CHAPTER VII

Life in Northumberland—My Sister Eleanora’s Wedding—Alnwick Castle in 1855 and 1892—Serious Illness—Death of Oswin and Seymour Cresswell.

A few weeks later we were thoroughly settled at Harehope, and as the summer advanced we enjoyed long drives to all points of chief interest in the neighbourhood, such as Holy Stone village in the Harbottle Hills, where there is a great pool of very pure water, in which St. Paulinus is said to have baptized three thousand converts in the days when Northumbria was still a heathen land.

One day we drove and boated to Lindisfarne, to visit the noble ruins of St. Cuthbert’s Old Priory—not, however, the original building, for that was destroyed by the Danes in the tenth century, and these grand old Norman arches of dark red sandstone were built in 1094, when in honour of its martyrs it was named “The Holy Isle.”

Bamborough and Dunstanborough were favourite picnic-grounds, while Esslington, delightful Chillingham and Alnwick Castles, and many other homes of kind and pleasant neighbours, all within easy reach, supplied ample society, to say nothing of a genuine Northumbrian harvest-home dance at the farm.

The weary Crimean war still wore on, but many of the officers who from the beginning had borne the brunt of its hardship now returned to England, and amongst these was our cousin, George Grant of Grant, who now came to lay his laurels at the feet of his fair ladye, and to claim her promised hand.

And so, on October 2, 1855, the old village church of Eglingham was the scene of a very pretty country wedding, and friends from far and near assembled at Harehope, where triumphal arches, with masses of scarlet rowan-berries outside, and really beautiful trophies of Grant and Cumming and Gordon tartans, and stag’s-horn moss indoors, gave colour enough to brighten a somewhat grey and misty day. Kind neighbours, who remembered how recently Harehope had been a bare hillside, sent generous gifts of beautiful fruit and flowers. And so, with every promise of a bright future, the young couple started for their honeymoon in the English lakes, whence they returned a month later in high health and spirits to revisit Harehope, ere turning northward to make a home in Scotland.

They had only been back a few days when George was suddenly seized with a choleraic attack, and such severe pain that local medical skill failed to give him relief, and it became necessary to telegraph to Edinburgh for Dr. Miller, who by a prompt course of blistering succeeded in relieving the pain, but it was fully three weeks ere the patient was sufficiently convalescent to venture out.

Meanwhile, on November 15, my sister Seymour had added a fifth little one to her nursery, my little god-daughter Constance—a fine healthy baby, warmly welcomed by all. According to Northumbrian custom, a large cheese, or kebbock, known as “the crying-cheese,” was at once produced, together with a loaf and a bottle of whisky, and every one in the house, or entering it, was required to eat and drink for good-luck to the baby.

Six weeks later a happy family party assembled for baby’s christening in the village church by Mr. Coxe, the vicar (Archdeacon of Lindisfarne), the same dear old friend who had so recently officiated at my sister Nelly’s gay wedding. Little did any one then foresee how very soon he would be called upon to minister under very different circumstances, when that little one would be left doubly orphaned.

One of the interests of the neighbourhood at this time was the extensive work going on at stately Alnwick Castle, where “the Sailor Duke Algernon” and Duchess Eleanor then reigned. There was much anxiety that the rebuilding of the great Prudhoe Tower should be finished before the Duke’s birthday—December 15th. This was accomplished, notwithstanding the intense cold, by working with hot mortar; and the builders were kept alive during the snowstorms by oft-repeated jorums of hot ale and ginger. So the great feat was performed, and after the firing of many guns, the new flag was hoisted amid tremendous cheering, the town being crowded. Then all the school-children had roast beef and plum-pudding to their hearts’ content, and in the evening there were fireworks and fire-balloons which gave great delight.

Having decided that, notwithstanding the Gothic and partly Old Norman exterior of the castle, the interior of the great state-rooms should be decorated in the richest Italian style, the Duke resolved as far as possible to employ local talent, and so, having imported Italian teachers, he started a school for wood-carving, which wonderfully soon turned out exquisite work.

I used to delight in seeing this in progress, or when laid out in compartments on the floor preparatory to being raised to the ceilings, where, alas! in most of the rooms a further process of gorgeous painting and gilding, although wondrously beautiful, nevertheless detracts, in my eyes, from its original perfection. Except to the expert who notes the wonderful undercutting, the richly gilded carving, or its flat blue or crimson background, might almost as well be stucco. Certainly this wealth of colour is more in keeping with the rich crimson or yellow satin damask hangings of all the walls and corresponding furniture, but it is a real joy that in the great dining-room the noble ceiling has been left in its primitive beauty, most restful to the eye. Happily all the very handsome carved doors and shutters were left uncoloured, as also the rounded Italian tops of all the windows, and dado of beautiful inlaid wood round all these rooms.

The fine marbles on the walls of the private chapel and the staircase all suggest the same Italian inspiration, so that while externally the grand old castle is a dream of feudal England, internally it is a gorgeous reproduction of Italian Renaissance.

It so happened that the first Italians who came to the castle were Signor and Signora Bulletti, who knew little or no English. It was therefore great joy to them to find a very charming young Italian lady

## acting as governess to my sister’s children. There was also a German

governess to give the children all possible advantages.

Signorina Banchi acted the part of a good angel to her countrywoman; but ere long the great architect of the works, Signor Montiroli, arrived, and he fully shared our admiration for this ministering spirit. Though he returned to Italy in single blessedness, he came back ere long to protest against leaving such a treasure beneath a grey Northumbrian sky, and so, on October 13, 1856, just a year after my sister’s wedding, our pretty “Bijou” followed her example, the happy couple being married in the Roman Catholic Church at Alnwick. Now, who would have expected to come across a real Italian romance at so unlikely a spot?

Thirty-six years later, on my return from distant wanderings, I spent a very delightful week in the old castle, to share in the rejoicings on the coming of age of Lord Warkworth (now Lord Percy). It was in every respect a scene of quite unique interest.

In the first place, the castle itself and all its beautiful surroundings, with the noble park and river, are like a dream of some old-world or fairy legend, as also is the way in which the great House of Northumberland has ever kept up the best of the old feudal relations with its almost innumerable tenants of every rank, so that this festival was no mere outward pageant, but the expression of real all-round loyalty by the retainers of a loved house.

The castle guests assembled on May 9, 1892. We were forty-two at dinner in the beautiful crimson satin damask dining-room.

On the following day there was a grand dinner to about sixteen hundred tenants in the guest-hall and the great covered court—the latter being a huge temporary hall improvised by covering the great stable-yard with a tent roof. The whole was decorated in mediæval style, with armorial shields, large mottoes, banners, armour, pictures, and, of course, with evergreens. One large trophy was formed of the old flags and weapons of the volunteer corps of yeomanry, artillery, and infantry, raised by Duke Hugh II. in the days when an invasion by Napoleon was dreaded.

One end of the great temporary hall was covered by a spirited picture of a mediæval tournament, with knights tilting in a meadow beside the sea at Warkworth Castle, and the walls of the guest-chamber were hung with fine old tapestry. The tenants were seated at twenty-seven tables in the great hall, while the house-party (gentlemen, no ladies—we ladies occupied a gallery overlooking the whole) had a raised table in the guest-chamber, so as to be well seen by all. Behind Earl Percy (the present Duke) stood a trumpeter or bugler, who blew a resounding call to herald each toast or response.

Lord Percy was acting for his father, as it was deemed wiser that the fine old Duke, then in his eighty-second year, should be spared the unavoidable fatigue of such a week. But the other grandfather (Lady Percy’s father), the Duke of Argyll, and Lord Lorne, were present to represent the Campbell side of the family.

One day about three thousand guests assembled at a great garden-party. Two thousand invitations were issued to all the principal tradesmen and neighbours, each to “So-and-so and party,” which was a liberal order. The temporary hall was cleared for those who preferred dancing, even by daylight, and certainly the excellent band and pipers from Edinburgh were quite inspiriting.

Another day all the schools of Alnwick and the neighbourhood assembled, to the number of fully two thousand children, who, notwithstanding some light showers, had an ideal day of feasting and shows. On the last day there was a dinner for fifteen hundred workmen and their wives; and besides these, multitudes who could not come to Alnwick had dinners in their own villages, or sent to their own homes.

One day was reserved for county neighbours, and for a very brilliant ball in the great drawing-room, while in the dining-room the display of priceless gold-plate on buffets lighted by electric light, was like a tale from the _Arabian Nights_. Specially lovely on that occasion was the beautiful music-room; its walls of yellow satin damask forming a perfect background for a profusion of lilac orchids from the great gardens of Syon House.

Not only within the Castle grounds was there festival. The whole town of Alnwick was most beautifully decorated, and at night illuminated; and throughout the week, with the exception of one doubtful forenoon, the weather was absolutely perfect; and so the splendid fireworks which followed the great dinner to the tenants were seen to the greatest advantage. At night we all adjourned to the park to witness the beautiful display, which was enhanced by the burning of coloured fire on the battlements and the walls, the clouds of coloured smoke producing most weird, and really somewhat alarming effects. A final bouquet of two hundred rockets was hailed with shouts of delight by old as well as young folk.

One detail of very real interest was a visit to the underground kitchens, where such excellent and abundant food had been produced within a week for nine thousand people, a large number of whom, being household or guests, had to be fed four times daily. We were welcomed by the great English _chef_, Mr. Thorpe, the same who, twenty-five years previously, had organised similar feasting on the coming of age of Lord Percy (the present Duke). His staff consisted of thirteen cooks and a dozen other men, with thirty women—in all, fifty-six people. I was much amused at seeing twelve women stirring sixteen hundred pounds of plum-pudding!

I observed with some surprise that all the beautiful ornamental sweets and cakes that were untouched at the ball-supper the previous night were set out for the school-children, but the _chef_ said, sympathetically, “The children like pretty things.” So they do, especially when so very good!

These kitchens (or their ancestors!) must have been dreary indeed in olden days of dim oil-lamps, but now brilliant electric light reigns, and illumines even the dismal “bottle-shaped” dungeon, into which of old prisoners were let down, never again to see the sun.

A long new tunnel, lined with pure white glistening tiles, had been constructed underground for a small railway, whose little trucks brought all the courses right under the dining-room lift, and to a further point to supply the great temporary hall. Along the intervening distance were stationed a regiment of immovable waiters, who passed the dishes from one to another, as skilled firemen hand on their buckets, instead of running to and fro. Besides all the waiters, about a hundred neat waitresses took care that all the multitudes were well and quickly served.

This week of rejoicing in Northumberland, with bonfires and feasting on all the estates, was followed by festivities on a smaller scale at Albury in Surrey, and ended with a great London garden-party at Syon House.

To return from these festivities in 1892 to our quiet life in the spring of 1856.

The even tenour of life, sometimes at Cresswell, but chiefly at Harehope, continued till 21st February, on which my sister Seymour and Baby Constance both became ill with bad sore throat and red, swollen skin. The doctor came and pronounced both to be suffering from erysipelas. Both became worse and worse; in the mother’s case it was confined to the head, while baby had it all over her tiny body.

On Friday, 29th (it was leap year), while superintending the farm-drainers, Oswin took a chill, and at night was seized with violent shivering and sickness. He came to breakfast looking like a grey ghost—the strong stalwart man seemed literally to have shrunken. Yet, ill as he was, he said he must go to Alnwick to engage servants for an extra farm which he had decided to take into his own hands.

Of course by night he was very much worse, and on the following days he was compelled to stay in bed, the good old coachman devoting himself to his master, as the womenfolk had their hands so fully occupied with the other invalids. Although his dear old mother had driven over from Cresswell to see baby, she was not allowed to see her son or my sister on account of her own exceeding delicacy. I, aged eighteen, was the only other relation in the house, and I was sitting up every night with baby.

On March 4th my sister and baby were both so very ill that I telegraphed to Edinburgh for Dr. Miller, who arrived that night, and pronounced that, seriously ill as they both were, Oswin was much more so, as his was undoubtedly a case of typhus fever, that it would probably be twenty-one days ere he reached the crisis, but that his strength was far too low for such an early stage of the disease. He said he would at once send trained nurses from Edinburgh, and till their arrival the faithful coachman must guard his master, as I was to be with the other patients, and it was necessary to establish quarantine.

Next day we sent the children and governesses to Cresswell; my sister had become wildly delirious, baby was worse, and Oswin’s strength was failing rapidly, notwithstanding all efforts to sustain it. By the time the trained nurses arrived he was delirious, and soon became unconscious.

At 5 A.M., March 6th, they admitted me to his room, and a few minutes later he passed away. No one was more utterly astounded than kind Dr. Miller himself when at noon he returned from Edinburgh; and in truth it seemed incredible to all that the man who that day week had seemed to be the very embodiment of health and strength could have passed away, literally “like snaw-drift in thaw.” He was only thirty-seven years of age.

The doctors told us that it was essential to keep my sister in ignorance of the awful truth, as any shock would turn the erysipelas to the brain, and probably prove fatal. In her delirium she seemed to have some consciousness of something being amiss with him, for again and again she tried to spring from her bed to go to him, and it was heartrending to hear her asking why he did not come to her. Baby continued on the verge of life or death.

As consciousness gradually returned, the strain of having constantly to watch lest any unguarded look or word should arouse her suspicions, became almost unbearable, and we were thankful when Dr. Wilson consented to our letting her know all before the funeral. So on the previous evening, when the doctor had prepared the way by bringing her very bad accounts of dear Oswin’s condition, our kind, fatherly friend, Archdeacon Coxe, went to tell her there was no hope—and gradually led on to the truth that he had already been called away.

By this time our dear sister Ida had come from Cresswell to be with us, and we three sat together at poor Seymour’s window to see the coffin carried from the house on its way to old Woodhorne Church, near Cresswell and the sea—the first of our own generation to be laid there, but now the resting-place of three of my sisters, and of many other dear companions of my early years.

From that window we looked down on many details of dear Oswin’s unfinished work—the half-made approach to the house—it was barely ten years since he had decided to build the house itself—the half-levelled bank, half-turfed path, the unfinished wall and railing, the site of the lodge just staked out, the young trees which he had just bought in Alnwick for his plantation, lying in bundles all unheeded, the field which he had been draining on that fatal Friday—all these suggestions of the work of the strong, capable man so suddenly called away, one by one impressed themselves on the poor, half-conscious mind, and enabled it gradually to realise all.

Little by little strength returned, and about a fortnight later it was arranged that we should all rejoin the family at Cresswell. But considering the extremes of heat and cold to which I had been exposed in passing from much-heated sick-rooms through bitterly cold passages, where doors and windows were kept open for fear of infection, it is perhaps not surprising that severe pain in all my limbs should have set in, and developed into an agonising and dangerous attack of rheumatic fever, which rendered me absolutely helpless for six weeks, during which my sister Ida and her maid nursed me day and night with most devoted care. I could not even move one finger from its neighbour—each had its own little pillow, so my nurse’s patience was sorely taxed.

When at length I was so far convalescent as to be able to walk into the next room, my sister Seymour, who had gone to her children at Cresswell, returned thence to see me. On arrival she confessed that she too was suffering from severe pain in her limbs, and for a fortnight she also was helplessly laid up. At the same time the pretty Italian governess endured a similar attack at Cresswell, which, if not actually rheumatic fever, was few degrees less painful.

I was warned on every hand that there was every probability of my having frequent future returns of this most unpleasant illness, but I am thankful to say that I have never had the slightest indication of it.[35]

After so sad an experience, it was decided that I must leave Northumberland altogether for a while, so in the middle of May, Ida and I went thence to stay with our sister Alice Jenkinson and her husband, who were then renting a place in the vale of the Severn half-way between Worcester and Malvern—the region of apple-orchards, alike beautiful in blossom or in fruit.

There we rested, and revelled in roses, and saw all points of chief interest, especially the whole process of making china and painting it at the Worcester factory.

After about six weeks all trace of rheumatic fever had so entirely vanished that I was able to climb to the summit of the Worcestershire Beacon, where on one side we looked down into Hereford and right away to the Wrekin in Shropshire, while on the other side lay outspread a vast flat plain on which lie the towns of Upton, Worcester, Tewkesbury, Cheltenham, and Gloucester.

I spent July in London with kind old Lady Dysart, doing the usual social rounds, including a good many operas. Thence right away north to the George Grants, who were renting Nairnside, some miles from Inverness, from our cousins, the Mackintoshes of Raigmore. Of course there was constant coming and going between these two homes, both of which, on my arrival, I found crammed for a very good “cattle-show” ball, which a month later was followed by all the gaieties of the “Great Northern Meeting.”

Afterwards we stayed at Castle Grant[36] for the Grantown games, which were held on little Lord Reidhaven’s birthday, so the proceedings began by one hundred and twenty of the tenants, in Highland dress and headed by flags and pipers, marching up to the castle to cheer the little Chief and his parents. At night there was a most picturesque torchlight dance—Highlanders, with a blazing torch in each hand, wildly dancing reels on a raised platform on the lawn, lighted by flaring torches at the four corners.

Then there was a very smart tenants’ ball, at which the pretty child with the long fair ringlets appeared in black velvet, trimmed with old point lace, and his Grant plaid, and was received with great applause, in which he heartily joined. The memory-picture is interesting in view of his deeply lamented death just as he attained to manhood.

Visits to many other kinsfolk in the north filled up a pleasant autumn, and then winter slipped away at Polmaise, Airthrie Castle, Kinnaird, and Edinburgh, which was then peopled with relations and intimate friends, all of whom have now vanished “as a dream when one awaketh.” But they were very real then.

So they also were in London, where I joined my sister Seymour in the middle of March, she having by medical advice taken a house in Rutland Gate for four months. Alas! from the time when she awoke to realise her terrible loss she had utterly given way to grief, perpetually wandering alone for hours and hours beside the grey misty sea at Cresswell, or on the bleak moorlands at Harehope, and this had brought on an obstinate hacking cough, which was becoming worse and worse.

So at last she consented to take her children to London for dancing and other lessons, on which she laid great stress, and there she was so surrounded by near relations, that she could not help being drawn into sympathy with their interests also.

She was most anxious that I should go everywhere and see everything of interest, and as there was no lack of kind kinsfolk willing to take charge of me, I find the record of those months full of social interests. But in the multitude of names of the companions of those days and nights, I scarcely find the name of any one still on earth; only here and there an allusion to the marriage of some bright young girl who perhaps survives as a lone widow, or to some little child who is now a grandmother.

Among the interests at that time—not “society”—I specially remember Kean’s acting of _Richard II._, and the gorgeous _mise-en-scène_ of Bolingbroke’s entry into London, scenery and dresses all adapted from old pictures and chronicles.

Another vivid memory is that of going down the Thames by steamer and being landed on the “Isle of Dogs,” there to inspect Scott Russell’s monster ship, the _Great Eastern_, which was then—1857—being built. It was not till after a long climb we reached the upper deck, that we fully appreciated her enormous size. She was one-eighth of a mile in length, and was designed to carry ten thousand people.

But the extraordinary facilities for travel, which since then have created such a fashion for globe-trotting, had not then developed, and so the ten thousand were never forthcoming, and as a passenger steamship she proved a failure. Now much larger vessels belonging to American and German companies can scarcely meet the demand for accommodation. So the _Great Eastern_ was transferred to other service, and she had the honour of carrying and laying one of the great Atlantic cables—I forget whether it was the first or the second.

After being employed in this grand work, it was a sad come-down to hear of her, about 1887, being anchored in the Mersey, with variety entertainments on board to attract sightseers, and covered with gigantic advertisements of a large mercantile firm. Eventually she was broken up as being unfit for use. But her builders were the first who foresaw the possibility of carrying ten thousand people at a time.

A similar vast number of human beings were constantly packed into the Surrey Music Hall, where Spurgeon was then holding services, several of which I attended, escorted by my stalwart brother Roualeyn. The perfect silence of so vast a multitude was well-nigh as remarkable as the eloquence and point of the preacher.

An expedition of very special interest was to Mr. Powell’s glass-works. We drove to the Strand, where he showed us some fine stained-glass windows, and then took us all over the factory and showed us glass in every stage of development. Amongst other things of interest was the manufacture of glass sticks, to be made into bugles for trimming dresses, and, strangest of all, a piece of silk, brocaded with spun glass, which looked like gold but could never tarnish. I sometimes recall that day, when in St. Columba’s Church at Crieff I admire Mr. Powell’s beautiful reredos of glass mosaic.

Young Oswin being now an Eton boy, we of course went to college for June 4th, and were duly lionised—playingfields, boats, and all the orthodox round.

My sister did not gain in health while in London, and in July we returned to Harehope, where (except that I occasionally stayed for a few days with country neighbours), we remained stationary till the following June, many members of the family constantly coming to stay for a week or two.

All the neighbours were most kind in driving long distances to try to cheer her who had been such a centre of brightness ever since she entered the county, and also to arrange pleasant ploys for me. Foremost among these were the Liddells from Esslington, Lord Ravensworth’s daughters.

The nearest and most frequent of these kind visitors was Lady Olivia Ossulston (now the Dowager Lady Tankerville), who was the very incarnation of breezy sunshine, and who could cheer my sister better than any one. Lord Ossulston’s singing (a lovely tenor) was truly fascinating, as was also their group of five pretty children.

Towards the end of October they went to Paris to visit the Emperor Louis Napoleon and Empress Eugenie, and were much interested by the cosy, informal life at Compiègne, their country home. The guests numbered sixty, but, including servants, there were nearly a thousand people in the house. Every day the party drove about the forest in _char-à-bancs_, each holding a dozen people, while the huntsmen, in very ornamental costume, hunted either stags or wild boars. An open-air picnic, followed by dancing, sometimes fitted into the programme. One day the entertainment was varied by a paper-chase, in which the Emperor himself acted the part of the “hare,” scattering showers of torn paper.

Every evening the party either danced to the music of a barrel-organ, acted charades, or played children’s games, _petits jeux innocents_, the Emperor and Empress joining with the greatest spirit. All these easily amused people were amazed and delighted at the newly invented English walking-dress, looped up over striped woollen petticoats, with coloured stockings, as worn by Lady Olivia, the Duchess of Manchester, and Lady Cowley.

What chiefly surprised the English guests was the total absence of any furniture except chairs in all the principal rooms, and that (except a few books in the Empress’s own rooms) there were no books nor anything suggestive of any occupation.

All this time the Indian mails were a source of continual interest and anxiety, on account of the Indian Mutiny, with all its horrors. Our brother Bill was stationed in the Mhow district, far from any other white men. Happily his native troops and servants loved him as a just and wise man, and a very successful slayer of tigers, and so he passed safely through many times of imminent danger. Having won the affection of some of the wild Bheel tribes, he selected men of different tribes not likely to coalesce for mischief, and so succeeded in forming a corps of Bheel police, who did most valuable service.

Part of the time he was on duty at Indore, and then guarding the passes of the Nerbudda while our troops were in pursuit of Tantia Topee. For his excellent work all through these prolonged anxieties he received warm thanks from the Indian Government. When after long years of active service in India he settled down in Scotland, he wrote an account of some of his personal adventures under the name of _Wild Men and Wild Beasts_,[37] illustrated by his friend and fellow-sportsman, Major Baigrie, a capital artist.

The long months at Harehope wore on; there was no longer any concealing the certainty that Seymour’s ever-increasing illness was consumption in its most trying form; many a time in her weary hours of dire suffering and exhaustion did she speak of the cruelty of people who write romances in which the heroine begins with an interesting hectic flush, and passes easily away from life. She said that when the doctor first warned her that by constant exposure to the cold, raw Northumbrian mists she would bring on consumption, she only thought that it would be an easy way of escape from her great sorrow, but that if she had had the faintest conception of what in her case consumption would really mean, she would have taken every possible precaution from the beginning.

Alas! this wisdom came too late, and her sufferings were terrible. All through the weary winter and spring they wore on, and we watched the breathless exhaustion which we could do nothing to relieve.

At the end of May, as several of the family needed to visit the dentist, and as the George Grants were at Harehope, we left them in charge, and went to Edinburgh for a few days, which also gave me an opportunity of seeing several of my aunts, three grand-aunts (my mother’s aunts), and many other relations and friends, amongst others, the Bishop of Argyll (Ewing) and his daughter Nina. On Sunday afternoon, in St. John’s Church, he preached a very striking sermon on “The night is far spent.” We little thought how far for one of our family.

On June 3rd, George Grant arrived to tell us that the very night we had started, dear Seymour had become very much worse, and after a terribly prolonged struggle for breath, had passed away that morning. We returned at once with her children, now doubly orphaned. In the morning they helped to gather her favourite flowers, lily of the valley and blue Brodie Columbine, and laid them on her breast.

A week later we sat in the same window whence, just two years before, she had watched her husband being taken to his rest; and now she was to be laid beside him in old Woodhorne Church. It was a long, weary six hours’ journey of thirty miles for those who accompanied the funeral all the way.

Thus ended our life at Harehope. Less than twelve years since, in bright hope for the future, we had watched baby Oswin in his proud father’s arms, lay its foundation-stone. Henceforth the children lived entirely at Cresswell, and I found a home with my sister Nelly as soon as she and George got settled.

My first move was to Wishaw, to my mother’s aunt, Lady Belhaven. Although so surrounded by collieries, the old place retained much charm from its gardens and the fine old trees on the high banks of the river Calder, while indoors there were endless beautiful objects. But these were as nothing compared with the marvellous art-treasures of Hamilton Palace, which was a favourite drive; a never-failing source of interest being a fine picture of my great-grandmother (Elizabeth Gunning) when she was Duchess of Hamilton.

I returned there often on future visits, as also to the Duke’s Forest in Cadzow Park, where there still remain some magnificent old oaks, and also the herd of wild white cattle, which have some slight difference from those I knew so well at Chillingham, the inner side of the ear of the Scottish cattle being black, and that of the English being pink. Both herds have black muzzles. But Lord Tankerville told me that his own herd at Chillingham is now the only absolutely pure breed remaining, each of the others having had a cross.

Another delightful home in that near neighbourhood was Barnscleugh, a charming old place belonging to Lady Ruthven (another grand-aunt). It is most picturesquely perched on the banks of the Evan, in the midst of terraces with clipped yews and hollies.

From Wishaw I went to our dear cousins, the Campbells of Skipness, and after a quiet, peaceful month, Colonel Campbell took his eldest daughter and me for a tour in Argyllshire, to show me some of its chief beauties, combined with getting some fishing himself. It was my first visit to my mother’s county, and we had a most enjoyable time at Oban, Inveraray, Dalmally, The Brander Pass, and many another lovely spot which in after years became very familiar ground.

After this came long “homey” visits to the Cumming-Bruces at Dunphail, to the Murrays of Polmaise at Craigdarroch, in Ross-shire, and to my eldest brother at Altyre. (“Pen’s sylvania,” as Lady Anne Mackenzie delighted to call it, in reference to the name by which we always called him—Penrose, and his love for his beautiful woods.) Then to Raigmore, and afterwards a very long visit to the Bishop of Moray and Ross, and all the large family of Edens at Hedgefield, Inverness.

Up to about this date St. John’s was the only Episcopal Church in Inverness, and as it was scantily filled, its congregation was not very well pleased when the Bishop decided on purchasing a building beside the river Ness, which had originally belonged to the Free Church, and had then been hired by my brother Roualeyn as a temporary museum in which to exhibit his South African trophies. In this “upper chamber” the Bishop commenced holding very hearty services, and the little hall was quickly filled to overflowing.

But when he suggested the erection on the opposite bank of the river of a large church which should be recognised as the cathedral for the diocese of Moray and Ross, the scheme was deemed absolutely visionary. Nevertheless, such was his strong personal influence, that ere long the fine building became a reality. In the autumn of 1865, the Archbishop of Canterbury laid the foundation-stone of what was thenceforth to prove the “Church-home” of a crowded congregation.

[Illustration:

_Emery Walker. ph. sc._

_Elizabeth Gunning, Duchess of Hamilton as Helen of Troy_

_by Gavin Hamilton._ ]

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