FURTHER AUSTRALIAN IMPRESSIONS—NEW ZEALAND AND NEW CALEDONIA

Lady Galloway came out to us towards the end of 1891, and in January she accompanied us on one of our amusing expeditions. This time it was about three days’ tour through a hilly—indeed mountainous country. The hills in Australia do not, as a rule, attain great height; it is because they are so ancient in the world’s history that they have been worn down by the storms of ages and the ravages of time. We went, however, to open another range of caverns of the same kind as the Jenolan Caves. These, the Yarrangobilly Caves, had been explored, and to a certain extent excavated, within more recent years, and were now to be made accessible to tourists.

Mr. Dibbs and other officials and Members of Parliament, notably some Labour Members, came also; and a mixed multitude, said to amount to about five hundred people in all, took part more or less in what was called “The Governor’s Picnic.”

These did not follow us all through the hills, but camped in the valley near the caves. Here a comic incident occurred. For the first part of the tour we were in one district, for the last in another, but somehow in the middle we fell between two stools. In Number One and Number Three we were entertained by hosts who displayed the usual lavish hospitality, and all the way we were conveyed by kindly charioteers, and accompanied by a splendid voluntary mounted escort, but in Number Two, the valley near the caves, something had gone wrong. A wooden hut with several rooms had been prepared for our reception, but no food! It was a sort of debatable ground, and either through misunderstanding or, as was hinted, through local jealousy, it was nobody’s business to act host on the border land.

The poor Premier and other officials were desperate when they discovered our plight, and in the end Dibbs possessed himself of one of the troopers’ swords and rushed off to a party of picnickers who were innocently sitting down to enjoy the supper which they had brought with them, asking what they meant by eating cold mutton while the Governor and his party were destitute!

He returned triumphant with a joint. Meantime someone had produced a packet believed to contain Brand’s Essence. Lady Galloway claimed that she knew how to make soup, so it was handed over to her. She upset it all into a soup plate full of water, and then, and not till then, it was discovered to be tea! However, one way and another, we were provided with sufficient food, and duly inaugurated the caves.

They were beautiful, but never have I been so hard pressed for adjectives. The old guide whom we also met in the Jenolan Caves had been put on duty at the Yarrangobilly excavations for the occasion. He stopped our party of six or seven people before each particular stalagmite or stalactite, and would not move on till each of us in turn had ejaculated “beautiful,” “magnificent,” “stupendous,” or some other such laudatory word as suppressed laughter enabled us to utter, for it became a sort of game not to repeat what our companions had said.

The following day an early start took us to Tumut, where we had a great reception and excellent entertainment. We were, however, not allowed to enter the town for our first greetings. As we drew near it, about 9 a.m. we perceived a table with a white cloth and several men standing round it in a field (“paddock” is the correct term in Australia). The wagonette was stopped, we were requested to get out, and we found that the magistrates of the district were waiting there with champagne, forestalling the reception prepared for us by the Municipality!

Shortly after our return to Hill View, our summer’s home, Lady Galloway, my brother Rupert, and I set off on a trip to New Zealand. In the intervening time the whole of Australia was deeply moved by the terrible news of the death of the Duke of Clarence. The fact of his recent engagement brought home to every household the full force of the tragedy. Addresses of condolence poured in, and the staff was fully occupied in acknowledging them and forwarding them to England.

We sailed from Melbourne, staying for a day at Hobart in Tasmania, where Lady Hamilton, wife of Sir Robert Hamilton the Governor, who was then absent, took excellent care of us. Tasmania appeared to be a happy, friendly little place, but naturally we had no time to see much. The harbour is fine, and the vegetation in the neighbourhood of the city was rich and green with quite an English aspect.

We then took ship for Dunedin, quite in the south of the South Island. It took us about four days and the sea was by no means calm.

Dunedin is a very interesting place and quite lives up to its name, for it is a small edition of Edinburgh. Scotch names over most of the shops, and as we walked past the open door of a boys’ school we heard instructions being given in a very decided Scottish accent. There is a hill which recalls the Castle Hill, and even a manufacture of a very good woollen fabric with a distinctly plaid character. No doubt all this has greatly developed, but I trust it remains true to its Scottish origin. It was founded in 1848 by emigrants representing the Free Kirk of Scotland who left after the separation from the Established Church. There is a story that some of the first settlers put up a notice on their land to the effect that their co-religionists might help themselves to wood but that all others were to pay for it. True fraternal feeling, but it is hardly consonant with usual Scottish shrewdness that they should have expected the other wood-gatherers to volunteer payment.

From Dunedin we went on to Invercargill, the extreme southern point, where the Governor, Lord Onslow, had invited us to join him on the Government yacht, the Hinemoa, and there we found Lady Onslow awaiting us.

We were indeed fortunate in sharing in this expedition. The Onslows, who were on the point of returning to England, had arranged a trip to the Sounds for which they had not previously found time, and it was only in their yacht that we could have fully enjoyed the wonders of these fiords of the Southern Hemisphere. I do not know how it is now, but then excursion steamers only went about four times a year, were very crowded, and entered a limited number of Sounds. Lord Onslow took us into one after another, each more imposing than the last. I was particularly impressed by the desolate grandeur of one said not to have been entered for twenty-five years. The mountainous steeps which guarded it were in great part simply rocky slopes, and it seemed as if the spirits of the place resented our intrusion. In most of the other Sounds the precipitous mountain sides were clad with wildly luxuriant foliage, and land and water were alive with birds, particularly water-fowl. Amongst these were the lovely black-and-white Paradise ducks, which could be caught with long-handled nets something like gigantic butterfly nets.

The precipices enclosing the Sounds rise in some cases five or six thousand feet from the water’s edge, their tops are snow-clad, and great waterfalls thunder into the calm sea-inlets below. The most famous fiord is Milford Sound, where is the great Bowen Fall. So thick is the vegetation that one fallen tree was pointed out to us on which we were assured that 500 different specimens of ferns, creepers, etc., might be counted. We had no time to verify this statement, but a hasty inspection made it seem not at all impossible. One thing is certain—the mountain-side with its impenetrable forest descends so precipitously into the waters below that our yacht of 500 tons was tied up to an overhanging tree and had no need to cast anchor. I think that there are seventeen Sounds in all (I do not mean that we saw so many), but Milford Sound is the only one which could be reached from the land, and even that was, in our time, a matter of great difficulty. For a long time the only inhabitant had been a man called Sutherland, who was considered a hermit and periodically supplied with food. He had discovered about fourteen miles inland the great Sutherland waterfall, which is much higher than Niagara though not nearly so broad.

When we were in Milford Sound we found a small band of convicts who had been lately established there for the purpose of making a road to the Fall. I do not think that they were working very hard, but they had cleared about two miles of footpath through the thicket along which we walked, and a lovely walk it was. Tea at the end, however, was considerably disturbed by sandflies which came round us in a perfect cloud, so that we could only push our cups up under our veils.

New Zealand sandflies are a peculiarly virulent species—a large blister rises directly they bite you, but they have the saving grace that they stop the moment the sun sets. They were, however, the only drawback to this most delightful of trips. While we were fighting them my brother and Lord Onslow’s A.D.C., Captain Guthrie, tried to push on to the Fall. As far as I remember, they got a distant view but had not time to reach it.[1]

Lord Onslow was a most considerate nautical host. We cruised from Sound to Sound by night as a rule, so that we might lie prostrate and asleep on the rough waves which are apt to surround those shores, and during the day we enjoyed the calm waters of the fiord.

We parted from the yacht and from our kind hosts with regret, having arranged to be again their guests at Wellington. Meantime we saw something of the South Island, which, by the way, bears the alternative name of Middle Island. New Zealand is really composed of three islands—North Island, the South or Middle Island, and a little one at the foot named Stewart Island. New Zealand claims dominion over a large number of small islands in the Pacific, to which happily two of the Samoan group over which it exercises a “mandate” have been added since the war. Lord Onslow told us that shortly before our visit he had been to settle the claims of certain rival Queens of Raratonga, one of these dependencies. Having decided in favour of one of these royal ladies, he endowed her with a sundial, as a sign of supremacy, as he thought she could well assert herself by “setting the time of day.” The South Island is full of beauty. We went in a steamer up Lake Wakatipu. I cannot attempt a description of all the charms of this lake and its neighbourhood. Naturally it differed from the Italian Lakes in the absence of picturesque villages (now, by the way, almost swallowed up by the rows of villas which skirt Como and Maggiore), but on the other hand there was the fascination of radiant nature little touched by the hand of man. Probably now there is a happy and growing population near Lake Wakatipu.

Before we left South Island we stayed for a night or two with my cousin, Edmund Parker, a member of Dalgetty’s firm, who then lived at Christchurch. It is curious that whereas Dunedin owed its origin to the Scotch Free Kirk, Christchurch, founded two years later, was a child of the “Canterbury Association,” which, under the auspices of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Lyttelton, and others, sent out a body of settlers largely drawn from Oxford and strictly members of the Church of England. They took up a tract of land and sold it in portions, devoting ten shillings out of every pound received to church and schools; their city was named Christchurch after the Cathedral and College in Oxford, and the surrounding district bears the name of Canterbury. It stands upon the river Avon, the banks of which are planted with willows said to have been originally brought from Napoleon’s Tomb at St. Helena. There is a fine cathedral copied from Caen Cathedral in Normandy, and the whole place recalls some city of the Old World transplanted to a newer and brighter land.

The story goes that some of the original settlers, importing classics into agriculture, “swore at their oxen in Greek”—perhaps someone who heard them quoting Virgil’s Georgics took any foreign tongue for Greek oaths.

After crossing to Wellington and spending a day or two with the Onslows there, we set off again to visit the famous hot-lake district in the Northern Island. Our headquarters were at Rotorua and Whakarewarewa, from both of which we visited the marvellous geysers, springs, and hot lakes with which the district abounds.

The great Pink and White Terraces had been destroyed by a mud volcano some years before our visit, but we saw in many places how similar formations were being reproduced by the chemical substances thrown up by the springs, making polished pink-and-white pavements and even terraces on a small scale. To see the natural hot fountains starting up from the pools among the rocks was entrancing. Some of the columns play at regular intervals, some only occasionally; one irregular performer shoots up a column of boiling water to a height sometimes attaining 100 feet. One was called the Prince of Wales’s Feathers, as the water sprang up in that form.

New Zealand is far more prolific in legends than Australia; the Maoris being of a higher type than the Australian aboriginal, naturally handed down semi-historical, semi-mythical traditions of their ancestors. Among the prettiest and best-known tales is that of Hinemoa. This young lady was the daughter of the chief of a powerful tribe whose headquarters was at Whakarewarewa. Among the many suitors attracted by her beauty she preferred a youth named Tutaneki; but though his mother was the daughter of the chief of the Island of Mokoia, situated in the centre of the Lake of Rotorua, his father was a commoner, and Hinemoa’s father was furious at the idea of a mÉsalliance. He dared Tutaneki again to set foot on the mainland, and caused all the canoes to be hauled up on the beach to keep Hinemoa from attempting to join her lover. Tutaneki, however, was an accomplished musician, and every evening the strains of his lute floated so sweetly over the waters of the lake that Hinemoa could no longer stand separation. Taking six empty gourds as an improvised life-belt, she swam the three miles dividing her from music and love. Fortunately, though numbed by her exertions, she landed on the island where a hot spring, still called Hinemoa’s Bath, wells up near the beach, and a plunge into it soon revived her. More successful than Leander, she was united to her lover and lived with him peacefully on Mokoia. Her father appears to have reconciled himself to the inevitable.

At one moment we almost thought that we should have, in a minor degree, to emulate the performance of Hinemoa. We arranged to row across the Lake to a spot on the shore opposite our hotel, where we were to be met by a “coach” (as the ordinary vehicles were called) bringing our luncheon. Somehow first our rudder broke away and then the boatman seemed to lose his head—and anyhow lost one of his oars. We were thereby left helplessly floating at no great distance from the beach, and, what was worse, with no apparent possibility of securing our luncheon. However, my brother, bolder than Tutaneki, saved Lady Galloway and myself from imitating Hinemoa. He plunged into the water and managed to wade ashore, and we soon had the satisfaction of seeing him return carrying the luncheon basket on his head, and having sent a messenger to summon another boat to our rescue.

One particularly fascinating feature in the Hot Lakes District was the charm of open-air hot baths. Certain pools were surrounded by high palisades rendering them absolutely private. You secured a key and locked yourself in, when you could disport yourself in natural hot water and wade about under the trees to your heart’s content. The water was of a delightful temperature, but certainly impregnated with chemicals, as I found the skin peeling off my feet after two or three such baths.

We arrived at Auckland in time to witness the final send-off of that most popular Governor, Lord Onslow, with special tributes to Lady Onslow and her baby son Huia, who, having been born during his parents’ tenure of office, had been endowed with the Maori chieftain’s distinctive badge, the feather of the Huia, and was christened by that name. Whenever he appeared the Maoris shouted “Huia! Huia!” and, most tactfully, the child showed a preference for brown men over white. Poor Huia grew into a splendid and talented youth, but was disabled by an accident while diving. Despite his crippled condition he gallantly pursued his scientific studies till released by death in 1922.

Of all Rudyard Kipling’s Songs of the Cities I think the Song of Auckland best conveys the claim of that vision of beauty:

“Last, loneliest, loveliest, exquisite, apart—
On us, on us the unswerving season smiles,
Who wonder ’mid our fern why men depart
To seek the Happy Isles!”

Truly, New Zealand must have waited while Providence bestowed gifts on many lands, and have then received a special bounty from each store of blessing. The strength of the mountain pass, the plunge of the waterfall, the calm mirror of the lake, the awe of the forest, the glow of the flowers, the fertile pasture for the flock, the rich plains for the corn—gold, coal, and Kauri gum, the marvels of her springs—all these and much more are given to her children, together with one of the most perfect climates on the face of the earth. She has but one drawback—namely, that she is ringed round by some of the stormiest oceans known to man. Perhaps were it not so too many eager pilgrims would seek this far-off Paradise!

Lord and Lady Onslow returned with us to Sydney Government House, and soon after left with their family for England. Lady Galloway in turn sailed in the spring (Australian autumn), to my great regret. She made the voyage in a Messageries boat, accompanied by the very pretty daughters of Lord Southesk, Helena and Dora Carnegie.

In July of this year (1892) my husband and I were fortunately able to make a most interesting journey to the French Colony of New Caledonia. As is well known, certain questions had arisen from time to time between Australia and New Caledonia, as the former Government asserted that convicts escaped from the French penal colony were apt to take refuge on Australian shores; and since the total cessation of convict transportation from Great Britain Australians were, not unnaturally, additionally sensitive to their arrival from any other quarter.

Apart from this, however, the relations between the British and French “outposts of Empire” were very friendly and a good many Australians had established themselves as free settlers in Noumea, the capital of New Caledonia; and when the French Government heard that Jersey contemplated a visit they sent word (as we learnt later on) that a generous sum was to be spent on the reception of the first Australian Governor to undertake the voyage. Owing to the fact that he had to await permission from home before absenting himself from New South Wales, and as there was then no cable to Noumea, we were unable to name an exact date for our arrival, which after some three days’ voyage took place on July 13th. We sailed in a Messageries boat, the Armand BÉhic, very luxurious and with most obliging officers, but much too narrow in proportion to its length, which caused it to roll even when the sea was perfectly calm. This was a common fault with Messageries boats in those days. Probably also it was deficient in cargo, as, despite a large Government subsidy, this line was run to New Caledonia at a considerable loss. I wrote to my mother describing our arrival as follows:

To resume my letter:

I shall not easily forget that household. It is hardly necessary to say that the Governor, M. Laffon, was a bachelor, a young man, clever and charming but evidently unaccustomed to domestic details. I believe that he was appointed through the influence of the Paris Rothschild, who was a friend of his father, and who had a predominating share in the nickel mines which constitute the great wealth of New Caledonia. He, however, was a civilian and had no voice in the appointment of the Private Secretary and Military A.D.C. who constituted his staff, and who treated their Chief with a profound disregard which scandalised our Private Secretary, George Goschen.

M. Laffon got up at any hour in the morning to take us to “objects of interest” before the heat of the day, but the staff did not trouble themselves to appear till about noon, and when a ceremonious dÉjeuner was given we found that the Minister of the Interior was running round to put the name-cards on the places of the guests. These young men told Mr. Goschen that when they did not want to go anywhere they pleaded headache and wondered if their Governor were surprised at the frequency of these ailments. “But don’t you have a headache?” added one of them. “An A.D.C.,” retorted our virtuous Briton, “never has a headache.” “But you have sentiments?” “An A.D.C.,” was the reply, “has no feelings.” “You must feel unwell sometimes?” “Never more than one out of four of us at a time.”Poor George Goschen was nearly crippled with rheumatism while at Noumea, but would rather have died on the spot than have omitted to set a good example by following us everywhere in a pelting rain. Nevertheless when they deigned to accompany us the two Frenchmen made themselves very agreeable.

Our English footman, originally a boy from Middleton village, was considerably taken aback when he found that the only attendance in our rooms was the sudden inroad of a party of kanakas (natives) who ran in with feather brushes, stirred up a little dust, and rapidly disappeared. “Well, Henry,” said Mr. Goschen, “either you or I will have to make His Excellency’s bed.” And, stimulated by this and by my maid’s example, Henry turned to, and we were made perfectly comfortable.

Fortunately for the peace of mind of our kind hosts, the Government and Municipality, we came in for the FÊtes de Juillet, so though they could not carry out the special entertainments projected for us, they had three balls, and some races, already arranged. It was rather strange to have the music supplied by a Convict Band in their penal garb, but it was very good.

In the middle of one of the balls we were summoned to witness a “pilou-pilou,” that is a native dance by the kanakas—merry-looking people with tremendous heads of wool standing straight up. They danced a kind of ballet with much swaying of their bodies and swinging of their weapons, which they afterwards presented to me. I did not much like taking them, but was assured that it was the custom.

These kanakas were darker and of a more negro type than the Samoans whom we afterwards visited, but not so dark as the Australian aboriginals, nor so savage as the inhabitants of the New Hebrides or New Ireland.

We saw two of their villages, and their system of irrigation by little watercourses on the hill-side, which showed considerable capacity for agriculture. The Roman Catholic missionaries claimed to have converted about ten thousand of them, and it was curious to find in a dark little hut of bark and reeds, with little inside except mats and smoke, two or three Mass books and a crucifix. Some of the priests whom we met had gone into the wilds of New Caledonia before the French annexed it in 1853, and regardless of danger had worked there ever since.

We were taken to see the chief buildings of the Convict Settlement, which appeared to be large and well planned, but one had rather a painful shock when the first object pointed out was the site of the guillotine. Naturally the convicts were divided into different classes. We entered one long building where a number were confined in common, and seemed fairly cheerful, but others were in little separate cells from which they were only brought out, and then alone, for a very short time each day. Some had only a brief period of such solitary confinement, but in one small cell we found a very big man who almost seemed to fill it with his body when he stood up at our entrance. He had been condemned to seven years of this penance for having assaulted a waiter. He implored the Governor either to have him executed at once, or to allow him a little more liberty. I backed up his plea, and M. Laffon promised some consideration, which I trust was effectual.

The worst thing we saw was the lunatics’ prison, inhabited by men who had gone mad since their arrival in the Island. One man had a most refined and intellectual head; he had been a distinguished lawyer at Lyons and was transported for having killed a man who, if I recollect rightly, had been his sister’s lover. No wonder that shame, exile, and his surroundings had driven him mad. Another was much happier; he was quite harmless, and was allowed to wander about and indulge his mania, which was the decoration of the little chapel. I have no reason at all to think that the convicts were ill-treated, but we did not see the place where the worst criminals were confined, and one of the French ladies mysteriously remarked, “Ils ont des temps durs ceux-lÀ.”

I always feel, however, that philanthropists who are ready to condemn the treatment of convicts in any part of the world fail to realise the difficulty of keeping order amongst large bodies of men, most of whom, at all events, have criminal instincts. The heroes of novels and plays who undergo such imprisonment are almost invariably represented as unjustly convicted, probably scapegoats for real criminals, and all our sympathy is evoked on their behalf. No doubt, particularly in the early days of Australia, there were many cruelties and much undue severity, but the comparatively few officers and men who were put to guard and govern masses of criminals had no easy task. They were far removed from any possibility of summoning help in cases of mutiny, and probably many of them deteriorated mentally and physically through much anxiety and the hardships which they themselves had to encounter.

On the other hand, I heard many authentic stories in Australia of the kind treatment and good behaviour of the convicts who were sent out from England for slight offences, and who became steady and law-abiding settlers, and were particularly careful in the education and upbringing of their children. One gentleman told me of a dentist who refused a fee for treating him because his father, who had been an official in convict days, had been so good to the dentist’s ticket-of-leave family. Of course it seems very hard of our ancestors to have transported men and women for stealing bread or poaching, and I am not justifying the penal laws of the eighteenth century, but being what they were I am not at all sure that the majority of those who were sent to Australia were not better off than they would have been shut up in the prisons of those days in England, and certainly their children had a much better start in life. I believe that the great hardship was the voyage out in a slow sailing ship, overcrowded, with little fresh air and the constant risk of food and water running short. Once landed, there were many chances of prosperity for the well-behaved. I say nothing of the real black sheep who were relegated to Port Arthur or Norfolk Island. It is a mercy to think that those days are past and over.

To return to New Caledonia. There were elaborate arrangements for work in the nickel mines, and as assigned servants to free settlers whom the French Government were very anxious to plant on the land. I do not think that they were very successful in inducing large numbers to undertake the long voyage, though there were a few Bretons on our ship. A good many Australians, however, were established in trade in Noumea.

Words fail to do justice to the kindness of the New Caledonian French—they made every exertion to render us happy, and completely succeeded. When we left they robbed their Museum of a whole collection of native curiosities which they put on board ship with us, despite our protestations. One quaint incident perhaps deserves record. Just as we departed I received an imposing-looking missive written in flowery English, which proved to be a letter from a French poilu. He informed me that he had been in Australia and had there married a girl whose name he gave me. She was then living in Victoria, and if I remember rightly was half Belgian, half British. A small child had been the offspring of the union, but “France had called on him to serve,” and though his time of service overseas was nearly up, and though he wished to return to Australia to “stand by his wife,” France saw otherwise and proposed to ship him back to Marseilles; he was in despair until I had appeared “like a star of hope upon the horizon.”

When we were back at Sydney I wrote to the Charity Organization at Melbourne asking if they could find out anything about the lady. Oddly enough she was actually employed in the C.O.S. Office, and was said to be quite respectable, though there appeared to have been a little informality about the “marriage lines.”

I then wrote to the very amiable French Colonel at Noumea and asked whether under the circumstances he could see his way to letting the lovelorn swain return to Australia instead of to France. With prompt courtesy he granted my request, and named some approximate date for the man’s arrival in Melbourne. Thereupon I wrote a further letter to the C.O.S., asking that they would be prepared for a marriage ceremony about which there should, this time, be no mistake. The end of the romance, at all events of this chapter, was that I received a gushing epistle of gratitude signed by “two young hearts,” or words to that effect, “made for ever happy.” I never saw the youth and maiden whom I had thus been instrumental in launching among the eddies and currents of matrimony, but I trust that the little girl was sufficient to justify a somewhat blind experiment.

A great tragedy threw a shadow over our sojourn in N.S.W.

One of our aides-de-camp was Lord Ancram, elder son of Lord Lothian, and a particularly attractive young man. He was a great favourite in Sydney and much in request at gatherings of every description, being good-looking and having charming manners. In June 1892 he and my brother were invited to join a shooting party in the country. He went off in high spirits, and when he came to say good-bye to me, knowing him to be rather delicate, I cautioned him to be sure and put some kind of bedding under as well as over him if sleeping out at night. This he promised to do. I never saw him again. It was customary in Australia to shoot riding. He and his companions got off their horses for luncheon, and put their guns on the ground. On remounting one of the party seems to have picked up a loaded gun in mistake for his own which he had discharged. Handled incautiously this gun went off, and poor Ancram was shot through the head, dying instantaneously. I shall never forget the universal sorrow not only in Government House, but among the whole warm-hearted community of New South Wales. It was some comfort that the Admiral commanding the Station, Lord Charles Scott, was Ancram’s uncle, and he and his nice wife were able to help, and advise as to the best means of breaking the news to the poor parents and relatives in England.Poor George Goschen, who was devoted to Ancram, was almost prostrated by grief. It was rather curious that not very long before the accident Ancram told me that he had dreamt that he found himself back in his old home, but that his brother had taken his place and that nobody recognised him or took any notice of him!

Treasures of the Old World are sometimes found at the Antipodes. On one of our tours, at a township called Bungendore, a large wooden box appeared unexpectedly in our private railway car. Opened, it was found to contain a letter from a Mr. Harold Mapletoft Davis explaining that he confided to our care relics from Little Gidding, brought from England long before by his parents. His mother, Miss Mapletoft, was directly descended from Dr. Mapletoft and from his wife, the only Miss Colet who married. In the box were a copy of the famous Harmonies, and bound volumes of manuscript writings by Mary Colet and her sisters. The fine binding of The Harmonies, now in the British Museum, was said to have been executed by Mary Colet herself; she did not die young as represented in “John Inglesant,” but lived to a good old age. There was also a lovely Charles I embroidered miniature chest of drawers, containing a boar’s tooth, a handkerchief with the royal monogram, and other relics. Charles I left this at Little Gidding during his troubles. It was ultimately purchased by Queen Victoria, and is now at Windsor.