BERLIN AND THE JUBILEE OF 1887

I find it difficult to recall all our foreign travels. In 1876 I paid—with my husband—my first visit to Switzerland, and three years later we went again—this time making the doubtful experiment of taking with us Villiers aged six and Margaret (called Markie) aged three. Somehow we conveyed these infants over glaciers and mountains to various places, including Zermatt. We contrived a sort of awning over a chaise À porteurs carried by guides—but they did a good bit of walking also. I was really terrified on one occasion when we drove in a kind of dog-cart down precipitous roads along the edge of precipices. The children sat on either side of me—their little legs too short to reach the floor of the carriage. I had an arm round either, feeling—I believe justly—that if I let go for a moment the child would be flung into space. Jersey was walking—the maid, I suppose, with courier and luggage—anyhow I had sole responsibility for the time being. Our courier was excellent, and no matter where we arrived contrived to produce a rice-pudding on which the children insisted. It is unnecessary to describe the well-known scenes through which we passed. Switzerland impressed me, as it does all travellers, with its grandeur and beauty—but I never loved it as I did the South and, later on, the East.

Another winter we went—after Christmas—with Villiers only—to Biarritz; again I did not think it southern enough in sky and vegetation to rival the Riviera, though the pinewoods, and great billows rolling in from the sea, were attractive. Soon afterwards we embarked in a governess—a clever young woman called Ada Mason, who was recommended by Lady Derby. She had been a show pupil at the Liverpool Girls’ College, and before we engaged her permanently she went to complete her French education in Paris. She stayed with us till she married in Australia. In March 1883 we took Villiers, Markie, and Miss Mason to the Riviera, Florence, and Venice. I do not know that there is anything exceptional to record. I observe in a short journal which I kept on this occasion that Jersey and I while in Paris went to the Vaudeville to see Sarah Bernhardt in FÉdora. My comment is: “She acted wonderfully but I did not think much of the play. The great coup was supposed to be when the hero gave her a bang on the head, but as that used to make the ladies faint he contented himself with partially throttling her when we saw it.” I suppose French ladies are more susceptible than English. Once in after years I went with a friend to see the divine Sarah in La Tosca. I thought the torture part horrid enough, but when La Tosca had killed the wicked Governor my companion observed plaintively, “We did not see any blood,” as if it were not sufficiently realistic.

On this same journey abroad we visited, as on various other occasions, the Ile St. Honorat and Ste Marguerite, a picnic party being given on the former by Lord Abercromby and Mr. Savile. The Duchesse de Vallombrosa brought Marshal McMahon, and special interest was excited on this occasion since Bazaine had lately escaped from what had been formerly the prison of the Masque de Fer. Jersey went with some of the party to Ste Marguerite, and Marshal McMahon told Mr. Savile that he did not connive at Bazaine’s escape, but that Madame Bazaine came to him and asked when he would let her husband out. He replied, “In six years, or six months, if he is a bon garÇon”; so she went out saying, “Then I shall know what to do,” and slammed the door after her, with the evident purpose of unlocking another door, which she accomplished.

Marshal McMahon must have been a fine fellow, but hardly possessed of French readiness of speech if this story which I have heard of him is true. He was to review the Cadets at a Military College—St. Cyr, I think—and was begged beforehand to say a special word of encouragement to a young Algerian who was in training there. When it came to the point the only happy remark which occurred to him was, “Ah—vous Êtes le nÈgre—eh bien continuez le!”

From Cannes we went to several other places, including Spezzia, Genoa, Venice, and Florence. We saw all the orthodox sights in each place and at Florence dined with Mr. John Meyer and his first wife, who, if I remember rightly, was a Fitzgerald. He was in the exceptional position of having no nationality—he was somehow connected with Germany and Russia (not to speak of JudÆa) and had been in South America and Switzerland. He had been a Russian, but had lost that nationality as having been twenty-five years absent from that country. He wanted to become an Englishman, as his wife wanted to send her boy to school in England, but it would mean a lengthened residence or a private Act of Parliament costing £3,000. In the end the nice Mrs. Meyer who entertained us on this occasion died, and he bought an Italian Marquisate and turned into an Italian! He married as his second wife a beautiful Miss Fish, and I last saw them in their charming villa near Florence.

The Meyers were pleasant hosts, and it was at the dinner which I have mentioned that I first made the acquaintance of a telephone. They had asked some people to come in after dinner, and to show how the instrument worked telephoned to invite an additional guest. I never encountered a telephone at a private house in London till long afterwards.

Our younger children, Mary and Beatrice, stayed during our absence at our little Welsh home—Baglan House, near Briton Ferry—a place which all our children loved.

In 1884 a great sorrow befell our family. My brother Gilbert, then M.P. for South Warwickshire, went in August of that year to America with Mr. W. H. Grenfell—now Lord Desborough—with the object of getting some bear-shooting in the Rockies. Towards the end of the month they began camping—but the hunting was not good, as Indians had previously driven the part of the country which they visited with the view of getting game for their side. Mr. Grenfell’s journal records frost at the end of August and heavy snow on the night of September 1st. On September 12th they pitched a camp in the Big Horn Mountains on a charming spot close to a clear, rocky river with trees and high walls on either side. On Sunday the 14th, a boiling hot day, they had an hour’s wash in the river, and after luncheon Gillie started off down the Ten Sleeper caÑon alone on his horse—he was never seen alive again. For a whole week Mr. Grenfell and the three men whom they had with them searched in every possible direction, and at last, on the 21st, they found my brother lying dead at the foot of a precipice from which he had evidently fallen and been instantaneously killed—“a terrible way,” writes Mr. Grenfell, “to find a friend who had endeared himself to all—always cheery and ready to make the best of everything—nothing put him out”—“his simplicity, absence of self-assertion, and quaint humour made him a general favourite—whatever happened he never complained and did not know what fear was.”

The news did not reach England till some three days later, and it is impossible to dwell on the terrible sorrow of all who loved him so dearly. My brother Dudley was mercifully in the States at the time of the fatal accident, and my uncle James Leigh set off at once to bring the body home; but the long wait—till October 20th—was unspeakably trying most of all for my poor parents, who were broken-hearted. My mother put a bunch of white rosebuds on his coffin, for when a little boy he had said one day that his “idea of love was a bunch of roses.”

I will only add her verses on her firstborn son:

“He is gone, and gone for ever,
‘Coming home again’ now never—
If ’tis cold he feels it not,
Recks not if ’tis scorching hot,
But by children circled round
Roams the happy hunting-ground,
Pure in heart and face as they,
Gladsome in God’s glorious day.
“If I see him once again
Will he tell me of his pain?
Did he shout or cry or call
When he saw that he must fall?
Feel one pang of mortal fear
When the fatal plunge was near?
Or to the last—to fear a stranger—
Think to triumph over danger?
“I think so—on his marble face
Fright and terror left no trace—
Still—as if at Stoneleigh sleeping,
There he lay—all the weeping
Broke in streams from other eyes
Far away.
But to him come not again
Cold or heat or grief or pain.”

Gilly was truly “to fear a stranger.” He had, as Mr. Grenfell recounts, been six times before to the Rocky Mountain country and always had extraordinary adventures—once he rode his horse along a ledge till he could neither go forward nor turn, and had to slip over its tail and climb out, leaving the animal to shift for itself. Two cowboys roped and got the saddle and bridle off and left the horse, which somehow backed out and got down without injury.

Earlier in the year 1884 Jersey, Lady Galloway, and I made a pleasant tour among the Italian Lakes, including a run to Milan for Easter Sunday, where we heard some of the splendid service in the Cathedral. We took with us Villiers, his last trip abroad before his regular schooldays. He had attended Miss Woodman’s classes during two or three London seasons, and had had a visiting tutor from Oxford—Mr. Angel Smith—for the past year or so at Middleton; but on May 1st, after our return from the Lakes, he went to Mr. Chignell’s, Castlemount, Dover, where he remained till he went to Eton three years later. He had an unvaryingly good record both for the lessons and conduct while at Castlemount.

I have no special recollection of the two following years, so pass on to 1887. That winter Lady Galloway was in Russia and was to stay in Berlin with the Ambassador, Sir Edward Malet, and his wife, Lady Ermyntrude, on her return. The Malets very kindly invited me to meet her and to spend a few days at the Embassy. I arrived there on February 21st, and found Lady Galloway and her sister-in-law Lady Isabel Stewart already installed. The following afternoon the routine of German court etiquette—now a thing of the past—began. Lady Ermyntrude took us to leave cards on the various members of the Corps Diplomatique and then proceeded to present Mrs. Talbot (now Lady Talbot) and myself to GrÄfin Perponcher, the Empress’s Obermeisterin. She was a funny old soul in a wig, but regarded as next door to royalty, and it was therefore correct to make half a curtsy when introduced to her. It was a great thing to have anyone so kind, and yet so absolutely aware of all the shades of ceremonial, as Lady Ermyntrude, to steer us through the Teutonic pitfalls.

In the evening we were taken to the Carnival Court Ball, where we stood in a row behind Lady Ermyntrude to be presented to the Crown Prince and Princess as they came round. The Diplomatic people were on the left of the royal seats. The Weisser Saal was lighted partly with candles and partly with electric lights; one felt that either one or the other would have had a better effect, but no doubt that was all rectified in later years. We were presently taken into an outer room or gallery to be presented to the Empress Augusta, who was seated in a chair with a sort of Stonehenge of chairs in front. She was attired in what appeared to be royal robes heavy with gold embroidery and gigantic diamonds, but she looked almost like a resurrected corpse, except that her eyes were still large and wonderfully bright and glittering as if they had little torches behind them. I fancy that she had some preparation of belladonna dropped into them on these occasions. Her mouth was always a little open, giving the impression that she wanted to speak but could not; really, however, she talked fast enough, and was very gracious in sending messages to my grandmother Westminster. After our presentation we had to sit in Stonehenge for a few minutes. We had heard that when the Empress was a girl, her governess would place her in front of a circle of chairs, and make her go round and address a polite remark to each. We recognised the utility of the practice as Her Majesty made a neat little sentence to each of the circle seated before her this evening. Sir Edward and Lady Ermyntrude went home early, as they were in mourning, but when we tried to go in to supper with the Embassy Staff, we were seized on by Count Eulenberg and told to go into the royal supper-room. The Crown Prince and Princess came and talked to us very kindly, but I could not help thinking the latter rather indiscreet, as when I made a futile remark as to the fine sight presented by the Palace she returned, “A finer sight at Buckingham Palace,” then, lowering her voice, “and prettier faces!” True enough, but a little risky addressed to a stranger with possible eavesdroppers.

The old Emperor William was not at this ball, as he was not well enough—which distressed him, as he liked society; but two days later we were invited to a small concert at his own Palace. When we had made our curtsies to the Empress she desired that we should go round and be presented to His Majesty. I had been told previously that he was interested in the idea of seeing me, as he had been a great friend of my grandmother Westminster and they used to interchange presents on their birthdays. When we were taken up to him GrÄfin Perponcher reminded him of Jersey’s grandmother and Lady Clementina Villiers, but he immediately asked if I were not also related to Lady Westminster. When I said that I was her granddaughter he asked, “Et Êtes-vous toujours en relation avec elle?” and on hearing that I wrote to her charged me with messages which she was afterwards very pleased to receive.

During the singing we sat round little tables covered with red velvet table-covers, which seemed a funny arrangement, as it meant that some of the audience had their backs to the performers. There were five which—joining each other—ran down the centre of the room. The Empress sat at the head of the end one, and the Crown Princess presided at a round one in the middle of the room, at which Lady Galloway and I were seated. Princess Victoria (afterwards Schaumburg Lippe) sat between us—we found her lively, though not pretty. When the performance was over the Emperor came and talked to us again; he seemed very cheerful, though he put his hand on the back of a chair for, as he said, “un petit appui”! I told him that I had been with the crowd to see him when he looked out at the soldiers as he did every morning. “Quoi, Madame, vous avez fait la curieuse?” he said, and proceeded to tell us that he was now “devenu la mode,” though formerly no one came to look at him. Finally some supper was brought and put on the tables where we had been sitting.

The following day we were invited to breakfast (or rather 12.30 luncheon) with the Crown Prince and Princess—only their three unmarried daughters besides Lady Galloway, Lady Isabel, and myself. The Crown Prince was a most fascinating man and particularly impressed us by his devotion to his wife, having even consulted a lady dentist by her desire! The three Princesses each had in front of her place at table a large collection of little silver objects given them on their respective birthdays. The parents again reverted to my grandmother, and on hearing of her immense number of children and grandchildren the Prince remarked, “What a number of birthday presents that must mean!”—which amused me, as with all grandmamma’s kindness to me personally, she was far from troubling about the identity of all her grandchildren—life would not have been long enough.

The Princess talked much of the hospitals at Berlin, and of her trouble in introducing anything like decent nursing into them. She said when she first married a Children’s Ward would be shut up at night without any nurse whatever in charge, and several children found dead in the morning. I believe she did great things for the hospitals, but fear that discretion was not always the better part of her valour, and that she more than once gave offence by comparison with the superior method in England. After luncheon the Princesses departed and the parents took us through their own rooms, which were very pretty and comfortable. When we reached her Studio the Crown Princess did not want to take us in, as she said she must go off to see Princess William (the late ex-Kaiserin), but the Prince said, “You go, I shall take them”—for he was determined that we should see, and duly admire, his wife’s artistic talents. We saw the Crown Princess again in the evening at the theatre, as she sent for Lady Galloway and me into her box and put Mary through a searching catechism about Russia.Saturday 26th till the following Tuesday we spent at Dresden, which we greatly admired. We saw the Galleries and Museums, and attended a Wagner opera—Siegfried; but I need not record sights and sentiments shared with so many other travellers. I had some experience at Dresden of the dangers of “Verboten.” I ventured out for a short time alone and felt the risk of being arrested at least twice—once for walking on the wrong side of the bridge, once for standing in the wrong place in the principal church. I committed a third crime, but forget its nature.

Two evenings after our return to Berlin we were invited to another royal concert, and on this occasion I sat at Prince William’s table quite unconscious that he would be hereafter England’s greatest foe! What impressed me most about him was the way in which he asked questions. Someone told him that I held a position in the Primrose League, and he at once wanted to know all about it. The impression left on my mind was that he thought that it brought women too prominently forward.

Next day we visited the various palaces at Potsdam—the Crown Princess had kindly sent word to her gardener Mr. Walker, to meet us, and he proved an amiable and efficient guide. At the Stadt Schloss Frederick the Great’s bedroom, with a silver balustrade, was being prepared for the baptism of Prince William’s fourth son. We had been warned at the Embassy that this expedition would be one of difficulty if not of danger, but we accomplished all successfully save our return from the Wild Park Station at Berlin. Of course this was before the days of motors, so our journey to and from Potsdam was by train, and somehow we missed the Embassy carriage at the station. Innocently we took a fly, but at the Embassy it was discovered that this was a second-class fly, which was considered a most disreputable proceeding. We had not known the various categories of Berlin vehicles.

We had one real piece of good fortune, due to Herbert Bismarck, whom we had known in England and met several times at Berlin. His father had not been present at the opening of the Reichstag which we attended, so we had asked Herbert if he were likely to speak on any following day, for we were anxious to see him and he did not often appear at entertainments or such-like gatherings.

Herbert promised to let us know, but he did better, for he coached his mother what to do should we call, and Lady Ermyntrude took us to see the Princess on Saturday afternoon. Princess Bismarck was most gracious, said Herbert had asked every day if we had called; he was devoted to England and to his collection of photographs of English ladies, which he expected her to distinguish one from the other.

Her sister, Countess Arnim, was also in the room. When we had been talking with them for a few minutes the Princess rang, and beckoned to the servant who answered to come close that she might whisper. Lady Galloway overheard her say in German, “Tell the Prince that the English ladies are here.” After a short interval an inner door opened slowly, and the tall form of the Chancellor appeared. We all jumped up as the Princess announced “Mon Mari.” He shook hands with Lady Ermyntrude, who introduced us each in turn. Hearing that Lady Galloway was “la soeur de Lord Salisbury,” he was anxious to investigate whether she resembled him in face, but decided not very much, as “Lord Salisbury avait les traits trÈs masculins and le visage plus carrÉ,” which he emphasised rather in action than in words. Mary had to sit on one side of him facing the light in order that he might the better make these comparisons. I was at the end of a sofa on his other hand. Lady Galloway then remarked that he had been very kind to her nephew Lord Edward Cecil, who had been in Berlin in the spring of the previous year. Curiously enough, though he had had him to dinner, he did not seem to remember him, though he perfectly recollected Lord Cranborne, who had been with his father at the time of the Congress. Being informed that Lord Edward had been abroad in order to study German, he asked, “Eh bien, a-t-il eu de succÈs?” and remarked that German was a difficult language but less so for the English than for some other people, and that while the English often spoke French more fluently they grasped the German construction better as being more akin to their own. Mary agreed, saying we were of the same race, whereupon he politely thanked her for having recalled and acknowledged the fact. I then remarked that it had been suggested that he wished to change “les caractÈres allemands,” meaning the letters. He misunderstood me to mean the characters of the people, and said that he should hardly be capable of that, but added: “On m’accuse d’avoir changÉ une nation de poÊtes en nation de politiques militaires, mais c’est parce que nous avons ÉtÉ si longtemps l’enclume qu’il fallait le faire. Il faut toujours Être l’enclume ou le marteau, maintenant nous sommes le marteau. Nous Étions l’enclume jusqu’À Leipzig et Waterloo.” I suggested that at Waterloo “nous Étions deux marteaux,” and he answered, bowing, “J’espÈre que nous les serons encore ensemble.” Little did he or I look on twenty-seven years! Bismarck then asked for the English of “enclume”—“car je ne suis pas forgeron,” and when we told him he said that he only knew “l’anglais pour voyager, le russe pour la chasse et le franÇais pour les affaires,” and went on to speak of his son, who, as we all agreed, knew English so well. Like the Princess, he said that Count Herbert was much attached to our country, and added that if he continued to do well and “si je peux guider sa destinÉe j’ai l’intention qu’il aille quelque jour en Angleterre”: meantime he thought that Count Hatzfeldt was getting on all right. Lady Galloway said that he was very popular. Bismarck considered that he did better as Ambassador than in affairs at home, as though he could work well he lacked the power of sticking to his work. I then referred to Mr. Deichmann, a country neighbour of ours who had built a house near Bicester and married a Miss de Bunsen, widow of another German, who had been his friend. Mr. (afterwards Baron) Deichmann and his wife were undoubtedly friends (or henchmen?) of the Bismarcks, and Mr. Deichmann was very proud of a tankard which the Prince had given him. “He gave me a very good horse,” returned the Prince, when I mentioned this, and described him as “bon enfant.” In the light of after experience I feel sure that the Deichmanns were employed to report to the Prince on social matters in England and particularly in diplomatic circles. I do not at all mean that they were anti-English, but that they were “utilised.” They were very intimate friends of the MÜnsters, and somehow kept in with the Crown Princess and her family, although the Princess certainly did not love Bismarck! I well recollect a dinner which (in years later than that of our interview with the great man) the Deichmanns gave at their house in London to reconcile the French and German Embassies. What had been the exact cause of friction I do not know, but the ostensible one was that the then Ambassadress, Madame Waddington, had not worn mourning when some German princelet died. Anyhow, Madame Deichmann had Madame Waddington to dinner, and Marie MÜnster to a party afterwards, and they were made to shake hands and be friends. It was clever of Madame Deichmann, and she well deserved the title of Baroness afterwards conferred upon her. However, I am not altogether sure that Bismarck appreciated the reference to his friends on this occasion—he may not have wished to be thought too intimate! He did not resent it though, and when we rose to take leave gave Lady Galloway many messages for Lord Salisbury, hoping to see him again in Germany or when he, Bismarck, came to England, which he seemed to regard as quite on the cards. He also asked Lady Ermyntrude affectionately after Sir Edward, whom he thought looking rather unwell when he last saw him, though quite himself again when he became excited.

Just as we were going away the Prince asked if we would like to see the room where the Congress had been held. Of course we were delighted, so that he took us in and showed us where they all sat, Lord Beaconsfield on his right hand, and Lord Salisbury, as he particularly pointed out to Lady Galloway, just round the corner. Then Gortschakoff, who, he said, did not take much part, next Schouvaloff, on whom the work fell, but he added in English, “Lord Salisbury squeezed him.” And there, he said, pointing to the other side of the table, “sat the victim of the Congress, the Turk.” So little impression had the victim made upon him that he could not even remember his name—he thought, however, that it was Mehemet—Mehemet something—at last Princess Bismarck helped him out—Mehemet Ali. I believe the head Turk was Karatheodori Pasha, but presume that he was a nonentity; at all events neither Prince nor Princess Bismarck referred to him. Bismarck rather apologised for the bareness of the room, a fine, large, long apartment, and wished that he were equal to giving balls in it—this, with Emperor William’s desire to go to balls, gave a cheerful impression of these old men.

Little did we then realise what our feelings with regard to Germany would be twenty-seven years later! Though I feel ashamed now of the impression made upon me by Prince Bismarck, I cannot help recording that I was foolish enough to write some verses comparing him to Thor, the Scandinavian war-god, with his hammer and anvil, and to add them to my account of our interview.

After our return to England Lord Salisbury told Lady Galloway that he should like to see this account, and when I met him again he said to me with great amusement, “So you have seen Thor?”

Prince Bismarck had an undoubted admiration for Lord Salisbury. Not long after Sir Edward Malet’s appointment to Berlin poor Lady Ermyntrude had a child who did not survive its birth. She was very ill. Some little time afterwards her father, the Duke of Bedford, told me that she had been very anxious to come over to England to be with her parents for her confinement. This was arranged, and then Sir Edward, anxious about her health, wanted to join her. He did not know whether he could rightfully leave his diplomatic duties, but Bismarck reassured him, telling him that so long as Lord Salisbury was in power he need have no apprehension as to the relations between England and the German Empire.

I confess also to having been fascinated by the Crown Prince—afterwards the Emperor Frederick; but he was not in the least like a Prussian—he was like a very gentle knight. Poor man! He had already begun to suffer from the fatal malady to his throat. The last time I spoke with him he came into the box in which we were sitting at the theatre and said, “I cannot talk to you much, my throat is so bad.”

The next event which made a great impression on me in common with every other subject of the British Empire was the first Jubilee of Queen Victoria. Its excitements, its glories, have been told over and over again, but no one who did not live through it can grasp the thrill which ran from end to end of the nation, and no one who did live through it can pass it on to others. The Queen became a tradition while yet alive. When ten thousand children from the elementary schools were entertained in Hyde Park the proceedings concluded by the release of a balloon bearing the word “Victoria.” As it ascended one child was heard gravely explaining to another that “that was the Queen going up to Heaven.” A man (or woman) wrote to the paper that in the evening he had observed that the sunset colours had formed themselves into a distinct arrangement of red, white, and blue! I chanced the week before the Jubilee celebrations to express to a girl in a shop a hope for fine weather. In a tone of rebuke she replied, “Of course it will be fine: it is for the Queen!”—a sentiment more poetically expressed by the French Ambassador Baron de Courcel, who said to me on one rather doubtful day in the week preceding the Diamond Jubilee, “Le bon Dieu nettoie les cieux pour la Reine!” This confidence was fully justified: the weather was glorious. When traffic was stopped in the main thoroughfares, and all streets and houses had their usual dinginess hidden in glowing decorations, London looked like a fairy city—a fitting regal background for an imperial apotheosis—only perchance excelled by the Diamond Jubilee ten years later. “Mother’s come home,” I heard a stalwart policeman say on the day when the Queen arrived in Buckingham Palace. That was just it—Mother had come back to her joyous children.

The Dowager Lady Ampthill, one of her ladies-in-waiting, recounted an incident which I do not think appeared in any of the papers. When the royal train was coming down from Scotland Lady Ampthill awoke in the early summer dawn, and looked out of the carriage in which she had been sleeping. The world was not yet awake, but as the train rushed through the country amongst fields and meadows she was astonished to see numbers of men and women standing apparently silently gazing—simply waiting to see the passing of the Great Queen to her Jubilee. Perhaps the climax was the Thanksgiving Service in Westminster Abbey.

I cannot refrain from inserting here my mother’s lines describing the final scene on that occasion:

“It was an hour of triumph, for a nation
Had gathered round the Monarch of their pride;
All that a people held of great or lovely,
The wise, the world-renowned, stood side by side.
“Lands famed in story sent their Kings and chieftains,
Isles scarcely recked of came our Queen to greet,
Princesses lent the tribute of their beauty,
And laid the flowers of welcome at her feet.

“The organs pealed, the trumpets gave their challenge,
A stormy shout of gladness rent the air,
All eyes beamed welcome, and all hearts bowed with her
When low she bent her royal head in prayer.
“She bent amid a haughty nation, knowing
No sun e’er set upon its widespread towers,
Though right and good had deemed that day the lion
To sheath its claws and robe itself in flowers.
“When CÆsar kept high holiday, when Rome
Called forth her maidens to fill hours of ease,
Pale warriors darkly met in bloody ring
Or some Numidian giant died to please.
“But in that hour supreme when all eyes turned
Upon the Queen’s kind face and gestures mild,
Bright tears unbidden rose, stern bosoms heaved,
They saw her stoop—she stooped to kiss her child.
“Children and children’s children passed before her,
Each one ‘fair History’s mark’ with stately grace;
Mother of many nations, Queen and Empress,
She drew them each within her fond embrace.
“Symbolic kiss—it spoke of early birthdays,
When little hearts had swelled with little joys,
It told of kisses given and counsels tender
To graceful maidens and to princely boys;
“Of fond caresses given in days of gladness
When Hope was young and blue the skies above,
Of kisses interchanged in hours of sorrow
When all seemed shattered save the bonds of love.
“And of that hour of dutiful surrender
Of hearts to Him who gives to Kings to be,
The memory of those kisses grave and tender
Shall knit our hearts, Victoria, still to thee.
“Sceptres outlasting long the hands that held them,
Thrones that have seated dynasties may fall:
Love never dies, his chain is linked to heaven,
The Lord, the friend, the comforter of all.

“Yes! of those hours so joyous and so glorious
When the tall fires prolonged the festal day,
The memory of those kisses gently given
Shall be the dearest we shall bear away.”

On July 2nd I recollect Lord and Lady Lathom coming to spend a Sunday with us at Osterley. He was then Lord Chamberlain—and the poor man seemed utterly exhausted by the strain of the Jubilee festivities though very happy at their success. He spoke among other things of the quaint applications which he had received for permission to attend the service at the Abbey. Amongst others he had one from a lady who said that if she did not obtain a seat a large class would be unrepresented—namely, the class of Old Maids. I think she had one. Even people like my father not connected with the Court were pestered to “use influence”—one lady wrote to him to try and get seats for herself and her father, and wanted them near the preacher as “papa was very deaf.”

Lord Mount Edgcumbe—then Lord Steward—once told me of a trying experience which he had in connection with the Jubilee. There was a great banquet at Windsor and he had to order the seating of the guests, who included various foreign royalties. As is well known in dealing with foreigners the order in which they sit is far more important than the precedence in which they walk into the banqueting hall—if you put two princes or dignitaries one on the right, the other on the left of the table, and both are about equally important, you must take care to put the left-hand man one higher up at the table than the guest on the right. Well, Lord Mount Edgcumbe had ordered this feast of some thirty or forty notabilities or more to complete satisfaction, and had gone to his room to attire himself in all the glory of a High Steward. Just as he was getting into his breeches a message was brought him that two more German princelets had arrived who had to be included in the party. Poor man! he had to hasten to complete his toilet and to rush down and rearrange the whole table.

Talking of German etiquette (I don’t know how far it survives the fall of the Hohenzollerns), we had a most eccentric Teutonic specimen at Osterley that Jubilee summer. Our kind hostess at Berlin—Lady Ermyntrude Malet—introduced to us, by letter, a certain Count Seierstorpff—so we asked him to spend Whitsuntide. We had various other guests, including the Kintores and Lord and Lady Maud Wolmer (now Lord and Lady Selborne) and Lady Maud’s sister, Lady Gwendolen Cecil. Count Seierstorpff’s one form of conversation was to catechise everybody as to the rank of the company—how far they were “ebenbÜrtig.” This culminated in his asking me what Lady Maud would be if Lord Wolmer were to die! I told Lord Wolmer this, and he said, “Couldn’t you tell him that of two sisters in the house, both equally eligible, one is unmarried!”

When on Whit-Monday we drove to see Ham House he kept jumping up on the seat of the landau in which he went with some of the party to inspect the surrounding country—spying, I suppose—and when we were sitting outside the house after dinner he suddenly disappeared and was found to have rushed wildly right round a portion of the grounds. Many years afterwards—1913, I believe—Jersey and I met him again at Cannes. He had grown into a fat, truculent Prussian, and had married a pleasant American wife. Poor people! After the War I asked what became of them. He and his two sons were killed in the War—she had lost money and relations by the sinking of the Lusitania—had gone mad and was in an asylum. I only wonder that he had not gone mad, but suppose there was method in his Osterley madness.

The last festivity in which I took part that summer was the Jubilee Naval Review at Spithead. Jersey went by invitation of the P. and O. Company on a ship of their fleet—the Rome if I recollect rightly—but Lady Galloway and I with her stepfather Lord Derby were invited from Friday, July 22nd, for the Review on Saturday and to spend Sunday on board the Mirror, one of Sir John Pender’s electric-cable ships. I never shared in a more amusing party. There was great confusion with the luggage at Waterloo. I think most people lost something. Lady Galloway and I each had two small boxes and each lost one, but it did not matter, as we were able to supplement each other’s remaining articles. Sir William Russell the journalist lost all his luggage, but it was said that he invariably did so, and he did not seem to mind at all. Lord Wolseley, Lord Alcester, Lord Lymington (afterwards Portsmouth), and Sir William Des Voeux, who had been Governor of Fiji, Lady Tweeddale, and Countess Marie MÜnster were among the guests, and our kind host did everything to make us happy. The Mirror, like the other unofficial ships, remained stationary during the Review, but Lady Galloway and I persuaded the Chairman, Sir John Pender, and the Captain to let a boat take us to the House of Lords ship, the Euphrates, for which we had tickets, and which was to follow the Queen’s Yacht, the Victoria and Albert, down the lines. It was a magnificent sight. I will not attempt to describe it, as it has been far better recorded than any words of mine could achieve. One thing, however, I may note. The then biggest and finest ships were like rather ugly floating forts, and all, or almost all, different from each other. The graceful old men-of-war with long lines and pointed bows were considered obsolete. Ten years later when there was a Review for the second Jubilee all was changed again. I do not mean that the naval architects had reverted to the old models, but the general effect was a return to the old lines, and the fortress ships, almost sunk under the sea, had disappeared. Also they were later on built in classes, so that their fittings were interchangeable and the engineers from one ship could be easily transferred to another.

To return to our personal experiences. The rest of the party had remained on the Mirror, and I rather fancy some of them got a little bored, as their time was less exciting than ours. Anyhow, one or two of the men became exceedingly anxious for our return as the dinner-hour approached, as of course the boat could not fetch us off from the Euphrates till all the proceedings were over and the coast clear. We were told when we did get back, which I do not think was unduly late, that Lord Alcester had expressed a somewhat uncomplimentary opinion of women, emphasised with a capital D! However, everyone enjoyed the illumination of the ships, and particularly the searchlights—then somewhat of a novelty and in which the Mirror specially distinguished herself. On Sunday morning our Chairman, Sir John Pender, was very properly anxious that his guests should enjoy “religious privileges”; and as everyone was content that he should have service on board instead of putting us on shore, it was arranged accordingly. There was a distinct rivalry as to who should officiate. We had not a Bishop nor even one of the lesser lights of the Church among our otherwise representative company—the Captain evidently considered that under these circumstances he was the proper person to read prayers, and he produced prayer-books—I suppose that they were provided by the Electric Company—and Sir John distinctly held that as Chairman it was for him, although a Nonconformist, to conduct the Anglican devotions—so he began. The Captain determined anyhow to act as prompter. They got on all right—till Sir John, a little man, stood up to read the First Lesson. This unfortunately began, “And Satan stood up”—still more unfortunately it appeared that it was the wrong lesson, and the Captain ruthlessly pulled him down. Nevertheless we somehow reached a happy conclusion.

In the afternoon some of us, including Lord Derby, were offered a choice of cruising about among the ships or going over to see Lord and Lady De La Warr at a little house they had somewhere on the coast called Inchmery. We chose the latter, and were sent in a tug called the Undaunted. I tried to immortalise the expedition in a so-called poem of which I only quote a few verses—needless to say Lord Derby was the hero:

“There was an Earl—a noble Earl
Who would a sailor be,
And therefore asked two kindly dames
To take him out to sea....
····
“We’ve often heard of Inchmery,
Its charms and crabs are vaunted;
Bring round the tug and cast her off,
That splendid tug Undaunted!

“The splendid tug sailed fast and far,
She bore as fair a band
As ever dared the heaving deep
And sighed to gain the land.
“She bore our Only General,
Whose prowess must be granted,
For he can always go to sleep
And always wake when wanted.
“A great Colonial Governor
Who would have ruled the main,
Only emotions swelled his breast
Which he could not restrain.”

As to the above, Lord Wolseley explained to us that he shared a characteristic with Napoleon and I rather think Wellington—namely, that he could always go to sleep in a minute when he so desired, and wake with equal celerity. He exemplified this by retiring into the little cabin of the launch when the waves became somewhat restive, and fell fast asleep immediately, seated on a bench. The poor Colonial Governor, Sir William Des Voeux, was less happy—he had to lie prostrate at the bottom of the launch during the short transit until we landed.

The De La Warrs gave us an excellent tea, and we then strolled among the rocks on the shore, where it was supposed that the great Lord Derby wanted to find crabs:

“The time speeds on—and now at length,
By new-born terrors haunted,
Soldier and sage demand the tug—
‘Where is the good Undaunted’?
“What object meets their straining eyes,
From aid and rescue far?
Dauntless perhaps, but useless quite,
She’s stranded on the bar.

“The Captain smiles, ‘It wasn’t I,’
The General’s out of reach,
The noble Earl sits down to play
Aunt Sally on the beach.”

It was a fine sight to see Lord Derby (uncle of the present Lord Derby), regarded by most people as an exceptionally solemn statesman, sitting tranquilly on the shore throwing stones—a sort of ducks and drakes—into the sea—quite unmoved by the tug’s disaster.

However, Lord De La Warr came to the rescue with a launch which took us safely back to the Mirror—minus Sir William, who had found the tug quite bad enough and declined to trust himself to the launch. He remained for the night at Inchmery, and I presume, like the rest of us, found his way back to London next day.

The Lord Derby of this expedition was a great friend of mine. His wife, formerly Lady Salisbury, was Lady Galloway’s mother, and I originally met her staying at Galloway House—after which she invited us several times to Knowsley. I think my first visit there was in 1879 when we met the Leckys—afterwards great friends—and Mr. and Mrs. Robert Lowe (afterwards Lord Sherbrooke). He was an albino and chiefly remembered for his abortive attempt to tax matches, giving rise to the joke “ex luce lucellum.” She was, I believe, a very good-natured woman, but it was funny to see the result of her excessive flow of conversation. She would begin with a circle round her, and person after person would gradually steal away, leaving her at length with only one victim whom amiability or good manners forbade to depart.

I well recollect that Lady Derby won my heart on this occasion by coming to the front door to meet us on arrival, under the evident impression that as a young woman I might be shy coming to a very large house among those, including my host, who were mostly strangers. I dare say that I might have survived the shock, but I was much struck with the courtesy and thoughtfulness of a woman old enough to be my mother, and it was one of the first lessons, of which I have had many in life, of the great effect of the manner in which people originally receive their guests.

Lady Derby was a remarkable woman in many ways. Her heart was first in her husband and children and then in politics. She could never take a lightsome view of life and let it carry her along. She always wished to manage and direct it. Her motives were invariably excellent, but occasionally things might have gone better had she taken less trouble about them. She did great things for her children, who adored her, but even with them it might sometimes have been well had their lives been left a little more to their own discretion. She was kindness itself to me, and I used greatly to enjoy going to Derby House, then in St. James’s Square, where she was always at home to her particular friends at tea-time and where one always had the chance of meeting interesting people.

To conclude my recollections of the Jubilee. I think that it was in the autumn of 1887, and not after the Diamond Jubilee, that we were staying with Lord and Lady Muncaster at their beautiful home in Cumberland. We went to the local church and an Archdeacon was preaching for some Society which involved a plea for missionary effort. He spoke to this effect (of course these are not the exact words): “There are black men, brown men, red men, and yellow men in the British Empire. We must not despise any of them, for we are all children of one Great——” I naturally expected “Father,” but he added “Mother”! So far had Queen Victoria advanced in the tutelary rank! I was told after her death that the Tibetans had adopted her as a protecting deity—and that they attributed the invasion of their country to the fact that she had died, as we had never disturbed them in her lifetime. I record later on how natives in Madras did “poojah” to her statue, offering coconuts and such like tribute—but the Indians also did “poojah” to a steam-engine when they first saw it, so perhaps this was not an extraordinary token of reverence.