“HÔtel de Ferras, Paris, August 1, 1846.

“MY dear Father,—I got in here last night, after a very painful and tiresome journey, at eleven o’clock. At least it was eleven o’clock by Calais time, but they are so careless in this country about their clocks that it would be very difficult to say what the right time really was were I not able to consult the excellent chronometer which you and Mamma were so kind as to give me after my success in the Schools at Oxford this summer. I confess to the childishness of having rung the chimes in it five or six times during the night to while away the tedium of the journey in the Diligence from Beauvais. Beauvais contains a really remarkable cathedral, but it is unfinished. I notice, indeed, that many of the buildings undertaken by the French remain in an incomplete condition. The Louvre, for instance (which is so near this hotel, and the roofs of which I can see from my window), would be a really fine building if it were completed, but this has never been done, and the total effect is very distressing. I fancy it is the numerous wars, in which the unhappy people have been engaged at the caprice of their rulers, which have led to such deplorable inconsequence. You have often warned me not to judge rashly upon a first impression, but I confess the people seem to me terribly poverty-stricken, especially in the country districts, where the children may often be seen hobbling about in rough wooden shoes, without stockings to their feet. I say no more. I hope, dear Papa, that when Parliament meets I shall be returned from Italy, and that I shall be able to follow your action in the House of Commons. You know how ardently I attend to the great struggle for Free Trade, to the attainment of which, as of every form of Righteousness, you have ever trained my early endeavours.

“I am, your affectionate son,
“Jo. Bilsted.”

“HÔtel de Ferras, January 15, 1853.

“My dear Julia,—I write you a hurried note to tell you that I have left behind me, at Number Eleven, my second beaver hat. It is in the hatbox in the white cupboard on the landing outside the nursery door. Do not send anything else with it, as you were imprudent enough to do last time I asked you to despatch luggage; the Customs are very particular, and it is important for me just now, amid all these political troubles, not to have what the French call ‘histoires.’ I have really nothing to tell you more as to the condition of affairs, nor anything to add to the brief remarks in my last letter. Were I not connected by business ties with the Continent nothing should tempt me to this kind of journey again. The train service is ridiculously slow, and there is a feeling of distress and ill-ease wherever one goes. It is truly amazing to me that any people, however stunted by centuries of oppression, should tolerate the form of government which has been recently set up by brute force in this unhappy country! Meanwhile, though everyone discusses politics, nothing is done, and the practical things of life are wholly neglected. The streets still remain the narrow, ill-lit thoroughfares which would be a disgrace to a small English provincial town, and the Army, so far as any civilian can judge, is worthless. The men slouch about with their hands in their pockets; the Cavalry sit their horses very badly; and even the escort of the ‘Emperor’ would look supremely ridiculous in any other surroundings. I have little doubt that if horse racing were more thoroughly developed the Equine Race would improve. As it is, the horses here are deplorable. I hope to persuade M. Behrens, who is one of the few sensible and clear-sighted men I have met during this visit, to accept our proposals, and I will write you further on the matter.

“Your affectionate husband,
“Jo. Bilsted.

“P.S.—I somewhat regret that you have accepted the invitation to the Children’s Party. However, I never interfere with you in these matters. I must, however, positively forbid your taking little Charles, who, though he is eldest, suffers, I fear, from a weak heart, inherited from your dear mother. I hope to return this day fortnight.”

“HÔtel de Ferras, July 15, 1870.

“My dear Julia,—It was a matter of great regret to me that you should have been compelled to leave Paris a few days before myself; but I shall follow to-morrow, and hope to be at Number Eleven by Thursday at the latest. You will then have learned the terrible truth that war has been finally declared. Nothing could have more deeply impressed and oppressed me at the same time. The overwhelming military power which in better hands and under a proper guidance might have been turned to such noble uses is to be hurled against the insecure combination of German States which have recently been struggling, perfectly rightly in my opinion, to become One Great Nation; for I make no doubt that the lesser States will throw in their lot with Prussia: a menace to one is a menace to all. I write from the bottom of my heart (my dear Julia), when I say that I am convinced that after the first triumphs of this Man of Blood our own Government will speak with no uncertain voice, and will defend the new German people against the aggressor. It was sufficiently intolerable that his Italian policy should have been framed before our eyes, without intervention, and that the unity of that ancient land should be deferred through his insolence. I have not borne to visit Rome since the hateful presence of a foreign garrison was established there. I will even go so far (perhaps against your own better judgment) as to raise the matter in Parliament, but I greatly fear that the House will not be sitting when the most drastic action is needed. However, I repeat what I have said; I am confident in the ultimate Righteousness of our intervention. I am therefore confident that we shall not allow the further expansion of this Military Policy.

“As I write the garish, over-lit faÇades of this luxurious Babylon, its broad, straight streets, with their monotonous vulgar splendour, and the swarms of the military all round, fill me with foreboding. It would be a terrible thing if this very negation of True Civilisation and Religion were to triumph, and I am certain that unless we speak boldly we ourselves shall be the next victim. But we shall speak boldly.... My faith is firm.

“Your affectionate husband,
“Jo. Bilsted.

“P.S.—I am glad that Charles has got through his examination successfully. I hope he clearly understands that I have no intention of letting him be returned for Pensbury until a year has elapsed.”

“HÔtel de Ferras, April 1, 1886.

“My dear Charles,—It was a filial thought in you to send a letter which would reach me upon my sixtieth birthday, and believe me that, speaking as your father, I am not insensible to it.

“I wish you could come and see your mother and me if only for a few hours, but I know that your Parliamentary duties are heavier than ever; indeed, life in the House of Commons is not what it used to be! In my time it was often called ‘the best club in Europe.’ Alas, no one can say that now! Meanwhile your mother and I are very happy pottering about our old haunts in Paris; but you have no idea, my dear Charles, how changed it all is! You can, of course, remember the Second Empire as a child, but to your mother and me, who were so intimate with Paris during its most brilliant period, there is something tragic in the sight of this great capital since the awful chastisement of fifteen years ago. We ought not, of course, to judge foreign nations too harshly, but after no inconsiderable experience of Parliamentary life I cannot but have the most gloomy forebodings as to the future of this nation. There seems no settled policy of any kind. Yesterday I attended a debate in the Chamber, but the various speakers articulated so rapidly that I was not able to follow them with any precision. It is surely an error to pour out torrents of words in this fashion, and I cannot believe there is any mature thought behind it at all. I regret to say that the practice of duelling, though denounced by all the best thought in the country, is still rife, and nowhere do occasions for its exercise arise more frequently than in the undisciplined political life of this capital. One must not, however, look only on the dark side; there are certainly some very fine new buildings springing up, especially in the American quarter towards the Arc de Triomphe. Of course your mother and I keep to the old HÔtel de Ferras. We are at an age now when one does not easily change one’s habits, but it seems to me positively dingy compared with some of these new great palaces. It is a comfort, however, to deal with people who know what an English banknote is, and who will take an English cheque, and who can address one properly on the outside of an envelope. It amused your dear mother to see how quickly they seized the new honour which her Majesty has so graciously conferred upon me.

“Your affectionate father,
“Jo. Bilsted.”

“HÔtel de Ferras, October 19, 1906.

“My dear Charles,—I cannot tell you how warmly I agree with your last letter upon the state of Europe. I am an old man, I have seen many men and things, and I have been particularly familiar with foreign policy ever since I first entered the House of Commons, now nearly fifty years ago, but rarely have I known a moment more critical than the present. My one comfort lies in the fact that in spite of the divisions of Party, the heart of the nation is still sound, and the leaven of common sense in the electors will save us yet. I feel a shade of regret sometimes to think that the division no longer retains its old name; I should like to feel that, father and son, we had held it for three generations, but though the name has changed, the spirit of the place is the same.... I beg you to mark my words; I may say without boasting that I have rarely been wrong in my judgment of foreign affairs. When one sees things here one sometimes trembles for the future.

“This Hotel is not at all what it was. It is ill-kept and damp, and I shall not return to it.

“Expect me in London before the end of the week.

“Penshurst.”

[Lord Penshurst died shortly after his return to London. He was succeeded by his son Charles, second Baron, but the Division is still represented by a member of the family in the person of Mr. George Bilstead, his second son, the husband of Mrs. Bilstead, and author of The Coming Struggle in the Balkans.]