Home Sketches and Foreign Recollections

Front matter

S^EetO-td _yl»*_y C__,tt_rto_w- , "- J." > >-?-._ *._,£_.. LolW" to U__Qtm EXTON CHURCH, RUTLAKD SHITIE . Published, by Smnderj JLOHey ; farlduU Jt 1$M HOME SKETCHES AND FOREIGN RECOLLECTIONS. BY LADY CHATTERTON. AUTHOR OF "RAMBLES IN THE SOOTH OF IRELAND,' " A GOOD MATCH," &C. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 1841. londo:; FRISTED UY ELVTII! AND LAMPERT, HROVE PL *■.■"*£, BROMPTON"

ADVERTISEMENT.

. In publishing my " Rambles in the South of Ireland," I had a specific purpose, as mentioned in the advertisement ; and perhaps the best reason that can be assigned for the appearance of these Sketches, is the favourable reception which that work experienced. I venture to hope that of the many who kindly followed my guidance in the " Green Island," a few at least will be found not unwil ling to accompany me through some of the fair scenes of my native country, and to touch once more upon Irish ground in our flight to other lands. G. C. London, February, 1841. b2 CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

Chapter I

AJillage in Hampshire — The Cottage near the Mill, or Death and Sleep. W — Priory , Hampshire. — To-day I went to re visit some of my old haunts in the village of C , and along the banks of that clearest of all rivers, the Ant. Though the country in this part of Hampshire is as ugly as well can be, yet there is a pretty rural look about most of the vil lages. They are generally situated in a narrow valley on the banks of one of those streams whose clear waters contain the greenest water-cresses B VOL. I. and finest trout in England : a few scattered fruit trees adorn the cottage gardens, and rows of poplar and willow border the meadows which skirt the river. This sounds far from picturesque; yet the whole scene looks comfortable and al most pretty. The whitewashed cottages are scrupulously clean, their thatched roofs in the highest order, and the gardens well kept and full of flowers and vegetables.

As a child, my favourite cottage was one near the bridge. It was older and looked more venerable than the rest, and it joined on to a building which had formerly been a cloth mill, but was no longer used. The little garden sloped down to that part of the river which had originally turned the wheel of the mill. The water was deep in that spot; and though it flowed gently by the side of the beds of bache lor's buttons and roses, which the inmates of the cottage kept in the trimmest order, yet a httle farther on it dashed impetuously down the dam, and sent up its white spray on the old wheel which time had covered with green moss. Opposite the little walk which led to the back door of the cottage, a narrow plank was placed across the stream, to communicate with the field on the opposite side, that belonged to the cot tagers.

The plank is there still, though the garden no longer exists, and the cottage seems gone to ruin — I looked with a sort of shuddering interest on that old plank, for it was the memorial of a sad and touching story. When I was quite a child, that cottage was inhabited by a youthful and happy pair. — Wil liam Bevis was an honest and hardworking labourer, and so tall and well-made that we always fancied he must be descended from the great Saxon giant Bevis, whose effigy, with that of his antagonist Ascopart, may still be seen on the ancient gateway at .Southampton. His wife was handsome too, and of the same truly Saxon cast of feature and complexion. They had one little girl, a sweet lovely creature. I well remem ber its bright blue' eyes, and the sunny look of affection with which it greeted the doating father on his return from work of an evening.

Indeed, everything about the cottage, in those days of early love, appeared so cheerful and delightful b2 that scarcely an evening past that we did not visit it. About three years after their marriage, and just as Dame Bevis was expecting to become a mother again, her husband fell ill of the ague. The usual remedies were tried, but fever succeeded, and soon the remains of William Bevis were borne to their last resting place. His wife attended the funeral; and oh! how sad it was to see a countenance so formed for joy now wear ing the impress of the deepest woe. I could scarcely believe it was the same person, for I had never before seen the sudden ravages of grief marked on a loved and well known face. How dreadful death must be to cause such sorrow, thought I, and with what indifference she now looks on her pretty little girl, who was pull ing her dress, and all unconscious of her loss, endeavouring to obtain the wonted attention and caresses of her mother.

The widow remained for some time gazing in speechless agony on the grave ; but at last, with a quiet resigned look, more touching than cla morous woe, she turned away and went to her desolate home. A few days afterwards she gave birth to a son ; and the little William, who was the very image of his lost parent, was the first object which recalled a smile to the poor woman's countenance. We left Flampshire for some time, and when we returned little William had become a lovely boy of two years old. This, above all others, is the time when childhood is most engaging and prettiest ; — when unconscious infancy is passing into a more observant and talking age, yet be fore the child has lost any of the natural grace fulness of youth, which, at a more advanced period, often changes into awkward shyness.

This boy was the very joy of his mother's heart; and my former friend, the little Margaret, had become a thoughtful and steady-looking child of five. The sunny look her face formerly wore, seemed transferred to her fair brother's countenance ; for though too yroung to remember much about her father, yet the sight of a mother's woe, and the change from a happy home to one where sadness had shed its depressing influence, had probably quelled in some measure the buoyant spirit of joy which once shone in her every movement. Little Margaret's fondness for her young brother was very touching. The quick glances of her blue eyes seemed always to be watching over him, and her little hand was ever ready to support his tottering footsteps. He was a high spirited child, and as his mother said, " tedious venturesome," and if it was not that little Mar garet never left him a moment he would get into mischief as soon as her back was turned.

" Howsomdever, he is a good child as ever lived, and as like his poor dear father in everything as that ere rose bud is to the full blown flower. May God bless him, for certain sure 'twas his eyes that seemed first to bid me wipe my tears," continued the widow, as she gazed on her boy, with an expression of radiant happiness, which was blended with the look of care that had never left her features since the poor man's death. The widow was very poor, for she had the true old-fashioned spirit in her, which scorned to receive assistance from the parish, and the children were both too young to allow of her doing much work. It was autumn, and the yellow fields were filled with gleaners ; so Dame Margaret thought she would go one day and try to pick up some corn. She did not take the children, for the measles were about in the parish, and she was afraid they might catch the disorder from some of the groups who remained all day in the fields.

At an early hour in the morning, with many earnest charges to little Margaret to take care of the darling boy and herself, and on no account to go near the water, the widow left her cottage. It was the first time she had been an hour away from the children, and as she said, her heart felt " all in a flutter like the whole day long," and she hardly knew what she was about. During the morning the children amused themselves very well in the house ; but after they had taken their dinner, William began to cry for some flowers that were in the garden. Margaret said afterwards, that she tried to re mind her little brother that they had promised mammy not to go outside the door, and so he must stop till she came home. The little fellow, with true infantine spirit of contradiction, cried more for the flowers when he found he must not have them ; so poor Margaret, who could not bear to see a tear on her darling brother's countenance, said she would go and get them for him, if he promised to sit quiet till she returned.

" I go too, I go too !" said the resolute boy : and before she was aware of his purpose, he had forced open the little low door (which unluckily was not fastened), and ran into the garden. Margaret followed as quickly as possible; but the little fellow, probably afraid of being brought back, dashed down the walk which led to the water, and mounted on the narrow plank. " Oh William !" cried Margaret, darting after him. The little boy looked back, and smiled with triumphant glee ; but at the same time pro ceeded to run across the dizzy plank. He saw not where he trod, and making a false step, fell into the water. " Oh William ! — oh mammy ! — what shall I do ?" cried poor Margaret. It was near the op posite bank where the child had fallen in ; and the water not being so deep in that part as in the middle of the stream, Margaret ran across, and jumped in after him.

With the energy of despair she grasped at the child's dress, and succeeded in dragging him out. She carried him home : he did not speak, but as she afterwards said, he seemed to smile at her just as he did every night when he went to sleep. And so the little girl thought he had now fallen asleep ; and she undressed him, and put dry things on, and laid him in the cradle near the fire, for he felt very cold. And there she sat rocking him all the evening ; and when her mother came home, she made a sign with her finger, that the widow might step lightly across the room, " for little brother is fast asleep." " The darling boy — God bless his little heart !" said Dame Bevis ; " but Lord ha' mercy ! what's the matter with you, child — you are dripping wet — where have you been, eh ?" Margaret coloured, and looked frightened, for she knew they had disobeyed mammy's orders ; B5 but she was accustomed to tell the truth, so she said, " Dear mammy, don't be angry — I couldn't help it ; but Willy would run out and over the plank, and he fell into the water ; but I got him out very soon, and he has been so sound asleep ever since !"

" Gracious heaven !" exclaimed the widow — and snatching up the little boy from his cradle, found that her darling child was dead ! We saw poor Dame Bevis soon after this sad event : I will not attempt to describe her look, for it makes me melancholy to think of it, even now. And poor httle Margaret ! — this last blow seemed utterly to crush every feeling of joy in her heart. She was pale as death ; and the large tears coursed each other down her shrunk cheeks, unheeded and unseen by her once doting mother. They soon quitted the scene of so much mi sery, and went to a distant part of the county. I have never seen them since ; but I have heard occasionally that Dame Bevis is gaining an ho nest livelihood, and has taken great pains with her daughter's education. I therefore hope that the intensity of former sufferings, of past woe, cast no blighting influence over then future lives.

Many such " simple annals" as the above did this visit to C — village recal to my mind ; and I always remember with pleasure, that on the banks of this river Ant, Isaac Walton wrote some of his beautiful descriptions. The nightin gales, and a great variety of singing birds abound in this homely place ; and here, two hundred years ago, he may have penned the following lines : " The nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, ' Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth ?' " Of these clear Hampshire streams, Howitt says — " The water is so transparent, that it looks rather hke condensed air, in which Isaac Wal ton's beloved trouts sail about as plainly to the eye as the birds are on the boughs which over hang it."

Chapter II

Visit to Richmond — Chaucer's Poems — Historical Recollections. " Richmond Park !" I hear you exclaim ; "how cockneyish this sounds — surely nothing new can be told us about Richmond Park — one is quite sick of it !" Have a little patience, and I will show you that you are mistaken. In the first place, very few people have seen the prettiest parts of Richmond Park ; I mean few of those who go there on pleasure-parties, and who have but a faint idea of the lovely scenery of its more retired spots. We went with a lady who is acquainted with every inch of the park, and has sketched all its prettiest views. She first took us to Lord S 's Lodge, and before we entered the house, we rambled over some of the wroody glades and lovely heights which surround it. I confess there was something of a Cockney feeling in the intense enjoyment which the scene afforded me ; the delight I experienced from the fresh smell of wild flowers and songs of birds, may have been considerably encreased by having passed the last nine months in London.

The whole scene brought to my mind some descriptions by Chaucer, who may have written them in that very spot, as he was much favoured by Queen Anne, wife of Richard II. ; and his book too was directed to be given the queen at " Eltham or at Sheen," as Richmond was then called. " And by a rivir forth I gan costie Of water clere as birell or cristall. Till at the last I found a little weie Toward a parke, enclosid with a wall, And in I went to here the birdis sing, While on the braunchis both in plain and vale So loude ysang that all the wode yrong Like as it should shivir in pecis smale ; And as methoughtin that the nightingale With so great might her voice began out wrest, Right as her harte for love would all to brest. The soile was plain and smoth, and wondir soft, All oversprad with tapettes, that nature Had made herself, coverid eke aloft With bowis grene, the flouris for to cure, That in ther beautie thei maie long endure."* I felt as he describes in that prettiest of his poems, " The Floure and the Lease :" " And I that all these plesaunt sigh tis se, Thought suddainly I felt so sweet an air Of the eglentere, that certainlie There is no hert (I deme) in such dispair, Ne yet with thoughtis froward and contraire So overlaid, but that it should sone have bote If it had onis felt this savour sote. [sweet] The following lines also describe most vividly the sights and sounds of Richmond park, even as I now found them. * The Complaint of the Black Knight.

" Every tre well fro his fellow grew, With braunchis brode ladin with leavis new, That sprongin out agen the sonne shene, Some very rede, and some a glad light grene, Which (as me thought) was a right plesaunt sight ; And eke the birdis songis for to here, Would have rejoisid any erthly wight. And I, that couth not yet in no manere Herin the nightingale of all the yere, Full busily herk'nid with hert and ere, If I her voice could perceve any where : There sawe I growing eke the freshe hauthorne In white motley, that so sote doeth ysmell ; Ashe, firre, and oke, with many a young acorn, And many a tre mo than I can tell. And me beforne I sawe a little well, That had his course, as I could wele beholde, Undir an hill, with quicke stremis and colde, The gravill gold, the watiipure as glasse, The bankis rounde the well environing, And soft as velvet was the yonge grasse That there upon lustilie came springyng, The sute of trees aboutin compassying Ther shadowe cast, closying the well arounde, And all the herbis growyng on the grounde.

AMD FOREIGN RECOLLECTIONS. And at the last a path of litil brede I found, that greatly had not usid be, For it forgrowin was with grass and wede ; And so I followed till it me brought To a right plesaunt herbir wel y wrought." But I must stop ; though I could go on for ever describing these more unfrequented parts of Richmond park, in Chaucer's words. We then returned to the keeper's lodge, and from the drawing-room windows looked over the fine view which they command. This lodge was given to Lord S by George III. ; and it is said that soon afterwards he called one morning to see if his favourite minister was comfortable there. " You have got no pictures," said the good-natured king ; " I must send you Charlotte and myself ; and you have got no garden either ;" upon which George III. ordered one to be made immediately, and also offered sixty acres to be enclosed be sides, which, however, Lord S refused.

The portraits, with some other interesting pictures, now adorn the walls of the drawing-room ; and the garden, on which it looks, is worthy of its royal designer. I looked with great pleasure on the fine por trait of George III. on horseback, by Sir W. Beechy ; another copy of the same picture used to adorn the great hall at S , and is associated with some of the happiest days of my childhood. I was accustomed, too, in those days, to hear the " dear old king," as he was called, commended and admired by those I loved, who were all warmly attached to him. And thus my earliest impressions are much in favour of the old king, now so frequently abused ; and though I may be wrong, yet I still cling with blind constancy to my early and pleasant impressions. It makes one so much happier, also, to love rather than find fault with those who are no more.

In one respect the picture differs from the one I remember, and also from the original at Hampton Court ; the subject is the inspection of the 10th hussars, the prince of Wales's regi ment, by the king. It is singular enough, that in this copy the figure of the prince is omitted, AND FOREIGN RECOLLECTIONS. which was done by the king's desire, and is a striking and rather comical proof of the dislike which he felt towards his son. When the prince became king, he dined here, and re marked to Lord S that his portrait had been omitted, and hinted that it ought to be restored. This, however, was evaded, and the copy re mains in its original state. In this lodge there is a small table, which will some day become of great interest to anti quarians, and all those who venerate the memorials of important events in history.

Before the battle of Trafalgar Lord Nelson dined here ; and as he and Lord S sat at this table after their tete-a-tete dinner, they talked over the approaching campaign. A little wine had been spilt on the table, and in it, with his finger, Lord Nelson traced his plan of attack, and how he proposed to break the enemy's line. On our way through the park, we passed near the mound upon which Henry VIII. is said to have mounted, to catch the first glimpse of the rocket, which was to be sent up from the tower to announce the execution of Anne Boleyn. We afterwards drove to the town of Rich mond, and leaving our carriage, wandered for some time along the bank of the Thames. The loveliness of that view is indeed well known, and is probably associated in most Londoners' minds with some of the happiest moments of their lives.

The scene has, to me, a more Italian and dolce far niente look than any other that England affords. The coloured barges, with their gay flags, the numerous parties of pleasure, the pretty villas, have a real summer and holiday air, which is not often seen in this business-like and matter-of-fact country. Fortunately, my antiquarian friend, Mr. Croker, was of the party, and shewed us the ruins of the old palace of Richmond ; and we traversed many narrow and intricate alleys and turnings in our way from the river to the ancient abode of England's kings. I had no idea so much of the palace still re mained. While making a sketch of the old entrance, I reflected on the various fortunes of those who dwelt in this place in days of yore. The first picture which presented itself to my iketched. byL__7 Q_.b. __ tcm, -O H^wlru^ ,3_tl_, l^&H^LcL-tk13 to die <£_e.e.n THEHEIAINS OE THE OLD PA~LJ__CE OF Rl CHJVI OITO, SURREY . imagination was that of a handsome young man attired in the costume of the 14th century.

He was seated on a throne at the raised end of a gorgeous chamber, whose arched roof and painted glass windows, were of the most highly decorated style of gothic architecture. His air was expressive of command; but the haughty curl of his finely chiselled lip, and a somewhat stern expression in his high forehead, were tempered by the benevolent glances which occasionally beamed in his dark eyes. He was surrounded by a noble retinue, whose looks were expressive of admiration, and even of a warmer feeling, as they gazed upon the youth, and listened to his every word, with as much deference as if he had uttered oracles. Shouts of joy were heard without the palace, and now and then a voice called louder than the rest, " Long live our gracious king ! — long live the valiant Edward III!" This was in the days of our third Edward's glory, before he had done anything to forfeit the warm affections of his subjects.

And that they loved him well was shewn by the device engraven on his coronation medal. It was that of the prince crowned, laying his sceptre on a heap of hearts, with the motto '• Populo dat jura volente." Glorious indeed was Edward's reign; perhaps the fifty years of his sway were the most glorious England ever knew, and he lived to see his own valour noblv imitated by his renowned son, the hero of Cressy and Poictiers, Edward the Black Prince. But he lived also to witness the premature death of that son ; and worse still, he lived till those good feelings which made the beginning of his reign so glorious, became per verted. Even when his valiant son was dying, the king became so far insensible to the young hero's fate, as to be induced by his mistress, Alice Perrers, to cause a gay tournament to be held in her honour, where she presided as Lady of the Sun.

But Edward III. was fearfully punished; in his last moments he was deserted by all his friends. His wife was dead, his children con tending with each other ; and as death drew near, he was abandoned even by the guilty favourite for whom he had sacrificed a nation's love. Here in this old palace (then called Sheen) the dying monarch was brought, despoiled of his kingly raiment, and even the rings stripped from his fingers, and the jewels from his person, by his base mistress. A few hired menials were the only attendants in the castle, and these seemed aware they had nothing more to gain from the once renowned king. And so, in his last hour, Edward was left alone. An old friar chanced to pass through the court-yard, and the groans of the royal sufferer met his ear. The doors were open; no guards were there to attend the redoubted hero of Cressy.

The monarch, whose very name once inspired terror to the whole of Christendom, was now approached, without difficulty, by the poor old monk. And thankful was he, too, for the visit of the holy friar. The words of peace and hope which he spoke, were not lost upon the forsaken king. He eagerly grasped the cross which the friar held up, and while the tears rolled down his aged cheeks, he uttered the word " Jesus !" and expired. These two pictures, which memory called up of the brilliant youth and melancholy end of the most renowned of our proud Plantagcnets, made me think of the total uselessness of every earthly advantage to ensure happiness. But a brighter scene then passed before me — a beautiful young girl, Anne of Bohemia, who came from distant Germany to wed our second Richard, the grand son of that Edward who expired in this palace.

It was of this lovely and good queen that our early poet Chaucer wrote. " She is the clerenesse and the very light, That in this derke world me windeth and ledeth. The hert within my wofull brest you dredeth, And loveth so sore, that ye ben verily The maistris of my wit, and nothing I ; My worde, my workes so knit are in your bonde, That as an harpe obeyith to the honde, And makith it soune astir his fingiring, Right so mowe ye out of mine herte bring Such voice, right as ye list to laugh or pain. Be ye my guide, and ladie soverain ; — As to mine yerthly God, to you I call, Both in this worke as in my sorrowis all." Under the type of the daisy, which seems to have been the favourite emblem of this queen, he lauds her in many of his poems. " The daisie or els the eye of the daie, I n'am up and walking in the mede, To sene this floure ayenst the sunne sprede, Whan it upriseth erly by the morrowe.

That blissful sight softinith all my sorowe ; Als she that is of all flouris the floure, Fulfillid of all vertue and honoure.* * I have quoted so much from Chaucer because it seems to me that his merits as a beautiful describer of nature are not very well known, and that the disagreeable things in some of his best tales, prejudice many against his poems. Perhaps I was first led to seek the pleasant parts of his poems by accidentally taking up a volume one day, when I stumbled upon the following lines, which express so ex actly my own feelings, both as to books and song of birds. " And as for me though that I can but lite On bokis for to read I me delite, And to 'hem yeve I faith and full credence, And in mine herte have 'hem in reverence VOL. I. C The memory of this fair Queen should be ve nerated by all true protestants as being the first person who encouraged the translation of the Bible into English.

When Wickliffe arrived in England, in endeavouring to diffuse the know ledge of the Scriptures, he triumphantly referred to the "Queen, as possessing the gospels written in three languages,"* Bohemian, German, and Latin ; and he argued that in rendering the Scriptures available to all, he did but that which the Queen herself approved. She is also said " to have diligently studied the Holy Scriptures, and made them her daily meditation." This Queen brought in the fashion of long trains, peaked shoes, and those strange looking horned head-chesses which we see on So hertily, that there is game none That fro my bokis makith me to gone, But it be seldome, on the holie day, Save certainly whan that the month of Maie Is comin, and I here the foulis sing, And that the flouris ginning for to spring." * See page 223 of 2nd vol. of History of the Queens of England, a very interesting work by Miss Laurance. the monuments of that day.

She also first introduced the use of the side-saddle into England, which must have been a most decided improvement in the customs of our fair ancestors. Again I fancied her returning from a chase in the neighbouring woods, attended by the poet Chaucer, and surrounded by valiant youths and courtly maidens ; but time passed — a few short joyous years — and the beloved Queen lay on her bed of death. Her young husband, King Richard, kneels at her side. He prays with heartfelt agony, and commands that petitions be offered up in all the churches. The people pray for the gentle Queen, who was ardently loved ; the monks fast and re cite masses, but all in vain. The young creature is cut off in the flower of her days ; but we may confidently hope her death was blissful, and she thus escaped witnessing the misfortunes and cruel end of her husband.