CHAPTER XXXVI

THE OFFICE OF WORKS

Lord Henry Lennox was First Commissioner of Works when I was appointed Secretary. He was not at all in a frame of mind to be in love with the business of the department. In fact he was a disappointed man, deeply hurt at not being in the Cabinet and not a little angry at seeing a rival, Mr. Ward Hunt, made First Lord of the Admiralty, an office to which he conceived himself to have a just claim. This put an end to the old affectionate friendship which Mr. Buckle has recorded as existing between him and the Chief. He never forgave the indignity which he considered had been put upon him. As he once said of himself, he had inherited something of the character of his French ancestress, Louise de Kéroualle.

Mr. Disraeli was a much abused man, but I doubt whether in all England he was spoken of with such venomous acerbity as he was by Lord Henry; and although after he had left the Ministry, and when Lord Beaconsfield returned from Berlin in 1878, he took upon himself more or less to organize the reception at Charing Cross, that was done for peculiar and personal reasons; the poison never ceased to rankle. Lord Henry took very little interest in the business of the office, and it was not an easy matter to get him even to pay attention to the Estimates which it was his duty to defend in the House of Commons.

On one occasion, after vain endeavours on my part to coach him up in the details of the various votes, he gathered up his papers at the last moment, and saying: “Impudence befriend me!” put on his hat and hurried away. Impudence did befriend him, for when the vote for the Royal Parks came on some member who “wanted to know,” asked “What is the Longford River?” (as a matter of fact the Longford River is an aqueduct made in Charles the First’s time for the supply of water to Hampton Court Palace; for some mysterious reason best known to themselves the Treasury included the estimate for its maintenance in the Parks vote). Lord Henry, who had not the remotest idea of what the Longford River was, looked sternly with an air of rebuke at the too inquisitive member, and answered, “The Longford River, sir, is one of the Royal Parks.” I, sitting under the Gallery, was in an agony, but the House did not so much as smile. Had the Longford River been included in the vote for Royal Palaces—which is where it ought to have been—he probably would have told the House that it was one of the Royal Palaces.

Those were halcyon days for ministers, who were seldom or never worried over their Estimates by inquisitorial members; days when the numberless complicated votes of the Office of Works were run through in a sitting almost without a question. The heckling of ministers was an instrument of torture invented a few years later by that brilliant brotherhood known as the Fourth Party, under the lead of Lord Randolph Churchill, and afterwards carried on with much self-satisfaction and unction by such men as Sir George Campbell, an old Indian official, Mr. Peter Rylands, the “Good old Peter gone wrong,” over whose defection upon the Home Rule question Mr. Gladstone shed oratorical tears, and others. Under their united attacks the defence of Estimates became a ministerial nightmare.

One day I met Lord Randolph in the Park; it was the morning after a series of awkward moments which my chief, the Liberal Government being then in power, had been undergoing—I suffering vicariously, a dumb dog under the Gallery. We walked together, and at last I said: “My dear Randolph, for goodness sake leave my unhappy Estimates alone!” “Very sorry for you, my dear fellow,” was the answer, “but we must harass the Government.”

And harass them he did, for that was an art in which, even in those early days of a Parliamentary career which became so famous, he was already an adept. He held stoutly to the creed that it was the duty of Her Majesty’s Opposition (who invented that phrase?) to oppose, and he acted up to his belief with all the great strength that was in him.

Randolph, as I first knew him, was the most delightful of boys, bubbling over with fun and the sweetest devilry, devoted to his father, idolizing his mother, that great Lady whom those whom she admitted to her intimacy were fain to worship; ready to sacrifice himself and incur for his brother’s sake what to most men would have been akin to social torture.

When he had reached young-manhood and was already giving to a budding moustache the hoist made famous by John Tenniel and the caricaturists, he was always ready to give up any pleasure of his own if he could be of any use to one of those dear to him. His patience as a chaperon was saintly. Who could help loving him? Not I, for one—I treasure the memory of his friendship as one of the most precious recollections of a long life.

By his desire I was one of the pall-bearers at the funeral of his brother; him too I had known from a boy, a youth of great promise marred by fate, shining in many branches of human endeavour, clever, capable of great industry, and within measurable distance of reaching conspicuous success in science, mathematics and mechanics, when his early death snapped the thread of what might have been a brilliant career, had not the gods willed it otherwise.

Lord Randolph Churchill’s memory has been crystallized by his brilliant son in one of the three best biographies in the English language, and he has, moreover, been celebrated in a sketch written by his friend and schoolfellow, Lord Rosebery. What more is there to say?

The sad story of his resignation of the Chancellorship of the Exchequer has been often told. A few days later he and his old crony and mine, Sir George Wombwell, now, alas! no more, but then one of the very few surviving officers of the charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava, were staying with me at Batsford. With the intimacy of old friends we talked of the bolt which he had hurled out of the blue. I can see him now leaning against the chimney-piece in the library when he said, “I never thought of that damned fellow Goschen.” He believed, and he was very nearly right, that he held all the trump cards in his hand, and that he could dictate his own terms as to that reduction of expenditure upon which he was bent. He did not suspect that Goschen was ready to take his place. Almost in the same breath, in answer to a question of mine about Lord Salisbury’s attitude, he exclaimed: “That man is an angel!” and then went on to express regret, I am bound to say in no measured terms, as to the female influence by which the great Marquis had allowed himself to be dominated. Over and over again he insisted upon his affection for his chief, and dwelt with strong expressions of gratitude upon the kindness which he had received from him. It was a touching tribute, coming from the heart; a noble heart, which at that moment must have been feeling bruised and sore, but was incapable of nurturing an ungenerous animosity.

Not long after my first appearance in the House of Commons, the fatal illness to which he fell a victim began to assert itself. We who loved him watched his gradually failing utterances in great sorrow. He struggled bravely, but it was in vain. The House, a just and even generous assembly, remembered the lightning flashes by which it had been electrified but a short time back—the bold and vigorous attacks when the young Ivanhoe tilted at the shield of the veteran Templar—the scathing criticism of foes—the magnanimous defence of friends. Members from the front benches downwards listened with respect; but it was manifestly the end: the highly-strung, passionate nature had broken down, and there was no hope. But all this belongs to later years: I am writing here of a time when Randolph Churchill was still a merry, devil-may-care youth just entering upon the first phase of his Parliamentary life as the spoilt child of politics.

The mention of such a name as his calls up memories, and when I begin remembering my humble chronology is scattered to the winds, and, as usual, I wander. I ought to have kept the few lines which I feel compelled to write in loving memory of him for any notes which I could make of my days in the House of Commons; but I can only tell my story in my own untidy way.

Lord Henry Lennox was succeeded in 1876 by Mr. Gerard Noel, who had been the chief Parliamentary Whip of the Tory party. He was a most delightful personality, whom everybody liked and respected, and it was a real happiness to work under him. Much of the business of the office was very congenial to him and he took the greatest interest in everything that concerned the Royal Parks. What a joy it must be to have the tact and the power of pleasing that he had!—to feel that every man is glad to see you and welcome you, every man sorry when the time comes to say farewell! And Mr. Adam, who succeeded him, for the Office of Works seemed to be the heritage of First Whips, was just such another.

If some good fairy were to ask me to choose a gift with which to enter the world, I should ask for tact, and I should wish it to be just such tact as was possessed by Mr. Noel and Mr. Adam. The reign of the latter lasted but a short time, for at the end of 1880 he was appointed to go as Governor to Madras, and then he paid me the handsomest compliment that one man could offer to another. Though civil servants, of course, put their politics in their pockets so long as they are in office, he knew quite well that I belonged to the opposite camp, but in spite of that he asked me to go with him to India as secretary. I could not accept, for the appointment was one which would cease with his governorship. In spite of that, had I been unmarried, I think I should have gone with him, for he was one of those men whom it is a joy to serve. In less than six months he died in India, so I should have been stranded.

Mr. Shaw Lefevre followed Mr. Adam as First Commissioner. By one of those wonderful inconsistencies, which, thanks to the ability and devotion of the permanent civil servants of the Crown, England, in some incomprehensible way, manages to survive, Mr. Shaw Lefevre, who had devoted his whole life and energies to the solution of problems connected with the land, had been sent to the sea, and made Secretary to the Admiralty. But being a man of ability and industry, he was obviously marked for promotion. He had a great power of mastering detail and was a most valuable exponent in Parliament of the very complicated Estimates of his department which, in addition to all the services which it now controls, had at that time to deal with the Ordnance Survey, Kew Gardens and those parks (Victoria, Kennington and Battersea) which are now managed by the County Council. Mr. Shaw Lefevre, moreover, though as First Commissioner he did not have a seat in the Cabinet, had the knack of bringing great influence to bear upon the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and was thus able to push through more than one useful scheme, some of which had been periodically shelved.

The last two months of 1882 were a busy time for the Office of Works. On the 18th of November the Queen reviewed the troops that had come back from Egypt on the Horse Guards Parade in St. James’ Park. The arrangements for the review, erection of stands, issue of tickets and other details fell upon us. It was a difficult undertaking on account of the smallness of the space; however, we got through it without a hitch. Lord Wolseley was delighted; and came up to me in the evening, saying, “To-day was your triumph.”

Lord Wolseley was always very friendly to me. I used to meet him very often at Eastwell during the tenancy of the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh, with whom he was intimate, and we often had long and very interesting talks. Like most successful men—and he was very successful—he had his enemies; but also, like most men who have rendered good services and done really great work in the world, I always found him as singularly modest about his own achievements as he was firm in his opinions, especially as regarded administration. Naturally the _noli me tangere_ school dreaded and disliked him.

A very serious matter, which gave rise to no little anxiety, was the opening of the Law Courts by Queen Victoria on the 4th of December. The Government were seriously alarmed lest there should be any attempt upon Her Majesty’s life by Fenians, who had been giving a great deal of trouble. In Ireland there had been many murders, the chief and most tragic of which was that of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke, on the 7th of May, and it was known that plots had been hatched for the blowing up of public buildings and monuments in England.

A marked man among the conspirators, who had hitherto eluded all endeavours to arrest him, was one Tynan, known among the fraternity as “Number One,” a rebel who, it was believed, would hesitate at no crime. It was a time of anxiety which, as after events, such as the attempts to blow up the Tower, London Bridge and the House of Commons, proved was not without justification, and I was in daily communication with Sir Edmund Henderson, the Chief Commissioner of Police. He was a delightful man to do business with, so wise, so cool and imperturbable—a man who inspired confidence. He had, moreover, a rare sense of fun and humour.

In spite of Fenian activities the opening of the new Law Courts was held to be a national and historic occasion of such importance that it was fitting that the opening ceremony should be performed by the Queen. Her Majesty, who might well have felt a little nervous, was not the sort of person to shirk a duty on account of danger. She had the gift of indomitable courage and did not hesitate for a moment.

Naturally every precaution was taken. On the evening before the opening I was sent, with a strong force of police, the clerk of the works and two or three trusty workmen to go over the whole building and see that there was no person and nothing dangerous concealed anywhere. We searched the place from cellar to roof, leaving a policeman at every door; immediately under the spot where the Queen was to stand we found a mysterious and most suspicious box: there was some alarm and there were some blank faces, but the clerk of the works came up and the guilty-looking box was able to prove its innocence; it contained nothing but a few broken ornamental tiles which the workmen had forgotten to take away.

After the examination of the building my orders were to go to the _Times_ office and draw up a memorandum stating what had been done, the Government knowing that there was much uneasiness which it would be well to allay.

It was a splendid ceremonial and the whole affair passed off prosperously, though I may say in passing that there was one feeling of deep regret among all who knew him, that Mr. Street, the architect, a man of perfect distinction, had died the previous year. Had he lived he would undoubtedly have received the honour of knighthood in the great hall which his genius had designed.

The Queen’s presence on the occasion bore good fruit. Not only did it give an immense amount of pleasure to her people, but politically it was of great avail in calming anxiety.

And now comes the curious part of the story. The guard of honour outside the Courts was furnished by the Queen’s Westminster Volunteers. The next day, in Whitehall Place, I met Colonel Bushby, who commanded them. He was in a state of great agitation. He told me that he had just discovered, to his horror, that the centre file of the guard of honour was no other than Tynan, the famous Number One! It seems that the man had enlisted, bringing unexceptionable letters of recommendation, and had been an excellent recruit, nobody suspecting anything wrong. When it was known that the regiment was to furnish the guard of honour, he went to the orderly room where the Colonel and Adjutant were, and begged to be allowed to serve on it. They refused on the ground that he was not tall enough; however, he prayed so earnestly, saying that he was leaving England for good at once, and it would be such a pride to him in after days to think of this honour, that they were touched by the man’s enthusiasm and Colonel Bushby said, “Well, if we make you the centre file it won’t so much matter, so we will let you serve.”

How the discovery was made I do not remember, but poor Bushby was on his way to Sir Edmund Henderson to make a clean breast of it. Meanwhile the man had disappeared, and I believe was not heard of again. It made me shudder to think what might easily have happened in spite of all precautions, had the man meant to do the evil thing of which he was supposed to be capable. Evidently the Devil was not so black as his portrait. Needless to say, the Queen was never told all this.

On my arrival at the office that morning I found a charming little note from Mr. Gladstone—always so gracious—telling me that he had recommended me to the Queen for the honour of C.B.; also a note from Sir Henry Ponsonby, saying, “I think you deserve to be congratulated on yesterday’s proceedings. They were most successful and the Queen highly pleased.”

When I went to Windsor to be invested, the Queen sent afterwards to desire me to write my name in her private book. I mention this because, by a curious coincidence, the name preceding mine was that of my old chief, Sir Harry Parkes.

Here is one amusing story in connection with the Fenian scare which, after all these years, it can do no harm to tell. The police had received intelligence that a certain rich Irish-American was starting from New York with the intention of blowing up the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens. Sir Edmund Henderson came to see me and told me all about it, and the steps which he considered ought to be taken. The man arrived at Liverpool and, I need hardly say, was met by his shadow. Reaching London, he drove to Long’s Hotel in Bond Street, and within an hour or two, drove straight to the Memorial, where he found a number of quiet, inoffensive-looking people absorbed in the contemplation of the various sculptures. This happened two or three days in succession, after which he changed his hotel. He had plenty of money and spent his evenings in amusing himself at theatres and music halls. But in the day-time the attraction of the Albert Memorial was irresistible. It was unfortunate for his schemes that so many other people should all of a sudden be equally fascinated by its charms.

The whole thing came to an end in an unexpected way. One night, after the play, the would-be iconoclast was driving to St. John’s Wood with a lady, when the driver of his hansom cab became aware that another cab was following them. The driver of the hansom was a good-natured fellow, and, thinking that his fare was being watched for divorce proceedings, told him what he had seen. The game was up, and it was a case of stalemate. The Irishman knew that he was found out, and the police had nothing tangible upon which they could act. So there was disappointment for the one player, and a rapid return to America for the other. When the good-natured cabman, being questioned, told the detective how he had let the cat out of the bag and spoilt sport, he was perhaps the sorest of the three.

In the month of November, 1883, I had a very interesting experience. There was a scheme on foot for uniting the north and south of western London by an underground railway, which would have been carried under a part of Hyde Park. It was essential that the Queen’s pleasure should be taken upon the subject, and I was instructed to go to Balmoral in order to explain to Her Majesty exactly what had been proposed.

There was an idea abroad that to tunnel under the Park would drain the soil of all natural moisture, and even that the roots of the trees would be affected. Whatever reasons there might be against the project, I felt sure that this danger was exaggerated. Looking at the plane trees and the catalpas by the Houses of Parliament, it was evident that the underground railway had done them no harm. I went to Kew in order to consult Sir Joseph Hooker as to the maximum depth to which the roots of trees reach. He told me that very little was understood upon the subject, and he knew of no authoritative writer to whom he could refer me. However, after some search he unearthed a French pamphlet which was full of interest. From this it appeared that in proportion to its height wheat is probably the plant which sends down the deepest roots; this would account for the prosperity of the plant in dry seasons when other crops fail. Of trees the vine was said to be the deepest; as a denizen of the limestone rocks its roots have to travel far, piercing through chinks and crannies in order to seek water. This was interesting, because it showed that possibly the old story that the great vine at Hampton Court sends its roots out all the way to the Thames may be true. Since that time a tree closely allied to the laburnum was discovered in India, which sent its roots so deep that they broke off in a deep well long before their ends were found. In any case it was clear that the roots of the trees in Hyde Park, all of which are very shallow, would not be affected. But this is a mere parenthesis.

I arrived at Ballater in the afternoon of the 12th of November, prepared to take a room at the inn and go on to Balmoral after a bath. However, at the station I found a carriage and a footman with a note saying that I was to go on and sleep at Balmoral. It was bitterly cold and snowing heavily, but when I reached the Castle a second note from Sir Henry Ponsonby was awaiting me. “Please go to your room, order tea and make yourself comfortable. We are off to a picnic.”

It was real Queen’s weather, for she loved the cold, as I well knew, for whenever we had to prepare for any ceremony at which she was to be present, we had to watch the thermometer jealously. As for me, I sat huddled up, dozing over the fire, thinking that if I were a polar bear I might possibly enjoy such weather, when, after a couple of hours, Sir Henry Ponsonby came in looking frozen. We had a little talk while he thawed and then he left me. Presently there came a knock at the door and a page announced, “Mr. Mitford is to dine with the Queen this evening.”

At dinner—quite a small party—I sat next to Princess Beatrice, who was on the Queen’s right, and Her Majesty talked a great deal to me across the Princess. She was in great spirits, and her conversation, as always, was most interesting. She had such a fund of knowledge and her memory was so rich that it was a delight to listen to her. Without for a moment sacrificing one jot of that dignity for which she was famous the Queen had a great sense of humour. Perhaps it was her appreciation of wit that was one of the secrets of the favour in which Sir Henry Ponsonby was so long held at Court, for he was a man of a most delicate wit, and without compare the best note-writer that I ever came across.

The talk at the Queen’s table, when the numbers were so small as to make it more or less intimate, was gay, lively, and, when Her Majesty drew upon her own recollections, illuminating. After dinner in the drawing-room each guest had his little audience. When it came to be my turn to be sent for I supposed that the Queen would allude to the business which had brought me, but upon that she was studiously silent, talking upon every conceivable subject with all the conversational talent of a consummately informed woman of the world.

The next day the snow had come to an end, the weather was glorious, the air crisp and sharp, and I had a long walk with my old friend, Sir Walter Campbell, who was groom-in-waiting. But there was still no word of business. In the evening I was again summoned to dine with the Queen, and after dinner had my audience, at which, as before, Her Majesty very delightfully avoided any mention of business, treating me in all respects as if I had been an invited guest instead of a mere official on duty.

Immediately after breakfast on the following morning there came a knock at my door. It was the Duchess of Roxburghe bringing me from the Queen a copy of the large illustrated edition of her “Journal in the Highlands” with her autograph. She also told me the hour at which the Queen would see me to discuss my business. Her Majesty went very carefully into the whole scheme, examining the plans and criticizing them minutely; she ended by saying, rather sadly: “But I so seldom go to London now that I hardly feel as if I had the right to express an opinion.” My answer was: “I only wish, Madam, that we at the Office of Works oftener had the opportunity of profiting by Your Majesty’s advice.”

The Queen dismissed me with great kindness and I left the Castle that afternoon.

The congestion of the traffic at Hyde Park Corner caused by the increasing railway business at Victoria Station had long been a difficulty confronting the Office of Works. Decimus Burton’s arch, standing flush with Piccadilly, was then the entrance to the Green Park. On it, to the lasting sorrow of the architect, stood the colossal statue of the Duke of Wellington on horseback, by Matthew Wyatt. A work of art which provoked from a French general the grateful cry, “Enfin nous sommes vengés.”

Various schemes were brought forward to solve the difficulty; none was satisfactory. It was obvious that a wider approach to Grosvenor Place was essential to success. There were many obstacles in the way, the chief of which was the difference in levels. Old people will remember that the approach to the Green Park from Grosvenor Place was by a narrow passage, a steep slope at the north-west end of Buckingham Palace garden. Had we been dealing with a bare piece of virgin ground without limitations no doubt a better scheme might have been possible; but to carry out such a plan would have involved taking a large slice off the Green Park and another off the end of the Palace garden—neither was practicable.

An infinitesimal piece of the park was conceded, but there still remained the difficulty of the arch, which would have remained in an absurd island, perched up on a hillock above the surrounding roads. I proposed that it should be removed and placed where it now stands, at the end of Constitution Hill. I showed the plan, which was prepared accordingly by Mr.—afterwards Sir—John Taylor, to Mr. Gerard Noel, who was then First Commissioner of Works. He took it to Lord Beaconsfield. The Government did not wish to spend any money—a chronic condition of things—and the Prime Minister crushed the scheme with a _bon mot_. “Do away with the congestion of traffic at Hyde Park Corner? Why, my dear fellow, you would be destroying one of the sights of London!” And so for the time the plan was laughed out of court and pigeon-holed. In 1884 Mr. Shaw Lefevre persuaded the Government to take in hand a matter which was daily becoming more urgent. The scheme was carried out.

Naturally, in order to remove the arch, the statue must come down, and then came the great question, Was it to go back again? This was just the sort of problem which would provoke violent differences of opinion. I had a great deal of talk about it with the Prince of Wales, who took the liveliest interest in it, and finally appointed a committee of advice, which met at Marlborough House and at which he took the chair.[44] The two protagonists for replacing the statue and against so doing were the Dukes of Rutland and Wellington. Filial piety prompted the former to stand up stoutly for a statue erected by a committee of which his father had been chairman; filial piety caused the Duke of Wellington to raise his voice against replacing what he considered to be an insult to his father’s memory. The duel became very comic. The Duke of Rutland wound up by saying that it would be a monstrous thing to banish a statue for which the great Duke had sat to the sculptor in the very clothes which he wore at Waterloo. This the Duke felt to be unanswerable, and he looked round at us in triumph. “Nothing of the kind,” said the Duke of Wellington. “My father only sent his valet to the sculptor’s studio with a bag of clothes.”

In spite of further objections raised by Sir Stafford Northcote and Lord John Manners, the last of whom had been one of the speakers in the debate in the House of Commons in 1846 which resulted in the erection of the monster, the Duke of Wellington’s bag of clothes, so far as the committee was concerned, clinched the historic part of the discussion, and the æsthetic side was not long in doubt. But there was still Parliament to be faced. In the meantime the Prince went abroad, first to Darmstadt and then to Royat in Auvergne. In the House of Commons our proposals were carried by a majority of one hundred and eleven, a result which I communicated to His Royal Highness, who wrote from Darmstadt on May 4th: “I rejoice with you at the majority of one hundred and eleven obtained in the House of Commons on the important matter which we have so much at heart.... Both you and your chief will, I am sure, agree with me that I was right, when I saw you this day week, in insisting on being firm and risking the result of the division. I have at any rate had my reward.” The Prince wrote to me again from Royat in some anxiety upon the subject, which was to be brought forward in the Upper House by Lords de Ros and Stratheden.

However, all went well—for that time then present—but when I survey the group which now surmounts that unhappy arch, I feel as if we had escaped from the frying-pan into the fire. A motherly female of vast proportions stands in a car which might have served her baby’s doll. In one hand she carries a palm branch, in the other a fragment of some mystic vegetable, possibly intended for an olive branch. The arms are placed in the position adopted by the American barman when he performs his great feat of pouring a cocktail from one goblet into another. Her car is drawn by four Iceland ponies, guided by a charioteer, apparently modelled from one of the pygmies of the Aruwhimi forest, so skilfully concealed in the carefully muddled group that only from one or two points on the further side of Piccadilly is the onlooker aware of his puny existence. And this must remain for future ages as the last word of British sculpture at the beginning of the twentieth century!

As regards the place itself, which has been severely criticized, and no doubt with some show of reason, the difficulties have been forgotten, but I still think that the best was done that could have been effected in the circumstances, and I would remind the cavillers of the lines written in defence of General Wade’s roads in Scotland.

“If you’d known these roads before they were made You’d see good cause to bless General Wade.”

A few weeks later the Prince of Wales took me with him to Aldershot to select a site for the old statue—and there it now stands.

The year 1884 was fraught with many emotions for Mr. Gladstone’s Government, and there was further trouble ahead. Egypt was the chief anxiety. On the 6th of November Henry Fawcett, the blind Postmaster-General, who, with superhuman courage, had defied fate and raised himself to the front rank among men, died. An opportunity occurred for adding much needed strength to the Cabinet of which Mr. Fawcett, no doubt on account of his infirmity, had not been a member. Lord Rosebery, who had two years earlier resigned the Under-secretaryship of State for Home Affairs—an office which, I am not singular in thinking, ought never to have been offered to a man of his worth—rejoined the Government as First Commissioner of Works, with a seat in the Cabinet. In order to balance the numbers of Peers and Commoners in that mysterious body which rules England without being known to the Constitution, Mr. Shaw Lefevre was appointed Postmaster-General and raised to Cabinet rank.

I shall not easily forget the pleasure with which I received a note from Lord Rosebery, whom I had known for many years, announcing his appointment and asking me to meet him at Euston Square and talk over matters during the drive to Whitehall. Equally difficult is it to record the many acts of kindness and consideration which I received during the few months that I served under him.

Lord Rosebery’s reign at the Office of Works was short, but long enough to make me wish that I might have kept so good a master longer. To say more of a man so eminent would be presumptuous, to say less ungrateful. The Government was moribund when he accepted office, and even he could not galvanize it into new life. The tragedy of Khartoum in January, 1885, had made Ministers very unpopular, and in the summer they fell. Lord Salisbury’s first flash-in-the-pan administration lasted only a few months, but when Mr. Gladstone returned to power Lord Rosebery was called to higher functions.

When Lord Salisbury’s government was formed in 1885 Mr. Plunket became First Commissioner. Like Lord Rosebery’s, his rule was short but delightful, for in the following January Mr. Jesse Collings’ three-acres-and-a-cow amendment to the address turned out the Government and Mr. Gladstone was once more Prime Minister. In the shuffling of the cards Lord Morley, afterwards Chairman of Committees in the House of Lords, became our Lord Paramount. But here again the fates interfered with what promised to be a most valuable administration. The Home Rule split came. Mr. Gladstone had thrown himself into the arms of the Irish Nationalists and many of his followers were estranged from him.

In the month of April Lord Morley, who was an old friend of mine, told me confidentially that he had resigned. He was the first Minister to do so. Mr. Gladstone knew the value of the force of example and did all in his power to induce Lord Morley to reconsider his decision. He might as well have tried to move the rock of Gibraltar. Lord Morley stuck to his guns and Lord Elgin was named in his place. He was the last chief under whom I served at the Office of Works, for in the month of May my cousin, Lord Redesdale, died, and I found myself faced by so much private business that I resigned.

I received many very flattering letters: I am prompted by vanity to copy three of them. Sir Henry Ponsonby wrote:

“MY DEAR MITFORD,

“I did not answer your letter till I had seen the Queen on her return from Scotland.

“She desired me to assure you that she heard of your resignation with sincere regret, as Her Majesty considers you have done your duty at your Office not only to her entire satisfaction, but also in a manner which has proved to be of great benefit to the public.

“Her Majesty feels very anxious as to who may be your successor and commands me to ask if you have any suggestion to make.

“Yours very truly,

(_Signed_) “HENRY F. PONSONBY.”

From Mr. Gladstone I received the following holograph letter:

“June 24th, 1886.

“MY DEAR MR. MITFORD,

“I received with very great regret the announcement of your resignation, which at the same time I admit to be no desertion on your part, but to be reasonable and just.

“But it will, I fear, be very difficult to fill your place with a person possessed in the same degree with yourself of the varied and high qualifications which it requires.

“Believe me,

“Most faithfully yours,

(_Signed_) “W. E. GLADSTONE.”

I had several letters on the subject from the Duke of Cambridge; some of them are of too confidential a character to be published, but I may reproduce part, at any rate, of one letter which he wrote me.

“June 23rd, 1886. It is with the _deepest_ regret that I find from your letter that you have handed in your resignation. You will be a very great loss to the office and to myself personally as Ranger of the Royal Parks, for you have, by your tact and judgment, been enabled to assist me in meeting so many little difficulties, which in these times arise constantly in connection with these parks.... Though our official connection will, unfortunately, cease, I hope our personal one will be continued as heretofore, and I shall at all times be only too happy to talk over many little matters with you in which we both take an interest.

“I remain,

“Yours most sincerely,

(_Signed_) “GEORGE.”

Few men, whether princes, peers or peasants, have been so generally popular as the late Duke of Cambridge. Indeed, he had everything in his favour. Tall, burly and athletic in his youth, and when I first knew him, in the fifties, he was strikingly handsome, the perfect type of an Englishman. Gifted with a singularly frank and genial manner his soldier-like bearing could not fail to arrest attention. In later years he grew stout, but his goodly height enabled him to carry off the more ample figure, and he remained vigorous and active, a keen sportsman at an age when most men no longer care to face the buffets of wind and weather. His varied experience made him a most agreeable companion; he had seen

## active service, and had had a horse shot under him in the Crimea; he had

travelled much and had had familiar intercourse with all the sovereigns and statesmen in Europe.

He was a capital after-dinner speaker; his downright, honest periods, given out with that sonorous and beautiful voice for which the descendants of George the Third are famous, went straight home to the hearts of his audience. Probably nine out of ten of his speeches were in response to the toast of the Army, and right fitting it was that they should be so, for he was, above all things, a soldier, devoted to the Army, watchful over its interests, and, indeed, over those of every individual member of it who came under his ken. The Duke’s mastery of the working of the whole complex machinery of the Army was phenomenal. Still more extraordinary was his knowledge of its officers. This was due to the fact that during the whole time of his tenure of office no promotion to any rank above that of captain was made without his personal investigation and sanction. In this way, being gifted with a singularly retentive memory, he had an intimate acquaintance with the careers and capabilities of all the senior officers. He was no admirer of change for change’s sake, and yet ready to accept it when he thought that opposition would be against the interests of the Crown and of the service which he loved. To that service he conscientiously gave up his life, being as convinced as was the great Duke of Wellington of the importance of maintaining the closest bond between the Sovereign and the Army. It will be remembered that on this ground the Duke of Wellington in 1850 went so far as to urge the acceptance by the Prince Consort of the office of Commander-in-Chief. The Duke of Cambridge looked upon that principle as a family, as well as a national, tradition.

There were many alterations introduced into the Army by various Secretaries of State which were certainly not to his taste, but he was wise enough to see that the real alteration was in the spirit of the times, and he was enough of a patriot to yield where a stubborn opposition would have been useless, and in his judgment dangerous. Even so, he drew a firm line between the administrative and executive functions of the War Office. Whilst willing always to accept the Secretary of State as the administrative power, he brooked no interference with his own executive duties. He was the Commander-in-Chief, and there he insisted upon being master. The Duke was always very outspoken upon these matters, perhaps more so with me than with most people, from the fact that I had no direct interest in the Army, no military axe to grind; and so I knew how entirely, upon more than one occasion, he laid self on one side, content to work solely for the public good.

The Duke’s life was very full, for until the Prince of Wales reached manhood it was upon him that many of the functions that the Royal Family have to perform devolved; the Queen and Prince Albert only appearing on rare and special occasions. Charity dinners, the laying of foundation stones, hospital meetings and the hundred and one other duties which he undertook in addition to the laborious work of Commander-in-Chief, work which he never scamped and of which no detail escaped him, gave him little leisure. Half a dozen days’ shooting, to which he often did me the honour to invite me, a country visit or two, and a rare trip abroad, were all the holidays that he allowed himself, and even when he travelled his work followed him.

The abolition in 1895 of the office of Commander-in-Chief, an office which he had held for thirty-nine years, was a cruel blow to the Duke. It was no consolation to him that in announcing his so-called resignation to the House of Commons on the 21st of June Mr. Campbell Bannerman (afterwards Sir Henry) should have plastered him with eulogy and shed crocodile tears over his loss, and it must have been bitter to the Queen, when, in her own interest as well as in his, she felt bound to advise her cousin to resign. I was in the House of Commons at the time and heard the War Secretary’s speech. It was fulsome and disingenuous. It did not ring true. When he spoke about his “emotion” the House felt that it was fudge. If the changes which were proposed were necessary, and involved the abolition of the Duke’s office, it would have been honest to say so, instead of keeping up the farce that “The Duke makes way in order that certain changes may be introduced.”

The Duke’s activities in other spheres, especially in all charitable endeavours, did not cease with his retirement from the Army, in which, from the outside, he continued to take the deepest interest. He was strong enough in 1901 to ride at Queen Victoria’s funeral, though he was then eighty-two years old; three years later, on the 17th of March, he died. He was a warm-hearted man, and a most faithful friend, honest, upright, and true in every relation of life.

The Duke of Cambridge’s affectionate nature was shown in the deep attachment which existed between him and his mother. Never were mother and son in more complete sympathy. The Duchess, indeed, was one of those exceptional people who have the gift of winning hearts. During the years when she and Princess Mary—before her marriage to the Duke of Teck—were the only members of the Royal Family who were seen in general society, their presence always gave pleasure. They were so gracious and so unaffectedly gratified by any attempt to entertain them. Those who saw Princess Mary sail up the aisle of St. George’s Chapel at a royal wedding, looking as if the regal dignity of a hundred kings had been concentrated in her, will never forget it. The Garter Standards seemed to bow and do homage to her.

The Duchess’ receptions at St. James’s Palace in what is now York House, and at Cambridge Cottage, were delightful. At Kew they often took the shape of a dinner, followed by a little dance. I remember a very droll incident at one of her parties at St. James’s Palace at which the future King of Greece, then a midshipman in the Danish Navy, was present. Levassor, the greatest of all _amuseurs_, had been engaged and was singing his very best. “Titi à la représentation de Robert le Diable,” the drollest sketch of a Parisian street-arab at the opera, and what he thought of it, was perhaps his masterpiece. When he came to the third act, after an imitation of the famous trombone introduction he said “On annonce”—at that very moment, from down below, there came a loud, cockneyfied voice which was heard all over that small house: “The Lord Mayor’s carriage stops the way!” It was excruciatingly funny, the laughter was electric, and Levassor was bound to admit afterwards that he had been beaten in his own special vocation by a London footman.

I feel inclined to add one word about the Duke’s father, whom I remember coming down to Eton as an old man when I was a very small boy. He attended Chapel, so I heard him give his famous, loud-voiced response when the officiating clergyman said, “Let us pray,” and he piously and fervently ejaculated, “With all my heart!” After Chapel he went into the playing-fields to see a cricket match in Upper Club, but broke away from the big-wigs as soon as he could and made me pilot him. I never saw him again, for he died in 1850. He was the only one of King George the Third’s sons whom I ever saw.

* * * * *

I had held the office of Secretary for twelve years. When I was first appointed Mr. Disraeli gave me to understand that the department was in a most unsatisfactory state. Mr. Corry, his private secretary, told me that “the Chief” said “the place was an Augean stable and must be swept out.” I was to evolve kosmos out of chaos, and chaos it certainly was. I was at once opposed tooth and nail by Lord Henry Lennox backed by the solicitor to the department and the director of works, an engineer officer. The position became untenable, and I wrote to the Prime Minister telling him that in view of this obstruction it was not possible for me to carry out his instructions, and so I put my resignation in his hands. The result was the appointment of a Committee of the Cabinet of which the Chancellor of the Exchequer was Chairman and which included, among others, Lord John Manners, a former First Commissioner. The Committee fully justified me, and when I produced my scheme it was accepted in its entirety by a Departmental Committee of which Sir William Stephenson was Chairman.

It is no use going into the details of old official squabbles, however troublesome they may have been at the time. They are only worth mentioning as a proof of the generous way in which Lord Beaconsfield always supported his subordinates—if they were in the right—even at inconvenience to himself from a political point of view; and in this case it put him in a great difficulty on account of Lord Henry Lennox’s position and family. However, the Duke of Richmond, meeting my father, said: “I hope you do not think that I am supporting the attack upon your son”—so all was well.

When once I got into harness I felt that no man could have more congenial work. It was all the more interesting from the fact that there was a good deal of leeway to make up. It had been a tradition of the Office, as one of the senior clerks told me, that the Secretary should never go and see anything, because if he did he would not be in such a good position to say “No.” I felt that such an attitude would certainly not be one that I could adopt. Saying “No” is one of the chief difficulties of the Secretary’s position, and it is one which often needs the use of considerable tact, especially when he is dealing with the mightiest in the land, for the “accounting officer” can only work within the four very tight corners of the Parliamentary votes; on the other hand I felt that it was his duty to ascertain beforehand what was really needful and what was likely to be asked for and this could only be done by careful personal inspection. If the request was right and reasonable it could be provided for in the coming estimates; if not the “No” could be said with effective knowledge and without giving offence.

Apart from private requisitions, which are always difficult to deal with, there were a great many old historical buildings which were showing unmistakable signs of decay. Of Hampton Court, for instance, it is hardly an exaggeration to say that in many places it was crumbling away. Most of “the King’s beasts” had toppled over from the roof of the great hall. Large patches of brickwork were literally rotting away. In the cloisters, the old brick walls were smothered with plaster, black with age, and covered with a whole pencil network of ignoble names. There was no fire brigade; should a fire occur the building was at the mercy of the flames until some assistance could be procured from outside. During the interregnum between the resignation of Lord Henry Lennox and the appointment of Mr. Noel I went to Mr. W. H. Smith, who was then Secretary to the Treasury, and always most sympathetic and liberal in dealing with any question which I took to him, and put before him the piteous condition in which this great and beautiful historic monument then was. He saw the importance of the thing and the result was that a fire brigade was formed, manned by the employés in the Palace, and Mr. Smith acceded to my request for an annual sum of £500 to be included in the estimate for such work of restoration, and what might almost be called patch-work, as might be necessary.

I don’t know what the present fire arrangements are; they have probably been greatly improved since my time, but even with such appliances as we had, three small outbreaks of fire were at once got under control, and, as everybody knows, in a case of fire it is the first five minutes that are of importance. With the £500 a year, an allowance which I believe is still continued, the grand old buildings were gradually put into decent condition and so they will be maintained. Mr. Ernest Law, antiquary and writer on art, whose books on Hampton Court are the authority, was always ready to put his knowledge at the service of the Office, and I had at my right hand, in Mr. Lessels, the architect in charge of the Palace, a man who really delighted in his work. So long as Mr. Law lives the public may rest assured that a jealous eye will watch over the welfare of Cardinal Wolsey’s magnificent structure, which has been his dearly-loved home from boyhood and the romantic beauties of which probably sowed the first seeds of art in his brain.

Great works of restoration were carried out at Windsor Castle, and at the Tower of London and amongst the other great historic monuments. Of the works at the Tower I have given some account in my “Tragedy in Stone.” There was also much to be done in Scotland. But on all this I need not dwell here.

One part of my duties was a real delight to me. The care of the Royal Parks became a passion, and successive First Commissioners very kindly gave me a free hand in dealing with work in which they knew that I took the greatest interest. The flower gardening in Hyde Park had been begun many years before by Mr. Cowper Temple when he was First Commissioner, and had been continued down to my time. But it was a very elementary affair. The trees and shrubs moreover had been totally neglected. The trees, surely a most important consideration in any park, were crowded and killing one another. No new varieties had been introduced. The shrubs, old-fashioned lilacs, privets, ancubas and the like, had grown lanky, leggy, and hardly capable of flowering. St. James’s Park in especial was in a most degraded condition. Battersea Park, where the superintendent had made a small sub-tropical garden, was the best tended of the Parks; but even there I found room for much improvement.

In short I endeavoured more or less to remodel all the Parks, and I think the public was generally pleased with the work that was done. Two improvements which have certainly given pleasure are the rhododendron garden on both sides of Rotten Row and the Dell at the east end of the Serpentine.

When I took over the care of Hyde Park the place where the Dell now is was a shrubbery with open hurdles which was the lair of all the nightbirds and undesirables who haunted the Park after dark. They slept under the bushes and every morning a gang of men had to clear away a mass of filth indescribable. I determined to do away with this scandal. I put up an unclimbable fence, laid the place out as a sub-tropical garden with palms, tree-ferns, dracænas and other beauties, planted the little stream with water-lilies, royal fern and so forth, and made it from an eyesore and a den of horrors into what it now is.

For that some years afterwards, long after I had left the Office of Works, I earned a piece of praise which gave me intense pleasure. One Sunday I saw quite a number of people looking at the Dell. I too was moved to go and see. Up came a couple of young guardsmen, non-commissioned officers. They stood for a few moments and as they walked away one of them said, “What’s the use of going abroad when we’ve got such a thing as that here in London?” I never felt so flattered.

To the Queen and to the Duke of St. Albans as Lord Grand Falconer was confined the privilege of driving in Rotten Row. The last time that I saw the Queen drive there was once when she came up from Windsor to see my newly-planted rhododendron garden. She was very much pleased, and I had a letter from Sir Henry Ponsonby to say so. At one time the Duke of St. Albans used to drive along Rotten Row once a year in order to keep up the privilege, but whether that is continued now I know not.

There was one interesting piece of work outside the normal duties of my office in which I was concerned. It was a graceful idea of Mr. Gladstone’s to commemorate his victory in the famous Midlothian Campaign of 1880 by some sort of monument in Edinburgh. It occurred to him that it would be an appropriate gift if he were to reproduce the old City Cross, the “Mercat” Cross as it was called, which used to stand in the High Street and from which the Royal proclamations used to be heralded. It was from that Cross that Prince Charles Edward, the young Pretender, was proclaimed King of England and Scotland in 1745. It was swept away in 1756 as an obstruction, an act of vandalism which Sir Walter Scott scourged in “Marmion.” It had been an octagonal tower surmounted by a shaft carrying a unicorn which had been destroyed by Cromwell. The shaft had been removed to Drum, near Dalkeith. Mr. Gladstone was very keen upon rebuilding the little tower outside St. Giles’s Cathedral, and replacing the shaft, which was to be brought back from Drum.

He asked me to help him in the business part of his undertaking, which I was only too glad to do. On the recommendation of Lord Rosebery, Mr. Sydney Mitchell, a Scot, was chosen to be the architect. I had a good deal of correspondence with Mr. Gladstone upon the subject, for he was a sedulous letter-writer. People at that time had not yet fallen into the lazy habit of using typewriters; all his letters were holograph in his own hand, and some of them very long. The modern fashion would have been quite out of tune with his exquisite old world courtesy.

The late Lord Bath, who, though a Tory, was one of his great admirers, said to me once that Mr. Gladstone’s punctilious politeness always made him feel shy. “He will take off his hat!” How he found time for writing is a mystery. Upon one detail he was much exercised. He had discovered, how I know not, that Sir Walter Scott had managed to obtain some of the stones of the old Mercat Cross, and used them in building the walls at Abbotsford. He was very keen to gain possession of these and to incorporate them in the new Cross. To his great disappointment Sir Walter’s successor refused his request. He wrote to me at great length and almost indignantly upon the subject, but I felt bound to say that I thought that it was intelligible that the present possessors should decline to tamper with Sir Walter’s building, indeed, that they might almost consider that it would be an act of impiety to do so. However, in the end the finished work gave Mr. Gladstone as great pleasure as it did to the citizens of Edinburgh. The Latin inscription was composed by Mr. Gladstone, rather against his will, in deference to a general wish that there should be an inscription of some sort. He wrote and consulted me upon the subject. With Dr. Johnson’s views in my head, I suggested that it should be in Latin. Mr. Gladstone wrote back:

“Hawarden Castle, Nov. 7th, 1885.

“The idea of a Latin inscription crossing my mind amidst the perplexities of the stories about disestablishment[45] disturbed me much. Why should there be an inscription beyond the date of the re-erection? I quite agree that whatever there is should be in Latin. It might be put on at a later date as well as now. There is certainly the gallant malediction of Scott to commemorate; but I should be glad to know what has passed through your mind as to the substance before considering the form.

“I go to Dalmeny on Monday and we will consider about a day for the opening.”

The new Cross was finished in 1885, and dedicated in November of that year.

Mr. Gladstone then wrote to me:

“10, Downing Street, Feb. 12th, 1886.

“DEAR MR. MITFORD,

“I send the draft for the balance due on account of the Mercat Cross, and have in addition only to repeat my thanks to you personally for your most efficient aid and to express my satisfaction with the manner in which this high class work has been executed.

“I will write to Mr. Mitchell.

“Yours most faithfully,

(_Signed_) “W. E. GLADSTONE.”

The last time that I saw Mr. Gladstone to speak to was on a fine summer’s day in 1886. I had gone over to Downing Street to see his private secretary, Mr. (now Sir Henry) Primrose on business connected with my resignation. When we had finished our talk he said that he was sure that Mr. Gladstone would like to see me. The great Prime Minister was sitting in the little garden reading, but got up and bade me welcome with all the gracious courtesy which distinguished him. He was most kind and sympathetic, talking much of Lord Redesdale, whose page he had been at the Eton Montem when my cousin was in Sixth form and he a lower boy. Many a time and oft did I listen to his speeches in aftertimes, sitting opposite to him in the House of Commons, but never again did I hear his voice in the privacy of personal conversation. He was one of those great men whom to have known is a valuable privilege.

If I have dwelt longer on the story of the Mercat Cross than the subject itself might justly warrant, it must be ascribed to that pride which the dwarf of our childhood’s tales felt when he marched out to war side by side with the giant.

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