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A VICTORIAN GIRL

The Christmas festivities of 1862 had to be suspended, as my mother’s health again obliged my father to take her to the South of France. This time I was their sole companion, the younger children remaining in England.

We travelled by easy stages, sleeping at Folkestone, Boulogne, Paris, Dijon, Lyons, Avignon, and Toulon. I kept a careful journal of our travels on this occasion, and note that at Lyons we found one of the chief silk manufactories employed in weaving a dress for Princess Alexandra, then engaged to the Prince of Wales. It had a gold rose, shamrock and thistle combined on a white ground. There also we crossed the Rhône and saw in the hospital at Ville Neuve, among other curious old paintings, one by King Réné d’Anjou. It represented the Holy Family, and my childish eyes carried away the impression of a lovely infant patting a soft woolly lamb. So completely was I fascinated that, being again at Lyons after my marriage, I begged my husband to drive out specially to see the picture of my dream. Alas! ten years had changed my eyesight, and instead of the ideal figures, I saw a hard stiff Madonna and Child, with a perfectly wooden lamb. I mention this because I have often thought that the populace who were so enraptured with a Madonna like Cimabue’s in S. Maria Novella at Florence saw as I did something beyond what was actually there. Grand and stately it is, but I think that unsophisticated eyes must have endowed it with motherly grace and beauty, as I gave life and softness to the baby and the lamb.

MENTONE

We went on by train from Toulon as far as Les Arcs and then drove to Fréjus, and next day to Cannes. Whether the train then only went as far as Les Arcs or whether my parents preferred the drive through the beautiful scenery I do not know—anyhow we seem to have thoroughly enjoyed the drive. I note that in April we returned from Cannes to Toulon by a new railroad. Cannes was a little seaside country town in those days, with few hotels and villas such as have sprung up in the last half-century; but even then it attracted sufficient visitors to render hotel accommodation a difficulty, and we had to shorten our intended stay. We went to pay our respects to the ex-Lord Chancellor Brougham, already King of Cannes. He was then eighty-five, and I have a vague recollection of his being very voluble; but I was most occupied with his great-nephew, a brother of the present Lord Brougham, who had a little house of his own in the garden which was enough to fascinate any child. From Cannes we drove to Nice, about which I record that “the only thing in Nice is the sea.” We had considerable difficulty in our next stage from Nice to Mentone, as a rock had in one place fallen from the top of a mountain to the valley below and filled up part of the road with the débris of its fall. At Mentone we spent over three weeks, occupied in walks with my father and drives with him and my mother, or sometimes he walked while I rode a donkey up the mountains. There was considerable political excitement at that time, Mentone having only been ceded by Italy to France in 1861 and the natives being by no means reconciled to French rule. There was a great local feeling for Garibaldi, and though the “Inno Garibaldi” was forbidden I fear that my mother occasionally played it in the hotel, and any listener (such as the waiter) who overheard it beamed accordingly. I happened to have a scarlet flannel jacket for outdoor wear, and remember women in the fields shouting out to me “Petite Garibaldi.”

My mother often sat on the beach or among olive trees to draw while I read, or looked at the sea, or made up stories or poems, or invented imaginary kingdoms to be shared with my sister and brothers on my return—I fear always reserving supreme dominion for my own share.

When we left England the idea had been to continue our travels as far as Rome, but my mother’s health forbade, as the doctor said that the cold—particularly of the Galleries—would be too much for her. It was a great disappointment, above all to her, but she was very good in submitting. As so long a tranquil sojourn anywhere had not been contemplated, our library was rather restricted, but two little volumes which she had brought, one of Dryden, and Milton’s “Paradise Regained,” afforded me happy hours. Also I perpetrated an Epic in six Cantos on the subject of Rienzi! From Mentone we went to San Remo for a week, returning to Mentone February 17th, when preparations began for a Fête to be given by the English and Danish to the inhabitants of the town on the occasion of the Prince of Wales’s marriage. Old Lord Glenelg was, I believe, nominal President, but my father was the moving spirit—entertaining the populace being for him a thoroughly congenial task.

Many years afterwards in Samoa Robert Louis Stevenson told me that he was at Mentone with his father at the time of the festivities, but he was a young boy, and neither he nor I knew under what circumstances we were ultimately to make acquaintance. There were all sorts of complications to be overcome—for one thing it was Lent and my father had to obtain a dispensation from M. le Curé for his flock to eat meat at the festal dinner. This was accorded on condition that fish was not also consumed. Then there appeared great questions as to who would consent to sit down with whom. We were told that orange-pickers would not sit down with orange-carriers. As a matter of fact I believe that it was against etiquette for women to sit down with the men, and that in the end 300 workmen sat down in the garden of the Hôtel Victoria (where we were staying) and I can still recollect seeing the women standing laughing behind them while the men handed them portions of food. Posts were garlanded with heath and scarlet geraniums, and decorated with English, French, and Danish flags and portraits of Queen Victoria and the Prince and Princess of Wales. The festivities included a boat-race and other races, and ended with illuminations and fireworks at night. All went off splendidly, though the wind rather interfered with lighting the little lamps which decorated some of the buildings.

In connection with the Prince’s wedding I heard one story which I believe was told by my aunt Macclesfield—(appointed Lady-in-Waiting to the Princess) to my mother, which as far as I know has never appeared in print.

The present ex-Kaiser, then little Prince William aged four, came over with his parents for the wedding. He appeared at the ceremony in a Scottish suit, whereupon the German ladies remonstrated with his mother, saying that they understood that he was to have worn the uniform of a Prussian officer. “I am very sorry,” said his mother; “he had it on, but Beatrice and Leopold” (the Duke of Albany) “thought that he looked so ridiculous with tails that they cut them off, and we had to find an old Scottish suit of his uncle’s for him to wear!” An early English protest against militarism!

GENOA

Two days after the excitement of these royal festivities we again left Mentone by road for Genoa, which we reached March 16th, having stopped on the way at San Remo, Alassio, and Savona. At Genoa we joined my mother’s sister Agnes and her husband, Sir Archibald Campbell (of Garscube), and saw various sights in their company.

I knew very little of my Uncle Archibald, as he died comparatively young. At Genoa he was certainly very lively, and I fear that I contrived unintentionally but naturally to annoy him—it only shows how Italian politics excited everyone, even a child. He had seen some map in which the Italians had marked as their own territory, not only what they had lately acquired, but all to which they then aspired; I hardly imagine the Trentino, but certainly Venice. Uncle Archy scoffed at their folly—with precocious audacity, and I suppose having heard such Italian views at Mentone, I asserted that they would ere long have both Venice and Rome! He was quite indignant. It was impertinent of me, as I knew nothing of their power or otherwise, but it was a good shot!

I have heard that Sir Archibald’s mother was a stately old Scottish lady who thought a great deal of family, and precedence, and that one day he scandalised her by asking, “Well, mother, what would be the precedence of an Archangel’s eldest son?”

Aunt Aggy was broken-hearted when he died, and always delicate, fell into very ill-health. When the Franco-German War broke out she set to work undauntedly for the sick and wounded, and positively wanted to go abroad to nurse in some hospital—probably in Germany. A certain very clever Dr. Frank, of German-Jewish descent, was to make arrangements. The whole Grosvenor family and all its married connections were up in arms, and my father was dispatched to remonstrate with her. With much annoyance and reluctance she gave in—and soon after married Dr. Frank! The family were again astounded, but after all when they knew him they realised that he made her happy and took to him quite kindly. My aunt and Dr. Frank lived a great deal at Cannes, where they had a nice villa—Grandbois—and many friends, and he had a tribe of admiring patients. Aunt Aggy was very charming and gentle and lived to a good age.

From Genoa we drove in easy stages to Spezia, noting towns and villages on the way. It was a delightful means of travelling, walking up the hills and stopping at little townships for luncheon in primitive inns. Motors have somewhat revived this method of travel, but whirling along at a great pace can never allow you to see and enjoy all the lesser beauties which struck you in the old leisurely days. I have duly noted all sorts of trivial incidents in my journal, but they are much what occur in all such expeditions and I need not dilate on the beauties of mountain, sea, and sky which everyone knows so well. At Spezia we saw the scene of Shelley’s shipwreck, and on one coast of the Gulf the prison where Garibaldi had been interned not very long before. I record that it was a large building, and that his rooms, shown us by a sailor, were “very nice.” I trust that he found them so. After returning to our old quarters we left Mentone on April 15th, evidently with great regret and with a parting sigh to the voiturier who had driven us on all our expeditions, including those to Genoa and Spezia—also to my donkey-man and to the chambermaid. Looking back, I feel that these southern weeks were among the happiest of my life, and that something of the sunlight and mountain scenery remained as memories never effaced.

TRAFALGAR VETERANS

We returned to England by much the same route as our outward journey, only the railroad being now open from Cannes to Toulon a night at Fréjus was unnecessary. I cannot remember whether it was on our outward or our homeward journey, but on one or the other we met at the Palace of the Popes at Avignon an old custodian who had fought at Trafalgar and been for some years prisoner in England. He showed with some pride an English book, and it amused my mother to recognise a translation from a German work of which she did not hold a high opinion. I do not suppose that the French soldier read enough of it to do him much harm.

It is rather curious that my father on two or three occasions took us to see at Greenwich Hospital an old servant of Nelson’s who was with him at Trafalgar, so I have seen both a Frenchman and an Englishman who took part in that battle. Nelson’s servant had a little room hung all round with pictures of the hero. My father asked him whether the Admiral said the prayer which one print represents him as reciting on his knees before the battle. The man said he did not know what words he used, but he saw him kneel down to pray. On our way to Paris we spent a night at Fontainebleau—and finally reached Stoneleigh on May 1st, 1863.

Speaking of my mother’s numerous brothers and sisters, I ought not to omit the eldest, Eleanor, Duchess of Northumberland, who was a very great lady, handsome and dignified till her death at an advanced age. She had no children, but was admired and respected by many nephews and nieces. I believe that her country neighbours regarded her as almost royal, curtsying when she greeted them. I remember her telling me that she could not go and hear some famous preacher in London because she would not have her carriage out on Sunday and had never been in any sort of cab. What would she have thought of the modern fashion of going in omnibuses? However, a year or two before her death the late Duke of Northumberland (grandson of her husband’s cousin and successor) told me with great glee that they had succeeded in getting Duchess Eleanor into a taxi and that she had enjoyed it very much. I cannot think how they managed it. She lived during her widowhood at Stanwick Park, and my youngest sister Cordelia had a rather comical experience when staying with her there on one occasion. My aunt, among other tabooed innovations, altogether objected to motors and would not allow any through her Lodge gates. Previous to her visit to Stanwick, Cordelia had stayed with the Lawsons at Brayton in Cumberland and while there had been stopped by a policeman for riding a tricycle after dark without a light. She left her address with the Lawson family, and while at Stanwick the local policeman appeared, absolutely trembling at having been forced to enter these sacred precincts, to summon her in that she “drove a carriage, to wit a tricycle, between the hours, etc.” The household managed to keep it dark from Aunt Eleanor, and Cordelia sent authority to the Lawson family to settle the case and pay the fine—but what would the aunt have said had she known of her niece’s crime and penalty?

LORD MUNCASTER AND GREEK BRIGANDS

Lady Macclesfield, the second daughter, I have already mentioned. The surviving sister (one having died young) next above my mother in age was Elizabeth Lady Wenlock, who was very clever and, among her nine children, had charming daughters to whom I may refer later on. Then after my mother came Octavia and Agnes—and then Jane, married to Lord Muncaster, who died seven years later at Castellamare, leaving her with one little girl of about two years old. Margaret or Mimi, as we called her, was a great interest when the young widowed mother brought her to stay with us, soon after her father’s death. She was a dear little girl, and we were told that she was a great heiress, and somehow in the hands of the Lord Chancellor. Her father had died without a will, and all the property, including the beautiful Muncaster Castle in Cumberland, went to the child though her uncle succeeded to the title. However, poor little Mimi died when she was eleven years old, so her uncle succeeded to the property after all. He was the Lord Muncaster who was captured by the brigands near Marathon in 1870 with his wife and her sister, Miss L’Estrange, Mr. Vyner, Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, and two other men. The brigands let the ladies go without injury—Lady Muncaster had hidden her rings in her mouth to protect them—but they would only let one man go to get ransom for the rest. The men drew lots and it fell to Vyner, but he absolutely refused to take the chance, saying that he was a bachelor and Lord Muncaster a married man. Instead of ransom the Greek Government sent troops. The brigands were annihilated, but they first killed Vyner and his companions. It was said that the Government stood in with the brigands, but I have never quite understood why, if so, the former did not prefer the money to the death of their allies—unless they thought that they would have to produce the ransom. Lord Muncaster always had his head hanging a little to one side, and in my youth I had a floating idea that it was from permanent grief at the tragedy. Meantime my Aunt Jane married a second time, a brother of Lord Crawford’s. She was pretty, with green eyes and a nervous manner. She was a beautiful needlewoman and I believe a true musician.

THE GROSVENOR FAMILY

One more Grosvenor aunt must be remembered, my mother’s youngest sister Theodora. I have heard that my grandmother was greatly distressed at the loss of her fourth daughter, Evelyn, who died as a child, although there were seven surviving sisters, therefore when another girl-baby arrived she called her Theodora—the gift of God. Certainly she was greatly attached to the child, and I fancy that the little Theodora was given much more spoiling and freedom than her elder sisters. She was very lively and amusing, and being the only daughter left unmarried when my grandfather died—in 1869—she became her mother’s constant companion. When she ultimately married a brother of Lord Wimborne’s she and Mr. Merthyr Guest continued to live with my grandmother, who endowed them with a large fortune. Mr. Guest died some years ago, but Aunt Theodora still lives—and has one daughter.

My grandfather was a quiet old gentleman as far as I recollect him—he is somehow associated in my mind with carpet slippers and a diffident manner. He was what they call of a “saving” disposition, but I really believe that he was oppressed with his great wealth, and never sure that he was justified in spending much on himself and his family. When he became a thorough invalid before his death he was ordered to take certain pills, and in order to induce him to do so my grandmother would cut them in two and take half herself. After his death his halves were discovered intact done up with red tape!

During his lifetime I stayed with my parents once or twice at the old Eaton Hall, before my uncle (the first Duke) built the present Palace. It was a nice, comfortable house. I have heard, from a neighbour who recollected the incident, that when it was being built the workmen employed would chisel rough representations of each other’s features in the gargoyles which formed part of the decoration. I suppose that was done in ancient times by the men who built the churches and colleges of those days.

My grandparents besides these numerous daughters had four sons—two, both named Gilbert, died, one as a baby, the other, a sailor, as a young man. The late Duke was my godfather and always very kind to me, particularly when, after my marriage, I stayed on more than one occasion at the new Eaton. I never knew a man more anxious to do all he could for the people about him, whether in the country or on his London property. He had very much the feeling of a patriarch and loved nothing better than to have about him the generations of his family. It was a complicated family, as he married first his own first cousin, Constance Leveson-Gower, and after her death the sister of his son-in-law Lord Chesham, husband of his second daughter Beatrice. I cannot quite unravel it, but somehow he was brother-in-law to his own daughter. The youngest son, Richard, a quaint, amusing man, was created Lord Stalbridge.

Having said so much of my mother’s family, I think I should mention the two sisters of my father whom I have hitherto omitted. One was his second sister, Emma—a typical and excellent maiden aunt. She was principally noted for being my sister Agnes’s godmother and feeling it her duty to hear her Catechism—but neither Agnes nor any of us minded; in fact I remember—I suppose on some wet Sunday—that we all insisted on sharing the Scripture lesson and were given figs in consequence. The third sister was Caroline, twin with Augusta, but very different, for whereas Aunt Gussie was delicate and nervous, not to say irritable, Aunt Car was slow and substantial. She ended with marrying when no longer very young an old cousin of my father’s, a clergyman, Lord Saye and Sele, who had actually baptized her early in life. She made him an excellent wife; she had numerous step-children, though none of her own. Looking back on these Early Victorian uncles and aunts with their various wives and husbands, I cannot but claim that they were good English men and women, with a keen sense of duty to their tenants and neighbours rich and poor. Of course they varied immensely in character and had their faults like other people, but I cannot recall one, either man or woman, who did not try to act up to a standard of right, and think I was fortunate to have been brought up among them.

UNCLES AND AUNTS

In my younger days I had also living several great-uncles and aunts on both sides, but the only one whom I can spare time and space to mention here is my Grandfather Leigh’s sister, Caroline Lady East. When she was young Mr. East fell in love with her and she with him, but he was an impecunious youth and my great-grandparents would not permit the marriage. Whereupon he disguised himself as a hay-maker and contrived an interview with his lady-love in which they exchanged vows of fidelity. Then he went to India, where he remained eleven years, and returned to find the lady still faithful, and having accumulated a sufficient fortune married her. They had a nice little country house on the borders of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, and, though they had no children, were one of the happiest old couples I ever knew. My great-aunt died in 1870, but Uncle East lived till over ninety and went out hunting almost to the end—so eleven years of India had not done him much harm. He stayed with us at Middleton after my marriage when old Lord Abingdon was also a guest. Lord Abingdon must have been over seventy at the time, but a good deal younger than Sir James. They had known each other in youth and were quite delighted to meet again, but each confided separately to my husband and myself that he had thought that the other old fellow was dead. However, they made great friends, and in token of reunion Lord Abingdon sent his servant to cut Uncle East’s corns!

To return to my recollections of my own girlhood. I think that it must have been in 1864 that I had a bad attack of chicken-pox which temporarily hurt my eyes and left me somewhat weak. Either in that autumn or the following one my parents took me to the Isle of Arran and left me there for a time with a maid—while they accompanied my brother Gilbert back to school. I loved the Isle of Arran, and was only disturbed by the devotion of a child-niece of the landlady’s who would follow me about everywhere. The only way of escape was to go—or attempt to go—into the mountains of which she was afraid, knowing that there were giants there.

I must not omit one honour which I enjoyed in 1865. My mother took me to see my Aunt Macclesfield, who was in Waiting at Marlborough House when His present Majesty was born. My aunt welcomed us in the Princess of Wales’s pretty sitting-room hung with a kind of brocade with a pattern of roses. The baby was then brought in to be admired, and to my gratification I was allowed to hold the little Prince in my arms. I did not then realise that in after years I could claim to have nursed my King.

Shortly afterwards we used to hear a good deal of the American Civil War. We were too young to have much opinion as to the rival causes, but there was a general impression conveyed to our minds that the “Southerners were gentlemen.” Some time after the war was over, in December 1868, Jefferson Davis, the Southern (Confederate) President, came to stay at Stoneleigh. He was over in Europe on parole. We were told that he had been in prison, and one of my younger brothers was anxious to know whether we “should see the marks of the chains.” We had a favourite old housemaid who was preparing his room, and we imparted to her the thrilling information of his former imprisonment. Her only response was “Umph, well, I suppose he won’t want these silver candlesticks.” A large bedroom was being prepared for him, but she considered that silver candlesticks were only for ladies, and that presidents and prisoners were not entitled to such luxuries.

He proved to be a benevolent old gentleman who impressed my cousins and myself by the paternal way in which he addressed any elder girl as “daughter.”

After this—but I cannot remember the particular years—we went in the autumn to Land’s End, The Lizard, and Tintagel, and also had villas at Torquay and Bournemouth respectively, but our experiences were too ordinary to be worthy of record. I think I was about seventeen when I went with my parents to Vichy, where my father drank the waters—and we went on to some beautiful Auvergne country. This was my last excursion abroad with my parents before I married.

CONFIRMATION

In 1867 I was confirmed. The church which we attended was in Park Street. It has since been pulled down, but was then regarded as specially the church of the Westminster family. My grandparents sat in a large pew occupying the length of the gallery at the west end of the church. We had a pew in the south gallery with very high sides, and my early recollections are of sitting on a dusty red hassock from which I could see little but the woodwork during a very long sermon. One Sunday when I was approaching years of discretion the clergyman gave out notice of a Confirmation, with the usual intimation that Candidates should give in their names in the Vestry. My mother told me to do this accompanied by my younger brother (Gilbert) as chaperon. The clergyman seemed a good deal surprised, and I rather fancy that I was the only Candidate. He was an old man who had been there for a long time. He said that he would come and see me at my parents’ house, and duly arrived at 37 Portman Square. I was sent in to my father’s sitting-room for the interview, and I believe that he was more embarrassed than I was, for I had long been led to regard Confirmation as the proper sequence to learning my Catechism and a fitting step in religious life. The clergyman somewhat uneasily remarked that he had to ascertain that I knew my Catechism, and asked me to say it. This I could have done in my sleep, as it had for years formed part of my Sunday instruction. When I ended he asked after a slight pause whether I knew why the Nicene Creed was so called. This was unexpected pleasure. I had lately read Milman’s Latin Christianity to my mother, and should have enjoyed nothing better than delivering to my pastor a short lecture on the Arian and Athanasian doctrines. When I began it, however, he hastily cut me short, saying that he saw that I knew all about it—how old was I? “Seventeen and a half.” “Quite old enough,” said he, and told me that he would send me my ticket, and when I went to the church someone would show me where to sit. This ended my preparation as far as he was concerned. I believe he intimated to my parents that he would see Miss Leigh again, but in practice he took care to keep clear of the theological enfant terrible.

I was duly confirmed on May 31st, by Dr. Jackson, Bishop of London. I feel sure that my mother amply supplied any lacunæ left by the poor old clergyman. No doubt in those days Preparation for Confirmation was not regarded as seriously as at present, but I do not think that mine was quite typical, as some of my contemporary cousins underwent a much more serious course of instruction.

“COMING OUT”

That autumn I began to “come out” in the country. We went to a perfectly delightful ball at the Shaw-Stewarts’ at Ardgowan, where the late Duke of Argyll—then Lord Lorne—excited my admiration by the way he danced reels in Highland costume. Thence my brother and I went to Hans Hall to the coming-of-age of my cousin Charles Adderley, now Lord Norton. The whole country-side swarmed to the festivities, and one party unable to obtain any other conveyance chartered a hearse. Miss Ferrier, in her novel The Inheritance, makes one of her female characters arrive at a country house, where she was determined to be received, in a hearse—but she was even more gruesome than my cousin’s guests as she accompanied the corpse!

The following year (1868), May 12th, I was presented—Princess Christian held the Drawing-Room on behalf of the Queen, who still lived in retirement as far as social functions were concerned. She, however, attended this Drawing-Room for about half an hour—receiving the entrée. Her devotion to the Prince Consort and to his memory was unparalleled. No doubt the fact that she had practically never had anyone with whom she could associate on equal terms until her marriage had a good deal to do with it. I know of a lady whom she summoned to sit with her when the Prince Consort was being carried to his funeral on the ground that she was a widow and could feel for her, and she said that her shudders when the guns went off were dreadful, and that she seemed unable to realise that here for the first time was something that she could not control.

To return to my entry in the world. Naturally I went during 1868 and the three or four succeeding years to the balls, dinners, and garden parties usual in the course of the season. The “great houses” then existed—they had not been pulled down or turned into public galleries and offices. Stafford House, Grosvenor House, Northumberland House, and others entertained in royal style, and there were Garden Parties at Argyll Lodge and Airlie Lodge on Campden Hill, at Syon, and at Chiswick, then in possession of the Duke of Devonshire.

In those days there was still a sort of question as to the propriety of waltzing. Valses and square dances were danced alternately at balls, and a few—but very few—girls were limited to the latter. Chaperones were the almost invariable rule and we went back to them between the dances. “Sitting-out” did not come in till some years later. In the country, however, there was plenty of freedom, and I never remember any restriction on parties of girls and young men walking or rowing together without their elders. By the time I came out my brother Gilbert (Gilly) was at Harrow and Dudley and Rupert at Mr. Lee’s Private School at Brighton. My special charge and pet Rowland was still at home, and the youngest of the family Cordelia a baby.

Dudley and Rupy were inseparable. Duddy delicate, Rupy sturdy and full of mischief into which he was apt to drag his elder brother. I had to look after them, and see that they accomplished a few lessons in the holidays—no light task, but I was ready for anything to keep off holiday tutors and, I am afraid, to retain my position as elder sister. Love of being first was doubtless my besetting sin, and my good-natured younger brothers and sisters accepted my rule—probably also because it was easier than that of a real grown-up person. My mother had bad health, and my father took it for granted that it was my business to keep the young ones as far as possible out of mischief. As for my sister Agnes, she was always a saint, and I am afraid that I was a tyrant as far as she was concerned. Cordelia was born when I was over sixteen and was always rather like my child. Rowland was just seven when her arrival delighted the family, and his first remark when he heard that he had a little sister was “I wonder what she will think of my knickerbockers”—to which he had lately been promoted. Boys wore little tunics with belts when they first left off baby frocks, and sailor suits were not introduced when my brothers were children.

IRELAND

My next special recollection is of a visit to Ireland which I paid in company with my parents, Gilbert, and Agnes in August 1869. We crossed in the Leinster and duly lionised Dublin. I kept a journal during this tour in which the sights of the city are duly noted with the remark, after seeing the post office, that we “made the various observations proper to intelligent but tired travellers.”

The country—Bray, Glendalough, and the Seven Churches seem to have pleased us much better. I do not know whether the guides and country people generally are as free with their legends now as they were fifty years ago, but they told us any amount of stories to our great satisfaction. Brough, the guide at the Seven Churches, was particularly voluble and added considerably to the tales of St. Kevin given in the guide-book. St. Kevin, as recounted by Moore in his ballad, pushed Kathleen into the Lake when she would follow him. I remember that Brough was much embarrassed when I innocently asked why he did this. However, he discreetly replied: “If your honourable father and your honourable mother want you to marry a gentleman and you don’t like him, don’t push him into the water!” Excellent advice and not difficult to follow in a general way. When St. Kevin was alive the skylark used to sing early in the morning and waken the people who had been up late the night before at a wedding or merrymaking. When the Saint saw them looking so bad he asked, “What’s the matter?” On hearing that the lark would not let them get any sleep, he laid a spell that never more should lark sing above that lake. This encouragement of late hours seems rather inconsistent with his general asceticism. St. Kevin was more considerate to a blackbird than to the laverock. The former once laid her eggs on his extended hand, and he kept it held out until she had had time to build her nest in it and hatch her young.

Brough was even better acquainted with fairies than with saints. He knew a man at Cork named Jack M’Ginn, a wool-comber, who was carried away by the fairies for seven years. At the end of that time he accompanied them to a wedding (fairies like weddings). There was present a young lady whom the fairies wanted to make sneeze three times, as if they could do so and no one said “God bless her” they could take her away. So they tickled her nose three times with horse-hair, but as they were withdrawing it the third time Jack cried out in Irish “God bless her.” This broke the spell, and Jack fell crashing down amongst the crockery, everyone ran away, and he arose retransformed to his natural shape.

Another acquaintance of Brough’s—a stout farmer—met one evening three fairies carrying a coffin. Said one, “What shall we do for a fourth man?” “Switch the first man who passes,” replied the second. So they caught the farmer and made him carry it all night, till he found himself in the morning nearly dead not far from his own door. Our guide enjoined us to be sure, if fairies passed us in the air, to pick some blades of grass and throw them after them, saying “Good luck to you good folk”: as he sagely remarked, a civil word never does harm. As more prosaic recollections, Brough told us of the grand fights at Glendalough, when the young men were backed up by their sisters and sweethearts. The etiquette was for a young woman to take off her right stocking, put a stone in it and use it as a weapon, “and any woman who fought well would have twenty young farmers wanting to marry her.”