' Makers of Venice,'-a book which, however laborious it was in actual execution, gave her infinite pleasure
in the collecting of materials.
To Mr W. Blackwood.
27 WELLINGTON SQUARE, OXFORD, ist March.
S.... I am having a great pleasure to look forward to.
I am going to Venice to prepare for a companion volume
to the Florence one. I have just arranged about it, and
will start in about a month, for a month's stay in that
city of enchantment.
I congratulate you heartily on. the prosperity of
' Maga.' You know I have borne a most delighted testimony all along to the way in which you were keeping up
the old standard. It is a great pleasure to see it and no
small triumph.
Mrs Ritchie's book will be delightful, and is sure to
have a great sale. It is not only Madame de Sevign6,
but it is thoroughly Sevign6-ish.
About the ist of April Mrs Oliphant started for Venice,
taking with her her younger son and the cousin who has
been frequently mentioned. A little group of acquaintances gathered about her on her arrival, of whom the
most notable were Mr Henry James, the novelist, and Mr
Holmes, the Queen's librarian, who had undertaken to.




296


LETTERS.


[i88i.


make drawings for the illustration of the book.  The
weather was not very kind, but there were a good many
fine days, and most delightful expeditions were made in
search of notable or interesting spots. A sail to Torcello
was one of the best of these, and among the shorter ones
was the quest for the house of Marco Polo, which was a
real voyage of discovery. After staying for a time at the
hotel the little party moved into lodgings on the Riva dei
Schiavoni, and had an entirely new and amusing experience. After a fortnight, it must be confessed, they were
glad to. return to.more sophisticated ways of life, but the
whole time was full of charm and interest. They moved
on from Venice to Verona, Florence, and Paris, staying a
day or two at each, and reached England early in May.
To Mr Blackwood.                  WINDSOR, I7th May.
You will think me a most frightful nuisance, I know.
Here I have a heartrending appeal from --, whose son
I introduced to you some time ago, and who sent you
some MS. She says, "The long silence, I feel afraid,
bodes no good "-it is an anguish of mind to her. She is
afraid that bad news will come when her son is abroad.
"I wish,' says this poor lady, we could know the worst
before my dear son is so far away that every pang will
be the deeper." Stony -hearted editor, can you resist
this
She thinks what he writes is so beautiful and himself
so clever. Dear, dear! I wish I could have such an
exalted opinion of my boys. But you will please to be
so: very kind as to put her out of her pain, poor lady. I
hope it may be the best instead of the worst that they
have to hear. I warned them that a conscientious editor
cannot be expected to reply instantly to everybody that
writes to him, but her six pages of eloquence have overwhelmed me. I am sure you will think me an intolerable
bore, so. that is all I shall have for my pains.




i881.] A WONDERFUL PIECE OF WORKMANSHIP.


297 -

Laurence Oliphant and his wife are with me to-day.
He. tells me he is about to begin something in the Magazine, which I am very glad to hear.  She is a very
charming young woman. She has taken a little house in
this neighbourhood, where she is going to stay till he
comes back from America.
It was always a subject of regret to Mrs Oliphant's
friends that there was no good likeness of her.- She
photographed very badly, and indeed only colour could
have shown the beauty of her eyes and complexion. But
she would never have herself painted,, and the drawing
alluded, to in the following letters was the first ever made
of her.
WINDSOR, 15th?uly.... I am dreadfully sorry not to send to you the next
number of the Autobiographies with this. I thought I
would send you a short paper on Gibbon. It is half
done, but I am entirely taken off work by the dreadful
business of sitting for my portrait, which Mr Craik (of
Messrs Macmillan) has asked me to do for him. The
artist, Mr Sandys, who has just finished a very fine head
of Matthew Arnold, is here, living in my house, and
taking a great deal' out of me. This joined to the heat of
the weather has made me very late. If it is not too. late
I will try to send it to you by Tuesday. Will that do?
I hope you are having in Scotland the same steady
brilliancy of weather that we have here, but here it is
altogether enervating.  Yesterday, with everything we
could do to. secure coolness-venetian blinds closed and
every precaution--I " sat" in a temperature of 800,. and
to-day it promises to be hotter still.
To Mr Craik.                       WINDSOR, 7th 7uly.
Mr Sandys' work is going on admirably. He is making
a most beautiful drawing, the most wonderful piece of




298


LETTERS.


[1881.:


workmanship I ever saw. He applauds me as a sitter,
and intends, I hear, that this should be the best drawing he has ever made. The likeness everybody seems.
to consider very satisfactory. To me it becomes very
touching from the fact that every day it is more and
more like my mother, of whom I have no good likeness.
WINDSOR, 2Ist uly.... I should give up my house here if I could, but the
lease is a hindrance, and it is very difficult to let houses
here. I have been in town to-day with my little Denny
to see Dr Wharton Hood about her arm. Mr Sandys
gave me a holiday, as the picture is just done-only an
hour or two's work required about the dress....
The drawing is quite beautiful. It seems to me much
more dignified and imposing than I ever was, or could
be,; but barring this size and grandeur, which Mr Sandys
seems to me to give to all the heads he draws, it is considered an admirable likeness, as well as the most
beautiful piece of work I ever saw. I believe he intends
to take it up to town to-morrow, and I hope you will
allow me to have it photographed for the benefit of my
immediate friends.
I am sure your kind heart will be a little troubled
about me. Don't be so. I am very sanguine and buoyant by nature, whence some woes and a great deal of
consolation. I daresay my enforced idleness under Mr
Sandys was the thing that drove me to despair, and I
shall be better when I am at work again.
Unfortunately this drawing, though no doubt a fine
piece of workmanship, is not a good likeness. Possibly
the mood of depression so unusual to the bright nature
of his subject reacted on the artist. She was certainly
at this time in great and cruel anxiety.
The next letter is addressed to the mother of the
present Editor of 'Maga.'




i88i.]


EDINBURGH REVISITED.


299


BINNY, Sept. 6.
MY DEAR MRS BLACKWOOD,-We arrived here quite
comfortably last night, having had time to do all we
wanted in Edinburgh, where by good luck we had beautiful weather, the sun shining, and the Old Town looking
its best....
It is difficult to find words to tell you how much we
enjoyed our stay at Colinton and felt your kindness in
every way. I knew of old what a kind and genial house
yours was, but it is a great pleasure to renew the knowledge. Both Cyril and I will always think of our visit
with the greatest pleasure, and I can only thank you and
your dear girls and excellent son for all your kindness
to us. It does one good to be allowed to form part of
such a household even for a little time, and I feel thankful that my careless boy, who has the gift of always
appreciating excellence when he sees it, should have had
the benefit of knowing Mr Blackwood at home. There is
nothing that does a youth so much good.-With love and
many thanks, believe me, dear Mrs Blackwood...
To Principal Tulloch.
[Probably Sept. 188I],
WINDSOR, Saturday night (or rather Sunday
morning, 2 A.M.)
MY DEAR PRINCIPAL,-I was delighted to get your
letter, and now feel much comforted, and hope you will
make progress daily.  It wants patience, and I am sure
you have had a very hard trial to go through in your
banishment and loneliness; but God be thanked that it.
has had its effect, and I hope you will carry out your cure
bravely, and not think of coming away till the doctors
give you leave: as they have been justified in ordering
you this very bitter medicine, it is only fair to let them
get the full credit of their wisdom.
I wrote off to Sir Henry Ponsonby as soon as. I got
your letter. Unless it is promised to somebody, I think
the mere suggestion that you would take this post of His



300.


LETTERS.


[1881.


toriographer should be enough. Is there anything to do?
and is it worth your while?
What do you think of the appointment of the Master of
University to the Deanery of Westminster? It seems a
very curious choice.  Mr Hale and I were regretting
much the other day that you could not have got that.
Mr Hale said boldly,. "They ought to make. the Principal
Dean of Westminster."
Yes, it is evident that I am much stronger than you
are. I fancy that women are stronger than men, after
they get over their special danger, though indeed the
dear padrona is not a case in point.  But think, please,.
if it had been me who had been ill, what would have be-.
come of me?-no income going on whether one could
work or not-no wife to take care of me. You are far
better off than I am in these respects, and, to tell the
truth, I am often tired to death of work and care-always.
work, work, whether one likes or not.  But I am wicked
to complain.
It will be very kind of you to write: and let me know
now and then how you are going on. Tids and I are all
alone at present, living a sort of Darby-and-Joan life,
which I enjoy much.
I am going to write to Sara, so I need not send her any
messages. We start for Scotland on Monday morning.
-With very anxious wishes for your complete recovery,
dear Principal, ever affectionately..
Letters such as the two following give an idea of the
wide range of reading and of interests which Mrs Oliphant
always, maintained even in the heaviest press of solid
work. She almost seemed to know books by instinct.
To Mr Blackwood.                  WINDSOR, 271/ October.... For a New Books article I am somewhat divided
in my mind between an article on Travels-including
Miss Bird's books Mrs Scott Stevenson's ' Ride through




"THE OPEN DOOR."


30o


Asia Minor,' and Du Chaillu's new book on Scandinavia,
which ought to make an excellent article-or Philosophical Romance, taking up Mallock's last production, the
"Romance of the Nineteenth Century,' and 'Clifford
Gray'-or an article on French and English novels,
taking up two or three of the latter, and Daudet's last
two books, 'Le petit Chose' and a very recent one
called 'Numa Roumestan.' Will you choose between
them and send me which you like? About the ghost
story, I am turning it over in my mind, and' if I find it
likely to work out well, you shall have it in good time.
The idea of the story of the Unseen called " The Open
Door" was suggested to Mrs Oliphant by part of the
grounds belonging to Colinton House, near Edinburgh,
where Mr Blackwood was then residing.
WINDSOR, 20'th December...I am very glad' that Mr Langford likes "The Open
Door," and delighted that you are satisfied with your
New Year number. The Magazine has been so successffil during the last year that I have no fear of your keeping it up to the highest level.
The English books that I thought of taking up as a
balance to the French ones are 'John Inglesant' (a very
remarkable book), the '"Portrait of a Lady,' and "Clifford
Gray,'-these are all that occur to me at the moment,
and I have got them all. I will tell you of any others I
think of.
I am not going to mix up my Christmas good wishes
with business, so I shall write again.-With once more
many thanks.
To the Misses Blackwood.       WINDSOR, Toth November.
DEAR BESSIE AND EMMA,-I feel so startled and overwhelmed by the sad announcement I have just seen in
the papers, that I have no words to say to you how I feel




302


LETTERS.


[D881.


for you and how deeply I grieve in your grief. I feel
more thankful than I can say that I saw so much of your
dear mother this autumn, and so entirely renewed the
affectionate regard which I had always felt for her. How
kind she was! how thoughtful and good to everybody! I
wish I were near enough to go to you and cry with you,
dear girls.  God bless you.  I cannot say any more.Yours in deep sympathy and affection.
To Mr Craik.                    WINDSOR, 20/ol December.
Your letter is exact to the terms we agreed upon, and
I shall preserve it as my guide,-many thanks.
Let me wish you all kinds of good things for the season,
I feel myself so struggling upon a stormy sea, so wildly
afloat, and sometimes so little hopeful, that I am but a
poor sort of raven to croak out good wishes.  There are
times when life is specially hard; but though you are safe
and happy, you are not one of those who hug themselves
upon their comfort and enjoy their peace all the more
for the roar of the storms outside in which others are
battling. Many thanks for the helping hand you have
always been ready to hold out to me, and I pray that you
may have for your share full measure, heaped up and
running. over, of all that is good and best, both now and
always.
Entreat Mrs Craik in my name to come and bear me
company in Mr Sandys' gallery. I don't think it is quite
proper that I should be there-alone. He is a dreadful
tyrant, it is true, but it is only once in a way. I do hope
she will be persuaded to sit. I feel sure he would make a
beautiful piece of work of her. Will you greet her affectionately in my name, and give her my kindest and best
wishes for the New Year and all years?




.1882.] THE MAKING OF A LITERARY HISTORY.


303


1882.
The work here referred to is the ' Literary History of
the End of the Eighteenth Century.'
To Mr Craik.      -              WINDSOR, Ist February.
I can scarcely tell youx how pleased I am by your letter
to-day.  I have scarcely had time myself to read the
proofs, but I was quaking a little about them, and was on
the point of writing to ask what you thought of them. If
your opinion is so satisfactory about the first volume, I
feel encouraged about the rest, which go upon fresh
ground. I was half afraid of the many recent publications about Cowper, Burns, and the elder race. I have
the second volume ready to send you, but the labour in
preparing it has been immense, not only from the number
of people to be taken up but from the difficulty of getting
the books. I torment the London library people, and
have to wait, and to suffer, and to get all my notes confused by the sudden impossibility of getting exactly what
I want at the time I want it, which is very bewildering.
It is almost impossible to get everybody into his or her
proper niche, and I am afraid the process of adding and
dovetailing, as one after another turns up, will be a
tedious business. The Wordsworths, &c., are very delightful work-one knows them by heart and knows what
one thinks about them; but imagine me floundering
among Godwin's set, all the grimy citizens of the end of
the century and all the novel-writers! This is the real
labour of the book. Pray, pray, say exactly what you think
about the work-you cannot be too candid, nor can you
do me a greater service than by mentioning every objection that occurs to you. About Wordsworth, I am very
glad that the tide is turning again, but I think it had




304


LETTERS.


[11882.


fallen a little.  I meant to represent the needle of the
popular compass as just trembling on the turn.   It is
curious how this return of appreciation begins really to
tell upon Scott. I have not the least objection to cut out
what I have said about Ruskin-probably I should have
done it of myself, though to say it was a relief to my
miid for the imoment. Vou know that an Pltterance of
the kind clears one's bosom, even if one throws it into
the fire the next moment.
I wonder if you could lend me, or give me, a copy of
the did edition of Gilchrist's ' Blake'? Not the gorgeous
new one you showed me, which is too good; and have
you any of those men1 of the beginning, of the century?
This is vague, but I speak in a kind of despair, for their
name is legion. I do not believe you will get clear of vime
under four volumes. Is this very alarming? I must have
a chapter on Robert Hall and the Dissenters and the
Slave-trade people, before I get on to Byron and the
upper classes, which. I am eager to be at.
But, oh my dear Mr Craik! how much easier to spin a
novel than- to read and read--so much that there is very
little interest in reading! I have had twice a little brief
attack of what I believe people call overwork-a whirring
and whizzing in my head which has cormpelled me to lay
it back upon a cushion and do nothing for a' whole day.
You will have to send me to Venice at Easter to do that
book arid relieve my mind!
I will bring you the second volume as soon as I can spare
a few hours to come to town. In the meantime I have
had to leave a little gap at Mary Wollstonecraft, in the
impossibility of getting, a glance-I want no more-at
her books.
This year Mrs Oliphant took her holiday in Scotland.
Her friend' Miss FitzMaurice was of the party, with Cyril
and the two nieces, who were now beginning to fill the
1 Dr Moore's 'Zeluccb,' Hope's,'Anastasius,' Combe's 'Dr Syntax,' &c., &c.




r8S2.]


HIGHLAND HOSPITALITY.


305


place of daughters in the family. Cecco was in Devonshire reading with a clergyman, and one or two of his
letters, or rather extracts from them, are inserted here.
There could hardly be any true representation of Mrs
Oliphant's life which did not show the close and intimate
friendship that existed between the mother and son. He
never ceased as long as he lived to tell her everything
that interested him.
Mrs OliVhant to F. R. Oliphant.
INVERCLOY HOTEL, ARRAN, 29th August.... We came here last night.... We had a terrible
voyage here. The morning was grey but fair, and we
started at eight o'clock for Helensburgh, hoping for good
weather; but after we left Greenock it began to rain, and
literally poured till we got here in bucketsfull.  There
was a large cabin, but it was crammed full and no windows open, so that it was very stuffy and various people
sick. We went on deck accordingly, in mackintoshes and
umbrellas, but got drenched notwithstanding, and passed
through the Kyles of Bute without seeing anything but a
few misty ghosts of hills. When we got here, after threequarters of an hour of rather strong sea, it was found
that my special boxes had gone astray, and on the return
of the steamer from the further stations on the island,
Tiddy and I rushed down to see after them. We lost
each other, however, on the pier, and while he secured
them, going on board by one gangway, I rushed over to
the steamboat by another, and was carried off again, with
only a light cloak on, and not a penny in my pocket.
Fortunately they touch at Corrie, another place on the
island, where we were landed in an open boat, and I
made my way to the inn, and was received with open
arms by a delightful landlady, who wrapped me up in
her own fur cloak, gave me a cup of tea, and sent me
over here in a waggonette, lending me money to pay the
U




306


LETTERS.


[1882.


boat, &c. When I asked about the hire of the waggonette, she said, " Never mind. Hoot, ye'll be coming this
way again," all this without even knowing my name. I
got back all right and got dried, but was very cross, till
consoled by this charming landlady, whose name is Mrs
Morrison of Corrie-make a note of it should you ever
be in these parts.
F7. R. Oliphant to Mrs Oliphant.
IVYBRIDGE, Sept. I8.... My work is progressing slowly.   In fact, the
slowness is a more distinguishing characteristic than the
progress. However, if he will go on with Aristotle and
Plato, which I am going over at present, I shall not mind
my work so much, but Heaven deliver me from the English
philosophers and Kant! I have just been reading Heihe's
' De l'Allemagne,' a very amusing book, where, speaking
of the influence of Kant's system  in literature, &c., in
Germany, he says, "Par bonheur, elle ne se m6la pas de
la cuisine."  This is my only consolation. The philosophy which colours everything, even in my walks, and
reappears in a chaotic state in my dreams, exerts no
baneful influence over Mrs Creed's cookery. But, alas!
we have eaten our last grouse, and there remains but one
partridge. We have lately received several presents of
game, but I fear there will be no more. The vicar has
rather a good system with regard to game.   When in
want of some, he sends to some one of his young Christian friends who is likely to have some to dispose of, and
tells him to remember that beautiful text in the Psalms,
"The daughter of Tyre shall be there with a gift, like as
the rich also among the people."...
Sepl. 22.
4.. I am at present engaged in teaching the dachshunds music.... I do the solo parts, Herzenfreude
takes the soprano in the chorus, Volga the alto, and
Kauffmann and Moleskin the bass, while an obbligato




1882.]  A TRIUMPH OF MIXED METAPHORS.


307


accompaniment is supplied by a vagrant hen (we don't
keep poultry) who has established a nest in the bushes
in the corner of the garden, from which Mosalinda has
stolen all the eggs.  The dogs like music better than
philosophy, though that also interests them.  I discoursed to Moleskin the other day upon the theories of
Kant, and he was much interested, but he said Herzenfreude had stolen a bone from the kitchen and he
wanted to take it back.  He is a dog of very high principles. The bone was afterwards found in his kennel,
but he says that Kauffmann put it there.... I think
this extract from a western newspaper pretty nearly
beats the record (slang again) for confusion of metaphors:
"He [Sir Stafford Northcote] is a statesman, the blaze
of whose parliamentary escutcheon has never yet been
dimmed by the bar-sinister of inconsistency." What do
you think of that?
Oct. 29.... Kauffman has gone up to Oxford to matriculate
at Keble College, where he is to live with a Mr Moore,
a don. His last appearance here was in a council of war
held by me and the dogs with regard to the proceedings
of the black beetles. The other night as I was going
upstairs to bed I encountered on the staircase a very
Arabi of black beetles, who dashed out of his hole at me.
As somebody says in ' Hypatia,' I considered of the
lawfulness of the act, not being a man of blood. Nevertheless, we were on the staircase together, and I smote
him. But my troubles were not yet over.. On reaching
the landing I saw and crushed another beetle, but as I
looked round in triumph a perfect army charged from
under the linen-press, and I retired to my room precipitately. But not for long. In a few minutes I emerged
with my shooting-boots on, and the way I waltzed around
that landing was (to put it in unrefined language) a
caution.  The charge of the Household Cavalry at
Kassassin, the attack of the Highland brigade at Tel-el



308


LETTERS&


[18820


Kebir, was tnothinrig to it. The landing was simply
heaped with the bodies of the slain. But the beetles
were not defeated, and fresh hordes soon made their
appearance, and it was to provide against their absolutely
overrunning the house that I summoned this council.
Present were Sieglinda, Volga, Mosalica,. Kauffmann, and
Moleslkin. I opened the proceedings by a neat speech,
in which I was careful to impress on my hearers that
I was not at war with the black beetles... Finally,
it was decided to present a joint note to Mrs Creed.
on the subject.  Our deliberation seems to have had
some effect, as I observed that last night the black
beetles held a council of the notables on the mat at
the foot of the stairs.  Kauffmann is really a great
diplomatist. During the early part of my stay here he
distinguished himself greatly ir this line. He observed
that his brother, Moleskin, was treated with great
attention by everybody because of his shyness, which
we were trying to overcome, while Kauffman himself, who is a great lump of a puppy endowed with
obtrusive animal spirits, was not the object of any such
devotion. He thought that he too would like to hear the
dulcet accent of the fair Bertie Bidder;, coaxing him to
come and speak to her, and so he at last excogitated a
scheme worthy of Prince Bismarck or M. Alexandre
Dumas. He pfretended to' be Moleskin, Having once convinced himself that that ingenuous youth was safely
occupied with a bone in the garden, he entered the
dining-room with a timid air, and when addressed stood
still and trembled, and turned his ears inside out, after the
manner of his brother. Aided by the close resemblance
between the two, the deception entirely succeeded, and
was not discovered till after some days, during which
we   had  all been flattering ourselves that Moleskin
was becoming civilised at last, while all the time we
had been lavishing undeserved caresses on the wily
Kauffmannf. He is, however, a worthy little dog, and
deserves the esteem of every one for his many good




1882.]  "WE'LL ALL GO A-HUNTING TO-DAY."


309


qualities of heart and head. On the night before he went
away, the vicar, contrary to custom, kept Moleskin in the
house for fear that old Channing, the old groom, would
send him away instead of Kauffmann, which would have
been a great mistake, as Moleskin is far the finer dog,
though his shape is as yet far from perfect..
Nov. i..   Tell Tiddy that ever since I left Westward Ho,,as throughout the-time I was there, I have been unable
to get out of my head the tune of " We'll all go a-hunting
to-day."  But to-day all S. Devon is singing it, for is it
not the great day on which the Dartmoor hounds meet
for the first time? The scene described in the song I.allude to, of the parson hurrying off after a wedding
service to hunt, would exactly suit the vicar to-day. Today being All Saints' Day-the only saint's day which he
observes-there was an early service before breakfast, a
sort of hunting mass, after which, to save-time, he breakfasted in his cassock, then disappeared for a few minutes,
and returned entirely transmogrified from the priest of
the sanctuary to the sportsman eager for the chase.
When he goes out.cub-bunting he appears in a costume
which is parsonic but shabby, but to-day he was in his
braws, and presented such a fine sportsmanlike appearance that he might have been taken for Mr Mildmay's
underkeeper. To add a.grotesque shade to the proceedings, he has to hurry back early for a funeral at half-past.four, which seems to me a kind of grim satire on the
whole business.
Mrs Oiphant to Mr W. Blackwood.
WINDSOR, 3st October.
I want you to tell me what sort of paper you want from
me for December. There is a foolish story going about
that the Glamis mystery has been cleared up by the
death of an old man, either a criminal or a monster, who
has been living all this time in the secret chamber.  I




3O0


LETTERS.


[1882.


think it is simply nonsense, but it would not be at all a
bad subject for a short story to be called "The True
Story of a Haunted House." Would you like this, or do
you think it would approach too nearly to the supposed
story, or would give the Strathmore family reason to
complain? I don't see that it should do so, and I shall
of course take care to vary the circumstances. 'Or would
you prefer a New Books article, or what?  Give me my
orders, and I will carry them out.
I hope you are better, and resisting the depressing influence of the wet weather. We are in the floods here,
though fortunately our little Crescent always stands high
and dry....
I heard from Mrs Laurence Oliphant the other day,
from an island in the Sea of Marmora which sounds captivating. They seem to be getting along very happily;
but I daresay you hear from Laurence often. I am very
fond of her. By the way, I don't think I have proof of
next number of the ' Ladies.'
WINDsOR, 2nd November,... I wish very much to review Mr Howell's the
American novelist's books with a reference to American
books and magazines., generally. This perhaps would require rather more research and consideration than there
is time for for December, but I should be glad to do it
for January, and to do my best to put these Jacobs of
literature on their true level. I think fashion is going too
far in this respect.
I do not see my way to getting my Leopardi ready before the beginning of the year. Cyril, like all inexperienced writers,, has got a mass of material accumulated
through which at present he is floundering, not seeing
how to get it into bounds; but he is hoping to send the
first portion, which of course he left to the last, ready
soon... We concluded, I think, that one volume more
would be enough, which I thought I might perhaps do
myself; but if you think that would be too much of me
at the end, we might-look out for another. I thought of




1882.1]


MAGAZINES AND FICTION.


31I


the Great Preachers of France, taking Bossuet and FeneIon. This, I think, would complete the twenty volumes.
Of course if Sir Theodore could be got to do that Heine
instead, it would be much better.
WINDSOR, Ist December.
Leslie Stephen, as you will know, has retired from the
'Cornhill,' and Mr Payn the novelist has got it. He
writes to me that he means to make it more popularthat is, to have more fiction in it, which I think is a mistake; but, however, as it is favourable to my own trade,
I have no right to object. I think you are very wise,
however, not to yield to temptation in this way. I have
not had time to look at this month's Magazine yet....
I am looking out upon a fog which one could cut with
a knife, though it is white, not yellow-bluish like those in
London, and am perfectly stupid with cold in the head
-most uninteresting of maladies. I loathe this time of
the year: when we have turned the corner of Christmas
one can bear it better. I am very glad to hear you have
recovered your vigour, but hope you will be careful about
that dangerous delight of hunting.




312


LETTERS.


[1883.


1883.
KIn the beginning of this year Mrs Oliphant was in
great anxiety, caused by Cyril's health. Two or three
-very alarming attacks of illness had followed each other,
and Sir Andrew Clark had given a most serious report
of his condition. In April 'his health was sufficiently
re-established for him to accept an appointment as
private secretary to Sir Arthur Gordon, who was going
out to 'Ceylon as Governor. There was to be a delay
of some months, however, and in the meantime Cecco
went to Gbttingen to study German, with a view to
the examination for 'the British Museum, which he
hoped to pass.
The family met again at Heidelberg in autumn, and
only came back to England shortly before Christmas.
To Miss Annie Walker.              WINDSOR, 14tk April.... I don't remember even if I wrote to you that Dr
Clark made, what it seems is his usual' concession,...
that Tids had made a remarkable improvement, and that
he now thought he might say that with care he might
shake off the complaint entirely. I hope I told you this,
but I can't remember. If not, forgive me. We are such
wretches, so much more ready to distress our friends with
our troubles than to communicate our relief.
I am annoyed and distressed to tell you that Longmans
found your article too serious and long.... You must
not think you are alone in this sort of thing. The spirit
moved me to write a little trifle with which I daresay
you might have been amused, about a meeting of a
newly deceased literary person in Limbo with Carlyle




i883.] "POWERFUL TRUTH-SEEING IMAGINATION."    313
and Bishop Wilberforce. Longmans rejected this on the
score that his readers would not understand it, though
he politely added that he could not "go for" (as the
boys say) Mr Froude in the way I wished to do. I then
sent it to Mr Payn of the ' Cornhill,' who says his readers
would not look at such a thing unless they had a known
name to it. Wise men both! but you see I am a companion in misfortune...
It is settled about Tids and Sir Arthur Gordon. He
is to go out with that potentate as one of his private
secretaries, with something between two and three hundred a-year. 'I suppose a private secretary lives with
his chief, or it would not lighten my purse much to
make such an arrangement. However, I think the value
of the practical work for him is everything, and the entire
change of scene an advantage too.
Mr A. W. Kinglake to Mrs Oliphant.
28 HYDE PARK PLACE, April'22.
MY DEAR 'MRS OLIPHANT,--I cannot 'help venturing
to express the admiration with which I have been reading the 'Lover and his Lass.' It is by your powerful,
truth-seeing imagination, and not by what pedants are
prone to describe as "analysis" of character, that you
enchant us. I 'know of nothing equal to the budding
of affection in the'heart of little Lilias which you enable
one to see. The language seems to me beautiful, and
I say this after having redoubled my enjoyment of some
of the passages by reading them slowly. I delight in
the Scotticisms. They all conduce charmingly to one's
knowledge of the people presented to us.
I "pitied myself," as they say in Cumberland, when
I got to the end of the book; but I hear of the 'Ladies
Lindores' in a way that promises me pleasure to come.
I say "to come," for I never read a novel that I know
will delight me until it reaches the completed form.
Forgive my intrusion, and believe me, my dear Mrs
Oliphant, most truly yours,     A. W. KINGLAKE.




3i4


LETTERS.


Ci883.


To F. R. Oliphant (at Gdttingen).
WINDSOR, August 18.
MY DEAREST CECCO,-I can't tell you how glad I am
to get your letter, which has just come, and to see that
you have got on so well.
I certainly don't know any male creature who writes
such satisfactory letters as you do, really telling one what
one wants to know.
Now about my own proceedings.    I had a terribly
hot and tiresome journey down the Rhine. At Cologne,
where I rested a few hours, I was cheered by getting
your telegram, and my journey home was tolerably comfortable.  A  sleeping-carriage, which I had at first
thought of, proved impossible; for why?-it was taken
up by men, so that even if there had been room, it
would have been impossible for a woman to have any
share, which I think is rather hard.  I had, however,
a carriage to myself, which was as good, though involving so many francs to a succession of guards that
the sleeping-carriage would have been on the whole
cheaper. At Brussels, at the first station we came to,
I got out on the score of the vingt minutes d'drret, and
was left behind by my train! But fortunately it had
only gone on to the Midi station, and after sitting for
an hour and a half-5.30 to 7-watching the Flemish
folk crowding to the early trains, I got on and recovered
my carriage and all my belongings again, for I had
left everything, even my boots, in the carriage...
I always feel very lost when your room is vacant, the
blank is so very evident and always affects my imagination, besides the want of you in other ways.
God bless you, my dearest boy.-Your loving mother,




1884.]


' DAVID ELGINBROD.'


315


1884.
Mrs Oliphant began this year in a house which had
been lent to her in Hans Place, and which was convenient, both because of Cyril's preparations for going to
Ceylon, and of the marriage of her cousin,- which took
place in London. Cyril started on January 29th. Mrs
Oliphant and Cecco came on straight to Italy, vid Lucerne and Milan, to stay at Bordighera, and later ending
with Venice. She made at Bordighera the acquaintance
of Lady Cloncurry and her daughter, Miss Lawless, and
this proved the beginning of one of thewarmest friendships of Mrs Oliphant's later years.  She saw also at
this time a good deal of Mr and Mrs George MacDonald.
George MacDonald's first book, or at any rate his first
successful book, 'David Elginbrod,' had been published
many years before by Messrs Hurst & Blackett, at Mrs
Oliphant's warm recommendation. She always spoke of
it as a work of genius, and quoted it as one of the
instances of publishers' blunders, for when the MS. came
to her it came enveloped in wrappings that showed how
many refusals it had already suffered. ' John Inglesant'
was another typical case of the same blundering-less
important, however, to the author than the former one.
To Mr Craik.             44 HANS PLACE, S.W., January.
I don't know why people should be so anxious to add
to my age. I am quite old enough without any addition.
I protested in the case of Mr Henry Morley's Tauchnitz
book, and also as to an American one, but I did not




316


LETTERS.:[i884.


know I had the honour of being included in the ' Men
of the Time.'
According to my father's family Bible I was born on
the 4th of April 1828-I understand that is legal evidence.
I think I have heard that I was baptised in Tranent parish. I must write for a certificate, so as to crush the
gainrisayers.
Thank you for taking so much interest in the matter...
I hope the rest of Professpr Nichol's Literary Facts are
more reliable. If I had done this, how all the critics
would have fallen upon me!
When Mr and Mrs Craik were going to Rome, Mrs
Craik asked if she could undertake any commission. This
letter is Mrs Oliphant's answer.
To Mris Craik.                          February 19,
DEAR MRS CRAIK,-Only to make a little pilgrimage out
to the sacred place where my darling lies by her father's
side--that is all. You knew him too. Yes, I remember
as if it were yesterday you sitting by my bedside holding
that miracle of Heaven, my firstborn. What dark waters
since then one has waded through!
Don't be nervous, dear friend, only take this one precaution. Carry a shawl with you for yourself and the child,
and when you go into one of those ice-cold churches out
of the warm Italian sunshine put it on. The cold is indoors, the warmth out.
I enclose a note for an old artist acquaintance who once
lived in Capo le Case, close to the Via Sistina, and will be
heard of no doubt at Spithoever's, an old Roman who
knows all about the place. Her husband is an American,
a painter, she a sculptor-neither at all distinguished, but
in her own particular way she might be of some use. All
my friends in Rome have died out. I know absolutely
nobody now, except one kind dear fellow, whom indeed
I scarcely know, who watches over my little sanctuary in




1884-1


MEMORIES OF ROME.


317 -

the English Cemetery with a delicate sympathy which
that dear people has the secret of.  He is the Marchese
Landolfo Carcano, and lives, when he is in Rome, at the
Palazzo Carcano, Via dei due Macelli. If you should
meet him or hear anything of him, make friends with him,
please; but I think most likely he may not be in Rome
just now.
Do you know the W. W. Storys?    They are good
people to be acquainted with. I could easily get you an
introduction to them if you like.
I hope-nay, I am sure-you will enjoy it when you are
there. I wish I were going with you. "Buon viaggio,
felice ritorno," as our old Capri friends used to say.
The custode at. the Cimeterio Inglese will show you the
place.
7th March.
MY DEAR MRS CRAIK,-Enclosed I send you a letter
to Mr Story from William Blackwood. I don't know the
Storys myself, but they are intimate with the Blackwoods.
I hope you have got over your journey comfortably,
and that you may get a great deal of pleasure out of
Rome. You will take your child to gather violets in' the
Borghese gardens, and watch the sunset from the Pincio
-how well I know what you will be doing. I never did,
much sight-seeing in Rome, but go if you can to Albano,
and to Tivoli, and to the little town on Lake NemiGenzano I think it is called. Nemi is so lovely.
Think of me sometimes walking about those ways,
where I have shed so many tears. My kindest regards to
Mr Craik.
To Mr Blackwood.                   VENICE, 2nd Aril.
I send you my certificate of existence, attested by no
less a personage than the Prefect of Venice, the vice-king
here.  I don't know whether his certificate, which he
thought it better to put into divine Italian, as he does not
understand English, will be received by the authorities at
home, but if not I can send to Windsor to get it done.




318


LETTERS.


[1884 -

My friend, Miss Fitzmaurice, who knows everybody,
especially in Italy, has this great functionary under her
orders, so we are very well cared for; and I have already
made acquaintance with several of the English and
American residents, to whom I had letters, chiefly by
means of Professor Villari, to whom I hope my friends in
Edinburgh will kindly repay his civilities to me.
My object in writing now, however, is to tell you that
we have at length acquired an address, which after so
many wanderings is quite a luxury. I shall be so thankful to have the Magazine.
We have the most glorious weather, and Venice is looking beautiful, notwithstanding the intrusion of the steamboat, which is fortunately as little oppressive as may be.
We are on the Grand Canal, in a tolerable apartment,
after resisting the seductions of a quite lovely little palace,
which tempted me mightily, though too dear.
I have heard from Cyril, who is already up in the wilds
of Ceylon, at a place called Cornegalle, with his Governor, driving elephants! which sounds a very extraordinary first step into Eastern life.
I trust you are all well, and getting no harm from the
east winds.... What a sad, miserable thing poor Prince
Leopold's death is! He was the only one I knew of the
Royal Family, and was always nice and pleasant. Everybody will feel it, I am sure.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.        112 EBURY STREET, ulf 30.
MY DEAR COUSIN ANNIE,-I got your kind letter when
I was in a state of great anxiety about Cyril, who has
come back from Ceylon under doctor's orders, the climate
having proved quite unfit for him. By way of making
me less anxious he did not let me know till the last
moment, and I had to hurry back to meet him. He
had an illness some time ago, of which he made as
little as possible, and I felt at the time that it must
have been more serious than he would allow. It turns
out now that he was very ill indeed, and that after he




1884.]


AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.


319


got so far better he had repeated attacks of fever, and
the doctor declared that Colombo would be fatal to him.
I had a very kind letter from the Governor-much more
explicit, as you will understand, than Cyril would ever
be- to tell me all this.  I got home last Sunday in
consequence, not knowing when the ship would arrive,
which it did on Tuesday morning.   I went down to
Gravesend on Monday night, and so was in time to
board the Cathay at seven on Tuesday morning. I
found him looking better than I had hoped, the sea
voyage having set him up again; but after we got
home here, I was not by any means so well satisfied
with his appearance as at first,... I had taken a house
in St Andrews from the 1st, as we can't get home till
the beginning of September at soonest, and we shall
go on there on the 3oth or 31st. As of course this unexpected return involves me in great expense, I intend
to leave the girls behind; but I think St Andrews is
the best place for Cyril to get up his strength, which
is the first thing for me to think of.  It is a great
disappointment, but that seems my lot in life. In the
circumstances you will see that I can make no answer
but by thanks to your kind invitation.  Some other
time, perhaps, I may have the pleasure of seeing you
in your own house.  I am very tired of my own unsettledness, as you will easily imagine, and would be
most thankful to get home.   I suppose one always
regrets it when one lets one's house, and I hate this
supplementary journey to St Andrews, but it is better
for Cyril to have the bracing air of the North. I miss
you dreadfully here-it would have been such a comfort
to go to S. Place and talk it all over: however, it would
be selfish indeed to regret that, when all is so happy
and well with you.
The girls-and boys too-send their love.  (By the
bye, Cecco has entered the band of critics, and had a
paper in the 'Spectator' the other week, and I hope
will get on in that way.)




320


LETTERS.


[iSS4.


PILMOUR LINKS, ST ANDREWS, Sept. 7.... I have been a month here alone with the boys,
and though they are of course out from morning to night,
I have really enjoyed. it, strolling out upon the sands by
myself with great peacefulness. and. refreshment of soul. It
is half amusing and always interesting to see new developments of this kind in one's self, and I am quite glad to
find that age gives this. pleasure in silence and solitude,
which I had not anticipated. The boys, especially Cecco,
have been very good,, and now and then take me out for
walks; and I have been. much tranquillised and renovated
altogether by my quiet time here, and almost grudge the
modification of it now that the, girls have joined me
again...
They came to me in the middle of last week, so that
now we are all here till the end of the month, when we
shall return to Windsor.  It scarcely feels like going
home, for I have only a year and a half now of my lease
of the house, and probably after that will not continue in
Windsor-that is, if nothing new occurs: of course all
the problems of life may be solved long before that...
The sea is tumbling in with great white waves before
the window where I am writing, and the Links have their
usual Sunday look-very green with the rain. We had a
catastrophe here the other day,. a poor boy drowned bathing at the Step rock, which, though we did not know
him, upset us all very much. Cyril, out all day and golfing, is much better, and has got his ol1 mahogany colour;
but he is still not very strong-much less strong than he
looks.  Cecco is very well, and fatter than. is expedient
at his age.  I have got through the most portentous
amount of work in my long spell of quiet, but have still
an intolerable quantity before me, after the delays and
idleness of our long rambling.
To Mr Blackwood.         19 PILMOUR LINKS, ST ANDREWS.... Do you think you could hear of a collie for me?
I should not like to give much for it, but I have a great




1884.]  THE GLADSTONE FEVER IN SCOTLAND.


321


hankering after one-an honest fellow who has worked for
his living like my dear old Yarrow, not one of the slim
fancy articles.
I suppose you are immersed in odious politics--I get
more sick of them every day. The Gladstone fever is by
far the strongest proof I have heard of the old slander
that Scotland is without any sense of humour. I wish
Lord Neaves was to the fore to immortalise the thirtytwo bites which my grave young acquaintance Edward
Lyttelton has had the solemnity to make known to the
world.
WINDSOR, October 18.
I sent you my big photograph, enclosing one for Miss
Blackwood. It makes me a much more imposing person
than I ever was in reality, but on the whole it has been
liked by most people, though I think the strength of jaw
in it equals Father William's, or Mr Gladstone's, which
is far from being the case in the original.
WINDSOR, 13th November.
I shall return the proof in a day or two, but in the
meantime I want you to tell me whether you would mind
me putting your dear mother's initials, E. B., with the
date, Colinton, 188-, in the little dedication to the " Open
Door"? I forget what the date was, but you could tell
me-the year only, I think, but I should like to put the
name of the place.
Stories of this description are not like any others. I
can produce them only when they come to me. I should
be glad to do one for the New Year number, but nothing
suggests itself. By the -way, a notion has been coming
and going in my mind (I think it was suggested by your
aunt Isabella, to whom I said that it was a thing impossible, but since then the idea has returned to me) of
a monthly article on "Things in General." Should you
be at all disposed for anything of the kind? Short of
politics, I should be inclined to take in everything that
was going on-theatres, pictures, books, even a taste of
x




322


LETTERS.~


[1884 -

gossip when legitimate. What do you think? It might
be made very interesting, though whether I can do it or
not remains to be seen.
The following refers to the short story, "Old Lady
Mary," which was dedicated to the memory of Mrs
Duncan Stewart:
WINDSOR, 3rd December.
You said I was probably preparing something for
Christmas, to come upon you as a surprise. I had no
thought of it at the time, but the enclosed has presented
itself, and here it is if you like it. It wants the strong
effects of "The Open Door" and the others, but still
it may not come amiss. Look at it, and let me knowbut soon, please.
I hope you are better. I am afraid you have too much
to do, which seems the most general malady now, for
everybody is saying that you don't write. I have a
philippic from Lady Cloncurry this morning about the
delay of "Plain Lady Frances." Poor Editor! you can't
do everything, for everybody, at once. Nevertheless I
should like to have your opinion of the enclosed soon.
But if Bessie or Emma will kindly send me your message,
that will do quite well.




.1885.)


GEORGE ELIOT'S ' LIFE.'


323


1885.
To Mr Blackwood.                WINDSOR, 29k 7anuary.
Thank you very much for the 'Life of George Eliot,'
and for the kind and flattering inscription. I am very
glad to have the book, which is as curious a book as
any I ever saw. The personality of the great writer is
as yet very confusing to me in the extreme flatness of
the picture. I don't' mean by flatness dulness, though
'there is something of that, but only that it is like mural
painting or sculpture in very low relief. I have just run
over your reviewer's article and think it very good. He
has most cleverly eluded the difficulties by making a
picture of his own. I don't think that, from the point
of view naturally necessary for 'Maga,' it could have
been better done.
At the same time, I don't think any one will like
George Eliot better from this book, or even come nearer
to her. However, she is a big figure to be taken in all
at once, and may grow upon one. I am glad that I have
'time to consider, should I make up my mind to say anything on the subject.  Would you kindly say nothing
about that, as very likely it will come to nothing? and
even if it does, the excellences of anonymity are always
evident....
Would you care to have a few chapters of my Venetian
'book that is to be for '"Maga'?-they would take the
form of detached biography of the olden time. One I
have in my mind is Carmagnola, a very romantic personage in the beginning of the fifteenth century...
Send me Laurence Oliphant's book, please! I had a
delightful letter from  Mrs L. the other day, and am
pledged to go to visit them next year, when my lease
of this house will be out, and when I shall be a wanderer
on the face of the earth.




324


LETTERS.


[.1885.


WVINDSOR.... Let me congratulate you on the great success of
George Eliot's Life.'  It was bound to be a great
success in a pecuniary point of view, but not in a literary,
I think. It is quite curious how much more interesting
her correspondence with your uncle is than any of her
other correspondences.  He seems to have roused her
out of that ponderousness which must have been natural
to her. It is quite astounding to see how little humour
or vivacity she had in real life. Surely Mr Cross must
have cut out all the human parts.
I have the mother of your correspondent Miss Lawless
-Lady Cloncurry-with me just now. She is the most
charming old beauty of seventy-as bright as seventeen,
and full of fun and cleverness.  It was quite worth a
journey to Italy to make friends with her.
Laurence Oliphant's sketches of the Druse villages are
delightful, but his philosophy is something too tremendous. I am making the most prodigious effort to understand his book, but I have to catch hold of the furniture
after a few pages to keep myself from turning round and
round, and yet the absorption of such a man of the world
as he is in a religious idea has something very fine in it.
I should like immensely to go and visit them, but I fear
I am too old for that sort of thing. When do you come
to London this spring?
Cecco, I believe, has begged to have his story put into
type. Will you kindly let me be at the extra expense,
for I want to give him a lesson in literature in this way,
-this of course strictly between ourselves-but please
humour me.
WINDSOR, 23rd Miarck.,.. I should like to send you something light -for
next month-an account of what is to be seen in London
by people going up in May-the various pictures which
are now being exhibited separately-a few of those in




i885.]


LITERATURE VERSUS ART.


325


the studios preparing for Academy exhibition - the
theatres, &c. Should you care for it? Let me know
at once, if you do.
The next letter refers to Cecco's candidature for the
post of Secretary to the Society of Antiquaries. Failing
the Heralds' College, on which his heart was set, this
was the kind of employment most congenial to him, and
naturally his mother greatly desired that he might obtain it. He did not, however, being probably too young
and too little known; but he was now beginning to
write stories and articles, some of them exceedingly clever
and of great interest to Mrs Oliphant, who was, however,
no lenient critic of her son's work.
WINDSOR, 2ISt,dy.... I enclose a list of the Council of the Society of
Antiquaries. There are not many distinguished names.
I know Mr Evans the President, Lord Carnarvon the
late President (who has now too much to do, I fear,
to take any trouble about this), and very slightly Dr
William Smith, but none of the others.   Please help
me if you can. It appears that the appointment is more
important than we supposed, and that many good men,
of much longer standing than Cecco, are in for it, so
that success is extremely unlikely. Still it can do no
harm to try. Cecco was rather idle in his Oxford career,
and did not do so well as he ought to have done; but
I am happy to say he sees the folly of that sort of thing
now, and is as determined to get work and to get on
as I could desire, as well as being my almost constant
companion and the greatest help and comfort to me...
Here is a story on the best authority, told to the man
who told it to me by one of the guests. At a great
dinner-party lately the Prince of Wales took it into his
head to inquire into people's incomes.  He asked Sir




326


LETTERS.


[i885.


Henry Thompson what a great doctor might make a
year, who answered ~15,000; then he asked (I think) Sir
Henry James what a great barrister could do, who replied
z2o,0oo. Then the Prince turned to Millais and asked
what a great painter could make: Millais said [25,000.
The Prince took it as a joke, whereupon Millais explained.
"For the last ten years," he said, " I should have made
40,000o had not I given myself a holiday of four months
in the year: what I did actually make was [30,000, so
that I gave an estimate considerably under the fact"!
What do you think of this? It will be a long time before
an author makes half so much, at least nowadays. George
Eliot, I suppose, must have been almost the highest in
our day.
The next letters are addressed to Principal Tulloch,
and refer to his dedication of 'Movements of Religious
Thought' to Mrs Oliphant.  She was greatly pleased
and touched by this proof of affection from so old and
well-loved a friend. She would have valued it perhaps
even more could she have known that it was the last
of his long series of literary work.
To Princi5pal Tulloch.           WINDSOR, 4t1 Augmst.
MY DEAR PRINCIPAL,-I am very much touched and
warmed by your letter. What you propose is a very
great honour to me, one of the greatest possible. It is
not in the least deserved, but as a token of a long and
faithful friendship, the sort of brother- and sister-hood of
so many years, I need not say it will be most sweet to
me....
No, do not send me the letter before it is published,
only don't make me ashamed by saying anything of me
that would imply knowledge I don't possess. Those old
long talks were always delightful, but I am sure there
never was anything on my side save a sympathetic understanding of what you said.




iSS:;.]


A VALUED COMPLIMENT.


327


Thanks from my heart for so kind a thought. Ever
affectionately yours,        M. 0. W. OLIPHANT.
My love to my dear padrona. I should have written
yesterday, but I was kept anxious about Cyril, who was
extremely unwell.  I feared rheumatic fever, but he is
better to-day.
To Principal Tulloch.            ST ANDREWS, October 2.
DEAR PRINCIPAL,-I don't know what to say to you
in reply to the words, more than kind and far more than
deserved, by which you have placed our long friendship
on record. As an outward sign and token of that which
has been so large an element in my life for many years,
it is very delightful and flattering to me, and to feel that
you think anything like so well of me goes to my heart.
I should break down if'I spoke, so I write to say the poor
little return I can for what is at once a great honour and;
an affectionate kindness which touches me to the very
depths. -Your friendship and that of my dearest padrona
have been among the best things in my life, and I hope
it will never, either here or on the other side, come to an
end. With thanks that are beyond words, and the
warmest return of constant and faithful regard, believe
me, dear Principal, affectionately yours,
M. 0. W. OLIPHANT.
To Miss Becssie Blackwood.         ' WINDSOR, October 7.
We got home quite comfortably yesterday morning, a
little cold, and thinking regretfully of the. rugs you were
so kind as to offer us, but still in very good preservation
on the whole. We find the trees still wonderfully green,
and the Virginian creeper in great glory; but the skies
are very much decreased in extent, which is a phenomenon I always remark in returning from Scotland!
I don't know how to thank you for the kindness which
we always experience in your delightful house. It is a
constant pleasure to see you all together in such a per



328.


LETTERS.


[1885.


fect home.  I hope the flowers may bloom and the
animals thrive even better and better year by year.
F.   Oli0phant to Mr Blackwood.
WINDSOR, October 18.
I am ashamed not to have written before to thank you
for your kindness in proposing me for the Scottish Club.
I got in most wonderfully quickly, chiefly through the
kindness of Archie Smith, who took a great deal of
trouble about it and was also very kind, but I have not
yet had the chance of inspecting my new quarters. It
will, however, be a great convenience to me when I have
to be in town. I am at present occupied on an article,
which I hope to have the pleasure of submitting to you,
on the life and works of John Gwillim the herald, not
of course from a technical or heraldic point of view, but
entirely as a gospel for the Gentiles. I think that any
lay reader, however absolutely ignorant of anything.connected with heraldry, would be amused with his book,
-the quaintest combination of learning and ignorance,
philosophy and superstition, that I ever came across,
seasoned with some contemporary scientific theories of a
description calculated to make a modern Royal Society
gnash its teeth and howl with horror.  You spoke of
sending me a revise of the "Grateful Ghosts."  Might I
suggest that the close season for ghosts ends with the
approach of Christmas, and that in December and January
they are considered lawful game?
Mrs 0liphant to Mr Blackwood.   WINDSOR, 2nd December.
I sympathise with you very much in respect to the
obstinacy of Scotland about Mr Gladstone. It is very
strange, and if it brings about disestablishment it will
be very unfortunate. Still you know the upper classes
in Scotland have separated themselves so long from
the people in that respect that they cannot say much.
It has always seemed to me a great misfortune for the
country that the Church of the nation was not the




1885.1


AN ELECTIONEERING INCIDENT,


320


Church of the gentry: that, of course, is a standing
weakness, and I have no doubt lies at the bottom of the
separation in other matters. I trust the Conservative
majority in Scotland will suffice at least to keep Lord
Salisbury in power, and to free him from Parnell, who
is a fearful rock ahead.  I can well understand how
disappointed you must be after all your exertions..
WINDSOR, 27t1I December.
This is just a word to wish you everything that is
good for the New Year.   I hope you are better, and
will begin 1886 in good health and spirits, and that
you may find it a prosperous and pleasant year-the
anno venturo, as the Italians say. I trust too that your
last new contributor, Cecco, will give you and the public
satisfaction, and that this may be the beginning of a long
connection, though I do not think it will be in the way
of fiction.
I am looking forward with interest to Laurence
Oliphant's new beginning.  But this is not intended
for a business epistle, so I stop short with once more
the expression of my kindest wishes...
I wonder if you have heard the delightful story about
Lady Randolph Churchill which is going about. I must
tell you on the chance that you have not heard it. She
was electioneering on behalf of Mr Ashmead-Bartlett,
and some impertinent elector expressed his wish that
ladies conducted their canvassing on the principles prevalent in former times, in the Duchess of Devonshire's
way, in which case he should have been delighted to
promise his vote at once.  "Thank you very much,"
said Lady Randolph, demurely; "I'll tell Lady BurdettCoutts!"




330-9


LETTERS.


[1886.

i886.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.            WINDSOR, 25th 7anuary.
I ought to have written to you long ago, but I am indescribably busy, more than ever, with a batch of proofs
always awaiting me, and other work going on. I have
now the addition of the Venice book to bother me, which
is under weigh, progressing slowly, and requires always
bales of books about,..
I forget whether you know about Cecco's "Grateful
Ghosts." We were discussing the question yesterday,
and Cecco proposed to send you the number of 'Blackwood' containing it by Madge, but I recollect that you
yourself get the ' Blackwood.' He has also a review of
"Two Novels" in the 'Spectator' this last week, so he
is getting his push off into literature. But his soul sighs
for the Heralds' College; he is set upon being Rouge
Croix or Blue - Mantle, but in the meantime not even
Madame de Montalembert, who is interesting herself
strenuously in the matter, has been able to persuade
the Duke of Norfolk to cut off the head of a pursuivant
in order to make room for Cecco. This is unkind of
the Earl Marshal, but these high functionaries have no
bowels....
You will have seen, and you will have felt as I do, the
death of Mrs Laurence Oliphant in Syria. They were
coming home this year for the season, alas! I cannot
think of her as dead, and I am sure that dying never
represented itself to her as death. If she was right she
is more busy than ever somewhere, and nearer to everybody she cared for. But to me it was a great and painful shock to hear of it. Poor Laurence, though he too
will be defended by his belief.




-886.]


DEATH OF PRINCIPAL TULLOCH.
i-.


331 -

To Mr Blackwood.                   WINDSOR, February 8.
I am very much interested by poor Laurence Oliphant's
letter, which I will send you back the next time I write.
I should like to read a part of it to one or two friends of
his here. I quite felt that he would be sustained, as he
says indeed, though I don't share, and even don't understand, their peculiar views. The impression of reality in
all she did and said and hoped for was so strong that I
myself felt something of the same, as if death could not
be anything but a trifling circumstance in the course of
such an immortal creature. I will write to him by-and-by.
Strangely enough, I had just been putting into a little
frame a sweet little photograph of her, very small but very
like, which he sent me before they were married...
On the 13th of February Principal Tulloch died at
Torquay. There never was'a firmer or more affectionate
friendship than that which for twenty-five years had
bound the Principal and Mrs Tulloch to Mrs Oliphant,they were in all soberness a brother and sister to her;
and this loss, almost unexpected, was not one of the
smallest griefs of her much-tried life.
WINDSOR, 16th/ February.
I send you a very small notice, which might go upon
the last page if you can manage it. I will set to work on
an article for April. I don't think I could have done
anything adequate in so much haste, and in all the sad
excitement of the moment. Dear Mrs Tulloch has come
to Eton with Mrs Tarver, and I have seen her to-day.
I don't know how she is to live.   She has known no
existence apart from him for forty years. However, this
I cannot enter into. The Queen has written them such
a letter as makes one love her. I can use no other words.
I will try and get leave to publish it in the article. It is
full of feeling and tenderness.




332


LETTERS.


[i886.


To Mis Hary Coghill.            WINDSOR, 23'd Februtary.
I have had no time to write to you about the great
calamity that has fallen upon the Tullochs, and which
I am sure you will take your full part in, with the rest of
us.... You know something about the repeated illnesses
the dear Principal has had, illnesses which were not
bodily at all, and yet, as we are now told, had gradually
weakened him, so that when real bodily illness seized him
his condition was rather that of a man of seventy-five than
of his real age.... The padrona, travelling night and
day in her state of health, got to him when to all the rest
of the world he was past consciousness. Fortunately he
knew her, and had a rally after her arrival from which
there were some hopes. They say he lay calling "Jeanie,
Jeanie,' until she came, and afterwards, if she was out
of the room for a moment, began this piteous cry again,
but never while she was theit, so he must have felt her
presence at least. Mrs Tulloch, as I have told you, came
here with Sara and remained for five or six days.  She
was very quiet, entirely like herself. She never posed in
her life, and she does not do so now. The Queen went
to see her in the kindest way, remaining about half an
hour with her, and talking, as the padrona said, rather
like " a humble friend " than anything else, and expressing
the greatest affection for him and gratitude. Mrs Tulloch
went away on Saturday morning, going to York to Nettie's
to break the journey. She got there, we hear, tolerably
well, notwithstanding the great cold. She is going home,
I believe, to-day. Think of her arriving there, at the
desolate house, which is her home no longer. I am sure
you will be sorry now not to have carried out your idea
of going to St Andrews on your way back from the Highlands. Dear old St Mary's, a place which it seemed so
easy, so natural to go to at any time, but which we can
now go to never again. The boys went to St Andrews to
the funeral, which seems to have been a wonderful sight.
The Queen sent for me on Saturday, when we had a
long talk-very different from my first audience: this was




1886.]


ROYAL COURTESIES.


333


in a beautiful little room, where she was alone.  She
spoke to me a great deal about the Tullochs and also
about myself, and was very sweet and friendly, hoping to
see more of me, and other amiabilities.  It alters one's
idea of her when she is very pleasant to oneself, and I
saw a great deal in her of the pleasantness which the
Principal used to talk so much about. She seems to have
been really attached to him. I hope there is no doubt
that the dear padrona will get a pension...
To Mr Blackwood.                           March 8.
The Queen was extremely kind and gracious to me,
so kind that all one's little embarrassments about such an
interview went completely away. She talked, of course,.a great deal about the Principal and his family, and told
me about her interview with Mrs Tulloch, which seemed
to have touched her much. She also inquired into my
own movements, and expressed a kindly wish to see more
of me, now that I had definitely decided to remain in
Windsor.
I wish I could tell you one or two political questions
she put to me, but I must not, I suppose.
A few days after this interview we were startled late
one evening by a ring at the bell, and the maid came
upstairs quite excited, carrying a large parcel, which she
said had been brought by " two soldiers from the Castle"!
and which proved to contain copies of Her Majesty's
Journals in the Highlands, the special copy largely
illustrated, which she has to give away, accompanied
by a very pretty note from Sir Henry Ponsonby, evidently
dictated by the Queen, saying that "she is well aware
how humble her efforts are at authorship, but as a true
Scotchwoman the Queen ventures to send them to you."
I thought it right, as I believe she likes to have one's.thanks sent to herself, to write to her, thanking her for
the books, and now I have a. most gracious autograph
letter. In short, my maids are getting quite used to the
sight of the orderly.




'3 34


LETTERS,


D886 -

To Lady Cloncurry and the. Hon. Emily Lawless'.
WINDSOR, 17//t A/arch.
This is the plaint of a much - aggrieved and injured
woman. Why, because I have. a great deal to do- and
want a little consolation, will nobody write to me? Call
you this backing o' your friends.?
i~th March.
Thus was I unburdening- my soul when your letters
came. I don't in the least know to whom. I am writing,
so I will go on 'in the abstract; but, please, when I make
complaints. of being busy, &c., understand that I want to
be sympathised with, petted, and to have pretty letters
wrttn o  e-ot onot to be left alone', which does
not suit. my condition at all.
Having made this protest, let me now answer your
delightful letters received last night. Yes, dear friends,
I will. come with the greatest pleasure, and look forward
to the little holiday. I am afraid I can only stay one
night, but I shall so like to come. Will you have me on
Wednesday or Thursday next?  I have got one of my
odious (and hideous) colds, and I shall hope by that time
-that it perhaps may have begun to work itself out. I
hope the weather has taken a turn. It 'is pretending to
rain a little here, which will be so good for us.
Mrs Oliphant was suffering much at this time from,rheumatism, which made walking extremely difficult and
painful. As her old friend Miss. FitzMaurice was dis'
posed to try the baths at- Wiesbaden, they decided to
go together, acco mpanied by Mrs Oliphant's two adopted
daughters.
To Mrs Harry Coghsill,             WINDSOR, A4UgUSt 2.
*We are, I suppose, just on the eve of leaving, which
you will think rather a queer statement to make. But
-it i's true enough, for I am, going- on preparing more
or less in faith, but not very sure -whether we shall




1886.1


WIESBADEN.


335


not be stopped at the last moment. My purpose in
determining to go to Wiesbaden was very much for
Miss FitzMaurice's sake.... If she is well enough to
start, and her doctor authorises it, we go on Wednesday.
But it still remains doubtful. If you don't hear to the
contrary, you may conclude we have gone, and are to
be found at the H6tel des Quatre Saisons (I really
cannot write the German name), Wiesbaden. Do you
still intend to go up the Rhine on your way to Switzerland?  If so, you should stay a night and see us.
Do you remember being there for a night or two once
many years ago, and how my maid Theodora lost her
own bonnet, and all my collars and cuffs, on the pier
at Biebrich?...
The election must have been very exciting, and in
the end a great pleasure and triumph. You must be
pleased to have a representative in Parliament. We
are much interested in a humbler event, a possible
vacancy in the British Museum, for which Cecco is
held in suspense. He is going probably to Gottingen
to brush up his German, in case he should be nominated.
There is an examination, a limited competition, and
he has never been very happy in examinations. This
coming on makes my arrangement for going to Wiesbaden still less desirable, and Cyril's movements are
uncertain too; so that I do not look with much delight
to the prospects of this week.
Mrs Tulloch has left St Mary's. It seemed rather
dreadful to direct to her to-day 12 Queen Street. They
say she is very tolerably well, and they find the new
house much warmer than St Mary's, which is some
small compensation.
This is a queer budget of news, but I think you will
like to hear before I go away, if I do get away!
The party arrived safely at the H6tel des Quatre Saisons
at Wiesbaden, and after a short stay removed thence
into a very cheerful and comfortable apartment. The




336


LETTERS.


L1886.


baths seemed a success, and, in spite of the tremendous
heat of the weather, the experience might have been
a pleasant one, in retrospection at least, but for one
unlucky incident. A jewel-box, containing nearly every
trinket she possessed, was stolen from Mrs Oliphant's
bedroom. It is true, as she said herself, that she was
not rich in ornaments; but several of the things then
lost were of the utmost value to her-gifts of her husband and of dead friends, or memorials of her little
daughter. There were two or three valuable rings also.
Not one of the things lost was ever recovered.
While his mother was at Wiesbaden, Cecco was making a second stay at Gdttingen, and the next letters
are addressed to him there.
Mrs Oliphiant to F. R. Olifphant.
HOTEL ROYAL, BONN, August 8.
MY DEAREST CECCO,-I have been thinking of you,
and following you all the night, hoping you have had
a good passage..
We had a most amusing companion in the carriage
with us as far as Dover, an old gentleman who informed
us first that he was going to a presentation of colours
at Dover, then that he had governed nearly all our
colonies in succession, then finally that he was Sir
George Bowen, and favoured us with various scraps
of his speeches and verses of poetry, his own and other
people's. No such incident attended our farther journey,
though we had an interesting old lady, the widow of
Moscheles the composer, as far as Brussels...
I hope you will like your journey and like. Gottingen,
my dearest Cecco.    Remember that getting a little
pleasure and health out of it is as much consequence
as any examination. I do hope that you will get rid
of your cough. Speak to Dr Brughill about it.
God bless you, my dearest boy.  I thank Him every




18s6.]


PRINCIPAL TULLOCH'S LETTERS.


337


day of my life that I can have full trust in my Cecco.
Write soon.-Your loving mother,        M. 0. W. 0.
To Mr Blackwood.
7 GIBSON PLACE, ST ANDREWS, II//h Sef.
I feel myself quite without excuse in not writing for
so long a time, but I find my work so thoroughly enough,
if not too much for all my time and faculties nowadays,
that I literally never write a letter when there is any
means of staving off the necessity for doing so. Time
begins to tell upon me in this as well as in other ways.
I was not aware, however, that I had not written in
reply to your letter about the biography. I decided,
from a mixture of many motives, that it was incumbent
upon me to do it, though of course it is not a remunerative piece of work.... The most important letters,
however, will be from Mrs Tulloch, who is working in
the most touching way at her stores, and living over
again her youthful life. I hope it is more sweet than
bitter to her to have the necessity of doing so. She
has given me the first set of letters, dating from '43,
the beginning of their acquaintance, till their marriage
in '45, from which I feel that a most simple and delightful picture of the young man may be made out. She
seems to have kept everything, and as he was often away
from home, there must be a very full record of his life in
his letters. He wrote every day. Poor dear, it is perhaps the best occupation she can have to live through
again the wonderful union which was so complete.
I do not see, however, that it is possible to think of
completing the book before Easter of next year. I don't
think this will be at all too late; indeed I shall have
to bear the impertinence of the critics, no doubt, as to
hurrying into print evidently before the grave is green.
However, I have borne so much at their hands that I
shall no doubt be able to bear that too.
WINDSOR.
I ought to have answered your letter before, but I have
Y


A




338


LETTERS.


[i886.


got to that chronic and helpless stage of busy-ness (do
you know it?) when one does nothing. My mother used
to tell a story of some poor woman whom she found sitting down disconsolately in the middle of a disorderly
cottage, having so much to do that she got hopeless and
did not know where to begin. That's me!
To Mr Blackwood.               WINDSOR, 27th November.
I see by the 'Atheneum' that the Magazine is to be
enlarged (I think you might have told me, but that is
neither here nor there). I wonder whether you would
think well of a plan which has been long in my mind,
and which, if I had ever had a magazine in my own
hands, as I once thought I should, I should certainly
have adopted. This is a standing article upon literature,
a review of all the books of the month worth reviewing,
with admixture of speculation and general comment, as
would be natural,-not merely, however, an occasional
paper like my own of this month, but a regular one, for
which people would look. There is nothing of the kind
anywhere. The reviews are essays on the subject of the
book they nominally review, and I think the series I propose would be a popular one. As you are increasing
your space, you will probably have room to make an experiment or two. I should be glad to undertake this for
you, very provisionally, for three or six months, as an
experiment. I have a very strong feeling that it would
answer.
I do not think the Murray Magazine will be an alarming competitor, so far as I hear. A paper from Matt.
Arnold, and one from Froude occasionally, will scarcely
put life into the array of Arnold hangers-on who will
constitute the rank and file.
F. R. Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.      WINDSOR, Dec. I.
My mother has been very unwell for the last two days,
though with nothing more than a bad cold, I am happy
"to say, and has consequently deputed me to answer you.




1886.]."THE OLD SALOON."


339


She has been trying to make out a suitable list of books
for the first article.
To undertake to read a tragedy is a very serious thing,
but our household is large, and we: might perhaps manage to read to the end of it between us. Then there
is a publication entitled 'Humorous Masterpieces of
American  Literature,' which my mother would be
willing to mutilate and slay, if it were pleasing to
you. I see that forty-five names are given as samples
of the humorists from whose works these masterpieces
are taken. Surely that land must be favoured beyond
all other lands, where forty-five writers have achieved
masterpieces of humour.
Mrs Olipshant to Mr Blackwood.  WINDSOR, iOtk December.
I must throw myself on your indulgence in respect
to the enclosed. I have been interrupted in finishing
it by my cold, which is still very bad.... The Review
article is going on: you will get: the greater part of it by
the 15th if possible. I see my way, I think, to making
a good thing of it, but I very much want a good name.
I should like to call it "The Saloon at 45," or something
of the kind, and begin with a little sketch of that traditionary chamber. But perhaps you would not like this.
Think it over, and if you can hit upon a good name tell
me-"The Table of 'Maga'"? I am at a great loss
for this. I write from bed; but whatever I do I cannot
chase the oppression from my head, which is where it
always centres.
I have got most of the books, but not Dowden's Shelley
as yet. Lord Shaftesbury's Life is interesting-all the
more as showing up the vile fallacy that all help to
working men has come from so-called Liberal hands,
which many misguided people believe.
The name finally chosen for this series of papers was
"The Old Saloon."




340


LETTERS.


[D886.


WINDSOR, 201/ December.... Thanks for the old numbers; they are very interesting, and what vigour in them!-but one could not
speak so strongly now.
WINDSOR, 28th December.
I have been stopped by a little absence from home
from answering your letter.... It seems an excellent
number, with the exception of the short story, which is
not up to 'Maga's' mark. The article on Hayward is
very good. Sir Edward Hamley, I think? I remember
him telling me how dear old Mr Kinglake climbed up
all those stairs to sit with the old man every night,
which was very touching, and impressed me much.
Laurence Oliphant's narrative is most exciting - all
those articles of his have been excellent. You should
get him to begin a new series.   I don't agree about
John Knox with Mr Skelton.     I think he exaggerates
"the share of the Reformers in the destruction of the
churches, though what he says of their destroying the
feeling of sanctity in the Church, and therefore indirectly
"bringing about their ruin, is fine, I think, and probably
true. My own belief is that all the Reformers destroyed
were the images, and decorations of the altars, which
probably were very tawdry affairs, as well as abhorrent
to their new-born zeal. I have strong leanings towards
the Catholic Church in Catholic countries, but I can't
say I should mind purifying a great many altars I know
in John Knox's way. The dolls in their tinselled robes,
which represent the Virgin so often in France and Italy,
are enough to justify any amount of iconoclasm. It was
not John Knox but the horrid eighteenth century which
did the harm. I shall say as much, perhaps, in the most
polite way when the book comes into the old Saloon;
but the articles are very clever, and well worth reading.
I hope with all my heart that you may make a distinct
new start with the new year, and carry ' Maga' far before all competitors, as is her due.




1887.1  ALTERNATIONS OF HOPE AND DESPAIR.


341


1887.
To Mrs Harry Cog-hill.          WINDSOR, 12/ February.
I meant to have written to you at once on getting your
letter, or indeed sooner, on getting your flowers, to thank
you for them; but everything has been put out of my
head by Cecco's illness, which makes me incapable of
any other thought. He has had a cough for some time
which was said to come from the throat; and though it
gave me some uneasiness from time to time, yet, as I was
assured the lungs were quite well, and that it was only
itritation of the throat, I suffered myself to be quieted.
Since Christmas, however, he has been getting very thin,
and' about a fortnight ago he was persuaded, or almost
forced, to put himself under active treatment by a Dr
M., whom he happened to have taken a fancy to-a young
man supposed to be very clever-who came and told me
on Tuesday last quite calmly that it was laryngitis with
a tendency to tubercle, and all that follows. I know you
will feel for me. You will imagine that every moment
since has been spent in watching him,, in thinking of him,
in alternation from hope to despair. He is going to town
to see Dr Maclagan on Monday, and if he is ordered to
go away to the Riviera or anywhere else, I of course will
go with him and at once. How I am to give up my
work and do this I don't know, but I must and will,
unless Providence absolutely forbids. My mind jumps at
everything that is worst and most dreadful, as you will
readily understand.
I don't know how things will shape themselves in face
of this sudden and unthought-of misery. If we have to
go, I will try to let my house in April when the Guards
come. But nothing is clear,-the means even of so far
slackening work as to make my entire attention to him
practicable is as dark as the rest; but it will be made




342.


LETTERS.


[18874L


possible somehow by God's grace, I hope. This is too
miserable a letter to send to an invalid. I am very sorry
you are ill, and hope that it may not be long before you
mend. You will not mind m.' selfishness in writing all
this to you. The comfort is that you will understand.
WINDSOR, 19/t Februaiy.
I have arranged all my little affairs, and we start
on Tuesday. We think of going to Pau, where there is
a golf club, which I think will be a good thing for Cecco.
He is a little better, I think, eating better, and his cough
variable, sometimes not troublesome at all. God grant
that the move may do him good. You know how anxiety
of this kind acts upon me. I am in a suppressed fever,
and can think of nothing else day and night. I watch
every morsel he eats, every varying look and change of
colour. How strange it is! All my troubles, and God
knows they have been neither few nor small, have been
repetitions-always one phase or another coming back,
and that makes it all the worse, for I know how far my
anguish can go.
I will write to you when I have anything good to tell
you. The girls, I am afraid, will be dreadfully dreary left
at home. Should you be in town on your way to Italy,
I hope you will come and see them..
The following are addressed to Mrs Oliphant's adopted
daughters:
H6TEL DE FRANCE, PAU, M arc/ I.
MY DEAREST CHILDREN,-It is your turn to have the
bulletin, and I am writing in the morning before breakfast, Cecco having not yet appeared. We had a tolerable,day yesterday. We were out in the morning, and in
the afternoon he went down alone to the golf-ground, a
long walk, and found Mr M. at once, and was put down
-for the Club... I thought yesterday that through
the whole course of the day he looked a little better;
probably I shall be down into the depths again to-day.




1887.3


A TERRIBLE 'BLOW.


343


I don't think there is any torture in the world like
anxiety: it rends my heart to pieces-I feel it sore in
my breast..
It was very east-windy here yesterday, and cold round
the corners, though the sun is quite hot, and always
blazing: now and then the mountains disappear altogether, and then there is nothing in front of us but a
line of low hills, which will be green a month hence,
but at present are, I should think, less advanced than
the trees in the Crescent. This has a very curious effect
in the blazing sunshine, which feels like summer, while
the vegetation is still all dormant like winter.  The
"links" on Sunday looked like St Andrews Links (I
mean the actual ground, the turf) on a hot summer
day, but still there is not a bud on the trees.  We
noticed the same thing at Nervi, but there were more
evergreens there.
PAU, 23rd March.... We went up-stairs to Mdlle. de Castelbajar's
last.night.  There were about half- a - dozen ladiesMadame la Marquise That and Madame la Comtesse
This--and one gentleman.     The room    very much
crowded with furniture, nicknacks, and pictures, and
two card-tables where everybody except me played
whist; one of the games was honest bumble - puppy
like our own, and great fun; the other serious play,
Mdlle.'s own partie, to which Cecco had the honour
to be promoted. I know that he is considered tres-bien
levi, and that I too am approved of, but less warmly
-this through the maids. Cecco lost 6 francs, but was
amused and will go again, for which I am too thankful.
If Heaven would only send a young man! not too good
at golf.
After Mrs Tulloch's death:
PAU, 30th March.
I have just been writing to Cyril about this terrible
blow, but in the idea that he may possibly have gone




344


LETTERS.


[1887.


to St Andrews before he receives it, I write to you
too, and send you Mr Baynes's letter, which is very
hard to read, but which contains a great deal you
will like to see. It was very kind of him to write so
fully....
I have been trying to say to Cyril that I am glad,-and
so, in a sense, I am. It seems the right thing and the
best thing, but I don't think I shall ever want to go
to St Andrews again. To think one will never see her
sweet worn face again is what I cannot realise.   It
makes it more like a dream   that I should be so far
away. I got a letter from her dated the inth March,
after which she had written to some people to ask
them to call on me here, for Cecco's sake. She wrote
so tenderly and anxiously about Cecco....
I think I told you, however, that when she bade me
good-bye last in St Andrews I was very much struck with
the emotion she showed. She had never before -showed
so much feeling in parting with me, and that was why
I said I would go and pay her a visit in February, which
was stopped by Cecco's illness. She had no heart to live
any longer-and why should she?-her work was done.
God bless her wherever she is now-if we could only
know a little where it is.  The two will be together,
wherever it may be.   Of course you will see about a
wreath. I did the best I could here. I made a little
cross as big as the biggest flower-box I could get, and
covered it with the pale Parma violets, which are so
sweet, and I sent a box of anemones besides..
PAU, 3Oth April.... We are now just beginning to get into the
discomfort of a   move again, after being so long
settled here, and by this time next week I suppose
Lina will be on her way home, our avant couneur.   I
hope Cecco will stand the travelling, and I hope that
I myself may stand it.   I daresay I shall be dreadfully tired of it before it is over.  However, there




1887.]


SPAIN.


345


will be no fatigue for the next week, as the journey to
Biarritz is nothing to speak of. It will cost- that is,
the three weeks will cost-a horrible deal of money,
at which I shiver, but some of it at least will pay, or
so I hope at least. I am working very hard at an article
for the June 'Blackwood' to get it off my mind before
I go away..
Mdlle. de Castelbajar has asked us to dine there on
Monday, as it is our last night. She is very anxious we
should come back next year, and thinks it will be very
ungrateful to Pau, which has done so much for Cecco,
if we don't. I gave her Denny's love, and she was quite
pleased. Nobody could be more kind, and I feel quite
sorry to say good-bye to her. I am to have her photograph. Oh dear! one of my lamps, has just gone out,
and the smell will be insupportabl'e presently. So I must
stop and fly to bed. God bless you, my dearest children.
How glad I" shall be to get home.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.               WINDSOR, 26t&4 May.
Here we are back again with, thank God, the completest reason to be satisfied with the hurried and anxious
step I took with trembling three months ago. Cecco is
to all appearance quite well; his: cough has almost disappeared, and his general health is quite satisfactory.
He has gained in weight, is in perfectly good spirits, and
altogether is quite a different creature, thank God. The
doctor at Pau said that he ought to spend, next winter
again abroad, but it is a long time before that question
need be discussed, and in the meantime I am full of
thankfulness.  We got home on Monday night.     Our
Spanish trip was too hurried, yet we saw Burgos, Toledo,
and Saragossa, all most interesting places, fairly well,
besides Madrid and Barcelona, which are great flourishing
modern, towns, more or less like other places; and the
sight of the country itself, even in the mere course of the
journeys, was very curious and interesting. However, I
need not say the best thing we saw was home, looking




346


LETTERS.


[1887 -

very brighit and full of flowers, for a great part of which
I have to thank you: they gave us the most fragrant
welcome. Cyril and the girls were, I am sure, most
unfeignedly glad to see us. It must have been a very
dark time, especially for Madge and Denny; but they
have been very busy, which is the best way of making
the time pass... Now, I want you to. come to me for
the great week here, the Jubilee. It begins, I believe,
on Tuesday the 2ist, and lasts the rest of the week. I
don't know whether you will be able to get admission
to Westminster, or if you will want to see the procession in town; but at all events I hope you will
come in time for the Queen's entrance into Windsor,
which I should think would be a pretty sight, and
stay as long as you can spare the time, till the end of
the week at least. There are to be all kinds of fetes,
I believe.
In the cheerful and hopeful mood induced by the success of the Spanish journey, Mrs Oliphant was able to
enjoy the festivities of the Queen's Jubilee and the company of the friends who filled her house. Of course she
worked hard all the time, but work never seemed to
exhaust her. "As long as the children were well," as
'she so often said herself, all was well.  But Cecco,
though he had greatly mended for the moment, was
weak, and her fears were only lulled, not ended.
SF. R. Olilphant to Mr Blackwood.    WINDSOR, August i... May I ask what you are going to do about the
Borgia papers?  My reason for asking is that we art
"-just leaving Windsor to spend a month in the Lake
district, and I should like to know whether I ought to
take the manuscript with me and finish the translation
'=now. I am happy to say that I have as much work
as I can manage just now, and in addition to all else,




1887.]1


A PERFECT RURAL SCENE.


347


I have just got my nomination for the British Museum,
and must rub up a great deal of faded knowledge for
the examination, which will be in the beginning of
October.   I am  going to the Lakes to try and get
stronger by that time, so the whole family makes a
mass movement in that direction on Wednesday.
Mrs Oliphant to Mrs Harry Coghill.
ROYAL OAK HOTEL, ROSTHWAITE, KESWICK.
S... We have been here about ten days in the very
heart of the hills--in a very homely inn, where everything is a little frowsy, as old carpets, old furniture, &c.,
of the lodging-house kind are apt to get, but the food
more or less good.   Cecco had rather a roseate recollection of it, I suppose, and I was dreadfully taken
aback when we arrived; but most things ameliorate by
the great art of putting up with them, and we are not
uncomfortable. The boys walk almost all day, though
the weather has rather conspired against them, and
they have had to postpone their big mountain climbing
from day to day. This is our first absolutely and hopelessly wet day, and even now there are glimmers as if
it might clear. Cecco, on the whole, is very well. I
can't remember whether I gave you the doctor's last report of him or not. I suppose I must have done so, that
he thinks him to have made great progress during the
summer, but that, privately between ourselves, he will
not let him live in London "for several years," though
Cecco has not been informed of this definitely, the B. M.
business not coming on till October. Nothing could be
more entirely mountain air than we have here, and I
don't think I was ever conscious of air so sweet: a sort
of mingled balm of cow's breath and hay is in the whole
atmosphere, the former predominant; and it is the most
entire and perfect rural scene that could be imagined,
hills, and very fine ones, rising up on all sides. The
-colour is cold, there is very little heather and too much.green, but that is the only drawback.




348


LETTERS.


[1887.


This was the time of the British Museum examination
about which Cecco had been very anxious. During the
short visit which his mother paid to her cousin, Mrs
Coghill, in Staffordshire, he passed this test brilliantly,
earning a large number of marks in excess of what
was required.   He was naturally delighted with this
success, and his mother shared in his pleasure, though.
she knew better than he did how much difficulty his
delicate, health, might cause in the matter of an
appointment.
F. R. Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.
39. DOVER STREET, PICCADILLY,. October 30.... My mother has gone to stay for a day or two
with the Coghills, where I hope she will have better
weather than we have here now. A regular spell of
rain seems to have set in. We leave London at the
end. of the week. London amusements are at present
diversified by the pleasant uncertainty whether the next
turning one takes will not land one in the middle of a
demonstrative mob. of young roughs, soi-disant the unemployed. These being usually personally conducted
by a considerable force. of police, things are not so
bad as they were in February last year; but still there
are dangers to be dreaded by a man with a new hat,
the thing of all others which seems to excite the greatest fury among them, and: mine is not yet a month old.
I: saw their procession going up Bond. Street to-day, apparently very quiet and orderly.  Many people think
that the unemployed are not bad fellows on the whole,
as long as you don't ask them to work, but they are
certainly an abominable nuisance.
In spite of Cecco's success in his examination, he
was destined to disappointment, the medical authorities deciding that his state of health was unsatisfactory.




1887.]


A BITTER -DISAPPOINTMENT.


349


Against this decision he appealed, and gained permission to be re-examined. But the appeal turned out to
be from Sir A. Clark to Sir A. Clark, and the decision
was reaffirmed, to his bitter disappointment.
Mrs Oliphlant to Mrs Harry Coghill.
"WINDSOR, December 6.
I was just about to write to you when I got your note.
I should have done so before if I had been sure that you
were at home to tell you my tale of troubles. As you are
so near, I shall run up to-morrow by the I o'clock train.
It will be a relief to talk it all over with you, for all my
hopes have come to nothing. Cecco has been rejected
by the C. S. Commissioners on the score of health. Sir
Andrew Clark has decided against him, and his work is
made all of no avail. It has been a most bitter disappointment, though he has taken it very bravely. Sir A.
C. allowed that he was quite able for the work now, but
could not certify that he would be so uninterruptedly,
as if that could be said for the most robust. I will tell
you all about it to-morrow. The Blackwoods are in your
hotel, and my visit will be half to them.
WINDSOR, 30/ol December.
I have received no parcel, but will send at once to make
inquiries. I hope it may still turn up. I have felt so
guilty myself in not having written nor sent you the
Venice book, which was to be your Christmas present,
that I had not felt I had any right to a letter from you.
Now I write from bed, where I am staying in the mornings partly for work, partly with the hope of staving off
one of my colds, which I fear, however, has got its fangs
upon me. I send you with this the 'Makers of Venice,'
which I hope you will like; the pictures, at all events, are
nice. It has been out only a few days. The first opinion
I have heard of it is Mr Gladstone's, to whom Mr Macmillan sent it, and who sent back to him at once a letter
of four pages saying, first, that he was not going to Venice,




350                  LETTERS.                 [1887.
as had been reported; and next, that he must contradict
himself, and say that he had been in Venice, the book
having quite given him that feeling; after which he enters
into a question of Venetian political history about Bajamonte, whose very name, I should think, was unknown
to most readers, but with whom this amazing old man
seems intimately acquainted.




1888.] "NOT CRITICISM BUT PERSONAL ASSAULT."  351


i888.
To Mr Blackwood.                WINDSOR, 3ot0 7anuary.
I send you with this the conclusion of 'Joyce,' which I
hope you will like. I have been so busy with it that I
have put off for a day or two thanking you for your kind
notice of the Venice book. It is most good and kind of
you to have had it put in hand so quickly and given the
book the advantage of such a valuable opinion in its
favour. I hope I am not going wrong in writing to
thank Mr Skelton for it. His hand is unmistakable, even
had you not given me a hint. I hope you yourself like
'the book. You would see the insulting attack upon me
in the 'Saturday Review,' which is not criticism at all but
a personal assault. What I can have done to get myself
such a bitter and spiteful enemy I can't imagine.
This spring, though Cecco's health had so much improved, it was thought advisable that he should again go
to the south of Europe. He went alone, but, depending
on his daily letters, his mother was satisfied that he
should do so-more than satisfied, indeed, because his
willingness to undertake the journey showed a hopeful
increase of strength and energy.  One or two of her
letters to him, and several of his to her, are given here.
Two of his, containing an impression of a bull-fight, were
arranged by Mrs Oliphant, and printed in the ' Spectator,'
to the great amusement of their author,
To F. R. Olipfhant (then at Bordighzera)...
WINDSOR, Ist March.
There is nothing new to tell you, nothing to say,
except that I continue appallingly busy, and that now




352


LETTERS.


[i888


I have got well into the middle of the Principal's Life
it is constantly becoming more difficult. There are endless allusions to public matters which I don't understand, and even in his own actual doings many things
in which I miss the dear padrona's help. I have just
been describing the beginning of our friendship, hers and
mine, which was one day when we went up, she and
I alone with you little children, to Whistlefield, and
sat and talked there while you played. You were only
a baby, so you can't recollect, though I think you were
there in Jane's capacious arms. Jock Tulloch was one
of the party, then a boy very like Jack Tarver, and I
think Sara.  It all came back so clearly to my mind
and caught my breath.    Your sister with her bonny
curls would be one of the chief. Somehow I never, as
you may have noticed, can call her by her name....
The weather here is bright enough, with a sprinkling
of snow on the ground, but very cold. I don't think
I ever saw snow come down in the same way-a few
large flakes now and then, quite promiscuous, as though
they were sailing about in the air for their own pleasure.
I have just got a note from Lady Cloncurry asking
me to go with her on Saturday to a matinee of Coquelin's,
who has just come over to give some performances before
going to America. I suppose I will go, though I can very
little afford the time, but a little play perhaps is essential
now and then. I have lost my morning correcting the
proof of the first part of a story which embodies a great
many of my own thinkings in recent times. It is to be in
the 'Cornhill,' only two numbers. I am afraid you will
not like it, or at least that it will vex you.
F. R. Oliphant to Mrs Oliphant.
HOTEL VICTORIA, SAN REMO, M17farch 12.... I heard a great deal about the earthquake....
I am sorry to say the priest at Bajardo fled and left
his people, not through fear so much as from horror
and dismay; for he had seen such an awful sight as




i888.]  THE HORRORS OF AN EARTHQUAKE.


353


it is to be hoped no man will be called upon to see
twice. As he was saying mass, he heard a great noise
behind him, and turned round in time to see the roof
falling on his unhappy congregation. The church was
so full that there were people even in the side chapels,
and most of these got off with more or less severe
hurts.  But of those who were in the body of the
church hardly one escaped with his life, and the7 priest
seems to have gone mad in a way with the horror of
the sight. Two hundred and forty people were killed
in that small village.  The priest of Pompeiana did
not fly. He too was singing mass when the earthquake came. He too heard the awful sound, and looking round, saw two great rifts in the roof, and his
congregation shrieking and terrified. He called to them,
and checked the panic that was beginning. Then he
said, "We must not cease worshipping God. He has
just shown great mercy to us, and we must give thanks
to Him. But it is not necessary that you should stay
within these walls. Go and kneel outside, and I will
go on with the mass here." And the people went out,
and the brave priest was left alone in the half - ruined
church with the God who might in a moment either
destroy the place utterly, or destroy all else and leave
that untouched. The people knelt outside, trying to
follow the mass they could indistinctly hear sung before
the altar inside, with their minds filled with distracting
doubts and fears whether they should ever see their
priest come out again.  When the mass was finished
with all due reverence, that faithful servant of God
came away from his finished duty, and not till then
the second shock came.     No men were killed     in
Pompeiana.   Almost all the houses were destroyed,
and the people had to live in cattle-sheds in the fields;
but not a man lost heart, and they went quietly to
work to help each other in setting up their houses
again and giving help to others who had suffered more;
and so they were found in great distress for want of
z




334


LETTERS.


[1888.


many necessaries, but resolute and cheerful under the
guidance of that trusty leader by another equally true
and valiant champion, the Scotch minister of San Remo,
who was the life and soul of the parties who went out
to help the sufferers, and who, together with his wife,
simply hunted all the valleys within reach to find one
man more who might be helped. Other stories I heard,
some heroic and some comic. There was one small
household in San Remo who had as their only servant
a woman engaged by the day, who came every morning
and brought the water that was needed for the household, and also brought the bread which she had previously bought in the town.   The earthquake came
early in the morning, and the house in which this
woman lived was entirely ruined, the roof falling in
and partly crushing it. The woman crept out through
a fissure in the fallen roof, went down into the town,
and bought the bread, and drew the water, and came
to do her work for her employers just as if nothing
had happened.   One very amusing story was that of
an English officer who fled immediately after the earthquake by the first train.  He didn't even wait to try
'and get his things back from the wash, though they
included some shirts of a peculiarly fine make by which
-he set great store. He just left word for the laundress
to send them to the British Consulate, where he would
send for them. The laundress did so, but they arrived
at an unlucky moment, just when the contributions of
old sheets and shirts and linen of all kinds were being
sent in from all quarters for the benefit of the sufferers
from the earthquake, and the poor gentleman's beautiful,
costly shirts were just torn up with the rest to make
bandages for the wounded peasants at Bajardo or some
such purpose.
F. R. Oliphant to Mrs Oliphant.
GRAND HOTEL DES QUATRE NATIONS, BARCELONA, April 2.... I have been able to get no certain news about




1888.1


A HOSTILE CRITICISM OF SPAIN.


355


the poor picador who was wounded yesterday, but I
believe he is still alive, and in that case he will very
likely recover.... You will excuse my mind being still
full of the bull-fight.... It is a horrible and degrading
sport, which should be put down by force. It is truly
worthy of the one European nation which still regards,
as it always has, its enemies as its enemies in the plural,
-not "the enemy," as we say, but "the enemies," as
the old heathens said. Among this savage and brutal
nation alone is the murder of a single enemy considered
a good service. It is useless to say this is prejudice:
it has been proved again and again. Did you ever hear
of the heroic young Colonel Lefebvre, who was one
of the most brilliant French cavalry officers in the
Peninsular war?   His gallantry was so splendid that
the British soldiers cheered him  as he charged them
at the head of his regiment, and no one would shoot
him of the bold adversaries who met him face to face.
They really took care to spare him.    But one day
at the head of a furious charge his horse carried him
into the British ranks dead, shot in the side by a
guerilla who was hidden behind a tree.      Sergeant
Lawrence tells a story of seeing a crowd in a Portuguese village.  On going up, he found two wounded
French soldiers surrounded by a circle of flaming trusses
of straw, peasants standing round these again with
pitchforks to prevent the wounded men crawling out
of the flaming circles, which were bound to kill them
sooner or later. They are an awful people. Of course
they had suffered horribly at the hands of the French,
but they, more than perhaps any other nation, are
wanting in sympathy for a man or beast who is
hurt.
To Mr Blackwood.                    WINDSOR, 28th ue,me
I write just a word to tell you that I have finished the
biography of Principal Tulloch. It is possible that there
may be a good deal of correction (upon the type-written




.356


LETTERS.


[i888.


copy) yet to be added, for my knowledge of Scotch public
-questions is naturally very imperfect, and I await information on various points.  But the book is now
written, and as soon as I have added what may be
necessary in a careful revision after consultation with the
competent authorities, who are now at work upon it, it
will be ready to go to press,... It has taken me a
much longer time and more labour than I calculated
upon. Indeed I have spent more of both upon it than
I did on the Life of Montalembert.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.           HASLEMERE, 28th Augusl.
S.. I am here for a few days in Mrs R.'s very original establishment, with nearly thirty most rosy ruddy
children, very unlike the slums of London, running about
everywhere. They are in such good order that they are
really no trouble to anybody, and interfere very little with
the economy of the house. I never saw such a wonderful
manager as she is-Don Quixote mixed up with a Chancellor of the Exchequer..
Our winter movements are not at all decided. I am
talking half in joke and half in earnest of getting halfa-dozen friends to join in taking a house on the Riviera,
where we could live in a sort of co-operative way; for
since Cecco, I fear, will not be passed by Sir Andrew
Clark, and will therefore have nothing to keep him
back, it will no doubt be better for him to escape the
next spring as he did the last. But we should not in
any case leave till January, and I can't afford wandering
about in hotels, so this is all completely uncertain.
To Mr Blackwood.                  WINDSOR, 30th Azugut.... Very many thanks for your kind invitation to
Cecco and myself... Could you introduce us to any
Edinburgh antiquarian who would help us to see some
holes and corners out of the beaten track?   If Mr
Cosmo Innes had been still alive I should have applied
to him....




1888.]


DEATH OF LAURENCE OLIPHANT.


357


SBut, oh, what is this dreadful business about Laurence
Oliphant? Married after publishing his book to convince
the world if possible that marriage should not be, and
with such a wife so lately buried 1 Has he ventured to
explain it to you? I suppose he has gone through the
form merely to make it possible that he should have
a companion and caretaker, for I can't suppose he is
contradicting all the tenor of so many years at his age,
-but he ought not to have done it anyhow. I shall be
very curious to hear what you know.
The following letter refers to the death of Laurence
Oliphant, which took place on December 23, i888:WINDSOR, Dec. 29.
I have been quite anticipating your letter, and will give
all the skill I possess to making such a sketch as I can of
Laurence Oliphant. His religious side, however, is to
me of the very greatest interest, and I hope you will not
object to a tolerably full description of it-not in its last
'development, with which I have little sympathy, but in
the fundamental impulse which went before. To have
seen so little of him as I did, I happen to have seen him
at moments and under circumstances which will give me
considerable power, I think, in elucidating his life. I am
very sorry that I did not go to Twickenham to see him,
as I had almost done, after I saw you last. I think I
could do this piece of work best by writing in the first
person and with my own name, unless you have any
objection. I object to it on'principle myself, but, as a
point of fact, it would be less easy to make an interesting
portrait of him in any other way.
The years do indeed grow sadder and sadder as they go
on, and more still at my age than at yours. I begin to
watch them go, wondering if I shall see another end, and
not very much wishing to do so if truth must be told;
for my path is clouded with anxieties and many disap



358


LETTERS.


[1888.


pointments, which I should once have thought insupportable, but which now, in the dreary philosophy of use,
have come to be accepted more or less quietly. I wish
you and yours all that is good, as well as everything prosperous and pleasant for the new year. Will you give my
love to your sisters, and beg them to accept my affectionate good wishes, though at second hand? I have
caught another desperate cold, and even an additional
letter becomes a burden in such circumstances.  I am
starting for Paris with Denny on the 3rd if all is well, intending to leave her there to study for six months in
an artist's studio. Do you know any nice people in Paris
where there might be daughters who would notice a
young girl left by herself? My acquaintances in Paris
are now few, and the Canroberts are away in Mentone
with their delicate boy. I go on to Beaulieu on the 9th
with the rest of my party. If possible I will finish the
article on L. Oliphant before I leave here; if not I will
send it to you from Paris. I cannot find the 'Times'
which contained the notice of him, that particular number
having got lost, so that I should be glad if you would
send it; but I think I have got all the rest that are of
any consequence.




1889.3


A CHRONICLE OF MISFORTUNE.


1889.
The journey to Beaulieu was interrupted in a rather
tragical manner, as the following letter explains. Cyril's
health had been very uncertain.
To. Mr Blackwood.                  PARIS, soth yanuary.
I have a chronicle of misfortune to give you: in the
first place, to explain why my article is late. I had
hoped by this time to have been sending it to you from
Beaulieu. We were all at the station on Wednesday
night ready to start, our luggage all in the train, and
ourselves eating something in the restaurant before
setting out, when Cyril became suddenly and violently
ill. This was about half an hour before the train
started. I had no thoughts for anything but the sufferer,
but Cecco saw the rest of our party off and then came
and joined me.... I have now sent for an English
doctor, who will, I hope, remove him to his own house;
and if this gentleman gives a good account of him, as
I hope, I will leave him in his hands and go on to
Beaulieu to-morrow night. You may imagine what a
dreadful business this has been-the horrible shock and
alarm...
The article on Laurence Oliphant is nearly finished,
and leaving here to-morrow night, as I must do, if
nothing very bad occurs, I hope to be able to send it off
to you on Tuesday at latest. Cecco's proofs are in the
same state, but the proof of course is not so urgent as
the MS. I am sure you will be sorry for us. Cyril is
very weak and exhausted, but quite himself, and I trust
will now go on well. We are in a dreadful French house,
where there is not even a chambermaid; and our luggage




.360


LETTERS.


[1889;


is all gone so that a clean collar seems to me the greatest
luxury.
I will write with the article, I hope, on Tuesday.
VILLA DE FORESTA, BEAULIEU, I5/t 7anuaiy.
I sent you my article in a great hurry to-day with no
time to say anything. -I hope. you will like it. It is more
a reminiscence than anything else, and it is rather remarkable, having really seen so little of Laurence Oliphant as I did, how completely my personal recollections
follow the course of, and more or less elucidate the most
interesting portion of, his life.
To Dr A. K: H. Boyd.                     [7an. or Feb.]
I have just been reading your paper about "Taking
in Sail."  I think I have told you before how much I
feel with and sympathise in your afternoon musingsthe subdued thoughts that come to us with the decline
of the day. It is only this sympathy which makes me
write now. I wish I could take in sail, but it is not
easy. I almost think sometimes that to know the limit
of years to which one had to reach, and so be able
to regulate one's work to get as much done as possible
without the vague horror as to years that may come after
all ought to be over, would be a comfort; for at the end
of all things the work is almost the only thing-is it not?
-in which there is satisfaction. Our children grow as old
as ourselves, and friendship has its limitations, and the
soul, even when most surrounded with apparent company,
must live so much alone.  Your suggestion that something very good should happen to us as we get old, once
in every three years is delightful, but almost ironical;
this does not seem to me at least the end of life at which
to expect anything good, but I hope that perhaps my experience is not that of others. The one good thing that
I am conscious of is the increased tolerance-nay, enjoyment-of the loneliness which is inevitable, and the great,
calm, all-sustaining sense of a divine Unseen, a silent




1889.]  THE PHILOSOPHY OF GROWING OLD.


361


companion, God walking in the cool of the garden, which,
after all, is the best.
Forgive me this return for your musings. I don't myself at all dislike the sensation and sentiment of getting
old, and in many things I enter very fully into what you
say on these subjects.
I have been here with all my belongings for the greater
part of the winter, with January like June, and beds of
violets and roses all through the dark weather, but the
spring a little uncertain and trying even here.
To Mr Blackwood.                  BEAULIEU, 41/ March.... It has occurred to me that it might be worth
while to publish the article on L. Oliphant a little enlarged as a small volume. What do you think of this?
*.. I should add a greater detail of facts, and some
criticism of his literary work, if you approved of the idea.... I heard a new piece of information about him
on Saturday from Baron de Billing, a man high up in
the French diplomatic service, and of whom people speak
as future ambassador to St James's. He told me that
it was M. Thiers who was really the cause of L. O.'s
removal from Paris as 'Times' correspondent. Do you
know if there is any truth in this? M. de Billing asserted
it most positively, and said I might quote him to that
effect. Mr Hamilton Aide, who happened to sit on my
other side, contradicted the statement, but only on his
own authority. Perhaps you know which is to be believed. This took place at a magnificent luncheon at
Monte Carlo given us by Mr Somerset Beaumont, at
which Christine Nilsson was one of the guests. Thus
we get glimpses of the world from time to time.
The following note from Cyril Oliphant to Mr Blackwood refers to his volume on De Musset for the Foreign
Classics series. The book was very long in hand, and was
only published a week or two before Cyril's death in 189o.




362


LETTERS.


[i889,


Cyril F. Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.  BEAULIEU, April.
I send you the first three chapters, rather more than
half, of the long-considered book on De Musset. The
first chapter was written in one of my moods for writing
small, and I found I had carried the fancy so far that
I thought it best to have it copied by a type-writer. Of
course this should have been sent to you long ago, but
our changes of place, as well as the recent weakness of
my health, have put grave obstacles in the way of my
settling down to anything. I am still a little uncertain
about the amount of what I have written and am going
to write. I do not propose to add more than two chapters-one on the lighter plays and one on the prose works
-to the three I send you, and I should very much like
to have a proof of these as soon as possible, so as to
be able to judge whether I am writing too little or too
much, and guide my future efforts accordingly.
F. R. Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.     WINDsoR, zune I.
May I ask if you have yet had time to look at the
article on James I. which I sent you some time ago? I
am very anxious to know whether you think it would be
suitable for the Magazine. If so, I hoped it might form
the first of a kind of series of articles on early Scottish
history and literature, which would take the place of the
series of volumes which I suggested to you, but which
you did not think could have any success in that longer
form. As Magazine articles they would more easily command attention, and I think could not fail to be interesting. Those articles of Mr Masson's from the 'Scotsman'
which you sent my mother expressed the want of such
a series, and it is obvious that if any one can take it up,
it can only be the Magazine. In the hope that this idea
may find favour with you, I have already written the
greater part of an article on the poet Henryson, a subject
of great interest and very little known. I am consequently rather anxious to know what you think about the
James I., on which by itself I spent a great deal of time




1889.]  THE DIFFICULTIES OF A BIOGRAPHER.


363


and trouble, and whether you think it would be suitable
for the Magazine.
We are having lovely weather here, and should have
a fine fourth of June, which, of course, is always our
great day. Nothing has been heard in these parts for
some time but controversy as to whether the Queen was
or was not to be present. It seems finally that she is,
spite of reports to the contrary. We simple people of
Windsor are easily interested.
The article on Henryson the poet appeared in 'Blackwood' in the following year.
Mrs Olifhant to Mr Blackwood.        WINDSOR, 4t1 Yune.... After a conversation with Mrs Wynne Finch I
put aside the idea of enlarging the article as quite inadequate, but hesitated a good deal about undertaking a
larger work, feeling that it would -cost me an amount of
time and trouble which I could not afford to give except
for a quite different remuneration. It of course remains
to be seen whether Mrs Rosamund Oliphant will allow
me to use the letters and papers of which Mrs Waller
tells me there is a very large collection. Even without
this I should be able to produce a romance of biography
which ought, I think, to interest the public in a very high
degree, but it would be the work of months....
I shall have to see all sorts of people on account of the
book, and take a great deal of trouble, and my impression
is that a real account of such a remarkable life would be
very interesting to the public.... My own ideas are
rather vague as to what size the book would come to,
also now disturbed by some doubt as to what Mrs Wynne
Finch's intervention will come to.... There is, however, no hurry about a decision. I should like to know
definitely what is to be had of the letters at Haifa, and to
see what comes from different quarters, and then perhaps
we may be able to come to some mutual agreement on
the subject.




364                   LETTERS.                  [1889.
WINDSOR, 28t1 9fme.
I don't at all know the books you refer to-I have not
seen any of them. Mr Barrie's 'Auld Licht Idylls,' &c.,
I think exceedingly clever.  Indeed there seems to me
genius in them, though the Scotch is, as you say, much
too provincial. If you will send me the other books, I
will carry out your wishes, if my opinion agrees with
yours; but Barrie I must applaud, for I think his faculty
is great.... He came here to see me one day. I
have been rather nervous ever since, lest I should see myself in a newspaper, but he has been merciful.




s1890.]


JOHN KNOX.


365


I890.
To F. R. Oliphant.                  WINDSOR, Feb. 17.... I am correcting the type-written part of my
'Edinburgh,' half writing it over again, as I do not like
the John Knox bit at all. To tell the truth, I liked John
Knox so much less in going in to him than I had done at
a respectful distance, that it was rather hard work to
keep up a little show of approbation. He was a most
intolerant bigot, and as dour and obstinate as the nether
millstone. The metaphor is- broken, but you will understand. I don't mean to say he is not interesting, and his
position often exceedingly humorous, though all the
surroundings are so grim.
WINDSOR, Feb. 27.... I wish, my dear, that you were less distrustful
of yourself. Every one must have felt the same painful
wandering of the mind, especially at the most solemn
moments. It has been my plague all my life. What has
been my consolation for a very long time: is the conviction
that God understands what we mean, or what we waist to
mean, so much better than any one mortal can do. I have
the most perfect reliance upon His sympathy, so that I
almost think He must be more indulgent to us than we
are to ourselves, and smile at things that horrify us,
knowing in His great understanding and tenderness all
about it, and that we prefer the good even when we don't
succeed in doing it. Don't think lighter things, or the
lightest of all, without use, and have confidence in our
heavenly Father as, and far more than, you have confidence in me, for He will never misunderstand you.
To Mrs Harry Coghilt.             WINDSOR, Iith March.
Many thanks for your kind wish to see us, and I wish




366                  LETTERS.                 [189o.
very much I could have gone to you before leaving; but
it is unfortunately impossible. I am up to my eyes in
things to do, work to finish, and arrangements to make.
How we are to manage to get under weigh by Monday
morning is more than I can tell; but I suppose that we
shall, as we generally do, though it always seems impossible the day before....  I am starting with a good
deal of alarm both for the sea and the land, and a few
thoughts of the possibility of never coming back again,
such as are natural to a woman of my years. But the inducement to make the journey is strong, and I hope that
by the blessing of God I may live and get home again,
and see you and all my friends. All the same, I should
have liked very much to see you before going away.
I have the very best news of Cecco. The renewed irritation in the lung, about which Dr Maclagan was so
serious, has, he is told by a specialist in lung diseases
whom he has consulted at Hyeres, quite passed away,
and he is doing as well as possible. We meet him at
Turin on Thursday week, and we embark at Brindisi on
Saturday 22nd. Burn a candle for us, that we may have
a good voyage. I will write, if all is well, from Jerusalem....
Cyril too is keeping quite well, and my anxieties on
his account are to a considerable extent relieved.
Mr A. W. Kinglake to Mrs Oliphant.
17 BAYSWATER TERRACE, W., AMarch 19.
DEAR MRS OLIPHANT,-It is with ceaseless admiration
that I have read ' The Duke's Daughter.'
My remembrance of what you had told me respecting
the origin of your inclination to undertake the narrative
put me into the mood for studying it, if so one may speak,
instead" of too placidly "reading" your delightful pages,
and the effect of this special care was such as to make
me think more-more even than ever before-of what'distinguished from "fancy"-I should call that sound,




.180o.1


JERUSALEM.


367,


healthy, that strong Imagination of yours which tells
you, and lets you tell others, the very, very truth.
To compare the few words I uttered to you in the
course of perhaps some three minutes with your beautiful narrative is to make one remember that Shakespeare
would look at some obsolete tale without perhaps any interest for any other live mortal, and then build on it, or
round it, a mighty work of genius.
To Mrs Harry Cogh/ill.           JERUSA LE M,39t April.
MY DEAR COUSIN ANNw,--Madge, I think, wrote from
Cairo to tell you of our safe and pleasant voyage to Alexandria-.that is to say, it was quite pleasant so far as
calm weather was concerned, and I did not suffer in the
least, nor did either of the boys. Madge was a little bad,
but not much to speak of. I don't think, however, that
I could be reconciled to a long sea voyage: the great
monotony, the ceaseless round of the machinery, the
longing one has to be quiet for a moment, to stop still
and not feel the throbbing and swaying, get quite too
much for me. I feel as ifI could not put up With it for a
moment longer, which is the most childish of sentiments,
yet a very true one.
And so here we are in Jerusalem! It is a wonderful
place-wonderfully little changed in sentiment, I should
think, since our Lord trod those solemn narrow streets,
which probably would be filled with quite a similar crowd,
strangers of all kinds, gazing and gaping when He was
led through to His crucifixion. I insisted upon going
along the Via Dolorosa on Good Friday, following what
are supposed to have been His steps. I don't know that
I could have done it had it not been for the boys, who
took me by the elbows, one on each side, and almost
carried me along. It was very deeply touching to toil
along the laborious stony way, and to think, if not of
what He felt, which is above our thoughts, yet of what
Mary must have been feeling, and the others who were
following through all the crowd of wandering strangers,




368


LETTERS.


[1890.


and all the eager townsfolk taking sides for and against
Jesus of Nazareth. The throng of Arabs, Jews, blacksevery conceivable kind of people, no doubt-must have
been much the same. We only, unborn as then, so to
speak, were new to the place. I envied the pilgrims who
went along kneeling at the stations, kissing the stones.
One would have been glad to have done it, to have
been able to do it. My great pleasure is to see the poor
Russians, shoals of them, peasants of the poorest class,
who throng everywhere with a sort of passionate devotion
in their faces, kissing the sacred stones as they might do
a dear child, again and again.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is too confusing to
be impressive. It is supposed to cover the site both of
the Crucifixion and of the tomb; but there are many conflicting ideas, and these places do not feel like the real
ones, covered as they are with tawdry shrines, and every
kind of poor tinsel lamp and decoration. The recent
explorers have a theory that the real place of Golgotha
was a mound or little hill, most curiously like a skull in
its formation, and which stands bare under the sky, not
built upon at all. It was the Jewish place of executionthat is universally acknowledged. And underneath this
hill, at a little distance, is a wild forlorn garden, and in it
a tomb-not indeed a tomb new in which no man had yet
been laid, but old, old, dark with the dust of centuries,
and sunk under the heaps of rubbish that have invaded
everything, yet so much more affecting, so wonderfully
different from the feelings called forth by the Holy
Sepulchre-so called-one cannot help wishing that this
may be the true place.
We have been also at Gethsemane, a bright little garden
full of flowers, but so possibly it might have been in the
old sacred time. There are some very old olive-trees,
and it lies low on the side of Olivet, looking up to the city
walls. Another most affecting spot was the turn of the
road where our Lord, coming from Bethany, paused when




189o.]


BETHLEHEM.


-369


the view of Jerusalem burst upon Him, as it does where
the pathway sweeps round the hill, and wept over the city
which would not consent to be saved. But indeed there
is scarcely a corner at which there is not some sacred
association.
Bethlehem, where we were yesterday, was very delightful, a little city on a hill-Christian-the women pretty
creatures with smiling uncovered faces and a sort of innocent happy air about. The place of the Nativity is indeed
built over and made into shrines and chapels; but the
little inn, chiefly hewn out in the rock, as is still common,
can be easily traced, and the little alcove where one can
so easily believe Mary to have been laid, and the manger
where the Child was placed, seem so credible and natural
that one is happy in believing. The place is supposed by
united and invariable tradition to be quite authentic.
I am bearing the journey perfectly well, not feeling the
fatigue very much. I have decided not to attempt riding
at all, but to have a palanquin for Galilee. The others
are quite well. It is a little dreary being here by myself.
We leave Jaffa on Monday next for Haifa, Nazareth, and
the Lake of Galilee, if all is well. Should Cecco not feel
equal to any more riding he will return to Italy, but I hope
this may not be the case. We expect to be in Constantinople about the 5th or 6th May, and I should be very.
glad of a letter there to Cook's Tourist office.
I hope you are all well and enjoying the spring. Of
course it is full summer here so far as the heat is concerned, but the country is very desolate, stony, and grey,
though the lower slopes of the hills where there is grass
are scarlet with anemones of the finest growth, and
clusters of cyclamen grow in many of the crevices of the
rocks. The birds all about Jerusalem are wonderful,
chiefly swallows, and they are in all the churches, flying
about and adding a great charm. "The swallow findeth
a place for herself, even Thine altars": it is perfectly
true.
2A




370


LETTERS.


[1890.


To Mrs Tarver.                   JERUSALEM, 12th April.
I have been a long time in writing, which is partly
because there has been so little time, and partly because
the post is only once a-week, so that if one misses one
there is no way of rectifying till another seven days are
past. We are now just on the eve of leaving Jerusalem,
and this great end of the journey is accomplished. It
seems wonderful ever to get here at all, and now it seems
equally wonderful that it should be all over, and that tomorrow our expedition here will be a thing of the past.
We have been in Jerusalem eleven days, and seen a great
deal, and I am not disappointed. In some of the holy
places, indeed, it is difficult to feel all the solemnity of
the associations, but with many others this is not the
case; and the wonderful little inn at Bethlehem, though
enshrined in a church, and the country road that leads
to Bethany, and the Mount of Olives, and the splendid
platforms of the old Temple, where the Mosque of Omar
now stands, and all the other places which one is sure
must have been trodden by those blessed feet, are impressive and touching in the highest degree. To come round
a sudden corner and realise that there our Lord paused
and gazed, and wept over Jerusalem, is such a feeling as
needs no words to tell. The grey walls, the flat house-. tops, the towers of Sion, the Golden Gate (now built
up, because Messiah is to enter there when He comes
again), breaking the long line of the Temple walls, all
must be much as they were when He looked upon them.
And Gethsemane lies underneath.   It is a wonderful
sensation.
All our journey has been prosperous: the sea was quiet,
the landing at Jaffa easy, we have got one of the best of
dragomen, and altogether would be very well off, if it were
not that I am sadly disappointed about Cecco, who, though
they say his chest is much better, has grown so dreadfully
thin that it makes my heart sick every time I look at him.... This has been the terrible drawback of this time,
which otherwise would have been all we could desire.




1890go.]


THE SCOT ABROAD.


37i


We leave to-morrow for Jaffa, and go on by steamer to
Haifa on Monday, where we begin the most novel mode
of travelling, camping out and travelling-the others on
horseback, I in a palanquin. This will last for ten days,
ending at Damascus, and from there we drive to Beyrout
and take steamer for Constantinople. We hope to get
there about the 5th or 6th of May, and then home with
very little delay.
This day has been a very fatiguing one. We were all
over the Mosque of Omar in the morning, as it has been
closed till to-day, and then went to the Holy Sepulchre to
see the so-called miracle of the Holy Fire. The sight
was a most extraordinary one. If you see Mr Holmes,
tell him that his Greek Patriarch has been exceedingly
civil, and done a great deal for us, though he has not been
well enough to receive us...
You will have got back again probably before this
reaches you, as it may not leave Jerusalem till the i6th.
One post a-week only! and not a book-shop in the place,
which, as we have read all our books, is-rather dreadful.
Nor, I fear, is there any prospect of getting any, or of
seeing a newspaper for a fortnight at least. Cyril, Cecco,
and Madge went to Jericho and the Dead Sea in the beginning of the week, which took three days, during which
time I was alone; and save for occasional flirtations with
the American Consul and a Greek archimandrite, I don't
know what I should have done. All the same, the hotel
is half full of Scotch ministers and people from Dundee!
To Miss Oliphant.  HAIFA ENCAMPMENT, Wednesday, i6th April.
MY DEAREST DENNY,-I am writing to you from our
first encampment close to Haifa. We have our tents
pitched in a field with a beautiful view, just under our
eyes, of the bay of Haifa, the white town and castle of
Acre-besieged, Heaven knows how often, in all the centuries from prehistoric times till now-lying on the other
side, and the mountains of Galilee behind. We came
from Jaffa to Haifa yesterday on a perfectly smooth sea,




372


LETTERS.


[1890.


and landed here at ten at night in boats. The pushing
off from the big steamer in the. dark (it was quite dark,
the sky clouded, and the stars invisible), with a tremendous jabber of the boatmen, was rather terrifying; at least
I confess that I was frightened and gripped Cecco, who
was sitting next to me, hard. The lights of the little
town guided us, and the water was like glass, but otherwise the sea all around was as black as could be, and
looked like a mysterious infinite all behind and around
us: however, we got in all right, chiefly by Jamal's good
management, who is a treasure of a dragoman. I say he
is my idea of a little Providence, for whatever we want
we have only to refer to him, and all is supplied in a
moment, or as near a moment as Eastern habits permit.
He is a fine, grave, serious man of forty-five or so, and
seems completely up to everything.   It was a little
strange last night sleeping in a tent for the first time,
but we were quite comfortable, and took to it as if it were
the most natural thing in the world, which is what one
so easily gets to do with any exceptional circumstances.
It rained, unfortunately, and blew a little, and it is still
very windy and cloudy to-day. One kept wondering what
would happen if the tent blew down; but this was evidently a thing which it had not the least intention of
doing. We got to the tents from the landing in a rough
sort of country carriage preceded by men with lanterns.
It was past ten at night, and we were by way of having
dined at five o'clock on the boat.  I expected nothing
except perhaps a biscuit when we got to the camp,
but lo! there was a good dinner or supper waiting for
us, to which we did much justice before going to bed.
I think Cecco is a trifle better. His spirits are so, and
that is always a good test, and he eats fairly well, and
coughs scarcely at all. If only he were not so awfully
thin! but I hope that this outdoor life may do him
good.
We have been to-day to the Friedhof, where Alice Oliphant lies. Madge made a white wreath and I a red




1890.1


AN ACCIDENT ON MOUNT CARMEL.


373


cross, entirely red, to lay on the grave; and afterwards
we saw their house, a house full of nice airy rooms,
which I am sure they must have made the most cheerful
place. I thought I could see her flitting in and out, on
household cares intent. You remember what a taste for
cooking and managing she had. Round about their house
are the prim, red-tiled houses of the German colony, looking like a village emigrated bodily from the Fatherland,
and everybody about is German.
Since we came here last night another encampment
has been set up beside us, which is said to belong to a
father with seven daughters. It is bigger, but not nearly
so well placed as ours. I must try and get Tiddy to take
a photograph of our encampment... We are on a
sort of natural platform, the field sloping downwards just
beyond. There is a tent for Tids and Cecco, one for
Madge and me, the dining- and sitting-room tent, the
kitchen tent, and another big one beyond, which I suppose is for Jamal and the servants. There are lanterns
hung round at night, and I think two of the men watch.
The horses, mules, &c.,.are in the field before us, increased now by a multitude of mules and donkeys, the
beasts of burden of our neighbours, who, by the way, are
just arriving. I am sitting out at the door of the tent
watching them come in.
This summer, after Mrs Oliphant's return from the Holy
Land, was one of renewed anxiety. It is probable that"
though she had enjoyed it much, she had also suffered
a good deal from the heat and fatigue; and a very disagreeable accident (to call it by its mildest name) which
she met with must have shaken her nerves. She was
being carried down a slope on Mount Carmel, the younger
members of the party being on horseback a little in front,
when the pole of her chair broke, and she was thrown to
the ground.  Though she fell so as to get scratches




374


LETTERS.


[i89o.


about her head and face, she had no actual damage,
except indeed the jar to her nerves.  She was much
more occupied with her son's ailments, however, than
her own, and it is in reference to them that she writes to
Mrs Coghill: "Won't you come down here if you are in
town? I should like so much to have.a talk with you
over everything: there is scarcely any one else with
whom I can give myself this indulgence."
On the 7th of August, when Cecco had been sent away
to the Engadine, she writes to the same correspondent:To Mrs Harry Coghill.             WINDSOR, 7th August.... Cecco I don't know what to say about. He
startled me by saying he was going on a mountain expedition, after complaining of the almost impossibility of
going uphill at all on account of his breath, and I fear it
was more than he ought to have done-and he is very
impatient of being questioned. I am more anxious than
words can say, but say very little about it, and try to be
patient. God knows whether I have yet accomplished
the tale of my sorrows.
Cecco in the meantime was undergoing a sort of Arctic
experience, which could not have been pleasant, and was
certainly not beneficial.
One of the notes in which Mr Kinglake expressed his
warm admiration of Mrs Oliphant's work belongs to this
date, and must have given her pleasure.
Mr A. W. Kinglake to Mrs Oliphant.
17 BAYSWATER TERRACE, VW., August 25.
DEAR MRS OLIPHANT,--It is so long since I heard
from you that I venture to ask how you are.
Some little time since, I had the good fortune to find
that there was at least one of your delightful books which
I had missed-I mean 'In Trust'-and I am only now




189o.]


MOUNTAINS OF WORK.


375


towards the end of the second volume. I am greatly
interested, and more than ever admiring the way in
which your powerful yet truth-loving imagination proves
able to deal with the mazes of Human Nature.-Believe
me, dear Mrs Oliphant, most truly yours,
A. W. KINGLAKE.
To Mrs Harry Cogiill.            WINDSOR, 28/1 August.
I ought to have written sooner to announce my safe
arrival at home, but I had to make such a leap among
the lions of retarded work that I have scarcely had a
moment to myself. I found Cyril not very well. He
has run down somehow and got below par, as the doctors
say, but he is now better again. And Cecco's letters are
far from satisfactory. I feel as if he were coming back
less well instead of better. God grant I may be wrong,
but my life seems sometimes almost too full of anxieties
to be borne. The little rest with you, though it does one
so much good, perhaps makes the return for the moment
more acute. I hope that in a week or so Cecco will be
back, but I almost fear the sight of his dear thin hands.
I am cheerful enough, you know, outwardly, and don't
talk of my troubles, but they are very heavy and sore.
The mountains of work I have to toil through are the
best help. I could have.
It had always been the custom of the house at Windsor
to keep the birthdays of the two brothers together. The
dates were but three weeks apart. Cyril's fell on the
i6th of November, and sometimes that Was the day
chosen. That day, at any rate, had been always more
or less a fete in the family circle, and it was no small
shock to the one nearest to that circle, though no longer
of it, and herself at the moment in deep grief, to receive
on the ioth the following note-a mere cry of distress
from the agonised mother:



376


LETTERS.


[1890.


To Mrs Harry Coghill.      WINDSOR, 3 A.M., 9th November.
DEAR COUSIN ANNIE,-You are in trouble, but in no
such trouble as I am. My boy, my Tiddy is gone!-a
few hours ago-dead! You will not believe it, nor car
I. You will wonder at my writing to you myself, but
I can't sleep or rest, and I can only talk of him-my
bonny boy-my darling! I am like stone-I can't feel
it-but it is true.-Your affec.
Many of the letters conveying this sad news were
naturally written by Cecco, in every emergency his
mother's loving and dearly loved helper.
F. R. Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.     WINDSOR, Nov. 9.
DEAR MR BLACKWOOD,-I.have to give you the terrible
and unexpected intelligence of my brother's death, which
occurred at one o'clock this. morning, after a short and
apparently unimportant illness.  On Tuesday he was
suffering from a very heavy cold, and complained of
pains in his head; he then took to his bed and remained in a rather prostrate condition, but gave us
no great alarm till Thursday, when there-were several;
degrees of fever, and the doctor declared that he had
congestion of the lungs. The fever subsided yesterday,
but left him in a terribly low condition, and the ultimate
cause of death was apparently suffocation through the
obstruction of the passages by some matter which he
was not strong enough to force up. The end was quite
peaceful and (presumably) painless:  Only yesterday
morning he was well enough to read out to me a
little notice of his 'De Musset' which appeared in a
Glasgow paper; no one of us had any, suspicion of
what was at hand. My mother is in a terrible condition of grief, but bears it with her usual extraordinary
strength and courage.  She wishes me to ask you to
break the news to your aunt, Miss Blackwood, who, I
fear, will be much affected by the news.  It seems




1890.]


DEATH OF CYRIL OLIPHANT.


377


almost impossible to realise what, has happened. - I
remain, yours sincerely,         F. R. OLIPHANT.
I am very glad that his 'De Musset' had come out.
F. R. Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.      WINDSOR, Nov. 11.
Many thanks for your telegram. I am requested by
my mother to say that she is sending you the first
part of Laurence Oliphant's Life for the press.... I
am going to take her with me to Davos, and my cousin
Denny will go with us to look after her.... We leave
here on Thursday, but shall be in England one day
longer.
I hear nothing but praise of my brother's' De Musset'
here on all sides: I only wish he had had another chance
of showing the singular grace and felicity which marked
his verse translations.  Indeed, he and I had already
formed a plan of another work which would bring out
this rare talent in the same way.
Mrs Oliphant to Mrs Harry Coghill.
BOURNEMOUTH, November.... All is over. I am very quiet-I think unnaturallyI hope supernaturally so. All the time of the burying I
thought I saw my Tiddy and Frank looking on, and was
sustained as if they were holding me up. I would like
to tell you all about it, but I cannot write. All his
temptations and dangers are over, his feet are in a
sure place, a better, life has begun-that is what I think.
most. God bless my boy-life was hard upon him; so
many people have written to me so sweetly and tenderly
of him.
I had to come here to see some people about Laurence
Oliphant, and we are on our way, Denny and I with.
Cecco, to Davos, where we hope to arrive on Sunday.
The address will be, H6tel Victoria, Davos-Platz. We
shall not be back till May, I suppose, if all is well.




378


LETTERS.


[1890.


All was over. A career so brilliant in the hope and
promise of its beginning had ended in barren disappointment.  One little volume and a few verses were
all that was left. Yet there are still Some living who
can testify that Mrs Oliphant's pride in her son, and
ambition for him, were not unreasonable- who can
recall the handsome brilliant boy, his lovely voice, his
quick sympathies, his generosity in the small things of
daily life. And it is they, alas! also who can recall
the falling away from that bright youth-broken health,
broken hopes, a dismal resignation to inactivity-which
was more tragically painful than words can say to the
mother whose toil had been so gladly given for him.
Mrs Olifhant to Mr Blackwood.  DAVOS-PLATZ,. November 30.
I am glad to say that. I have a most favourable
opinion of Cecco here.... This is all the consolation
I can now have in this life, and I thank God for it.
If it had been possible to have published the 'De
Musset' book a little sooner, that my dearest boy might
have had the pleasure of seeing what was said of it, I
should have been thankful; but that is but a small
matter amid all the anguish of this dreadful month.
Please give your aunt my love, but tell her I cannot
write. I can work enormously, which is the only opiate I can take, but no more.
To Mrs Harry Cogizill.        DAVOS-PLATZ, November 30.
The reason of our leaving so soon was that Cecco had
been ordered to go off in the beginning of the month, and
was only hindered by some apparently accidental circumstances from leaving on the morning of the day his dearest brother was taken ill. I had no thought, after all that
we could do was done for him, but to hasten Cecco's
going and to go with him. We left the house with my
good Esther in it, and there was no occasion for any delay.




1890.]


THE OPIATE OF WORK.


379


I fear there is little likelihood of letting it before April. I
would with my own will go back to it no more. It is too
full of associations, so many of them of pain and sorrow;
and I think that to sit alone at night at my work, and
feel those two empty rooms blank and dark, would be
more than I could bear. I find everything grow harder
and more crushing as the heavy days go on. At first I
had a kind of exaltation-of support, and consent to what
God had done, believing, as I still believe, that for him,
my dear boy, the only person to be considered in the
matter, it was best. But nature will not be balked, and
my heart is broken.
I have, however, the only consolation this life can now
give me in what is said about Cecco here. "The disease
has passed off nicely," the doctor, the best here, a Swiss,
says. He will not be so strong as other men for a while,
but eventually he will be so. Koch's cure is the only
matter that is thought of here, and it is now beginning to
be applied; but the doctors say there is no occasion to
try it for Cecco-that it is better to let well alone. This
is, you may suppose, balm to my heart, as much as I am
capable of, and I hope I shall live a year or two more to
make things as smooth as I can for my Cecco....
I am simply working like,-I don't know any simile to
use-working always; it is the only prop for my mind,
and my body feels no harm. I am alway. quickened into
intolerable life by calamity. It is impossible to conceive
anything more miserable than this abode of snow, with all
the poor people coughing their lives away. I sometimes
think if I could hear the howl of the sea, and see a green
world again, that it would do me a little good, but I don't
imagine that or anything would make much difference.
HOTEL VICTORIA, DAVOS-PLATZ, Dec. 2.
MY DEAR BLANCHE CORNISH,- I cannot call you by
any formal name. All your family have been so sweet
and so dear to me in my anguish and trouble that I feel
as if you belonged to me a little, and you know I told you




380


LETTERS.


[189o.


that you were the only person of whom my dearest boy
thought when he was bringing souvenirs from the East.
You were always kind to him, and remembered the glory
of his youth when others thought it overcast. It is just
a month now since he was taken ill, and I feared nothing
-scarcely feared at all till within an hour of the end. I
want you to ask Emily sometime when she sees Lord
Tennyson to tell him that for the last two months of his
life, I know not whether by any presentiment or not, my
Cyril almost every evening sang Elaine's song, "Oh love,
if Death be sweeter, let me die," till it got so into our
ears that we all kept singing it involuntarily, with no
thought-God knows-in my mind of what it meant for
him, though I often thought of it for myself. Perhaps it
may interest the poet, who knows what this anguish is.
My thoughts, which are always circling round and roundthe one subject, are twisted through and through with
lines of "In Memoriam"; and Elaine's song will always
now be Cyril's song to me. It was not that he was
melancholy or downcast, for that was not so, I wonder
sometimes if it was one of those unconscious prayers
which God seems to thrust into our hearts, and answers,
though we don't know for what we are asking. This has
been my case in the most wonderful and, heartrending
way.
There is, thank God, the very best report of Cecco.
The doctor here says he will, if all goes well, entirely
recover his health and strength. But this Davos is a:
dreadful place-nothing but a vast shroud with black
trees.
I have heard from Mrs Symonds very kind, but asked
her not to come to see me just yet. She will, I hope,
before long.
Give my love to all your dear people, and thanks a
thousand times for all your sweet words about my dearest
Cyril. His name opens up the fountains of tears, which:
at my age are deep down and hard to come. It is my.
indulgence in the night, when my Cecco and Denny have'




1890.1


DAVOS-PLATZ.


38i


gone to bed, to write a letter now and then and let them
get vent, for the after-days are worse than the first. I
thought I could almost see my dear boy arrive, in wonder
and delight, upon the other shore, but I cannot follow
him.  I cannot get a step beyond, and that dreadful
limitation and blank is terrible to me.
God bless you, my dear.-Your affectionate,
M. 0. W. 0.
To Mrs Valentine.            DAVOS-PLATZ, 151L December.... Our days are very monotonous: this is how we
go through them. I have my breakfast before I get up,
but the others go down-stairs for theirs. It is generally
half-past ten or eleven before I am dressed and my room
done. I sit on my balcony often when the last process
is being gone through, and sometimes write there, with
the sun pouring down upon me. I put my lace shawl
over my cap to keep it off, and I often have not even
a shawl on my shoulders, it is so warm, the sky an
intense blue without a cloud; and if you could imagine
the unbroken expanse of snow, the dark pines, and the
vulgar square dingy houses to be beautiful, it would be
so.... C. goes out for an hour's walk by the doctor's
orders immediately after breakfast; then he comes in and
generally sits a little on the balcony, and goes out for
another dander with D.    Then comes lunch at one
o'clock, to which we all go down. The company at
table are all very friendly, even intimate.... Then
we return upstairs, and in about half an hour C. and D.
take me out for a walk. We turn the sunny way down
the valley, along the road, which is hard snow, and
crossing one or two toboggan runs, as far as I am
able to walk, which is a good way now. Then we come
in and have tea, and I get to work again, and generally
finish my chapter before dinner, which is at half-past six.
Our letters sometimes come-they did to-day--at halfpast two, sometimes not till past six, and we look for
them eagerly; then C. stays down in the smoking-room




382


LETTERS.


[1890.


a little time after dinner and plays a game with the other
men. All this sounds cheerful enough-doesn't it?-and
though we often flag in the way of talk, we do support
each other, and keep very steady. But when they leave
me and go to bed, then I confess I do put off my mask,
and give myself up to the thoughts that have been besieging me through everything.  It is the only time
that I let myself go.
To Mr Craik.                 DAVOS-PLATZ, 28th December.... I am very glad to hear that 'Edinburgh' is
doing well, though it seems to me that you are making
it rather Mr Reid's book than mine - however, that
matters but little. Have you thought yet of any one
to do the pictures of the 'Jerusalem'?  I should like,
whoever it may be that is chosen, to have an opportunity
of seeing him  and talking the matter over with him,
which I think could not but be to the advantage of the
work. I have some special ideas about the city itself
which I should very much like to have brought out; and
as Cassel's 'Picturesque Palestine' is very good so far
as the banal views are concerned, we should endeavour,
I think, to make ours more illustrative of the text, if it is
to have any originality, in a pictorial way.
About the meaning of "the former" in the page of
' Edinburgh' which you mention, I certainly mean Burns,
though it might be true enough of Shakespeare too: however, the phrase in question was written while I had a
conversation with Mr Andrew Lang fresh in my mind,
in which that accomplished person informed me that he
had been once asked to make a volume of selections
from Burns, but that instead of doing so he marked
the book all over "with expressions of dislike and disgust"! These were his words, which I am not likely
to forget, and they show a little what criticism has
come to in our days.
I see that the 'Atheneum,' by the way, has noted one
real error of carelessness on my part, among many which




iS &,1


A SNOWY PRISON.


383


are not so-about Duncan Forbes, who of course I know
very well to be a contemporary of Allan Ramsay, and
Fletcher of Saltoun older. I don't know how I can have
been so careless as to represent them as reading his
ballads in their childhood. By the way, if you should
know any one who is reviewing the book, could you
have it said that my George Buchanan chapter was
written, corrected, and out of my hands before the
recent book about him was printed? I put this in a
note, but it might be well to mention it over again,
and I would also like to correct the paragraph I refer
to about Forbes and Ramsay before another edition
comes out. Cecco will undertake the index with pleasure, though he is rather fully occupied: he is getting
on very well, I am most thankful to say.
And the weather is generally bright-much sunshine,
though of course very cold, a snowy prison full of heavy
thoughts; but, thank God, Christmas is over, which is
always something. Every good wish.




384


LETTERS.


[1891.


189 1.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.                  DAVOS, Jan.uary.
I must write to thank you foryour kindness to Madge,
of which she spoke so very gratefully and warmly. She
had, I gather from her letter, rather broken down while
she was with you, with the feeling of the season, and
the dreadful change from all the associations that were
familiar to her, of that new-year time. It can never
be again as it has been in our diminished house, and
perhaps it was better for all of us that it passed over
under such changed conditions - if anything can be
called better or worse. To the young ones, of course,
the passage of time will do much, to me little; but
I have tried to subdue that longing to be done with
the days of life which was so strong upon me, for I
know my Tiddy can have no need of me now, and
the others have, so long as I can hold out....
My news about Cecco is all that could be desired.
Dr Ruedi has seen him again, and finds the improvement progressing so well that he says, if all continues
in the same way, he will be well in spring. I am very,
very thankful, though my heart seems so dead to all
thoughts but one that I scarcely seem to feel it. This
is one great and strange consequence of the great parting,
that the one who is gone, and who while he was present
with us was the subject of many thoughts indeed, yet
thoughts crossed and broken with a hundred other interests, becomes far more present, close, and intensely
felt in every movement of life than if he were by one's
side. The first result of the separation is thus to make
all separation impossible, to bring him  nearer and
make him dearer than ever before. It shows how little
death is, and yet how unspeakably great, cutting off all
response.




i891.]  THE DANGER OF HIGH ALTITUDES.


385


I am very well, all the same, nothing touches me,
and working very hard.    I sometimes think that to
be made ill by suffering, as other people are, would
soften a little the pain; but I get the full sharpness
of it in every way, though it is different at my age
from the tempest of younger days. I think I am
learning patience, and am soothed by the thought that
it cannot be a very long time. I used to be appalled
at thought of the long years to come when my Maggie
died; now, they can't be very long.
Pardon me for dropping into the usual weary strain. I
shall have to give up writing letters, for I feel that I must
weary out my friends.
The health Mrs Oliphant thought so cruelly strong did
give way at this time, and she had a sharp attack of
illness, to the great distress of Cecco and her adopted
daughter. It would seem that the high altitudes so often
beneficial to younger people are far from wholesome for
their elders. The bad effect of the climate on a system
so hardly tried was very nearly fatal in this case, and the
little party moved as soon as they possibly could to a
milder air.
To Mr Blackwood.              DAVOS-PLATZ, 24th February.... I am still very far from well, and the doctqr tells
me that I must not expect to be so till I leave here.
It appears that the High Alps are not good for elder
people, and almost always produce a collapse of some
kind. Mine has been attended by very severe internal
pain, of which I have had a few attacks before, but
none so repeated and continued.     I tried very hard
to finish your article, and was in hopes to have done
it till the last moment, when another attack settled
the question.   I am  better now, but in an irritated
and feeble state, afraid to eat anything. Half in bed,
2 B




386


LETTERS.


[1891.


however, I have managed to get through the proofs,
and on next Monday, the 2nd March, we are to get
off to San Remo, where the doctor says Cecco will
do as well as here for the rest of the spring, Davos
having strengthened and set him up so much. This
of course removes all my objections to leaving. For
many reasons I shall be very glad.    These months
have been very dreary; and to see the fair face of
nature again after looking on nothing but dazzling
snow, may convey a little solace to the sick soul as
well as body.
VILLA DEGLI OLIVI, SAN REMO, March 23.... Are you not rather rash in committing 'Maga'
to such very doubtful greatness as General Booth's,
Sir Edgar Boehm's, and that of George Macdonald's
poetry?  I don't feel quite sure with the last paper
whether it is in earnest or not, or if your contributor
means to make fun of Macdonald, who is often a noble
writer, but not, I think, according to these specimens,
in poetry.... Mr Geddes seems to me to write the
most dreadful nonsense, and his style is surely not
worthy of 'Maga.'   Forgive one of your oldest contributors for saying so...
This reminds me of my great negligence in not having
thanked you before for the review of ' Royal Edinburgh.'
I should have credited Mr Skelton with it, but that his
own work was included with mine. In any case, whoever
executed the work, many thanks for having it done. I
presume the article on dear Mr Kinglake was Sir Edward
Hamley's, and I am grateful to him too for what he says
of our dear old friend's kind interest in my books. I was
so ill when the Magazine arrived, and so altogether out of
sorts, that I had not the heart to write to you about them,
as I ought to have done. Pray forgive me. Mr Kinglake
directed that I was to have a souvenir of him, and his
nurse has sent me a little table which used to stand by




i89I.]


" THE OTHER FELLOW."


his chair, but what I should still more like to get would
be his photograph. I got Mrs. Kinglake, his sister-in-law's
address, to send for one, but I have not written to her,
and scarcely like to trouble her on the subject. Are you
in correspondence with any of his family, and could you
get me this? I should very much like to have it.
To the Hon. Emily Lawless.
WINDSOR, Saturday Night, late, 3oth May.
DEAR EMILY, - The sight even of your handwriting
is a pleasure, and your praise is very delightful, and gave
me a surprised sensation of real pleasure still more warm.
I had not, somehow, expected it. Pray believe, what is
most completely the truth, that there is no one whose
opinion I believe more, or whom   I am  more glad to
please, and what you say of the book1 is exactly what
I should have most wished to accomplish.   I am very
glad that you think I have succeeded. The newspapers,
you see, are trying hard to throw a little mud - though,
as far as I am myself concerned, I have no reason to
complain; but I am indeed very much satisfied to have
more or less secured their memory from  misconception.
I quite recognise the truth of your affectionate blame,
that I don't care much about my own standing as an
author. It would have been more sensible to have done
so-to have shown a more proper regard for it when I
was younger; but then life has always been at hard
if not high pressure for me, and there have always been
so many other things that were more important. Do
you know, I am sometimes inclined to think that a little
pomposity is coming on! I begin to have a faint consciousness of stilts, and of an inclination to think that
a person of my standing should be treated with respect,
which amuses me, as a new     feature in what Colonel
Lockhart used to call " the other fellow" who is one's
self.
1 Life of Laurence Oliphant




388


LETTERS.


[1891.


F. R. Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.
ROYAL LIBRARY, WINDSOR CASTLE, Azgest 14.
I am sending you a little paper suggested by our stay
at Davos last winter, which I have had by me for some
time, to see if you could make any use of it. The next
month or two seems to be just the time when it would
come in handy, as people are thinking of where they
are to go for the winter, and I daresay would be glad of
some account of a place like Davos, which is apt at first
mention to frighten people who are ordered out there.
You may observe that I had originally always spoken
of the place I was writing about as St Johann -the
very little-known alternative name of Davos-Platz,as an alias gives one a freer hand in writing of things
that have actually taken place; but I have changed it
back to Davos just for the reason that it might be
more useful so. It has at any rate the merit of being
short.
I think Archie spoke to you about some sketches of
our journey in Palestine which appeared in the 'Spectator,' and which I am just now putting together with
some additions to see if they would make a volume.
I will send them to you in a week or so to see what
you think could be made of them. It would have to be
a very small volume, I fancy.
The Davos paper appeared in the 'Spectator.' The
"Notes " alluded to above made a useful and very interesting little volume, and was published by Messrs
Blackwood. The dedication of the book "to my brother
Cyril" makes it a touching memento of the two, who.were so warmly attached to each other.
Mrs Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.    WINDSOR, 17th October.
I send you my Old Saloon paper, which I hope you
will like. I have used, as you will perceive, few books,
and. trust you will not think I have done wrong by




189r.]


LETTER FROM MR GLADSTONE.


389


bringing in Rudyard Kipling, who I think wants something more than the praise which is so liberally dealt
to him in the newspapers. You will think, however,
that I am still more liberal in my praise....
I have some books over, which will do for another
time. Should you like another Old Saloon for January?
or would you prefer a story of a niore or less "unseen "
character which is simmering in my mind? It may not
come to anything, but again it may.
We are leaving here (this house) in about a fortnight,
and Windsor in the middle of next month, and it is on
the cards that we may not return again here, where so
much of our life has been spent. My own house I will
never go back to, and the whole place has become unutterably sad.
This decision could not be adhered to, and the
diminished family returned to the old home at Windsor
late in the summer of 1892. The Jerusalem book was
published by Macmillan at this time.
The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone to Mrs Oliphant.
BIARRITZ, December 28.
DEAR MRS OLIPHANT,-The beautiful volume which
you have so kindly sent me came, I need hardly say,
introduced not only by your much too flattering note,
but by abundant recollections of knowledge and of
pleasure derived from you on many previous literary
occasions.
I have began the perusal, and I much hope, and cannot
doubt, that your living portraitures of Scripture characters
will impress upon many minds an important portion of
those evidences of the sacred volume which are so much
higher than the " higher criticism," and which have a
range of flight beyond its reach.-Allow me to remain
with many thanks faithfully yours,
W. E. GLADSTONE.




390


LETTERS.


[I892.


1892.
To Mr Blackwood.                 WINDsoR, 25th August.
I have been a long time of replying to your letter.
Books do not seem    very plentiful just now, and I
don't know whether you would like me to take up a
handful of novels, and perhaps a few poetry books. I
should like to say my mind about Louis Stevenson's
'Wrecker' and the 'Naulakha,' both of which are
striking instances of the evils of collaboration, and I
think would furnish good materials for a little slashing. As I am very forid of the principal authors in
both cases, I should not go too far. I will send a list
of some others if you feel inclined for this....
This heat must satisfy you, I think, even after Madeira;
but it is very close and, especially here, very stifling, without any movement of air. One is never satisfied, whichever way the balance turns. I am very anxious if possible
to dispose of my house, since not only are the associations
almost more than we can bear, but we ought for Cecco's
sake to be as high up as possible instead of here at the
foot of the hill. But in the meantime we must wait as
patiently as we can.
May I say that the new story in the Magazine begins
very well? The incident is striking, and I think quite
original, though the name of the story might have been
better chosen. I hope you have not plunged with too
much ardour into work. Was the cheap edition of
Laurence Oliphant not a success?
WINDSOR, 20tk September..., I was asking A. the other day when he
was here whether you ever published on commission,
which he said he believed you had done in a few cases.




1892.]


A PROJECTED GUIDE-BOOK.


391


Cecco and I are meditating together a book on the
Riviera which shall be a readable, and I hope entertaining book, and at the same time a guide-book.
Though that country is so well known now, it is in
reality not known at all, which is a contradiction, but
quite true. People usually confine themselves to the
line along the coast, which is beautiful indeed, but becomes dull by constant repetition, when in fact the expeditions, the picturesque little towns pushed up among
the hills, and the valleys that lead to them, are endless
and full of interest. To explore them and collect all
their historical and traditional associations will be the
healthiest work for Cecco, and he has fully settled to
begin when he leaves England in November. We would
like to keep the book in our own hands, and I wish to
know whether you would print and undertake the publication for us on the usual terms. It might take time to
get known, but I have no doubt that it would be very
profitable in the end, especially if we made it, as we at
present contemplate, the first of a series of travel-books.
We naturally turn to you to assist in this enterprise, if it
is a kind of thing you do. I have been advising Cecco to
send you an article embodying some part of the work, to
give you an idea what it is.
WINDSOR, 15t September.
S.. By the bye, I have thought several times of
collecting-only for private circulation-my own verses
scattered through many years of ' Maga.' Could you
bid some of your attendant spirits look them out for
me, tearing out the page or making a rough reprint?
I think I asked this before, but no attention was paid.
It is not, of course, of the least importance, but I don't
remember even the dates.
Thanks for the volumes received yesterday of 'Valentine' and 'Katie Stewart.' They are delightfully printed,
and nice volumes, though I don't care for the binding.
And I wish, I wish you had printed 'Katie Stewart' by
herself. I don't care for 'John Rintoul '-it is very girlish




392


LETTERS.


[1892.


and mawkish; and I don't think the Ladybank trifle was
worth the honour of reprinting.
The death of Tennyson and his funeral are the occasion
of the next two letters.
To Mr Craik.                                WINDSOR.
I telegraphed to you yesterday in the evening, fearing
that there might be a great rush, as no doubt there will
be, for places in the Abbey on Wednesday. I hope my
application would be in time.   Mr Blackwood wants
me to write something upon Lord Tennyson (not the
funeral), and I should be grateful if you would send me
the new volume when it is ready as well as a copy of
the 'Foresters.' What a pity that he was not gratified
by seeing the latter performed in England in a becoming
way! If we knew when our great men were to be taken
from us, how much more we might do to give them a
pleasure before they go.
All seems most nobly appropriate in his end, and
nothing but congratulations seem to me to be applicable
to him. He has met his pilot face to face. How entirely
that last wonderful poem of his seems to have taken
possession of everybody's imagination, and how fitly!
Is it true that Hallam Tennyson has wished it to be set
to music and sung at the funeral? I can't think it very
suitable for that. I suggested to Dr Bridge those verses
from " In Memoriam ":
" Peace, come away, the song of woe
Is after all an earthly song."
To Mr Blackwood.                   WINDSOR, 7th October.
Your letter this morning has thrown a different light
upon the Tennyson article. I thought of it in the shock.
of the moment as a mere obituary notice, such as you
sometimes put in at the end of the Magazine. This was
a foolish mistake on my part, for of course our great poet




1892.]


IMPRESSIONS OF TENNYSON.


393


was not one of' Maga's' men. But I am rather afraid of
the inveterate want of accord between you and me on the
subject of poetry. I had forgotten Christopher North's
strictures, in which I think that great critic must have
been wanting in his usual insight; but in any case I fear
I can't agree that " Maud" is anything but an exquisite
piece of art and melody, and " Locksley Hall" a very
fine poem. You must decide, that being so, whether you
will still want me to do the article. Of course a full
article upon Tennyson and his works will take some time,
and I shall want to know as soon as possible.
He was once most amusingly rude to me, for which I
bore him no malice, for it was exceedingly funny; and
last time I saw him in the Isle of Wight he was delightfully kind, and took the greatest trouble in making our
little visit pleasant. He read two of his poems to me,
one a long and difficult one, the "Ode on the Duke's
Funeral," which must have been very trying and exhausting to read: so my last view of him has left the most delightful impression on my mind. Now it is in your hands,
let me know what you wish me to do....
I don't know the dates of any of my poor little verses
which were in the Magazine, except that the first must
have been in '52 or '53, and at long intervals after that
up to '70.




394


LETTERS.


[i893<


1893.
To Lady Cloncurry.             ST RAPHAEL, February 4.
I have been delaying to write to you until I had an
address! A family wandering about the world without
an address is a comic, but at the same time almost a
tragic thing, and I think I must make something of the
predicament. However, for the moment this is ended,
and I have not only an address, but so impressive a one
that I hope you will be quite struck by it. Chateau La
Tour!-that is the -name of the house-Chateau La Tour,
Mont Boron, Nice. It is close to our former villa, much
more showy, but not so big, though also, alas! consider-'
ably dearer. We found no villas at all to be had on that
spot except this one, and we have been going through a
course of bargaining, which, you know, by degrees heats
one's blood! You go on and the owner goes on, he falling
and you rising, till you find that you have gone a great deal
farther than you had any intention of going. You would
laugh at our Tower, which is very French and fantastic
outside, but very nice within; and the view is superb,
the same we had last year, but a little more so, please
tell Emily.
I am so thankful, dear friend, to hear that you are
better, and pleased to be at home in your quiet, and also
very thankful that the weather in England has improved.
We had a very wet day last Sunday, the day after we
arrived here, but since then beautifully fine weather, a
rapture of sunshine and water and sky. I had no idea St
Raphael was so fine. I think the bay quite beautiful,
though I fear I don't quite appreciate the forest so much
as Emily does. It seems to me a little scrubby, the trees
so much too small to be called by such an imposing name.
Yesterday we drove up to the heights, a very long drive
into the heart of the Esterels, and Cecco and Denny went




1893.]


RENEWED ANXIETIES.


395


up the Mont de Vinaigre, which is one of the highest, I
believe. The trees there were big enough, and the great
solitudes fine. However, the scenery is not so interesting, I am sure, to you as ourselves. I thought Cecco
looking very well when we met, but I fear, from being
out two or three times at sunset, he has caught another
cold, and his cough is bad. I try to remind myself that
the doctor said his cough had nothing to do with his lung,
but was entirely irritation of the throat; but when one
hears a cough like his, and remembers that it is the chief
sign of a terrible disease, it is very hard to keep one's
equanimity. When it is better, I am better; but when
it torments him, as it sometimes does, I become a very
poor creature indeed, and good for nothing. Still I can't
say that he is not well on the whole.
Madge tells me she is to be with you to-day, which I
am very glad to hear: you will be talking of us, and I
shall have detailed information about you, which I am
longing for. It is so long since I have had any letter,
which I know is my own fault, but I have been hoping
day by day to be able to tell you where we should be.
And then, however much it is one's own fault, one longs
to hear, all the same.  I found here established Mrs
Harrison and Miss Kingsley, the latter so like her father
that there could be no doubt who she was.
To Mr Craik.
"VILLA LA TOUR, MONT BORON, NICE, tk February.
We have settled down here for the spring in a beautiful
corner, with the most delightful view of the sea and the
mountains and the lights of Nice at our feet, very near
the place where we were last year. Cecco is very well on
the whole, and he has sent or is sending in an application
for the vacant librarianship at the London Library. It
is expressly said that no private applications are to be
made on behalf of any candidate, so I do not ask you to
use any interest of yours in his behalf, and I have not




396


LETTERS.


[1893.


written to anybody on the subject, though no doubt you
will know all, and I several, of the judges. I scarcely
know what kind of post it is, and probably they will want
an older man; but in any case I think it was right for
him to try for it. He has excellent testimonials.
My chief disadvantage here is the difficulty of getting
books. Will you please whistle for one of your slaves,
and bid him inquire whether there are any translations of
the life, letters, and works of St Gregory the Great, or of
St Jerome, in English? Cecco thinks there must be, but
I am very doubtful. If there are, and they could be
obtained, I should be very grateful if you would send
them to me. I have the Latin, but a crib is legitimate
for me, as I can't have Cecco tied to my apron. He begs
me to ask whether you would be so very kind as to send
him the 'Agricola' of Tacitus, of which he says you have
published an edition, and which he has at home, but I
could not find to bring him. He would be very much
obliged. May I add that any book you would throw in
would be gratefully received and much welcomed?
I had half a mind, on reading a paper about the Poor
Laws in Austria in your Magazine, to send you a sketch
of Dr Chalmers's great experiment in Glasgow, which I
think a very fine thing indeed, and which has fallen out
of recollection. Would it be welcome, I wonder? By
the way, is it quite right to reproduce the pictures of the
Edinburgh book in the 'Illustrated Magazine'? Isn't it
rather cheapening the work they belong to? You ought
to be the best judge, but common-sense seems to suggest so. I think I read somewhere that you were getting rid of that magazine, which will be a good thing, I
should think.
Madge is getting on wonderfully with her engraving,
but is more than likely to exemplify over again the foolishness of giving expensive training to young women, by
turning her thoughts in quite a different direction.
I suppose you are all very much excited about politics
and Home Rule: you can scarcely be more so than we




l893.]


A MOTHER'S HEAVEN.


397


-are here, to whom the coming in of the newspapers is for
the moment the chief feature of the day.
To the Hon. Emily Lawless.    VILLA LA TOUR, I12th May.
It seems years since I have heard from you, and as
this is the most inappropriate moment possible for writing letters, seated among the ruins of this three months'
home, I naturally take advantage of it to send you my
A ve in your new house. Going away is always a horror,
especially that mauvais quart d'heure of the reckoning! I
have been paying and paying till I am quite sick...
We have had a checkered season altogether. Cecco
has not been at all well. He has given me moments
of great anxiety: even the doctor thought the old mischief was beginning again, and I had a week of such
misery as I cannot describe. It is all right, I believe,
but he is very thin and weak. This place, I think,I almost hope,-has not suited him, and that he will
be better elsewhere.  I have been anything but well
myself in consequence. And yet it is so beautiful, that
to leave this glorious bay and the mountains and the
lighthouses and all the villages on the hillsides, and
the flowers rioting everywhere, roses flinging themselves
about in every direction, is a pity too. What a thing
it would be to live a week, a day, without some anxiety
tearing at one's heart!  It would almost be heaven
enough for a poor mortal of a mother, at least.
Cheerful talk this for my Ave to the new house! All
I have heard about it is delightful, and I hope, when you
feel able and have any time to spare, you will tell me
something more. We are leaving here to-morrow, and
hope to get home on Thursday or Friday.
This summer was one of a little revived cheerfulness.
The elder of Mrs Oliphant's nieces (who were also her
adopted daughters) was married on the 26th of July.
There is always, or almost always, a certain amount




398


LETTERS.


[1893.


of pleasant excitement in preparing for a marriagethe gathering together of the bride's pretty things, the
summoning of friends, and the arrangement for the
ceremony. Into all this Mrs Oliphant threw herself,
determined that the girl she had brought up should
go to her husband surrounded by all that love and care
could do for her. A very large party assembled, and for
the last time the house, which had known so much happiness and so much sorrow, was filled and overflowing with
guests.
In all that was to be done Cecco took the part of
master. He was far from well, and on the day of the
wedding his looks alarmed some of those who loved him.
Almost immediately afterwards there was an evident
failure of his health, and his mother's anxieties became
again as acute as ever.
WINDSOR, 3rd August.
I write a line in haste to ask if you would lend your
name and a little bit of work at any time to a humble
magazine which is re-beginning on a more mature
scale under the guidance of a quaint little friend of
mine, a young Scotsman, whose queer ambition it is to
establish a magazine. He has tried twice, and failed at
the cost of all he had.  But he is making this third
attempt with passion, and with the aid of wealthy friends
who will not let anybody suffer by him, though they will
not be liberal in their payments. I am writing a story
for him, chiefly out of interest and sympathy... I
think you would be interested did you see him. Will
you give him your name for his programme, and a little
something, some day or other?... Do give me your
help for him.
I hope you are now safe at Niton, since you are going
there, though I also wish you had not gone there with
a raging sea between us. I hope my dear Lady Clon



1893-1


SIR EDWARD HAMLEY.


399


curry has got there safely, and I hope you will like it.
Cecco is very, very poorly. It was found he had dilatation of the heart, which is the immediate cause of his low
state; but I am more anxious about him than any words
can say. It seems to me as if my sorrows were never to
have an end as long as my life lasts.
"The Valentines" are here and look very happy, tell
Lady Cloncurry, which it is a comfort to see. Don't
think me importunate for endeavouring to make you
lend your standard to a forlorn-hope.  Much love to
you both.
To Mr Blackwood.                 WINDSOR, 27h August.
S.. The two Hamleys make a great gap in the old
band of contributors. I hope you pick up new ones to
fill up the vacant places. One always regrets the days
that are gone, but it must be "Le roi est mort, vive le
roi! " in literature as well as in all other things..
The last time, I think, that I saw Sir Edward was at
a Royal Academy soirde in the Jubilee year, when he
was blazing with all his stars and orders, and a most
distinguished figure, whom one was proud to stand by.
I have just been recalling this in writing to his niece. I
am glad to have that last recollection of him.




400oo


LETTERS.


[1894 -

1894.
To F. R. Oliphant.                WINDSOR, 9th Yanuary.... I have done nothing but wade through Dean
Stanley's Life this last week in the intervals of doing
perfunctorily a little work in the mornings.  What a
queer little being he was,-quite uninterested in any
argument or harmony of religious opinion, but up like
a little turkey cock at the first note of discord, and
grappling all dissentients to his small bosom-Maurice,
Colenso, Pere Hyacinthe, Pusey, Newman, in their times
of contradictiousness. Hampden and Goring (which are
names you will know nothing of), every man who fibs
-which is a wrong word to use-is in the moment
of his fibbing a delight to Stanley.  It is a curious
characteristic.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.
HOTEL D'ITALIE, )MENTONE, March 4.
SI was very glad to get your letter, though you will
think I have taken my time to answer it. I have been
rather a cripple ever since I came here, very much taken
up about my knees, which gave way in the most ridiculous manner when I attempted to walk, and gave me
great pain; and though this of course did not prevent me
from writing, it hampered me in many ways. However,
I have been in the hands of a masseuse for ten days, and
am getting right again, which I really did not think I
should have done. And now we are approaching the
end of our stay here, Cecco being anxious to go on
to fresh woods and pastures new. He is tolerably well,
but still much troubled with his breathing; and he has
not gained much strength, I fear, but he is very full
of Riviera work. I get him to drive as much as possible,
and fortunately he begins to like driving. I must get




.1894.]


MENTONE.


4o01


him a little trap of some kind when we get home. He
is so tremendously conscientious about seeing with his
own eyes everything he intends to mention in his book,
that he gives himself more labour than he need do. We
have had warm and fine weather on the whole, but with
many misty grey days such as I have never seen before
on the Riviera-they must be peculiar to Mentone. We
are on the east bay, which is much the finest so far as
the view goes, though not the fashionable end. We have
a tiny little sitting-room, but with a balcony attached,
the view from which is wonderful, the old town rising
up to the right in all its wonderful glow of colour, and
the coast on the other side ending in Bordighera, which
is the most persistently shining and smiling place I ever
saw....
I should like very much to hear about N. It is a pity
we cannot be all poor or all rich together; it would stop
a great many heart-breakings-or perhaps heart-burnings
would be a better word. It seems to me that money
does most of the harm there is in the world, whether
it is the want of it or the possession of it. I am glad
to hear you are publishing your Staffordshire story.
These publishers of yours seem   the smartest going,
in the American sense of the word. They seem to run
up an author's reputation by means of dividing one
decent edition into three or four, and thus turning a
moderate success into, to all appearances, a brilliant
one. I don't like tricks of that kind. I feel sure one
of my books was treated in that way, though I have
no information on the subject.
To Mr Blackwood.                    WINDSOR, 9th ulyy..... I had been thinking of offering to you a series
of perhaps four articles, to appear at intervals, called the
"Spectator" or the "Looker-on," or some such title, a
sort of review of the three or four months preceding,the season, the autumn, the winter season, &c.,-with
a reflection of the Society and lighter morals, politics,
2 C




402


LETTERS.,


[1i894 -

art, and literature of the time. I don't know if you
would care for them, but I have rather a fancy for
doing them, and there is plenty of material, Heaven
knows. Let me know if you would like them, for in
that case I should look again at some things before
the season is over.
F. R. Oliphant to Mrs Harry Coghill.  WINDSOR, 7uly II.... It is very kind of you to ask me to stay over
Tuesday.... You see even that means three days
which must be days without work, and I can hardly
afford to spare an hour.  I am working hard against
time to finish this Riviera book, which should if possible be out in October, so as to catch the first batch of
people going south. Then we have to deal with one of
these new young publishers, who of course tries to make
one believe that it will take six months to set up a hundred pages or thereabouts. We don't believe him, and
are not afraid to tell him so, because we had originally
thought of publishing this book on our own hook, and the
possibility of at any time falling back on that course gives
one a pleasant freedom in dealing with the publishing
ogre.  However, I promised at first to give him my
manuscript in the end of this month, which I have
since been obliged to change to the first fortnight in
August, and I know I shan't be ready then. I have
still six chapters to write, and much looking up of
books and authorities, which means days spent in the
British Museum, the worst managed and noisiest reading-room in Europe. I only go into these details to
show you that there is no humbug about it, because,
as a general rule, I find my friends have a healthy
disbelief in my having anything to do, or doing it if
I have, perhaps on account of my not concealing the
fact that I regard work of any kind with a cordial
detestation, and would never do any if I could help
it. In complete idleness alone is true happiness to be
found.  Fine weather is perhaps also necessary, and




1894.]


"FANCIES OF A BELIEVER."


403


I prefer fine scenery.  But there is much in doing
nothing.  You were kind enough to suggest that I
could go on with my work at Coghurst; but I should
have to bring a perfect chestful of books, as I never
know to what I may want to refer, and I am not
going to spoil my time at Coghurst with anything
whatever to do.... I hope to be able to get to town
in the morning and see an hour or so of the Eton and
Harrow match, which I have not seen since 1889. The
University match I had to give up from want of time,
though I have not seen that either for five years, and
I was in town two of the days.
Mrs Oliphant to Mr Blackwood.    WINDSOR, 22nd August.
I have an offer from America for a novel to begin
in the end of next year or beginning of '96. I don't
care generally, feeling how uncertain life is, especially
at my age, to enter upon engagements so long in advance, but still the book might be in existence even
if I no longer were so. I want to ask you whether
you would take the story to be published serially simultaneously with the American issue. Of course in these
circumstances I should not stand out for any high price,
but would ask to be paid only per page as for monthly
contributions. The book would be of the usual length.
I should not like to lose the advantage of the American
offer, as I have had very little good as yet from America.
As the New York people ask in what magazine the story
would be published here, and at what time, I think it
best to ask you if you would be inclined to make any
bargain with me before answering them. Would you
then kindly reply to this as soon as possible?
I have been thinking of sending you a paper for Christmas to be called "The Words of a Believer "-not of the
class of the stories of the Seen and Unseen, but yet something in that way, containing, in fact, my own theories of
the world and its management. Should you care to have
it?-of course I give you the first offer; and will you give




404


LETTERS.


[i894.


me your advice whether the Believer should be a man or
woman? Naturally I should say the first, but the tendency of the day is so much (apparently) in the other
direction that I hesitate. Of course it would Nbe more
actually true to make a woman the speaker, but a generation ago it would have given the adversary an occasion
to blaspheme against old women and their maunderings.
I doubt whether this would be the case now; but it is a
curious question, and one on which I should like to have
your advice.
At this moment, when, though she did not know it, but
was still fighting to keep her terrible anxieties at bay, the
last and crowning sorrow of her life was approaching, Mrs
Oliphant was cheered and interested by a suggestion made
to her by Mr Blackwood. This was that she might
undertake the history of the great publishing house with
which for forty-two years she had been so closely connected. Many of the old friends of that house had passed
away; she herself was to lay down her task unfinished.
But there could be no question of her superlative fitness
for the work, and though it proved extremely laborious,
it was more congenial to her in the last sad days of her
life than the lighter kinds of writing from which she
began to shrink.  The following is her answer to Mr
Blackwood's first letter on the subject:WINDSOR, 26th August.
I like your proposal, or rather suggestion, very much
indeed. I have often wished that you would think of
doing something of the kind.   It ought to make a
valuable as well as very interesting book, for the history of the Blackwoods would involve a most important
piece of the recent history of literature, as well as many
extremely interesting figures. Your grandfather and elder
uncles must have been men full of character, and few




1894.] "THE ANNALS OF A PUBLISHING HOUSE."     405
people living can have a clearer recollection than I of
your Uncle John,-your father too, always so kind, the
kindest of all. I should undertake the work with the
greatest of pleasure, and I think I could do something
worthy of the subject. You must have boundless material, and it is always the kind of work I prefer to
any other.  There are a great many things that we
should have to talk over or write about, and I should
like to know your views on the subject more fully. It
is possible that I may be going to Dundee in the beginning of the month if Cecco keeps well, and on my
return I might perhaps stay for a day in Edinburgh
for this purpose, but that would depend upon Cecco.
He is tolerably well, but the terrible weather we have
been having is very trying and depressing, and affects
him a good deal. To-day, after nearly a week of rain
and cold, it is quite hot again, and as bright as possible,
which does one's heart good. I hope we are going to
have a good September. It is dreadful to see the golden
sheaves getting all brown and shabby and soaked in the
wet fields. I hope you have not felt the evil influence of
the weather.
It is curious enough that the idea of a book on the
House of Blackwood as a thing that should be, though
not in any connection with myself, passed through my
mind with some vividness a little while before I heard
from you. It must have been a brain-wave!
A gleam of something like happiness, or at any rate
pleasure, came at this time with the birth of a little
daughter of MIrs Valentine. Itwas only a gleam lost in
the terrible grief that followed, but still the little Margaret was very sweet and interesting to her "Grannie."
To Mrs Harry Coghill.
ELMWOOD, LoclEE, DUNDEE, Sept. 13.
I feel myself unpardonable not to have written to you




ý40.6


LETTERS.


[I89.4.


*at first hand to tell you about Madge, but I was at the
moment distracted by bad news from home, and lost my
head, I fear, altogether,.
The baby is a fine little thing with a pair of big very
bright eyes, but a most determined little person, a real
struggle-for-lifeuw or -euse,-certain that there is nothing
in the world so important as that she should have her
food in due season.
I came on the morning of the 3rd September, leaving
home with very great reluctance, for Cecco had been
very poorly. Since I came he has had another bad turn,
and I have been torn in pieces between the two. Thank
God, my news since Sunday has been better, but he is in
so weak a state that any additional trouble breaks him
down altogether. I have been myself so worn out with
the constant strain of anxiety and miserable helplessness,
that the relief of the good news almost broke me down
also. And I feel as if I could not get up my hopes again
as I used to do: however elastic a cord may be, it breaks
its fibre at the last, and I feel the prospect very dark
before me. I sympathised with you very much when I
saw the death of Mrs S., knowing you would feel it so
much, and intended to have written then, but I was not
sure where you were, if you were still in St Andrews.
Poor, little, soft, kind woman, it makes one's heart ache
to think of so gentle a creature suffering, and I suppose
she had a great deal of trouble. Thank God that there
comes an end to all that, at the last.'.,. The baby will
be Margaret, I suppose, like all her female forebears. I
am going home on Tuesday, i8th, at the latest.
On the ist of October Cecco died. Even now the
words cannot be written without a pang, though the
desolate mother found courage to tell the sad story herself to the one who writes them.
WINDSOR, 27td October.
I am writing what letters I can myself simply to keep




1894.]


THE CROWNING SORROW.


407


me from distraction,-I must do something, whatever it
is. My Cecco died last night. He is gone from me, my
last, my dearest, and I am left here a desolate woman
with the strength of a giant in me, and may live for
years and years. Pity me,-it seems as if even God
did not, and yet no doubt He had a higher reason
than pity for me. The dreadful thing is that I can't
go too: I am forced to live, though everything in life
is gone.
You know that my dearest boy has been very poorly all
the summer-not from the complaint which we were all
so much afraid of, which I believe was as much got under
as it could be, and in complete abeyance. Monday night,
the i7th, he was taken ill with inflamed throat and
tongue, and I got home from Scotland on Wednesday
morning to find him ill in bed, but nothing to be alarmed
about. He got well of that, though very weak, and was
downstairs for two or three days. Then he had a relapse, but got over that too. Yesterday morning, after
a bad night, he was so ill and restless that I sent in a
hurry for Dr Miller, who said it was exhaustion, and
poured in stimulants, but with little or no effect. At
about half-past eleven at night, after he had been quite
given up, he made a wonderful rally, and even I was for
a moment deceived. The doctor left expressing hopes,
but had not been gone ten minutes when he sank again
all at once, and peacefully like a child breathed out his
last breath. He lies now on his own bed, a perfect image
of repose, his face rounded out as if he had never known
illness, his look so peaceful and so sweet. And here am
I, his desolate, heart-broken mother, childless, and yet as
strong as iron, as if I should live for ever.... My
Cecco, always my baby, never parted from me, always
mine; and now I shall never hear his constant call upon
me again, never until we meet where all will be so different. I write to try and deaden myself a little, and in the
hope of getting tired and done like other people, but that
is what I never seem to be.




408


LETTERS.


[i894.


It is indeed a sad task to recall the silent house: the
mother sitting desolate, deserted by all the children who
had been the heart and soul of her life;-feeling herself
physically strong still, though she seemed to others only
the white shadow of what she had been; able to talk of
her boy with tears, indeed, but with calmness, until some
too poignant thought made her start up and steal away
into solitude. And close beside her, in the boy's room
which he would never consent to have altered, lay the
last of all her treasures-those treasures that were her
very own, and for which she had waged so brave a fight.
Day and night she scarcely left him for an hour, until he
was carried away to be laid beside his brother at Eton;
and even then she stood beside him, feeling, as she wrote
afterwards, as if the " two other boys," her own Cyril and
Frank, long ago dead in India, stood one on each side of
her and supported her through the anguish of the parting.
For a week or two after this there was a stillness and
exhaustion of grief over the house. In the quaint study
in which Cecco had gathered his books, queer volumes of
heraldry, special editions of his favourite classics or his
best beloved poets-where all sorts of weapons, pipes,
and curiosities decorated the walls-his chair still stood
by the writing-table, and, left as when he had risen from
his last day's work, the half-written page, and the pen
laid down for ever, seemed only waiting for his accustomed presence.   But it was all over. The goad,
"urging her to perpetual exertion, which his frail life had
supplied to his mother, had failed her suddenly and
completely.  There was no longer pleasure or hope
either,-nothing but such patient endurance as God's
grace might vouchsafe to her.
But after that dreadful pause work did begin again:




1894.]


"AN ETON MASTER."


409


a paper called "Fancies of a Believer" came from her
heart, and was perhaps the very best kind of occupation
she could have found. And she finished and sent off to
Mr Blackwood a paper called "An Eton Master," a
sketch of the Rev. Edward Hale, one of the earliest and
most valued of the friends who had gathered about her
during her boys' school-life. Mr Hale had died shortly
before Cecco, and this little memorial of him was really
a labour of love.
To Mr Blackwood.                  WINDSOR, iot/ October.
It grieves me not to be able to keep my engagement
about the "Looker-on," but you will feel that it is impossible at present. God has stricken me so sorely that
I am sure you will excuse and forgive. As soon as it is
in flesh and blood to do it, I will. I have sent the little
article on Mr Hale, and I shall, if I can, send "The
Words of a Believer" before Christmas. I received your
box safely. If I live-which I most heartily pray God I
may not, but one knows how vain are one's desires in the
face of His decrees-it will be a great relief from other
work to undertake your family history: in any case, I
will keep the materials safely and in their proper order.
I have never been able to thank you for the kind thought
that made you suggest this work to me as a kind of prop
and support in the midst of my many expenses and cares.
These are now diminished along with my life, and I
earnestly hope that the blow which has taken my all from
me may have so loosened the tenacity of existence that I
may not abide long after him; but God only knows. In
the meantime, bear with me in respect to the other
things which I had pledged myself to do. Thank you
for your sympathy.
To the Hon. Emily Lawless.        WINDsoR, Itk October.
DEAREST EMILY,-I send a little note to be given to
your dear mother if you think it fit. The girls, Denny:




41o


LETTERS.


[1894.


and Fanny Tulloch, who has made herself so one with us
in our calamity that we are never likely to part, have been
looking for a house in London to which we could remove
at least for a time, partly to make the journey a little
more easy for Madge, who, we have been hoping, would
come to us soon, partly in the first impulse of leaving this
desolate house. But both these motives have been shaken
in the last few days. Madge is not doing so well as we
hoped, and has got at present an attack of rheumatism
about which I am anxious, and we may go to her instead
of waiting for her to come to us. And I begin to feel that
the world outside is more desolate still than this poor
bereaved house, which was my boys' home for almost all
their dear lives, and where their trace is upon everything.
But anyhow, we shall probably go to London for a time,
and if I can so command myself as to meet dear Lady
Cloncurry with something less than a miserable face, I
will come, and be thankful to come, often to her. You
must judge if I am fit to see her. I am not fit -to see any
one, but I would do much for her dear sake. Pity me,
for I am always well, horribly well, and all my life hot
and strong in me-nothing to soften one pang or get me
any respite. I am all emptied out, hope and motive all
gone, nothing but sorrow and anguish left. But I know
you do pity me. Thank you for the letter which came
straight out of your heart.
BIRNAM HOTEL, BIRNAM, Oct. 25.
S.. You ask do I read? I would read night and day
if I could, or work-these two things keep me going,
sincego I must, and no softening of incapacity or weakness is ever allowed me. You can't imagine how I long
to be ill or stupefied in some way; but, on the contrary,
I am all strung up, and fit for everything. We have been
very anxious about Madge, but she has now taken a good
turn and is recovering rather slowly, but I hope all right.
The baby is quite well, and a very dear little thing; they
are either coming with us or soon to follow us to London,




1894.]


A DREARY EXPERIENCE.


411


and indeed it is partly on her account that I want to be
there, for she has had something happen to her eye, an
internal haemorrhage, and must consult an eye doctor.
This has been a very dreary experience, as any experience
must have been at such a time. Denny and I say to
each other that Cecco would have liked the place, but
that only makes its beauty more sad. God bless him!
he was our chief motive in everything.
I hope dear Lady Cloncurry will recover her strength
as soon as it is possible to hope for it, and that you,
when she gets well, will be able to have a change.  I
don't write to her-what can I say? You will give her
my tenderest love, and tell her how often I think of her,
and how sorry I am she will not be within reach.   I
can't write, and yet I can, and feel as if it were a
moment's ease to let my heart overflow to you. But I
will not say any more, dear Emily, for your sake rather
than mine. I hope that 'Maelcho' will do very well,
and that you will be pleased with it in print, which
always makes a difference. God bless you for all your
kind thoughts.
To Mrs Cornish.                BIRNAM, Sunday, 28th Oct.
I have meant to reply to your kind letter for some
time, but the courage has always failed me. When last
God called upon me to give up what was the half of
my being, I could speak a little and express the anguish
that was in me; for then I had still my Cecco, his
ever-ready arm to lean on, and a motive and object for
every self-denial. But now I have lost all, everything
on this earth that came from me and was wholly mine.
I thank God for my dear little Denny, to whom I seem
to do wrong by speaking as if she were not mine, which
she is by every tenderest tie. But only God knows, who
-has not spared, what Cecco was to me-my child still,
though a man, my dearest friend and closest companion.
It seems strange that with all the assurance I have
that God would not have stricken me with this dread



412


LETTERS.


[1894.


ful blow had it not been best, and indeed necessary for
him, I should bear it no better than if I had no hope
at all; but nature is very weak and humanity very shortsighted, and the distance that is between him and me
and the silence seem more than flesh and blood and an
old worn-out soul can bear. There was never a day
when he was away from me that he did not write to me;
during these years of his weakness he has liked always
to have me by his side, his call to me, "Mamma," as he
always said, was continual, in everything he wanted me,
till we made a joke of it, in the happy days in that other
world which came to an end scarcely a month ago, though
it looks like a hundred years. Yes, you are right; I was
more blessed in him than most mothers are, the more and
the greater is my desolation now. But yet I know that
I ought to bear it better, only that my prayers are all
silent-I seem to have so little now to ask for, nothing
but that I may soon be united again to my dearest boys
in that little house at Eton where they are waiting for
me, and in that above, which is dim, of which we know
so little. And the less prayers one has to say the farther
off one seems to get from God, who is all that is left
in the ruin of my earthly hope.
Since I wrote this I have been called down to see
Bishop Wilkinson, who is a good man and has said many
things to me which will perhaps do me good after a
while; but, alas.! one knows everything or almost everything that can be said, and has said it to oneself over
and over with so little effect. I find a little comfort in
fantastic thoughts that float into my mind I cannot tell
how. You and your dear husband say many kind things
to me of my Cecco, and Mr Cornish bound me to him
by saying how he had wished in the time to come to
make a friend of my dearest boy. And I know my Cecco
in his heart loved good company and was fain to make
friends, but was kept back by the reserve of his nature
and a shyness to believe in the interest of others in himself. And the other morning it came into my head that




1894.3


~GLEAMS OF CONSOLATION.


41.3


he would now have the noblest of company, and would
doubt no more of the affection of others, but know as he
was known. And this for a little gave me great and
sweet consolation, to think of him among some band of
the young men like himself whom I have a fond fantastic
thought that our Lord draws to Him, because He too in
His flesh was a young man, and still loves His peers in
human age, and gathers them about Him, for some great
reason of His own. You will feel how fantastic all this
is, and yet it gives me more gleams and moments of
consolation than anything else.
You will have heard that we came here hurriedly on
account of Madge, who was ill and still continues very
delicate. I hope to bring her down to London next
week, where we shall be for a month or two; but unless
my house should be let, which I scarcely expect, yet
should not refuse, we shall come back after Christmas to
the melancholy empty place, which yet was the home of
my boys, and in which I should like to die too, when God
pleases. I want to send Mr Cornish the last book which
my Cecco ever bought, which had been taken tq his
bedroom for him to see, and was still there when he
passed away from all the fancies and likings of this life.
It is a Baskerville Ariosto, valuable, I believe, for the
printing: your husband,. I think, shares that taste too.
Give him my love and thanks for all his good thoughts
of my dearest boy, and to you too, dear.
When the visit to Scotland was over, Mrs Oliphant
took possession for a few weeks of a house in London,
where her two adopted daughters and, little Margaret,
the baby whom she could not but care for and pet, were
her companions. Thence she writes:To Mr Blackwood.         85 CADOGAN PLACE, s.w., NAov. 3.... I am working now at the "Words of a Believer"
with, I fear, but indifferent success; for I am very rest



414


LETTERS.


[1894;


less, and find it difficult to settle at my work for any
time, even though it is the only thing that does me any
good. I have been in Scotland for a fortnight, having
been taken there by the illness of Madge, who has been
in a very delicate state ever since her baby's birth, or
rather since our great calamity fell upon her just at the
moment when she was least able to bear a shock. I have
brought her and her child here with me, and we shall
remain in London I think for about two months. If I
possibly can I will try to do the " Looker-On" for your
January number. Work is the only thing for me, but
I do not think I have ever been so unfit to avail myself
of that opiate.
I hope to begin your work, 'The House of Blackwood,'
early in the year. I would very fain make this my last
work, if God will be so good to me as to let me go by the
time I have finished it. 1 should not in any case take
more than two years to it, and would probably do it much
sooner if there was any need for hurry. I can think of
nothing better, if I must go on with this weary life so
long, as to conclude everything with this book. We
rarely get what we wish for in this way, but it would be
very sweet to me, and I can at least hope for it. You
were kind enough to say you would like it to be a kind
of annuity to me while it lasted, which would be a
great comfort too, as making me independent of chance
work. You will perhaps tell me what your views are on
this subject, but in no hurry. I think I could make a
very much more interesting book of it than the Murray
book. I began my married life by my first story in
'Maga ' - the proofs of which (' Katie Stewart.') I received on my wedding-day: I should like to wind up
the long laborious record (which seems to me now to have
been so vain, so vain, my life all coming to nothing)
with this.
For once, at least, her desires were accomplished. This
book was the last.




1894.]


A WORLD FULL OF SORROW.


415


"The Words of a Believer "1 appeared in 'Blackwood'
for February. Certainly it appealed to many hearts.
85 CADOGAN PLACE, S.W., Nov. 16.
I fear that you will perhaps find this too serious, and
perhaps will agree with it too little to put it into the
Magazine. I don't even know if it is very suitable for the
Magazine.   You must decide solely as you think best.
It is not what is called orthodox, nor is it unorthodox,
and it is perhaps fantastic-that I am sure it is anyhow.
It is even perhaps too much the musing of a very sore
heart to be fit for the public at all. But only there are
so many sore hearts. I do not, however, wish to bias
your judgment in any way.
In the midst of her sorrow she was never insensible
to the sufferings of others, and the following letter,
written to one in great trouble, will show how keen
her sympathies were:To Mrs Harry Coghill.               85 CADOGAN PLACE.
Seeing you yesterday was such a mere flash, like a
dream of trouble and pain, that I must say a word to you
to-day, though indeed I have very little to say. It is so
easy to bid you have courage. It was the first thing that
came into my head this morning.... How full the
world is always of trouble and sorrow!  I don't know
how I shall get through Sunday, knowing what I know.
I steal out now in the early morning to Mr Eyton's
church, round the corner, to the early communion.   I
have lost confidence in any prayer of mine, but as one
must pray whether one will or not, I will carry you there
with me, my dear, and ask strength for you and ease and
complete restoration, and you may be sure, if they know,
the boys will add their word, knowing better than we do.
I "Fancies of a Believer," ' Maga,' February 1895.




416


LETTERS.


[1894 -

I dreamt this morning I was reading one of Cecco's letters,
and he said, "Everything here is covered with gowans,
as you call them." Now, I never do call daisies gowans;
was it not strange? and doesn't it give you the idea of
a great sunshiny flowery mead that he must have been
in? I am very foolish in my maunderings. You won't
forget that I will come to you at any moment that I can
be of the least use or comfort to you, which will be good
for me too. We are sending you a couple of books. Have
you read the 'Raiders'? As it is rather old now, I suppose you must...
God bless you, dear, and give you strength. You came
to me in my great trouble. I hope all good angels will
be with you.
An article entitled "In Maga's Library," published
in the Magazine for December, has a notice of Mrs
Oliphant's work, and-what she valued much more-a
short but very just appreciation of such writings of
Cecco's as had appeared in those familiar pages.
To Mr Blackwood.              85 CADOGAN PLACE, Dec. 4.
You will be surprised that I have not written before
to thank you and your contributor for what he has so
kindly said both about me and my dearest boy. Will
you say to him that I shall be ever grateful to him for
his kind words? Whatever touches my Cecco is precious
to me, and about the only thing in which I can take any
real interest in these dark days. It is only this moment
that, turning to the article to see whether by any chance
I might have mentioned in my article any book already
mentioned in that, I found my own name and my Cecco's.
I presume it is Mr Allardyce who is the author: I am
very grateful to him, and do not delay a moment in
saying so, though you must have thought me very indifferent.  There have been several very kind notices
in the papers. It is a pleasure, if anything can be a




1894.]  THE UNFINISHED AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


41.7


pleasure, to see it in "the Magazine," as my boys used
to call it, as if no other magazine existed.
85. CADOGAN PLACE, 7th December.
I did not think it was necessary to reply to your telegram last night, as there was no hurry, but I think I
must explain more fully what my meaning is. I said to
you that I hoped 'Who was Lost,' &c., would be the
last novel I should write.  (There is, however, one to
come out in 'Longman's Magazine' which was written
before.) I have a Life of Joan of Arc to do, one of the
Heroes of the Nations series, and a child's book about
Scotch history, and besides that my desire is to undertake nothing but to give myself up to your great book.
I had calculated I might take two years to it, and though
the other calculation I know is presumptuous, I had
hoped that these two years might perhaps see me to the
end of my life... It seems in my mind to shape itself
to three volumes, and it would please me thus to bring
my life's labours to a conclusion. It is true that this is
calculating without the will of God, which is, after all,
the great thing, and He has refused so many of my
prayers that I have perhaps no right to expect better for
this; but still, as I am  nearly sixty-seven, there seems
reason for hope at least.
85 CADOGAN PLACE, December 19.... I forgot to say to you when writing last that I
have various chapters of my own experiences written,
which if I live long enough to finish them might make a
book not without interest. It has sometimes given me a
little amusement to write it, meaning it for my sons. Its
character may be changed now, but it will be more
adapted perhaps for the public... It is premature to
speak of it in its present state, but I think it well to let
you know that there is such a thing to be calculated upon.
The autobiographical work, never completed, forms the
2 D


/




418


LETTERS.


[1894.


first part of this present book. What Mrs Oliphant says
in these letters she repeated without word of change on
her deathbed. Only it would seem as if in those last
hours of failing strength she did not quite remember how
prematurely her narrative broke off.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.     85 CADOGAN PLACE, S.W., Dec. 31.
It was very kind of the girls to go and look after the
house, and still more kind of you to write as you did,
when you have so much to think of in your own person,
but I must go home after all. I do not know how I will
fare when I get there. If I can bear it at all, it will
probably be better and sweeter to be there than anywhere
else. It was the home of my dearest boys, to which they
were both attached and liked better than any other place.
Cecco said to me a few days only before he left me, when
I was talking about changing the position of his bed, that
he had slept there for more than twenty years. All the
associations of his life are there, and I should, like to die
there. I think it will be better for me, for the little time
that remains to me, there than anywhere else....
I am instinctively forming all my plans for two years:
it would be so comfortable if all should be wound up then,
and myself dismissed to the narrow little house at Eton
and all well. God grant it may be so! It would be
dreadful to begin all over again, and struggle for work
once more. Then another reason: if I stay at home, I
may be able to afford to go away here or there when it
becomes intolerable, which with a more expensive house
and a new settling I could not do. This looks a little like
a bull, that I should stay at home in order to be able to
go away, but you will know what I mean.




1 895.]


" A GOOD JOY."


419


1895.
The proof referred to in the following letter was that
of "Fancies of a Believer":To Mr Blackwood.                 WINDSOR, tI k 7anuary.
I send the proof corrected-but pray don't publish it
unless you think you can risk it. I should much prefer
not putting any name, but if you prefer that I should take
the responsibility, as is quite right, put the initials only.
It seems to me, however, that any name would spoil the
effect. It is sure to be attributed to me. My " Little
Pilgrim" has never had my name, but nobody ever
doubted that it was mine; and this too would be better
for being without a name, but I leave it to you-nothing
more than initials in any case....
There is a phrase in Mr Skelton's very interesting
article about Mr Froude which shows that gentleman's
usual methods-I mean Mr Froude's methods. He says,
"'A good joy,' as Mrs Carlyle used to say."  Now Mrs
Carlyle did say it in her sarcastic way as an absurd
expression used by Leigh Hunt's children, who lived near
her, and who, when they were coming back from their
walk, used to run in and tell her they had had such a
good joy. She quoted it in illustration of the highflown talk in which they were trained, and here it is
put into her own mouth as if she had ever spoken in
that way. Will you tell Mr Skelton? but I fear he will
not like it.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.            WINDSOR, 271t Yanuary.
I should have answered your letter at once. It occurs
to me to say that I waited for Sunday, which somehow
seems the appropriate day for lettres intimes; but that




420


LETTERS.


[1895.


really would not be true, since it is only a sort of langour
of soul which makes me put off everything-a restless
languor, idle and yet incapable of keeping still, which
makes me break off as soon as I come to the middle of
anything I am doing and turn to something else, as if one
could cheat one's weary soul to a sense of novelty in that
way. But I need not tell you over and over again the
vagaries of that weary soul. Thank you a thousand
times, dear Cousin Annie, for your letter and for your
most kind invitation. I think I am best where I am,
wherever that might happefn to be. It is no use for me
to stir. We should change the skies but not the mind,
and in my present condition one place is much the same
as another. I can't be much worse; I don't hope, nor
indeed scarcely do I wish, to be any better. I just get
through every day as I can, not easily, but somehow.
The corner that I have crouched into is the best to stay
in, especially in this awful and blighting cold. For years
past, you know, by this time we have been away to the
South, and that, perhaps, makes me feel the look of the
cold and the sensations of it more bitterly...
I am greatly grieved to hear that you are not getting
up your strength or your heart as you ought. Try, dear
Cousin Annie, try. It is your duty, as well as by far the
best policy, to look on the bright side. How curious it is
that we should find this so difficult to do! I for my part
am always telling myself that the new life must be so
much better, more blessed in every way for those who are
gone, and then return to break my heart over the petty
things left behind,-the lives like other men, the work
half done or never begun,-when if I could only feel what
I believe I should be quite happy. But you, I think it
ought to be easier if you would but remind yourself that
every probability is in your favour.... Do not let
yourself think, dear. In some cases there is no such evil
exercise, and it is wonderful what control we have over
our thoughts when we exercise it steadily. I used almost




1895.]


A SUCCESSFUL DRAWING.


421


to brag, though sadly enough, in the time of those anxieties which you know of, which were to my present state
what the height of a battle is to the dreary sighing of the
captives in prison-that I had got to be able to stop the
course of my thoughts, and think of something else, even
when the strain was fiercest. Don't be vexed if I preach.
Have not I a little right? though in respect to illness I
know it is you who are the professor and I who should be
the pupil, and I should not bear physical pain half so well
as you do: to tell the truth, I don't bear anything well
nowadays, so that I am little better than a humbug when
I begin to advise.
Marck 3..... Denny has made an extremely successful drawing
of me in pencil-very simple and exceedingly good, I
think.  It seems to me rather original altogether: I
have seen nothing like it. I am anxious to have it
shown to the Queen. I like it better than her painting.
Perhaps this may turn out the thing she can do. We
must have it photographed. She thinks of sending it to
the Academy, and Mr Holmes says certainly she must do
so. I am very much pleased with it as a drawing, and
people seem to think it is like. It would give me as much
pleasure as anything in the world can nowadays, which I
fear is not saying much, to see her get into an assured
way of doing good work. Madge is coming in about a
week, I believe. Never was anybody so fond of a baby
as she is. The little thing has got two teeth, and is a
wonderful creature altogether.
I am not much to brag of in any way. Did I tell you
of my great piece of work, the 'House of Blackwood'?
I spend half of my day reading old letters, which I
thought would be a good sane piece of half-mechanical
work; but I find it very fatiguing, and the letters not so
interesting as I hoped. I am dreadfully busy, and get on
with my work well enough, but do it with very little
heart.




422


LETTERS.


[1895.


To Mrs Maxton Graham.               WINDSOR, 6th April.
I am such a poor correspondent nowadays that I hope
you will pardon the delay of my congratulations on your
great new acquisition,. the dear baby, whose coming I
have always thought is the most exquisite moment of a
woman's life. I heard of her arrival with the greatest
pleasure and sympathy with you in your joy; so, I am
sure, will Madge, who is the most devoted of mothers,
and will be truly delighted that you now share with her
this great privilege and happiness.
I am sending Miss Maxton Graham a little pair of
shoes, the most foolish offering at present, but they will
be useful afterwards. Our baby has reached the height
of nearly seven months, which is an immense difference
at present, but will not tell for much when the two are
girl-friends, as I hope they may be. Our little Margaret
is with me at present in her mother's absence. Don't
forget our saintly ancestors in the naming of your little
one. I think all the little girls of the race should be put
under the protection of that douce fatronne.
The first anniversary of Cecco's death, October Ist,
was a day of terrible suffering.  Mrs Oliphant, with
her adopted child, made a pilgrimage to Eton to visit
the cemetery where her two sons had been laid.
To Mrs Harry Coghill.
42 ALBION STREET, HYDE PARK, W., October 2.
I have not been up to writing, as I am sure you will
understand. I am thankful that the immediate moment
is over, and that all the details of the anguish of the past
can be laid aside, at least as far as they ever can be. I
cannot bear to think of my Cecco as-I can't write the
word.   He is always living to me, and that is what
makes it so dreadful when the mind is forced upon all
the last circumstances. I say to myself I will think of
them no more, but only of him in the new life; but, alas!




l89g.]


STRAINING EVERY NERVE.


423


how to keep to that. There was a wreath which we
think must have come from you. God bless you, and
thank you, dear Cousin Annie-I know you think of him.
The short visit to London, during which this last letter
was written, was made on the way to Paris. Mrs 01iphant thought it advisable for her adopted daughter, who
had already had some training in a Paris studio, to work
there again for a short time, and they went to France,
accompanied by Miss Tulloch.
To Mr Blackwood.                    PARIS, 26 Odctober.
Thanks very much for your long letter, which is full of
information and interest. I have worked out the 'Tales
of my Landlord' business, and I think have put Murray's
behaviour at the end quite clearly. It is evident that it
was his act by showing the as yet unpublished book to
Gifford that was the special sting in Scott's mind. It is
clear to me, by your grandfather's reply, that Ballantyne's
amended version of Scott's letter was in reality quite genuine, and probably a second letter written after the hot
and hasty one which Lockhart prints. I am sorry that
you find it needful to go away, yet I am half disposed to
congratulate you on it. It is dreary to spend these long
cold months in the North after one has acquired the habit
of migrating to the South and the sun. It seems to me,
however, that it would be agreeable to you to see part of
this book in print before you go away, so that I will strain
every nerve to get the first three chapters, treating this
Scott and Ballantyne business, and the establishment of
the Magazine, ready to send by the Ist or 2nd November.... You will remember, however, that they must be
subject to my large corrections and additions; for with
such a mass of correspondence there is always something turning up which I have not observed at first,
and of course my knowledge grows as I go on, and the
dim passages become clear. It is harder work than it




424


LETTERS.


[1895.


used to be, for the memory which has done me yeoman's
service all my life is not now what it was.
To Mrs Valentine.                 PARIS, i2th December.
a.. I had hoped much to get out to Notre Dame,
but it is impossible, and I must just give it up. The last
of these days of remembrance-my dear Cyril's birthday
-it was a comfort and very sweet to me to spend an hour
in the old, old church laden with the prayers of generations; and now my Cecco's day has come, and I must just
content myself to thank God for him as I may at home.
It is a dark day, and yet it must always be a bright and
blessed one which gave him to me. I think all sorts of
thoughts, as you know, all centring round the one great
thought, and lately I have been saying to myself that God
separated Himself from His Blessed Son for our sakes for
thirty-three years, and I have been parted from my Cecco
only for one. It could not be separation to God, who is
everywhere; but it must have been to our Lord, who for
our everlasting consolation was a man. So He must
know, as I am often tempted to say of myself, all the
ways of it-parting of every kind! The thing I dread
most in the world is to live long, and to be swept as it
were away from them, and things dulled to me perhaps
by the passage of time, but I hope in God this may not
be. I ought not to speak to you like this, perhaps, but I
am sure you would rather share my trouble, my dear child,
than be left out.




1896-]


A SHARP ILLNESS.


42:o


1896.
Those most attached to Mrs Oliphant had been anxious
ever since her last loss that she should find, temporarily
at least, a home which would not at every turn and in
every corner recall those gone from her. Her long nights
of sleeplessness and tears were enough.  We tried to
persuade her to find new surroundings for her days, and
at this time the scheme was carried out, and she moved
to the little house on Wimbledon Common, where she
spent the remainder of her life.
A sharp illness which attacked Mrs Oliphant in the
summer of this year should have done something to
break her confidence in her own health. She was really
in a condition to cause great anxiety, and her sufferings
at times were most severe. The next letter is written
by her much-loved niece and adopted daughter, who
with Miss Tulloch and herself made up the little family
at Wimbledon.
Miss 01z5hant to Mr Blackwood.  WIMBLEDON., 3,d 7ze&.
I think my letter must have crossed yours, but I know
you will want to hear how my aunt is getting on. She
has had internal inflammation, and though the acute pain
is gone, she still suffers a good deal, and is very weak and
pulled down-unlike herself in every way,; and the doctor
evidently thinks it will be some time before she is well
again. I can't help feeling very anxious about her, and
the doctor has absolutely forbidden work or even talking;
but she must be kept quite quiet, and she is too weak to
wish for anything else. She said she had received what




426


LETTERS.


[1896.


Miss Blackwood sent her, and it was only her illness prevented her acknowledging it.
After a week or two Mrs Oliphant was able to resume
work, though shaken and very feeble.
To Mr Blackwood.               WIMBLEDON, 25t, August.... I have several times intended to speak of the very
great vigour and fresh start which the Magazine seems to
me to have taken during the last year. It has been more
full of interesting articles, and altogether stronger than
for a long time before. I have also for some time back
intended to tell you, but always forgot, how much struck
and amused I was by the pride and eagerness with which
the young men jumped at the idea of being admitted to
" Blackwood.' They evidently looked upon it as a chance
almost too good to be true, which I don't think is at all
the sentiment with which they regard the other magazines. What a very remarkable story that is in the last
number of Sir James Brown! I don't know when I have
read anything so striking.
WIMBLEDON, 3rd October.
I have received the book,' and will take care of it, as
you say, till it is published. Mr Lang sent me several
chapters to read in the early summer, which I thought
were rather dull-tell it not in Gath-with much virtuous
indignation about 'Maga's' personalities... He has
been very good-natured to me, and I shall say all I can
for him. The illustrations seem to me at a first glance
hideous,-he said they were so clever.
WIMBLEDON, 6th October.... Lang's book contains a good deal of abuse of
the Magazine as "a mother of mischief," &c., as interfering seriously with Lockhart's prospects, and committing
him to a literary life when he might have done brilliantly
at the bar, &c., which accusations are very easily met. I
1 Life of Lockhart.




1896.1


A HOLE IN THE FOREFINGER.


427


do not think there is any word of disrespect to your
grandfather personally. He has profited more or less by
the criticisms I have already ventured to make. He insists, however, upon saying that Dr M'Crie and Sir David
Brewster were early contributors along with Lockhart
and Wilson. I have found no trace of them in the correspondence in this capacity, but I should like to be
quite sure. As I am now out of work in respect to my
more important business, I will do this review at once.
I have worked a hole in my right forefinger-with the
pen, I suppose!-and can't get it to heal,-also from excessive use of that little implement.
WIMBLEDON, -I2tth October.... I hope you will like this, and that I am not
going too far, either in banter or in praise...  Has
'Maga' refused any communication of his?    It looks
very like it. But his picture of Lockhart's last years is
full of feeling, as I have said..
WIMBLEDON, October 16.
S  Thanks for the further letters; my heart sinks
to hear of them! I received a note about a week ago
saying that a box had been sent, from   some one in
your office whose handwriting I am quite familiar with,
but no box has yet appeared.... I have been much
touched by finding several very kind allusions to my
youthful self in your father's letters. It is strange to
look back upon the beginning of a career, when one is
so near its end.
WIMBLEDON, IItk December.
I send you the enclosed I without having taken time to
read it over, and it will, I fear, want a great deal of revision.
It has been written not from the head but from the heart,
and I am unable to form any impression whether it is
good or bad in the hurry of my feelings, but no doubt I
can much improve its form in correcting it.
1 "The Land of Suspense," ' Maga,' January 1897.




428


LETTERS.


[1896.


There is a quotation from Butler's 'Analogy' to go at
the head, which suggested the thought to me, though no
doubt it has changed in passing through.
This letter is only inserted because it is a kind of return
to the brightness of past times. The gifts alluded to
were to be the last Christmas gifts of a very long series.
WIMBLEDON, 24tih December.
MY DEAR -,-I really don't know how to find words
to thank you for the magnificent chair-nay, thronewhich you have sent me, and which still overawes us all
with its splendour. I hope by means of familiarity to get
accustomed to the idea that it is for use, and a real seat
to sit upon, and not an idol to which sacrifices of respect
and admiration should be paid. Seriously, it is a most
magnificent present. It looks in my little room so much
more imposing than the other one does in the greater
size of C-, that I feel as if it must be much superior,
bigger, and grander, and that I had no idea how costly
and luxurious it was.
And now, as if that were not already too much, here
comes in a noble turkey fit for the biggest and the happiest
Christmas table. Alas! we will do it no justice. I only
wish the Queen or some other distinguished person would
pay us a visit to sit in my chair and eat of my good cheer.
You are too kind, and I don't know how to thank you.
The only thing I can do is to send you my love and best
wishes for you and all yours for the coming year...
Much happiness and prosperity and every good thing.
With love and thanks.




1897.]  THE LAST OF AN OLD GENERATION.


429


1897.
To Mr Blackwood.                 WIMBLEDON, 5th 7anuary.
I was just about to write to you on other matters when
I received Emma's letter with the news of your aunt's
death-I will not say the sad news. It is very solemnising to hear suddenly of one so long known and familiar
passing into the world unseen; but you, I hope, feel as I
do, that except for that shock, it is a blessing and comfort
to feel that, having outlived herself so long, she has now
recovered, as I hope, all that is best in life.
We all know her faults; but I am sure, from what she
said to me, that she was trying very honestly and sincerely to keep God in her thoughts during those last
years while she kept her intelligence still. She is the
last of the old generation. I would have given a great
deal that she had lived to see and understand the book
which would have been so interesting to her, but I would
not, God forbid, have prolonged a life that was no life,
for a single day.
In Mrs Oliphant's younger and brighter days she had
had four dear and intimate women friends-Mrs Macpherson, Mrs Tulloch, Miss Blackwood, and Miss FitzMaurice,-and with all four her friendship had been long
and unbroken. Two, and those the best loved, had at
this time been dead for some years; now both the others
passed away in quick succession. Miss Blackwood had
been lately too great a sufferer for her death to be regretted, yet it made another gap; Miss Fitz-Maurice, who
lived much nearer, was the last of the four to be taken.
To Mr Craik.                              WIMBLEDON.
Would you kindly send a copy of the ' Land of Dark



430


LETTERS.


[11897.


ness' to -, an unknown correspondent of mine, to
whom in great trouble these books seem to have been
of some use?
I do not know if you will care to have the 'Land of
Suspense,' to complete the series. It hurt me to publish
anything so personal, but if there is any comfort in the
communion of sorrowful souls, it was perhaps worth doing,
and one's personality will be so soon blotted out.
WIMBLEDON, 3lhk anuary.
Thank you for the kind feeling and sympathy. I don't
know very well'what I have written, except that it is the
overflow of a very full heart-perhaps too individual for
publication; but there are always many who are desolate
to whom one puts out one's hand.
From this thought we may perhaps put it with the
'Little Pilgrim,' in that series, if it is not too short,
sometime.
To Mr Blackwood.               WIMBLEDON, I4th February.
I feel that I have behaved very badly about this article,
and I almost hope you will reject it. These "Looker-on"
papers become very difficult to me: I feel as if I had no
longer the lightness of touch necessary for them, and
there has been a want of topics to comment upon. Of
the enclosed pages one should be inserted after the review
of 'Margaret Ogilvie'; the other is the conclusion of the
paper.
To Mrs Richmond Ritchie.
THE 1HERMITAGE, WIMiBLEDON COMMON, I6th February.
DEAREST ANNIE,-How amusing! Laurence Oliphant
said the same idea always occurred to three people.
This, dear, is my little 'present to you. Make exactly
what you please of it: it is nothing but the roughest
sketch, but it amused me in a number of those twilight
hours, which are the hardest to get through.
Bon voyage and every pleasure to you. You'll go to see




1897.]1


WORK BECOMING BURDENSOME.


431


George Macdonald-will you not?-at Bordighera. Tell
him I am not so patient as he is, but longing very much
for the new chapter of life, where I hope we shall meet
and talk all things over with better light upon them than
here.-Ever affectionately,             M. O. W. 0.
This note was sent with a dramatised copy of' Esmond,'
which Mrs Oliphant had amused herself with arranging
in her leisure hours.  She heard, however, from Mrs
Ritchie, that already two other dramatised versions had
been produced just about the same time, and it is to this
she refers at the beginning of this letter.
All this time Mrs Oliphant's health had been slowly but
very visibly giving way. She was subject to attacks of
severe pain, and was unable to walk more than a few
yards. Work, which had been her comfort and stimulant,
was beginning to be evidently burdensome. Even the
crippling of her finger, where the pen seemed to have
really worn through the skin by long usage, was both a
symptom and an aggravation of her depressed physical
condition. Her talk, however, if less bright, was as delightful as ever, and she retained the charm, which is
surely the best of all social qualities. During her short
stay at Coghurst she was very weak and suffering. Her
work was done almost entirely in bed or on a sofa; but
she would come downstairs when the morning's task was
finished, and be ready for bright and pleasant talk, and
to interest herself in all our doings. In her company and
in that of her host there could be no dulness: how could
any one giuess that in six months both the homes they
brightened would be left desolate?
To Mr Blackwood.        COGHURST HALL, HASTINGS, Feb. 19..0.. I write to you at present to ask a question, for
which I want a speedy answer if possible. If I am to.k--




432


LETTERS.


[C1897.


write something for May about the Queen and her
Jubilee, how would it do to throw that into a " Lookeron "? This would prevent my name being put to it,
which I don't wish--that is, I should prefer the paper
to be anonymous. There will be so much flummery
written everywhere on the subject that I had thought
of a more serious article, noting all the important changes
that had taken place in the Queen's reign, and called
"'Tis Sixty Years Since."
I should like to know what you think of this. In the
meantime I have had a letter from Dr Macleod of ' Good
Words,' asking me to do a short article of 4000 words on
the same subject. That, of course, would have to be a
mere rhapsody, and he would no doubt wish to put my
name to it. I am in no way inclined towards the work,
but I should like to have your opinion on the subject. If
you wish me to write a signed article on the Queen's
Reign, of course I should refuse Dr Macleod at once: if,
on the other hand, you like the "Looker-on" form (which
I do myself), I might consider what he proposes. If you
would be so kind as to telegraph to me to-morrow, on
receiving this, "No" or "Don't," I will write to him
at once declining. He is anxious for an answer.
It was with no little dismay that Mrs Oliphant's friends
heard of the suggestion mentioned in the next letter-that
she should take the journey to Siena. These hurried
journeys for the purpose of gathering materials had been
formerly easy enough to her, but she was now in a condition requiring rest, care, and warmth. Most unfortunately she did go, and it was the last journey she ever
made.
WIMBLEDON, 9thk March.... I undertook some time since to write a little
book for a series, upon the subject of Siena-a place
which I do not know, having only once been there,-and




1897.1


SIENA.


433


I shall be obliged to go there to study the place a little.
it i's a very long and expensive. journey, and I am not
perhaps in strong enough health to risk it, but I fear it
is quite indispensable..**
I shall go to Siena, if I find it possible, about the
second week in April.
We have got Madge and her babies here, which makes
the house lively..00
I am by no means well, and easily worried, which is so
different from all my habits; and I seem to avoid everything I can possibly leave out.
In the second week of April Mrs Oliphant started for
Siena. She had with her Miss Tulloch, who had chiefly
lived with her for the last year or two, and her y~oungest
niece.. She was horribly fatigued by the journey, and had
one of her frequent attacks of illness on her arrival;- but
she managed to do what she thought necessary for her
projected book, and returned home,. with her gathered
materials, at the end of the month. She had been much
interested and charmed by the details of St Catherine' s
life and by some other gleanings from the Sienese chronicles, and came back to Wimbledon feeling a little better,
and able to set to work.
But the improvement. was of the most temporary kind,
and a sharp attack of illness seized her directly after.
Each of these attacks left her whiter and weaker, and, in
spite -of considerable divergence of medical opinions, it
was i Dmpossible not to feel that most serious and probably
fatal mischief was going on. The next letters show how
she still worked, and still kept up her interest in the
affairs. of those she cared for.
GRAND HOTEL, SwMINA, Good Friday, r 6tkhprl
I was pleased to get youar letter yesterday, s end you
2 E




434


LETTERS.


[i897.


with this a further despatch of proof, and should indeed
have completed the volume, but that I have been a little
upset with the long journey, which, however, I have got
through better than I expected. This is a very interesting place, though there is an element of guide-book in
what I am desired to do about it which does not please
me much, and to which only my poverty, and not my will,
consents. I will probably one day or other send you an
article about Siena and its saint. I hope to get home
again on or about the 24th, but may be a day or two
later.
WIMBLEDON, 30/l April.
I got home on Monday night feeling tolerably well; but
over-exertion seems to have acted upon my weak point,
and I have been laid up by a small bout of my last
summer's trouble since then. I am not out of bed, but I
hope the worst is over.....
I think your writer on fiction might have made his
article more interesting if he had gone a little further.
He might quite well have taken in Anthony Trollope and
Charles Reade, whom I am always on fire about: they
have never had justice done them, being both most
admirable novelists, full of insight and power, the latter
especially. And what was Dickens if not early Victorian?
Besides, the writer is very unjust to Bulwer, classing him
with Lady Blessington. Bulwer was of course full of
sham and cheap melodrama, but he knew what he was
about, and his last books (the Caxton series) are of a high
order. I suppose there was no man who had a greater
command of the public in his day. To be sure, one might.
say the same of Miss Marie Corelli, who, by the way,
in the only book of hers I can read, seems to be founded
upon Bulwer.
On the day following, the Princess of Wales held a
Drawing-Room, and it had been arranged that a number
of her friends were to meet at the house of her cousin




1897.]


THE JUBILEE.


435


after it. She had long promised that if possible she
would be of the party, and she kept her word, really
enjoying the little festivity-the last social occasion at
which she was ever to assist. She was looking fairly
well, and apparently moved about with less fatigue than
she often did. She greatly enjoyed having both her nieces
with her, and Mrs Valentine's two tiny children-the little
Margaret especially, who was brought up to town to see
the. pretty dresses and play with another maiden of her
own age. It was a very bright day, not presaging any
evil, yet three of the most valued and beloved lives that
went to make up its brightness were close to the end of
their pilgrimage.
She was none the worse for this expedition, for it
was the very next day that the spirited verses for the
Queen's Jubilee were written. They are given here, with
the note that accompanied them to Mr Blackwood:
WIMBLEDON, 19/ h May.
The enclosed little rant came to me, and wasted an hour
or two of good time this morning. It is not worth sending to you, but there is a sort of a lilt about it. It might
go in a fly-leaf, and if some one who knows my hand well
would read it carefully there would be no need of proof.
In great haste....
Send it back if you don't like it.
22ND JUNE 1897.
The trumpeters in a row,
With a note as clear as a bell,
And all the flutes and the fifes below,
And the brazen throats, and the strings of fire,
To let the people know
That the Mother, the Queen, the. heart's desire,
From her palace forth doth go.




436


LETTERS,


[1897.


Princes, form in array f
Great ye are, and greater may be;
But only guards and vassals to-day
To the Lady enshrined in duty and love,
Pacing forth on her way
In weakness of age, and in power above
All vords we can sing or say.
The streets that sound like the sea
When the tumult of life is high,
Now, in a murmur of voices free,
Hum and ripple and rustle and stir,
Straining.each eye to seeTo gaze and to watch and to wait for Her
Whose subjects and lovers they be.
Sons and lovers and subjects all,
The high and the low togetherFrom Princes that ride in the festival
To us in the crowd who but shout and gaze;
Rendering, every man and all,
Thanks to our God for her lengthened days
And the nation's festival.
Hark! what is this which hushes the crowd?
A sound of silence amid the noise;
The sweep of a pause through the plaudits loudA moment, a stillness, a start, a stirThe great heart of the multitude
Holding its breath as it waits for Her,
One being in all the crowd.
She is coming, is coming! The Queen I the Queen!
Here is our moment ini all the day.
One voice for all, and the air serene
Quivers, as if a storm blew by:
A little more, and there had been
Gates burst apart in the very sky,
STo hear a whole nation shouting on high"The. Queen! the Queen! the Queen!"




1897.]


THE BEGINNING OF THE END.


437


A week or so after this party just mentioned Mrs Oliphant again drove up to town to her cousin's, in order to
have a fresh and careful medical opinion. This opinion,
which was of the most confidently hopeful kind, proved to -
be entirely wrong, and early in June the doctor who attended her at Wimbledon, in answer to her questions, told
her he believed her state to be hopeless. Other opinions
-one that of a distinguished surgeon-showed equally
that what she called " the beginning of the end" had indeed come. Her niece says: " To her this was longed-for
and welcome news; and when she had ascertained that
no medical help could give her any permanent relief, she
made up her mind, in the greatest serenity and happiness, to await the end. After the first week or so she was
able to take very little nourishment. She was daily lifted
to a sofa near the window, where she lay in great peace
and content, sometimes reading or being read to, herself
writing some letters of farewell to friends, or dictating
others; glad to have the letters read to her that came, as
she said she wished to have their messages. Many times
she said that she was at perfect ease in body and mind.
All care and worry seemed to leave her. She said she felt
as if she were lying somewhere waiting to be lifted up; or
again, as if she were lying in the deep grass of some flowery
meadow, near the gate, waiting for our Lord to pass by.
Her sleepless nights were filled with wonderful imaginings. She spoke of thinking herself in a ship in which
was our Lord, who made with His robe a great white sail
to carry her across a river. She said she could not think
of God as the Almighty God of all the world, but just as
her Father, and that at this moment even the thought of
her children seemed to cease in the thought of Him. She
thought the love of God came by degrees, and was certain




438


LETTERS.


[1897.


that the pity of God was boundless. She spoke of being
always greatly helped by prayer and thought."
In this serene atmosphere of perfect peace-satisfied
that all was arranged as was best for her-she lay day
after day waiting for the end. "I have no pain," she said
one day; "I am only waiting, and I hope I shall not have
to wait very long, lest I should get impatient."  One of
her last letters is a short one to Mr Craik, in which she
suggests the republication of some of her magazine stories,
and adds, " Perhaps some one would write a small preface
of my life to enable you to add Cioo."  "I am dying,"
she concludes, "but not suffering much. Good-bye."
When she could no longer write she dictated some
notes, and on the 2ist of June some verses, which, broken
as their music is, are strangely touching. She desired
that they should be sent to Mr Blackwood, thinking they
might be printed as a sort of Envoi to the Jubilee verses
already in his hand. This was not judged possible, but
the lines, as her dying voice uttered them, may be given
here:On the edge of the world I lie, I lie,
Happy and dying, and dazed and poor,
Looking up from the vast great floor
Of the infinite world that rises above
To God, and to Faith, and to Love, Love, Love!
What words have I to that world to speak,
Old and weary, and dazed and weak,
From the very low to the very high?
Only this-and this is all:
From the fresh green soil to the wide blue sky,
From Greatness to Weariness, Life to Death,
One God have we on whom to call;
One great bond from which none can fall;
Love below, which is life and breath,
And Love above, which sustaineth all.




i897.]


A TRANQUIL CLOSE.


439


She liked to be read to, as it wearied her less than
talking; and her little well-worn Bible, out of which all
through their Eton lives her boys had daily read a verso
or two to her before their terribly early start from home,
lay on her bed, and was the best-loved of her books.
One passage which she refers to in her Autobiography
seemed to be often in her mind. It was the one in the
ist Epistle to the Corinthians beginning, "For other
foundation can no man lay."   And she dwelt on the
words, "If any man's work shall be burned, he shall
suffer loss: but he himself shall be saved; yet so as by
fire." The death of St Catherine of Siena was one thing
she reverted to; and another, Lockhart's account of Sir
Walter Scott's last days. One afternoon, very near the
end, she begged to have "Crossing the Bar" read; and
while the reader, painfully keeping her voice steady,
repeated the last lines, the listener fell suddenly into a
calm sleep.
She wished at the last to live over the great day of the
Queen's Jubilee; and speaking to one of her little circle
whom she was urging that "to please me" she should not
disappoint her husband by staying away from the scene
of the procession, she added, "I promise you shall have
no bad news on the 22nd." She bore with great patience
the noise of bands and fireworks on Wimbledon Common,
though her windows looked full towards the scene of the
merry-making, only remarking how little we who used to
enjoy the fun and noise of an Eton 4th of June had
thought that there might be some poor soul lying dying
close by. " Through all, her wonderful security and absolute certainty that she was so soon to recover what she
had lost seemed almost to transfigure her, making her




440                  LETTERS.                 [1897.
room, which she loved to have filled with flowers, the one
cheerful spot in the house."
She lived till June 25th, and then softly passed away.
The names of her boys were on her lips almost at the
last, though she had said repeatedly, "I seem to see
nothing but God and our Lord "




LIST OF


1849.
I85L.
1852.
1853 -it
1854.
it.
1856.
1857.
x858.
1859.
1.1
r86o.
1861.
1862.
it
1863.
it
1864.
r1866.
1867.
1868.
11


MRS OLIPHANT'S PUBLISHED WORKS.
Mrs Margaret Maitland, Passages in the Life of Colburn.
Caleb Field........t
Merkland: A Story of Scottish Life..
Adam   Graeme of Mossgray, Memoirs and
Resolutions of. Hurst tBle
Katie Stewart........Blackwood.
Harry Muir: A Story of Scottish Life... Hurst &-B
Quiet Heart: A Story..... Blackwood.
Magdalen Hepburn: A Story of the Scottish
Reformation.......         Hurst&-Bl
Zaidee: A Romance......      Blackwood.
The Athelings; or, The Three Gifts. 3 vols.    ir
The Days of My Life. Hurst & Bl
Sundays....... Visbet.
The Laird of Nordlaw.....Hurst &BRl
Orphans: A Chapter in Life...
Agnes Hopetoun's Schools and Holidays. Macmillan.
Lilliesleaf: Conclusion of' Margaret Maitland' Hurst&-Bla
Lucy Crofton....
The House on the Moor. r.....
The Last of the Mortimers..t
Life of Edward Irving. 2 vols.                   Ir
The Rector and the Doctor's Family. 3 vols. Blackwood.
Salem Chapel. 2 vols....   i.
Heart and Cross...Chalkman 5 -The Perpetual Curate. Blackwood.
Agnes. 3 vols..............Hurst&Bla
Miss Marjoribanks... Blackwood.
A Son of the Soil........ac mllan.
Madonna Mary. 3 vols.....Hurst     Blc
The Brownlows. 3 vols..... Blackwood.
Francis of Assisi (Sunday Library).. Macmillan.


acketl.
ackett.
zcltett.
ackett.
ickelt.
zckett


Hall.
ackett.
rckett.


1869. Historical Sketches of the Reign of George II.
S2 vols.
If   The Minister's Wife


Blackwood.


Hurst c &Blacketl.




442    LIST OF MRS OLIPHANT'S PUBLISHED WORKS.
1870. John: A Love Story. 2 vols... Blackwood.
It   The Three Brothers. 3 vols.... Hurst &BBla,i  Introductory Chapter to 'Life of Robert
Lee,' by R. H. Story....         n
1871. Squire Arden. 3 vols....,
1872. At His Gates. 3 vols...           Tinsley.,I   Ombra, &c. 3 vols..... Chaman
n    Memoirs of the Count de Montalembert:
A Chapter of recent French History. Blackwood.
1873. May. 3 vols....      CAaapman &6
n    Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. Sampson Lo
1874. A Rose in June. 2 vols.... Hurst &.Bla
it   For Love and Life. 3 vols...        i
1875. The Story of Valentine and his Brother.
3 vols........   lckwood.
II   Whiteladies. 3 vols...... Chatto.
11   Preface to 'Art of Swimming in the Eton
Style,' by J. Leahy.... Macmillan.
1876. The Curate in Charge. 2vols.... Becces.
11   Phcebe, Junior': A Last Chronicle of Carlingford. 3 vols...... Hurst &Bl,    Dress (Art at Home Series)... Macmillan.
n    The Makers of Florence: Dante, Giotto,
Savonarola, and their City...      i
1877. Foreign  Classics for English Readers:
Cervantes; Dante; and Moliere (in
conjunction with F. Tarver)... Blackwood.
if   Young Musgrave. 3 vols....    Macmillan.
tt   Mrs Arthur. 3 vols....      Hurst &Bk
n    Carith. 3 vols...... Smith, Eldep
1878. Postscript to 'Life of Anna Jameson,' by G.


ckett.
Hall.
Hall.
7w.
ckett.


ickett


zckett.
r, &- Co.


Macpherson...... Longmans.
i    The Primrose Path: A Chapter in the
Annals of the Kingdom of Fife. 3 vols.  Hurst6 EBlackett.
1879. Within the Precincts. 3 vols... Smith, Elder, & Co.
It   The Two Mrs Scudamores (Tales from
Blackwood).... Blackwood.
in   The Greatest Heiress in England. 3 vols.  Hurst &4Blackett.
1880. A Beleaguered City...... Macmillan.
n    He that Will Not when he May. 3 vols...
r88r. Harry Joscelyn. 3 vols..... Hurst &'Blackett.
1882. In Trust: A Story of a Lady and her Lover.
3 vols........ Longmans.
\.   Literary History of England in the End of
the Eighteenth and Beginning of the
Nineteenth Century. 3 vols... Macmillan..
n    A Little Pilgrim in the Unseen...




LIST OF MRS OLIPHANT'S PUBLISHED WORKS.  443


1883. Sheridan (English Men of Letters)
ir   Introduction to 'Cowper the Poet'.
I1   Hester: A Story of a Contemporary Life.


3


Macmillan.
f!


II
1884.
1885.
rt
11
I886.
Ir
ns


vols.......
It was a Lover and his Lass. 3 vols.
The Ladies Lindores. 3 vols.
Sir Tom. 3 vols.....
The Wizard's Son. 3 vols.
Two Stories of the Seen and Unseen
Madam. 3 vols....
Oliver's Bride: A True Story
A Country Gentleman and his Family.
Effie Ogilvie. 2 vols..


IF
Hurst & Blackelt.
Blackwood.
Macmillan... Blackwood.
L.ongmans.. Ward& &-Downey.
3 vols. Macmillan.
S. AMaclehose &-Sons.


II   A House Divided against Itself. 3 vols.. Blackwood.
1887. The Makers of Venice: Doges, Conquerors,
Painters, and Men of Letters... Macmilan.,i   The Son of his Father. 3 vols.... Hurst&,B
1888. The Land of Darkness, along with some
Further Chapters in the Experience of the
Little Pilgrims...... Macmillan.
if   Joyce.  3 vols....... a
it   The Second Son. 3 vols.....      rr
11   John Tulloch, Memoir of the Life of..  lackwood.
I    Cousin Mary....... Partridge.
1889. Neighbours on the Green: A Collection of
Stories...... Macmillan.
if   A Poor Gentleman. 3 vols.... Hurst & Bl
It   Lady Car: The Sequel of a Life.        Longmans.
1890. Kirsteen: A Story of a Scottish Family
Seventy Years Ago....   acmillan.
I    The Duke's Daughter and The Fugitives. 3
vols.........Blackwood.
it   Sons and Daughters.....      r
11   Royal Edinburgh: Her Saints, Kings, Prophets, and Poets.... Macmillan.
r1   The Mystery of Mrs Blencarrow... Hurst & Bl
1891. The Railway Man and his Children. 3 vols. Macmillan.
it   Janet. 3 vols....... Hurst &'Bl,i   Jerusalem: Its History and Hope... Macmillan.
11   Laurence Oliphant, and Alice Oliphant, his
Wife, Memoirs of the Life of.. Blackwood.
1892. The Cuckoo in the Nest. 3 vols..         Hutchinson
if   Diana Trelawny: The Story of a Great
Mistake. 2 vols.....   Blackwood.
n    The Marriage of Elinor. 3 vols.... Macmillan.
if   The Victorian Age of English Literature (with
F. R. Oliphant). 2 vols.....   ivington


ackett.


ackett.


'ackelt.
ackett.
&- Co.




444    LIST OF MRS OLIPHANT'S PUBLISHED WORKS.
1892. The Heir Presumptive and the Heir Apparent. 3 vols...... Macmillan.
1893. Lady William. 3 vols.....,    The Sorceress. 3 vols..... F. V. White.,    Thomas Chalmers, Preacher, Philosopher,
and Statesman (English Leaders of Religion)....... Metlkuen.
1894. A House in Bloomsbury. 2 vols..      Hutchinson.
I    Historical Sketches of the Reign of Queen
Anne......, Macmillan.
it   Who was Lost and is Found... Blackwood.
it   The Prodigals and theirInheritance. 2 vols. Methuen.
1895. A Child's History of Scotland'-.     Fisher Unwi,
n    Two Strangers......,
it   Sir Robert's Fortune: A Story of a Scotch
Moor....... Methuen.,    The Makers of Modern Rome... Macmillan.
1896. Jeanne d'Arc: Her Life and Death (Heroes
of the Nations)..... Putnam.
i,   The Unjust Steward; or, The Minister's
Debt....... W. & R. Ch
11   The Two Marys..... Methuen.
n    Old Mr Tredgold..... Longmans.
1897. The Lady's Walk.... Methuen.
1,   The Ways of Life. Two Stories.. Smith, Elde;
if   The Sisters Bront ( Women Novelists). Hurst&- Bla
n    Annals of a Publishing House: William
Blackwood and his Sons, their Magazine
and Friends, vols. i., ii..... Blackwood.
1898. A Widowvs Tale; and other Stories..,
it   That Little Cutty; and Two other Stories. Macmillan.


fz.


ambers.
&, &Co.
'ckett.




MRS OLIPHANT'S CONTRIBUTIONS TO
'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.'


Katie Stewart.
John Rintoul....
The Shadow on the Way...
The Quiet Heart...
Mary Russell Mitford
Evelyn Pepys....
The Holy Land
Zaidee: A Romance
'/Mr Thackeray and his Novels.
Bulwer..
Charles Dickens
v-Moder Novelists..
Moder Light LiteratureTheology.,Science.
History
Travellers' Tales
Art....
Poetry...
"Religion in Common Life
Sydney Smith..
vThe Laws Concerning Women
The Athelings..
Macaulay.....
Family History.
A New Una
The Art of Cavilling..
A Christmas Tale..
Picture Books..
Charles the Fifth.
JModern Light Literature: Society.
From India...
BWranger....
SThe Condition of Women.


July I852-Nov. 1852.
March and April i853.
S  June 1853.
S.  Dec. 1853-May 1854.. June 1854.
S  July 1854.
Sept. 1854..    Dec. 1854-Dec. 1855.
Jan. 1855.
S    Feb. 1855.
S.  April 1855...   May 1855...    July 1855.
Aug. 1855 -Oct. 1855.
S  Nov. 1855.
Dec. 1855 -S  Feb." 856.
March 1856.
April 1856.
June 1856-June 1857.
Aug. and Sept. 1856.
Oct. 1856.
Nov. 1856.
Jan. 1857.
March 1857..       July' 1857.
Oct. 1857...    Jan. 1858. 8..    Feb. 1858.       I. -4.   "




446 CONTRIBUTIONS TO 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.'


The Missionary Explorer.
Religious Memoirs.....
The Byways of Literature
Edward Irving...
Sermons....
A Winter Journey.....
Felicita......
The Seaside in the Papal States
A Week in Florence.
Scottish National Character
Poetry.....
The Romance of Agostini
Social Science......
A Merry Christmas...
The Executor......
The Monks of the West..
Joseph Wolff......
Three Days in the Highlands
Scotland and her Accusers
The Rector.....
Chronicles of Carlingford: The Doctor
Among the Lochs....
Augustus Welby Pugin...
J. M. W. Turner, R.A....
The Nation's Prayer.
Chronicles of Carlingford: Salem Chapel
The Lives of Two Ladies
Sensation Novels...
The New Exhibition..
David Wingate..
Sermons.......
John Wilson...
Henri Lacordaire
Mrs Clifford's Marriage..
Marriage Bells......
Savonarola.....
The Perpetual Curate..
Novels....
In the Garden..
Amen in the Cathedral of St Andrews
Tara....
The Life of Jesus.
Life on an Island..
Day and Night.
Miss Marjoribanks..
Josiah Wedgwood..


April 1858.
June 1858.
Aug. 1858.
Nov. 1858.
Dec. 1858.
April 1859.
Aug. and Sept. 1859.
Oct. 1859.
Nov. 1859.
June 1860.
July 186o.
Sept. i86o-Nov. i86o,
Dec. 1860.
Jan. 1861.
May 1861.
June i86t.
Aug. 186r.
it,
Sept. i861.
ii
Oct. i86r-Jan. 1862.
Oct. 186I.
Dec. I861.
Jan. 1862.
Feb. i862-Jan. 1863.
April 1862.
May 1862.
June 1862.
July 1862.
Aug. 1862.
Dec. 1862.
Feb. 1863.
March and April 1863.
April 1863.
June 1863.
June 1863-Sept. 1864.
Aug. 1863.
Oct. 1863.
Nov. 1863.
Oct. 1864.
Jan. 1865.
Feb. 1865-May 1866.
Aug. 1865..I...


I
r
r
I
r




CONTRIBUTIONS TO ' BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.' 447


Leopardi........*iFrench Periodical Literature...
General Lamoriciere..
The Nile........
The Great Unrepresented...
Victor Hugo...
The Brownlows...
The History of Scotland.....
The Innermost Room..
Elizabeth and Mary......
Novels......
A Royal Idyll.......
A City of the Plague
The Conversion of England
The Queen of the Highlands.
Historical Sketches of the Reign of George II.The Queen....
Walpole: The Minister.
Chesterfield: The Man of the World
The Latest Lawgiver.....
Historical Sketches of the Reign of George II.Lady Mary W. Montagu....
Pope: The Poet..
The Young Chevalier.
Bunsen....
Historical Sketches of the Reign of George II.John Wesley: The Reformer..
Anson: The Sailor.....
Berkeley: The Philosopher.
Richardson: The Novelist
Hume: The Sceptic.....
Hogarth: The Painter...
Charles Reade's Novels.....


Oct. 1865.
Nov. 1865.
Feb. 1866.
Aug. 1866.
Sept. 1866,
Dec. 1866.
Jan. I867-Feb. 1868.
March 1867.
April 1867.
Sept. 1867.
Oct. 1867.
Dec. 1867.
Feb. 1868.
April 1868.
May 1868.
June 1868.
July 1868.
Aug. 1868.
Sept. 1868.
Oct. 1868.
Dec. 1868.
Jan. 1869.
March 1869.
June 1869.
Aug. 1869.
Oct. 1869.


John..........   Nov. i869-July 1870.
Saint Eloy sur les Dunes.....   Nov. 1869.
Mr Froude and Queen Mary..   Jan. 1870.
Miss Austen and Miss Mitford...   March 187o.
Chatterton.......      April 1870.
Count Charles de Montalembert.,
New Books......   May and Aug. 1870.
JPiccadilly (review)......   Oct. 1870.
Boating on the Thames.....
New Books....     Nov. 1870, and Jan, and April 1871.
Charles Dickens...                 June 1870.
A Century of Great Poets: Cowper.       June 1871.
New Books........   July 1871.




448  CONTRIBUTIONS TO 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.'


A Century of Great PoetsWalter Scott.
Wordsworth.
American Books
New Books..
A Century of Great Poets: Colerid
The Two Mrs Scudamores
A Century of Great Poets: Burns
Voltaire.
A Centuryof Great Poets: Shelley
New Books...
A Century of Great Poets: Byron
New Books..
William Smith.
A Century of Great Poets: Goethe
New Books.
In London....
Lord Lytton...
Kenelm Chillingley.
Alexandre Dumas
"A Century of Great Poets: Schiller
"A Visit to Albion
New Books
A Railway Junction.
New Books....
The Story of Valentine.
The Indian Mutiny: Sir Hope Gra
Fables in Song.
New Books
Two Cities: Two Books.
New Books.
The Ancient Classics
The Ancient Classics: Latin Litera
Life of the Prince Consort
New Books
Art in May-.
New Books..
Rivers..
Michael Angelo
Lace and Bric-h-Brac,/A Century of Great Poets: Lamart
Thackeray's Sketches.
Eton College..
Norman Macleod
Macaulay..
The Royal Academy...    Aug. 187r....    Sept. 187r.
S..    Oct. 1871...    '        i
ge..    Nov 1871.,..    Dec. 1871-Jan. 1872..  Feb. 1872.
S..    March 1872.
S..   April 1872..April and June 1872.
SJuly 1872.
Aug. 1872..  Oct. 1872.
S..   Dec. 1872... Dec. 1872 and Feb. 1873.
Feb. 1873...    March 1873.
S..    May 1873.
S    July I873...   Aug. 1873.
Sept. 1873.
Oct. 1873....    Nov. 1873....    Jan. 1874-Feb. 1875.
nt..    Jan. 1874.
Feb. 1874.
SApril aid June 1874.
'. -.       July 1874.
SAug. 1874.
S..    Sept. 1874.
iture..    Nov. 1874.
Jan. 1875.
S..    May 1875..    June 1875.
S.  July 1875.
Aug. 1875..    Oct. 1875.
Jan. 1876.
ine...    Feb. 1876..    March 1876..April 1876....    May 1876..    June 1876.




CONTRIBUTIONS TO 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.' 449


/Moliere...
Alfred de Musset...
The Secret Chamber
New Books..
Lord Neaves....
Harriet Martineau....
A School of the Prophets...
The Opium-Eater...
New Books...
Englishmen and Frenchmen.
Three Days in Paris...
Novels of Alphonse Daudet
Two Ladies....,.Hamlet...
New Books...
An American Princess
The Reign of Queen Anne
Novels of Tourgenieff
School and College....
New Novels....
Autobiographies... Jan
-A Few French Novels
The Open Door....
Recent Novels....
The Ladies Lindores..
Democracy....
Autobiographies..
American Literature
Autobiographies....
James Fergusson..
An Italian Officer under Napoleon.
The Story of a Little War
Old Lady Mary...
Sons of the Prophets
The Duke of Albany
Venice..
Three Young Novelists
An Artist's Autobiography
The Portrait.....
A Soldier of Fortune
London in May....
General Gordon.
A Scotch Physician....
London in January....
Scotch Local History
Principal Tulloch....


Aug. 1876.
Sept. 1876.
Dec. 1876.
*.    Feb. 1877.
March 1877...    April 1877...    Sept. 1877.
Dec. 1877.
March and June 1878.
Aug. 1878.
Oct. 1878.
Jan. 1879.
Feb. 1879.
April 1879.
July 1879.
Nov. 1879.
Feb. 188o.
May 1880.
July 1880.
Sept. i88o.., March, May, Aug., and Oct. 1881.
Dec. 1881. "
Jan. 1882.
March 1882..
April i882-.VIay 1883.
May 1882.
July 1882.;
Jan. 1883.
April 1883.
Aug. 1883.
Sept. 1883.
Oct. 1883.
Jan. 1884.
April 1884.
May 1884.
July 1884.
Sept. 1884.
Nov. 1884.
Jan. 1885.
April 1885.
May 1885.
Aug. 1885.
*.    Nov. 1885.
Feb. I886...    March 1886.
March and April 1886.
F




450 CONTRIBUTIONS TO ' BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.


Novels
The Land of Darkness
The Old Saloon
Joyce.
The Old Saloon
The Rev. W. Lucas Collins
The Old Saloon
Marco Polo
The Old Saloon
Pictures of the Year.
The Old Saloon
On the Dark Mountains
The Old Saloon
The Emperor Frederick.
Laurence Oliphant
The Old Saloon
On the Riviera.
The Old Saloon.. Ju
Sons and Daughters
The Old Saloon
Lord Lammington
The Holy JLand
The Old Sjaloon
Diana
The Old Sialoon
The Duke I of Clarence
The City of St Andrews
The Old Saloon
Tennyson.
The Old Saloon
A Visitor and his Opinions
Marriage Bells.
Letters of Sir Walter Scott
Dean Stanley
Who was Lost and is Found
The Looker-on.
An Eton Master
The Looker-on.
Fancies of a Believer
Men and Women
John Stuart Blackie.
The Looker-on,-Anti-Marriage League
The Library Window
The Heirs of Kellie
The Looker-on.


1n..    Dec. 1886.
Jan. 1887..  an., Feb., March, and April-1887...   May 1887-April 1888.
May 1887.
*...        ii..  June 1887-Aug. 1887.
Sept. 1887.... Nov. 1887 and Jan. 1888...          June 1888.
S..    June and Sept 1i888..          Nov. 1888.
S.        Dec. 1888.. Jan. 1889.
Feb. 1889...       March and April 1889.
S May 1889.
ie, Aug., Nov., Dec. 1889, and Jan. 1890.
March and April 1890....    March 1890.
S..        July 1890.
Aug. and Nov. 1891....   Feb. 1892-July 1892.....    Feb. 1892.
*...        Ii
March 1892.
March and Oct. 1892..    Nov. 1892...    Dec. 1892.
April 1893.
July 1893.
Jan. 1894.
S..    Feb. 1894..          June 1894-Nov. 1894.
Aug. 1894..  Nov. 1894.
S.        Jan. 1895....   Feb. 1895.
April 1895..    June and Dec. 1895.
Jan. 1896.
March 1896...   June and Oct. 1896.




CONTRIBUTIONS TO 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.' 451
The Verdict of Old Age..Oct. 1896.
-j. G. Lockhart.......   Nov. 1896.
--A Raid Among Books.....   Dec. 1896.
The Land of Suspense            Jan. 1897.
">~,ecent Books..April 1897.
'Tis Sixty Years Since           May 1897.
22nd June......June 1897..Siena........   July 1898.


THE END.












THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE- LUBRARY
DATE DUE


"!: ~I)
sr.I. '
~~:
r~l p
1-I
~,


a                                                                                  --          www


MOAY 0 97
ap
AUG 05 I1lE
OC T
7 -As.


Ni
U
7




4Ube



''\-. -. ^

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
3 9015 00059 6539


/
/


~ ~~r.


DO NOT REMOVE


OR


MUTILATE CARD




ý.':ý,;--:,-t:;,*ýS--;." ý,--.-I-ýý-ý        -- ---ý* - -       -, ----"----, -- -ý.                                               ý -ý                                -,-.--,- '... - ----                =    ý,' ý!V!. '!'I'! F-I.,
I ý..7 0-i! r. t: n-- -, -,
-t ý: _-ý -..1: ý'.. -. ý --., ý. -,,       -.     -. i: - -,ý--..    ý -'
ýt-ý-       ý--ý!I:ý-,7 --- ----;ý, i=ýý                       *,,... -.                                        - ýt,-,*" -,.- ýr' " t ',: --..... -1 I --..... ý., -    --       -r ý, --..ý'.;,- -Ir'.,ý' -: ý:., _ _.., __., ý                                        -,                                 -       -..               -,;. --       -.. ý    -:ý::ý
ý       -       I                                                                           -                                                                              -,. -       ý        r.,    -,                                                                                  I                                 "   -  - -..-- ý ý:-`.... 7!'--:-!....,%,'-,a, - -,.i-.1    " r::   ýý; _-- -.-.. -. -.ý   '. -.,                          -: -:, 7 ý,.ý,.;. r:- w 7. -, z-. - -ý 1Zý....  ý -. -.  ýT:! ý
-i'    -               -:: '    '                         -,;: I      _."      -,     -     ý.              -. ý.,-     -ý.,:         -        -,, -
ýi7!, ý'- 7 i. ",    ý.. '-' ý    ý -' ' "; -:',: ':' - -' '-'  i.:;,..-.-. ý;-:,. ".   - t.ý:,,
-.  i... ý.        %   ý 1... -     -     -..:; - -        - - ---
I-       - ý -. -.: i-.;ý w ý ý '. 1,,                -                                                                     -                  I           -.! ý-- - ý - I -' ý'ý=  -. ý. r I              'ý ý 'r -
-,         -        -                                                                          -- -            -      ' -     -             - ý,' -  ý..r    _,. _ "    _   ý. ý. I,!:,. ý..-. I        '    -:zr: - ýý   ý -":."     - -ý,,.                        ',!-tr::- 1, f ý- - -  - V! 7:,:,  ':,
-=,. ".ý,ý -ý -,, - --,-- I                       -    r. '                       - - - ý--, -. ý ",            - -. - ý- -,             - 7-,- --.... L.. - - -,, -, -.., -  -    - -,...ý- ý ý: ".' r '!.' '! 7,  ý.., r,:  ý.!_, r,ý-,.  -.!  -,, ý ý,,,  ý
--. - ý -- - - - '--------
-        -. -.-,... -..I....   -.,.,, -.-  ý ",      7ý1 - - - z -,.-- -    M.:-,:. 4  r. ' ý I.. I 1,;
ý::.  -        ý ý   -       I                                                                             -, " - I                  -.. I..... -, - -.  -,, -;    -,,!,."", -Y
I-      -.--,7.-- -ý I  ý - ý.., - I,;  - ý.,   -. -ý, ý -          - ý -ý;- - -- -.- -.-=ý:: 1.! Z -.. -        -.: 7: I.,. i ý:, -; ', -,,., -     -... i -   ý ý.    ý..   I.       t          -- -;   r- ý      -:!.
-. ý ý                                                                                                           T.,..   I I -, '. - I  "..; '.,       I  -.,.          I     ý.     -.. -     -,., - -  ý,--.,;- -    -7: - ý      - - ý- - ý.       -                                                                                                                                           _....,,..   -.. -.. I. ý 4.
'.:-'.,ý   Iiiý ý -ýý.:',   7     " 71:ý:.--..         - ".  `   -  '. ý;ý- -ý.- 'ý. -1... I.. -. I.... -. I. -.:. -', - -  -  - -ý " -:' - ý!,.,,, ý -  -,,-  I -- --       - -- - 'ý --7            ý..        - T..                                                             ý,.    -. -.,.....                                   -. -.. I  ý I -i             I..: ý:.:i ý:, -, - - ý 1 - -,                  - I, -I.    I; ý.,,  "                               -... I  -  I.,.,
ý.  ý k  ý  -----ýý, -,.,:,, - -             -              -     ý,               ý',--  -:: -...._. ý;.,
+.                  I         -            ý.: '.,,  -. ý ý ý.                      - - - -   -       - -                            -!, 7    -: '-  4-- -   -.. -, - - ý;        -ý: '   -- r I.    - ý                             ý m - 1. '. ý  ý.          'ý...   -7..,,:l.,,    a   -" -ý,  -.,. -  ý-!!    L-:-.;.71ý., "     '.:   _--7::7        -I
-,-;;ý:7     7  ý-,. *-;:,,     -.                                                                                     --..    l...,,      - ý I. 11 - -       -..... ý. a- --, -1 - ý -,: - ý --*ý.; '.-'. %;. ý:.ý,...      -. ý....r,. 7 -...:f-;ý. ýý;: '.'.'., L. "   -:,ý..-!:1:.' 1!;  ýý.. -;.. - ý ý! '.*,,,-: -, 7 -'.: -. t:.. I...; ý:- -1 -..-.,, -....... ý..                   -, -..:..,                                                     I
ýý;:... i,                              - - -  ý - -  -, -.; -. - --;-- t....   -      - ý. -,,,                                    - -I, * ý-; ' -- 'ý
-     -,.-,                     -, 1;      _0        -: ' ' t              (,: z.    - ý - 'ý,,:. ý - 4;    ý. ý., ý -, ý. ýý  ý.,: I             -ý
-. I,,,. -.,, ý 1ý. 1:  -%.ýi. -  ý  -   -.         - ý -.              -                                                                                            ýt.. ý.    ---- -;   I - - I -      -  ý..
- - -   ý....ý,,:, -:-,-    - r. I  1,:ý'   --,-      -........     ý   ý - I I. - -...,... ý                ýZ7 -,. -      - ý ý; -,
ii:                                                                                                                       ý; I *:.,:;,.1,                                                                                 -            I '. -    "; ".: " ý:  ý  ý., -:......-.;!:.,,  -.        -  --     -ý.i 7..       r. -;.:     -    -  -. I -
I,,.,,.....  I ý             -;.              -                                                -,  -, -,. ý.   ý.. -;   ý,...zt ý.; -  -, -.       ý             -. ý.   - - ý    -,. '.   -  -..  - ý, 7 1..      ý. - I ý I..; '.,..
',, ý, t; _, %-    I ý,! -.          -:... ": ý -: -  -, ý:. '.! ý.  ý,* ý -..   - - -.                            - I - I,     -, -. - -: -...
-.;.A,-.. i; -  -,:- I-.--:. - -, I -: t.  -  7- -... -....   ý I,    - I I         -:t ý I--: ý;,.  - ý
-           -    -  -    - ý I - -. -.           -. -... " -     ý ý,.;; '. ý- - ýý.4 L A. ý..'.'.ý '.7.. ý --ý; ', ý..  ' -ý':' ';- - - - ý'  ý -              -- -.-_ ' -
k., -   -.:::. -, -, -..,;...... ý w. ý z - -4 - -. r.:., jý-,                        -    -  -            -7, -         -. - I -...   - I.   I..:, ý.. ý,                                                 -,       -,, -,,    _ _ 77 -  ý-I.......  -..... -  1 -,                                                                                                                  I..ý..  ý  iv, 1  -. -. ý 'L ýý 7.,.,.. ý', ý,
*                                                           I... ý;.-   -,       _                                        ý                                                                                ' - -- L, -,..       I I:.:.,... I..   -. I       -   * I  I z I:, Z..It; 'L     - -!ý!i- _--  -%ý ý,                      '. - --- t    - - - -- - -,   ý ý    -ý r ] ý.; - -
-   -                                                                  -. ý,: ý r. ý - I - w ý    -,                - I      - -,:
'-ý:  -   I. ýý-,: I -:  -.,, ' 41           -   ' - -      L '.                                                             -                    -    -:I'.          -....-. -  ý.. -ý
tý -.-., 1, -ý vI-.,ý:: Z'.-.. I;.,.r..:  7  -. ý ý ý. ý I. I I -. -. - 11......
-7ý.         -1 ý.., -- ý, " - --':.!:.. ý1;wý -ý,.:4;:i.ý I -,:                                         i, --       ý.. ".., i I ý... ý I --   -             ---i                                                              I-;. ý ", -'-. -ý:....  I.... -, r.. -. '..i 7 ý 14..
-, ", - - " ' ýr ý' `-r;ý-.*.  -.            -      -, I                      -    -       ': I -,,- 1,., I.,!,,,,     I       -  ý.-,  L..  ý.  I.,,          L '                                                                                         -. -:,I!       '! - '  ' ' '
-,.        -,, '.                                              -, ".                          -  ý '                                                                                  __...                  -      _   ý -  r -!!t      -                                             -,, -  -,,,.. -.... -.  I. - -  -. ý ý......... ý. -  ý L. i 7; 7....;::;-.;!ý.  - - -ý '..;.. -; -; ý '...; ".. ý:-. ý:,  r
L: -  '; I- 7: -.:,...,:'! % - r ' " "' ý- '-;: ".... '- ".: -,-: "-: - -, ý..-.ý..: -.ý.. -,-.:: - '-;: ýý '..t',..; I..,,. ý;t = ý '. - - "- - " I I..! r. L %     -   _... ý -,..                        -   ý;, - -,
ý..:ý.      -11,-1!717- f.1 "t I, ý                                  ' r-!:! - -. I.. ý.,,
_    -.. -  -   I ý   -. ý t I q-..      -:!. - L,:.-   iý                                                         ý-- ý: '; ý '..r. '                                            L   -! ' -                                             -          1..                                                                   L. ý'! I..,            11....ý ý01 -- -             L -   -   ý;:: --.!, - ý... I -
_-,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      -: ý 7. I-, ý --.
-,                                                                                                                                                                                     ý  - '    ý..  -... I..,L                          -      - - - ' -   -. - --ý 11. i, ý   - ý i 1. I, -  ý.    I ý.     ý. - -.                                         -7;, 1 -  -; ý... ---ý.
-, ýý -  I --,:;:-,. - i 7 ",     -        I.. I I ý -1 -.ý '; ' - -,ý-,-  ý ý.;--;, I: ý.:;: ý:. ": s I '...:.      ', -.!. 1.  I - -1:            ý  -: 1: I - '... ý ý,: -.,
-.-                                             -       -                                                                      ý,            -....       I, ý I:.:: -.  '. "..: I:.  -.:-  - ý: -ý:       I.                   -   it-:
i I..   ý I _- -, I -,.                                     ", - ",,..... -.      -. ý...:*.ý., r: I          I -   ý ";  -,,:..-*:  ý                             -,:,.,  --. "  -, -..1       -   -       -- ' ' "    '                    r... -. I... - ý ý. ý.:   ý. ý -...           ý.... - I,.-I,., -ý: -.
' - -t': -- L ý!! '  "'. 7' ' -. I;' -- - --       - i, 414,...ý.. o, ý,.  -4. i- -. --
71 -._-,;  -ý. 4 ý--. -- --. ý,, -.. - - '  - -                                                                                      I I. I...,          -..,... '!,.., ý  _'. ý, __,..         - m 7...... r - "                       " -. -... ý. -,..,.,  4 - ý ý -  - IL tý. r- -:t  - - -; -..., ý,
--.., ý -....11:  -                    -                       -,               -    ý,-.;. -    -:!, - i--.-ý --: - -,7
",  ý. " '. -,.,;..         -,.,:;                                                                           - a 2-..:   ý;    4.... ý' Lqtý.. r L,,  -, r '; ' -;ý.. ýý-  --:.ý ý       -..; - -. ý t  L - ý -'! ' I.':7....                   ýý,:t               -        - ý. - -, -. ý 1 -. - - -r                          -         _:  '   --
ý                      - 7   -,; -      -   ý -,                            _   iq  t --.;:, - -.:.                    ý - " i::ý 1.  T  ý,.  O'. -.;..;_,. ý.... L ý: -, ý4 t ".;. I. - ý   ý..                                                                                         - -               - ý!,; -ý-t, ý '., * -, ":,. -1-:i_-_. ýý. -   - -    - - -- -ý                    "  "     - '.,-,..,  -. - I   L -.                                       t:!,ý ý
1..                                                                                                               -  ý;. I - ý. ý. -. I -   -. - ý I r Z--;ý;; -' t- 77t--- ý ' - ' - ý
- ý 'L                   * '4    -      - -                                       --; - - - ý! - '                                              - -. - ý, -    ý -..                                                          - -   - ý... ý.....,, -                                                                                                                        -                                          I - Z 'ý: j: ý  L -L:' '. ' L I  _, r.. i -                                                               ý
-            - "... I   - -     -   i ý - - ": '--   '-      - -: - --'ýL                    ý ' '.1ý, '.. Z    --ý:.                                             -..                                                                 - 'L    M ` '. ý:_.,.  ý,.,... "r  "; I. '--.  ý            -..,..ýý 4 '. i.,; ý,,,
L "                                                                                                                          -..... L.
*1  Lý. ' -, _: I  -  _ý..._-ý.,...  ý I   ý
i; 1..                                                                                                                                                                                                                 -.: -; r ',;-  r                                                                                                                            - -:.., ý;ý, -: t ý.... ý - -,..ý 7 '- i,.I:, ý.                                      ý:;ýý.! ý:.-,. I      I. ' L' -. -. I               -   -- -                                           -    "-    ' " --    -:, - '...       -    - -... ý  ý: -`:-.... -. -... -. I..  ý.       _,,,,,;:,: ".-j i-.:.ý ý       - -                   " ý 1, _: -_:  m.  i,;,ý. ' '.. * -:; '-.. I I: I.1 - -. i...,.,_      -: -ý _ I L. 1;
_;..     ý   _.ý4.,ý..;.. ýý,.: Lý -   _-... -..,..  -       1 '. ý  -.:,_ __.: ý ý, r. ý;,. _ _ _., ý! '. - ý..... -. -.... ý 'ý, -,. ý..., I.,   I;:: I:.     _.,    _ _                -. -;. ý.,..ý I.     -, - 1:    I     ' L. -.!..:-.; I  -.     ii;...  I..        -   -,   L -,,:,. ý " ' -_ '.      ý,it.I: ý- - -:,.!...;.-,;:,,,,, ",,      -
-,ý -. _ ---           - -   -        - -.;.. ý, _ ý.,,,: ýT -.. ",,,                    -   -.
'. t  I,,.  -:.1. t...;... ý.. - -      r...... ý. -....  '  * '    -   ý.: I 1- -; -i 'L ý,. i -- -, -, -'-:ý ý ý                             - ý...  ý.. I.                            I
-      I. ý ý..     ý:. ý.-, -:. -,- '. - i-ý - f, _:., 1:.,."    - I.    - - - L....., I                                           -,ýý. ý-;,-    7ý--- -, - ý:--.-. t - '-.-..            -.                                      I      -.    r -. -..,... L
11 ý                                                                                                                              I ý. ' I - ý. ý::... -::, ý 17 -1.:,.,!, -, -:'.     ý         I..                         ý,:',     - 7::                                                                                                      -.... ý. -,....   - %.L::::- -.ý: ý;.,            '... -:.ý-,ý, -.. -,,                                     -,. I om -    I I.......    ý'ý
ý                         I:: ý 7..; ý   -..,  -, ý-;.. I: ý -.... I                            r ". Z -ý t ý; ' ý - - - ' -  -  - -     - ý.,,, -,,:'., '.. ý:..                                                                   -    'r- -: - ý,.-.ý ý!  - -  -,;  -, -, ý. ý;- - ý 7;..:t;ý -                                      r, -1          -,                                                                                                                                                                                  I.                                  i -   - - - ý,:.,                                                                                                                                                                           L ',   L     -..
-.,, -. -..- t            -.                                                                        I I I..   ý
------- -  - -  - -...  -:--  -' I- ý;  I ",,, 1:... t, ý -, -. ý.ý,..:...... 't;,; j;,.'. Tý '. "  I '. ",,,,:,
':.... -
I,.                                                               L:. - '  '.:: I.  -..   L........                              I. I.  -.....,..,  ý- -...
I..       i:     -.   -. -: - -.,.-.. '..... I.-         ý, -                              'r. - --- 1:. - -..-. -- -,I - ' '.;- -  L. -. ' I I - ý. ý.-. - rL,...., " ý
X. r! ' - 7     ".... ý,., ý,. ".;.1 '. ý' ý 'ý' _ '.,. '- r.'; ':...... *,,, -,, "-' "' '; - '- Z'7  -.  ýý.: '' - I.; -t.ýýml.-.. '. ý - ý -. 7, *,. -- I I?ý -... ý!Z,; - ':,:  I - ý Z J. I;7.. L       - ---:.:
I-,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      -ý ý -........ -., - '
-,;                 -.,.,., -  - ý, -- - -! -7,_%-:!:: ý - -- IT. I.
-i-", - -.. -. - - r. -, - ý...  -   -, I I I: ý
-. "                                               ý -ý. -  7:- ý7:.! -. -  - ý -- - - - -- -, - -
-                                                                                             - -:   - I,. ý   -.         -.   -. -. -.. r -
I ý...,...  L -  L.  ý ý d L  ': ' 7  "  '  ' ' ý..: ý.. -,  I 11
-ý--,ý--". r-;, '. ý::, -,; ý ý7 --,t "ý ý -.. ý -: ý -,?,-. --.., -, -. -. - - - - -: - -          I:. -:, j,. -.... -  - -. il...
- ý      -  L -:. ý ý ' ý I ' ' i..         " -         - I " ý - -.! -.:ý..,. - -.. -,.. ' r       I I -.. -... -..        -. I
ý. -.., '..1 ý  ',ý ' '. ý ý - ý I _ - ý '..:, "     -A I z -.1 -.:..         ý;         4.,; -               - -, -                                 - 1 -,::. - ý.: ý - ".:, -,, ý"       -, -,. -. ý                                     -.- -, ý --..,... ":7 -.ýý t., m, ý I -  -  7'., ".     -
_.:.!,.. 1: I. 7 -.. -.                                                                 - -  -                                                                                                                        -   '    - 'ý '..                                  -....     -.
*        t    -... i I-     -...                                                                       -'.'   - -,,- - -.   -.            -                                   -..,
I - ý.:;,,:;.; 1 -....--,.. -, i ý..:'.. - ý.:.,.     - -- - L L ý-: ý
--                                     ý                                                               ' ' '? I - - '
_-:-. t -,.; -   t I - -- - -                                 ý _- t.- 7!.":`ý4-ý i,ý -;L.!!,:-;- -, ý.  ý- ý ý  ý.- -'ý-' i  '  ý ' ' '
--, -.; ' ' ';.: ' ' %:; ' L '.       '., '        -- --' -- ', ' - ' '.  r*. ý '  -t - ý ýt't"..                 - ý,ý.: -      ý; --'.ý- 6...
I.... -,.;r.,, - ý i --_., - i L.7    ý -,! "L..! ý:!!L,.- -. ý'-:;. ' '!-'; -1 ý ý. ý.  ý.!. 1. - li. t -, -,-tt-,: -, " 1 -. '. - T,;;: -ý -ý L  -,; L..,-i:..ýr ";z I:, - '.,- tt 2 - t':ý,_,'-m
-:&: ý-            -   -..,,   ' '   L' '  '         I -                                                                                        -ý-       - 'T ý. '.                I                 -..T.-.:,-. ý -- --.- - - -  - z, - I.,.:!;:; ý 1 ý I.,..,"-. -- -. '!ý-  4  -  ý                 -- "-.. -       -:. - L  --L;         I.                                                                          -.,.-  *  L 'ý,: -I': 'r  ': ":;-:.  -,. -
-         -       -.                     ý      - "              I                 -                    "     ý:.  -.                 _ _!:.      I:..... -ý. -  - -!  ' L L - ý:: ý 1.
L., ý "::-..,. I 1..i - L. t:4... - A I:, ý;,:,.    -.                       I!. -,.,.  I:; -r ý:... ":   'L, " '- - ý -', 7 ý -. ý, 7 -. 7 r... ý-,,, I I., ".- -' - '.. -'., r.  -. r.. I,.-,
-   -   -...., L,. I, ", ---
-     ý..,         -ý ý - "    ' -.           ý                                             ý; ý I ' '  L '  ' ' ' ' ' ' '  - '., - " ':1,.....    L;   ý 7, --
iý, ý  -  ý.  I.,. -... - i::  ý 1: -. ý,  -
", ",,,, - "; I-,  ",, - - ý -..; '.: ý..;.:.                                            _.,_: ý:. -,:_   -            -.: ý. I tI! 'L, ý' ý' -               4                  -.,,.1..: I ý: 1., - -,, -, 1, * 7 it:,, --. - '., -  ý.         - z    I. -... -. -.: - I. I. I,   -       -          4 -      -   - ý    ý   -,..:.. I
L, L,,, L,,      - - - -     -,,. 7.1; ".                                            -..   -..   -; ý -.  I, ý, 7:,, -. I..            i -.. z.....,   ý.,;  --  ' ' - L '... -  -.     -.,; -*
-,.  -  I
-L,, c ý:. L-, -'. I ý " -1 - -,. -...:"---,-, I, ý  ý:,.. 1: - - -. I.,,
-     -.. - - ý. - L ' ' -              -         -                                        -        - ý ýýz. ý -- ý.;;"ý              ":I!
".                                                                           I: - t:ýi,.,, 1., r - it
J. IT; = ý -r--. -7-" i  L ý '.  - - - -                 -   _;; '                                 -.                          -.-. ý,- - - ý..., -  i: ý                                   -
-,.,,: ý- - - --:ý ý - -  I... r -ý 1 i, ":'.,;..:,: _- ý... - ",: ý.,, - ý::-z,..,: -,.-: ý ", - - -       -...  -. -      I       -  -                         L ' -.. - -. --,.: --
r                                   *                          -,                             -     - -                           - --! I -ý ý - -,-   -  -,;  ý *,. L;. -, -'ý. -     I ý   4 ý..! L.  _- ý  ý       -
I-:. i,..1,. I.1...  - -,. ý:  -...., ý-:., ý -,,.'. ý ý --......, -.,.....    "! ý..   I-:,... -.
-                                              L: I 1-.             --:::. ý    -... ý. 1                                ý.,,r.,, T, '. --ý ý ".. '. - - --,:,:,,, -.:. ý -,.",,! ",,.. ý.:.,... r -    -         -    ý ý           ý  ': t - -: - - - - - --
__ I -ý.t                                                                      ý   ' L'! ' ý                 ' ' ' -   - 1 ý -
-        -    -       -    -,,. - - I,, 1. _;_ ý _. _ _.. I I I.: ý  ý 'ý -,? -.:,! ý I;4 t,:
IT, ý i...  4, m. -,   -, - L I: ' ' "t ' ' ' -,: -.!.: ý I..  --. 7. L '; -: I,..: 1 ý- ý ýi, - ý " '!,  I -...
iý::.:..,:; 1,.... ý - '.'.' '.!- ý ý -.. I I.:! L
7-     -.. -                  -,. _     - Z--. r -ý -       -. L ý! ". - _ '  4 ý ':. 7 ý    -.- - - " ' '  I.. ý - ý.. -                                         L -. -.   -
-i,., ý ý  -..  - -.               -,,.....         _. ý L.,                                                                                   L           - ý' I - - -ý T:, I. - -. -:..                             -:!, '.
ý,.:  -.,. " ý ý- -,: - -.      -.: I;. I I - -- -  1.:-  1..,! "r, ý ý, -.
'.: - -  -.,,.;,..:. -,   ý... ý;.      -. - - -.-,-.. -- -..,ý:. --  -..     -     -.. I... -; S.: i _   " -.:- _ 'ý,
ý -.r, I.   I.......                       ý *!,   ý I S 4,. I:, ý t.-,, 1. - - ý, --,....  -..,, - - -  ý  -...,
-., " -,-   - -,,,,,, * L.         _.ý.;...,                 - - -     ' '._ 1 ý "..                      -: -ý, ':. I I.  -  L.  7..                                                                                                                                                                                                                          i:..,..  ý,,L,  *,,,ý -: I,  -;...  m. I    ý.             -,!. I,.-  -..   -   ý.,  '.:,ýL-  -;.! ý.!.,,           -,,.    ý.;, ý                        -
-          -,; ý,, -  I,       ý                  -               L L, * -        - 7- ý         -. -    - ý --......., ý        -,,.    "   -  ý.    -,. -.,:-           --,,.                                                                                                                                         I....,.ý,.: - -.   T.,,:,ý,,,:.  -. -    _...,,..,.,.                           -   - "   T -I -  -':::t ý,,   -::   - -
-.    ý.. ý.. -, -: -   -;,....;.,,::! -           - - -       -                                 - ý    -- -    - - - -.             ý ý, ý..                                                                                                                     -... -.. -..!-  -  I                                   ý.: ýý -  I  ý,. '... ': '-%:" ' r.,. -
- -.. --...  -        -   -.: -.,.- L.  - ý,. -.. ý 4 -  -.  -    - - -..! 7 -! -:!!,: -. ý! - ý 7, -:; -  I. 1:.... - -   -1 -- -, I It r! -   -.;;. _                        - '   I '       ý -                    '.
L.  -. I   I ý-,,,. - ý --.. t -: -l;, ý iý 'i., - -. ý..;, I. - - I ".;: -, - -::,!....,,,,,   -    rL '          I              - -, t ý,.",                       -...!      I - I I... r. ý.:.ý    L; '-:.,,' -
--.,      -..... - - ý   -...,.,                                        ý ý.,;,.,.......     -   I    -
Elý - -,....   L  -:. I....., -...: I 'I M, - " '. ý  r...:..:,. t T    '.
-:, ýý, L;! '..-,,-. -  - I. -......  ' - ' ' '                 _..,               _ ý.   ý   ': ' ' '. I ýL., -     -    I t                                       -,... ý.   - -,......      -, -  '                                                                    - - 7 ý;.. '              -!,'
- * '-               - - ý -   '   -.::     - ý - -:                  -.                       -, -,, -, -  I, 1,.. ý..  - ý -., - - -.,..            -         I. a. i - ý '  -;             -     r ' I!  - -  -1.';  I  - ý;. ý,
- -..... -.. ý. I I.  '--.ý -, L. L ý, ', '  ' '  ' '  L -.,,.
-.                                                           _. - ý. -. L.. -,..
-                       " ' - '        -       * '     - - "                    - -
'ý  -  I.--.
-.;. ".... ý - -, - -  -,. ý -  I.. - I -...:! 1p.;; -. - - -.. -, ý 4.,...;.. ý.',  _'..:.....  -   I '.4 - -.""T     ý: ý! '.." "; r, ý'
ý.     r..,          --;'r: -7.-',   - r 7ý "                                                                          - '       - -            '-    ' *ý 7' 'r.  ' '       ý. ý -   ý. L
"     -                   '                                                                             -     L                6 '    -?L 7  '-'  ' - ' 7-  -- 'ý.:. ý ' ' '  -- '. ý  I..      -                                - - -      -   -, z.. I,,   I.   L i..: 1 ý   -        - -,,         - -;
- -,             r   -     -     - -         - 4! ' ý'  ý - L.- - " '   ' L      ' ý  ý - - ý ' -   ýý -   ý - -: '; ' - '.: _:..; ý  ý  * ý -,-, -.ý  - -:: z%  ý-:-.;:  - ý.. ý *: ý.ý,             -.... -   ý:.-,:,,,.  -......      I,,..     - -.   -.,., -.,.. ý.
LL L -.... L I "...;,             _.      __: L Z.;ý.
_: ý L ý, '.
----     -,, -, - ý   -       ' L. -   L                                      - -. -.....      - -.. - -_,, Z t -. ý -. ý. r -: -,  -'7 it 7i.:.  -:-. I..  ý.  - - '  - ':  -- - ý.: -  -'. -  - -,.; L ',ý ý --,. -, % ' -....  -.  - 11...  -  -,, * -  r,. ý.   -. -. -,,.,, 7.           ý   -..: - - * -,    ý    I I                         "  7                                                 -,:.,,,        _,,.,, I.!ý... il! ý -,:- '......  -  -  -L' '. ý - T, -  I, ý,,* *,,, ",  I  - I  -  ý  - 4;,., -..,, - -  ý. ý  ýý 7-ý-.... ý - ý ',  - '  t.,..,.  L " -  I  - -  t,: ýý, " ý
4.1, -.., I. -,. -, - - ý '.:: ý   -,.  L -- ý!,. 't. ý;                          _ -.; '. ý-7 -  -                     -.:  I.
_ _.:7. '.. ',. '               -,:, I:       r.                                                  _r.                                                _
-..-.. ý... -....  t.                 -.:.  ý:   ý -,..  ý. %,,,   ý: 7 " '              '.ý,.1!.. -. j -_-.  _. 7 L:ý _ _  1., 1.                             -.,w: -1.: - - - v.,; -L ý;....
T.!,....                                            -   -.
%-                      I:,... -..,.       ý                                                                         L-..,..                                               - ý.  - --   ---, -"      -L ý - -    ' -   -   ý -ý ':, ý. -                        - ý;..
I,., -:,,:. -*, '. '..I 7, -- - -,, - I. Lý -  '  -:... I.
--                             -   ' ý    -.  I. - rl:, " ý  "    I.. -... - ý - - -          -' 'L                                                                            -.: --    -  ý....!w!                      ---:t r,.!.,,        I. r I,
": L. L'    ý: -     - ýý ' ýý' ' ',..,.., -    ý,,         -.!:: 1,                                                                    11 I    -.                                          ý    - ý    1,ý.. ý: -!        -
-:  -:.  I I '! -:.  -  - f...  ý ý --- - =:-! - - t ý!  -.! - - ':.. ý.! ý:,  ý,  -,.
' L -        -: -   I.        - ý.,..: - ý ý:.,-. I -. L -...:;                           ý   -.:ý                                                                         -,. I         ý   - - -.. 7       --.ý
-;.. - -  - - " ý.. -..,ý   I. - ýý
-.     -. -.. "..  ý -  ý        -               ý -L - ý,   1:.,:..,,                     -.-, ý: -:: -. ý; -  --..
ý                 -., ý                                 t ý,                                      -. I. I I..   - ", " *   - - I - t!ý ---i - -  --.. -  '- 'L ý. 4,,;, L.. ý  - " -?-, -..
-,-.  '., - ý  -ý.,     ý - - - -      - I      r  I                         -                  L " 1                                               -.; "  - - - - -; ý. -: I....
--.. -,.L..... -           - -:. ý L.; - I.1 11 -..,,:;I..:-.  - ro ý ý.  I.. - - -. ý. -....,.   - ý. ý.. -...:. -. -....                                     ý          - ý L    L                    - -... I,                - -, I.         - " -              L *. m:. 7.,  I L  -, -.
L                   ý.. -.... -. I.                                                                               -.                   --
t=  ý  ý *.,,                       ý                                I       L                                                -. -!!-....            I  ý. w L.    -.,                                                                    ý.... -.,. r.  r..,., ",,. r., ý -...... ý "   ý;. r,                                          - -         -.
'L I -ý' '. ' - '-,. ', -  ' -.. - -...ý...... - -.-. I.-ý -!t-l!: -   - ýZ- '7t;..:-. 4  7- - I,- - - -.'.
-                                                                   I         _ ý                          _. I - ý..--... 2. I            -: ý-A,. -.::.  ý, ' - L i  -- -  -,;,ý ý, ý: ", -L.1,--: -:' ý  L -  -:-,  * - ý - - ý '... i" ". ý -,,.
n..,: *ý -- -1: i, - - '..    ' ý ' *. ', '. ' i.,.:. ý ý L ý - ý ',.. L  ' I -                                     I I    -   I -
I.,,,       _               _ -, ':    -:,ý;,-,.I ",                        -  -.... -.-!      -.!ý!,                                        - n - -,! I,-     -,,  I, ý..:ý..                 -      -        -    - ý.-. ý  -ý.. ý; *:. -,.. ý  --; z.,-.. -     ý       -... ý: tj ý ý -: ýý -.- - '.: r, ý      r.;.!!!.: '...:, -. r t '_!.ý.; ý.ý.'.' L.ý: -. I..'.,.1!....          -     I.. -.... -,. -.. ý  _,:ý  ",,:.:._. _ _' 'ý, -' ' - L;! 4....... I.; -- - ý 7:-:  -  r;  -  L - '  ': '  ' ' -.. -...... I. -                                 ",         _.;,                ":  -., -.. __, L,,,.. -..  ý -  -.: '  ' '.       -    r...  T: -,.    -.    ý "  - 'L,:
--.                                    -     -...   - - - ý -..   -: ý I - -      *,         L,..', ---, " I.:i - - '. '::,!  7 ý- _.,.,.                                                                                                                            r.:..
ý.  - - -, ý-  - 1 -.,. I.. -. -..  -ý!
7ý,, -,-.         I                           - z - -ý!-:, - -.- - - ý: '    -.       ý ý ý,,      ý ý, ':..- - ý _%- - - -   -.ý*. ý ':, '_ý " -; - '-., ",.., r: - - ' I - L
'-. -.. ý... - -!" I!: - - ý. - -;, -,,,.. '. I "' ý ': ý '  ý ' L:'...                                                                                 -. ý ýý  -, -. -! ý t,,                                                         -: - -;,:    " -,,                                                -                                                                 -, ý,..   - - ý,        z....    I 1-'. ý -: -,,:. --. %,:          -L '. '. ý           - -..;   '. - - - - -,.-.:.. w - -ý;. -  - -. - t 0- ý -:. -  ý  ý. 1..:... -::,,,
1*1        r ý,. ý.                                             I ' 'ý - - - ' '!  '-. ý ' ý It. 7 7 i          -            ý. ý. I                                             -. '. zt ý......                                                       -.  -:: r -ý p *,ý--:- * I, -                                   -....    ' L  -....:, ý  ý ' I, iý- -,.: ý, I '. ý,. 4: * -,;
ý                                     ý.:..,.,:: 1.ý, 4:,.   i;,;,. -. I... ý.  - -1:. ý ý ý                                              -. ý; -..ý,ý " ý  ý. -.,,.,      -   - - ý i: - '".                -;.,:;.-.-1'=.,7 -,                         --."..:... -.. ý r::.;.- _.... -. - - - ý - --  - -  -: ' ' '.: '.,, -,.; iý
7.. t -; ý.' I...'  -.7 ý  -  -- - - --..,-            -ý -    - -     -    - -. -.:           - ý..",., I                                        '.:     I..   ý - '. - ý  -,
-                                        L, ý..,
-ý - It -ý O I - -: - '.:,' ' -   -  L;.!ý I.., i; ý.;,  ý      _'.. -            '.., ' '.. L I I... ' L....... ý I ý _  ý                  ý                    -.7. ý.ý,,,. '.., -. ý.. 7                         - -                      ":-! '.:-.- -.-..  ý -  _..  4.- -, '; -.,
-:,      - ý -- -,   '::,:,. -. _           --.: O..   I -           -.   ý                                  - ý., 1.. ",
-    - -      -!1,                                                           -.. ý ý -        -,. L-. - ý - t ý..,. - - -; ý             '  ',           ' "ý ý 'L ý. t  ' I ' ý G ' '    ' 4 ' t   ý,    -. w -   -.       I,     z -,. -      ýý!..,.,...     i       '!.: f7 - -       ý -. -.-:  --:., -.  -. ý-"   --    - -   -:,:*,: -,.- --:- --, ": i! r, T -., ý I -; ý.. %  -.!........-.,      L. ý, ' L -    -                                                                                         I,                                  - -.    -....,-. - ý -: -. 7 - w I ý It, I -.    I - -   _   I -.,: -, -.. t *. -- - '....,.,.. I,,. I, '., I I "ý -  -  ", -
-.ý        -.:ýý -      -!                                                                                                                                                             -                          -  i -
'                   " ý' ý,_.,r,:"- '.:. ý.. ' _.     r-, L: ' 'ý L ý' - ' ' r' ' - '; ý  " ' `ý ' ' ý. -  ' ' - - - r r - -.:%::; 7' L. I::.; 7.!- '. -       I,.   L.           7. - -.           ý..,            -,.                     1      -..                                                                                                                                                                                                              " - '  -., r
I- -,.  *-,:.. ý 4:- -  `.!.. ý ' -. `.' ý ýý
-- - ý' I, ",,, -, r,. -, -                                     -          - -- -     - -     -, r -.. - - -. - -,:.. -                                                                     -        -..-:ý! ý,, -, " -, -,,, jý,, 'L. '.,, - ý: '.' '.: -.. ' - ý ý.--.- - - 1 -  - ' r'...:! _:'.;.:._, _._                                     -                -                 M;. -.            r. r,,,... ý  I --.  -  ý  - -.,.   -..                 -....    -....    '.               -   - -, -.  L....                            -.:  4 -. -. '  ' ' ' - ' - L - "-  11:,_.:., 7.ý ý: - L, '   -. -.', ' ' ý ýtl.! I,:r - -.. -  -  - - -  + - - - - -  1., ý" ":.,ý -: ý
*: 'ý., L            -.   - ý,...:     ý f -..... i ý,. -. - -. -,,, ý.,,,,,: -;ý --. ý.. - -.: --       --.T-ý -t 1 ': -:ý -* t- -, I, - *. -. -. ý - - -.,,.,  'ý -           -,      -,,                                                                                       -; -. ý ý ý -_ -, ý  - -.                      -:     ý..,..:  - -! '.., -ý!.    I.  L - ý
-              -.    -:.         -- -.      I..,,. T;- I 1. ý -: - 71 '-,..   -.      L.:., -. -   -. -.. - -   -,-;, ý --,,,  -ý       -. -,,.,    -:..;..,; 4 -ý -, - -.. -,. z.,,. ý..: -:.._.   _   _     _             7..                 -:!, - ý.. r ý:,   ý ý ý ý ý, -. - ýZ_. ý.
'                               ý!., t,       -ý                                      -..... - ý   I    - -....   ý.,. _    _ý _,   _       - ý...,;.. -.,; -.,::... -.  -- -' -: I - - -  r ý - - I '.. L,,,.,.      -..,-,., ý,, ý  - ý  ý-       17?.,', ý ' -,'  ý
-:.  L.. '. ý I,. _,.,; ý ý ý L _:  -ý, t..  -    -*,   _' * " '-. -.......... -   -,. - - '- 2' *...... -..: 'w ý,                                  _ _  -    I     - - _.. _   _: L.. ý,   I,                                   - ý ý: ý -- -. '. *_7,-  -. i:..: -                  -:-ý
I - I  11 "!:.: I. -   -,:.                  - *     -:.....;-: - -.. 1;..:,I -". -,:,  -  ý  '..  -  -  - I..... ý... ý 't '.. r. - -. I  -,,:-,,-:1--:
I- -;!. ý::: '.:. ':..1.  - - t  '      - - 'ý:'--: -ý17 ý. ý - ý,,: ý.,: -;.., I..1.: i. - -L.ý -ý  - -..!:: -L.,: -- - -; -  - 7. %!.. 7  -  '- -  - -  -.-.: v,  -_ - - - - I,.;. -, 7 1, -: - "                                                               ý'ý' L... I,   '
1- 1    -.    -!  ý L..     '...   ý -  I.  r ý,!  ý.  - ýý..  -  - -  ý -. -,. '..1.. -. -   --       -.:ý ý,;.,I ýý.... -..  -             -... _...,7        '               ý..,,,.       L    ý -,. ý.   -.  -.    -,,:.. -.
_  ý __      _                     -           - - - --     't:,   - -L -.- - ý...., 1. " --.,    -     ý    - ý -; -.;.  -,,_
t ý,    -  - -  -     -     - -, ý-......., 4,., L     - L,                                                             I                       -,-. -..:,.. ý -. ý    -
'7 ' "                                 ý:Iý!, -..,: ".. -. ý: ý *                             --I. ý             I.... -.. -....,...                      - I..; i ".!: -    " " '-'- - -- ' ' Z  - - -: - ý. ý ý - 6 - I  -  -, -', L-..                                   ý-. -ý. -. I -..j - - I.. -,- - -.,  -             -,  - ": -    ý  1. I I ý:,....... I...  -. ". '... 1.
11. I   -. - -    -. -                                                                                                                  I ý -,--....,.      -                                                  "'        7.