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Readings for Evert Dat in Lent. i2mo, 5^. 

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I HAVE been entrusted by my aunt, Miss 
Elizabeth Sewell, with her autobiography, 
and feel that I am carrying out her wishes 
in having it published, so that many to whom 
the record of her life will be of interest may 
have it in her own words. Some of my 
friends have urged me to add to this record 
further extracts from her journal, so I have 
inserted them with the chapters in the auto- 
biography, to correspond as nearly as possible 
with regard to dates. Any account of her life 
would be incomplete without some notice of 
her educational and literary work, and of the 
deep interest she manifested in all schemes 
for women's welfare ; therefore a few additions 
will be found at the end of the book. The 
following have kindly contributed papers on 
these subjects : Miss H. J. Harvey, who was 


long associated with Miss Sewell in the working 
of St. Boniface School ; Mrs. Reginald Clayton, 
who rendered her valuable service in some 
of her literary work; Miss Kate Whitehead, 
one of Miss SewelFs former pupils, who adds 
a paper on the latter years of her life ; and 
the Kev. Canon Feilden, one of her oldest 
Bonchurch friends, who concludes with a few 
touching words upon her last days. To one 
and all of these, and to Mr. A. Llewelyn 
Roberts for his assistance whilst the work 
was passing through the press, I owe a debt 
of gratitude. 

I cannot close these few words without 
alluding to the memorial which has been 
raised to my aunt by very many of her 
special friends, pupils, and others who only 
knew her through her writings. The form 
the memorial has taken touches me too deeply 
and personally to allow me to say more about 
it, than that, if she could know, as perhaps 
she may, of the way in which their regard 
and affection have been shown, she would 
gratefully appreciate their action. That her 
blessing is resting on it is my firm convic- 




Pbefacb V 



n. School Life 8 

m. Youthful Imfbessions 16 

IV. A Rigid Disciplinabian 24 

V. Schooldays at Bath 81 

VI. HoMB Education 87 

VII. Life in the Isle of Wight 44 

Vni. My First Litebary Essay 53 

IX. The Oxford Leaders 60 

X. An Anxious Time 66 

XI. An Educational Effort 70 

Xn. The Genesis of Ajuy Hebbebt and Gebtbude - 76 

XTTT. Life at Bonchurch 83 

XIV. Laneton Pabsonage and Mabgabet Peboival - 96 

Extracts from the Journal — Bydal Mount - 108 

• • 





EZTBAOTS FROM THB JOUBNAL, 1845-1848 - - 119 

XVI. Teaching and Litbbatubb 140 

Extracts fbom thb Journal, 1850-1860 - - 150 

XVII. The Founding of Badley College - - . 164 

Extracts from the Journal, 1864-1885 - • 170 

XVIII. My Later Books 196 

XIX. St. Boniface School 209 

XX. Literary and Personal Influence ... 225 

XXI. Later Days 289 

Index 248 

Portrait Jrom a Photograph by Messrs. Hughes d MvilinSt 
Byde, Isle of Wight Frontispiece 


Elizabeth Missing Sewell was one of a 
family of twelve children, seven sons and five 
daughters, and a descendant of one of the 
Westmoreland lairds who had the privilege of 


Page 1, line 4 of Introduction, for Westmorland Lairds rtad 
Cumberland Yeomen. 

xooim^iiuc; lu v^Aiui-u iur »u uxixuyj yt^rs ill U18 

life rendered him unfit for parish work, and 
his ignorance of the ways of the world, com- 
bined with college habits, not only rendered 
him a prey to imposition of every kind but 
reduced him in a very few years to a com- 
paratively indigent state. 

Her maternal grandfather, Mr. Edwards, 



was also a clergyman and belonged to Pem- 
broke College, Oxford ; for some years he was 
chaplain on board the Centaury man-of-war, 
and subsequently perpetual curate of Newport 
in the Isle of Wight. 

Her parents, Thomas Sewell and Jane 
Edwards, were married in Newport Church, 
Isle of Wight, on 29th March, 1802. They 
took a ready-furnished house in Crocker 
Street, Newport, one which, as described by 
Mrs. Sewell in the account which she had 
begun of her early life, "in those days was 
thought quite the residence of a gentleman, 
but which now would be thought very diflFerent 
indeed. It was called Shrewsbury House, 
from the circumstance of the first occupier 
being the mess of a regiment sent to New- 
port, No. 86." In this house they remained 
several years ; their establishment was small 
but sufficient for their needs. Manners and 
customs were in those days very diflFerent 
from what they are now, and society in the 
town of Newport was very limited; few, if 
any, dinner parties were given, but card parties, 
with tea and coflFee and large suppers later in 
the evening, were very frequent. In these 


they joined, not feeling it right to enter into 
more expensive pleasures. 

Children were born to them in quick suc- 
cession ; one daughter lived but a brief span, 
and a son died in his twentieth year. In 1807, 
shortly before the birth of their fourth son, 
Henry, they moved into another house in 
Crocker Street, to which they added a new 
dining-room, large and commodious, looking 
into St. Cross Grove. Their second son, 
William, who was bom on the 23rd January, 
1804, was the founder of Radley College, and 
the sixth son, James Edwards, held the post 
of Warden of New College, Oxford, for forty- 
three years, and that of Vice-Chancellor of 
the University for four years, from 1874 to 
1878. The four surviving girls were the 
youngest members of the family, and the 
eldest of these, Ellen Mary, was the constant 
companion and sharer in the joys and sorrows 
of her sister Elizabeth Missing. 

The fact that Elizabeth Sewell passed nearly 
a complete century within the narrow confines 
of the Isle of Wight accounts for the mere 
glimpses which she gives us of some of the 
great minds of the middle of the nineteenth 


century, for it prevented her from mixing in 
literary society. To the world this is no 
small loss, for the pages of her autobiography 
show a grasp of character and an occasional 
flash of humour which would have made any- 
thing she had written of the Uterary world 
of her day worth reading. 

The brunt of many years of trouble fell 
mainly upon her shoulders, but though through 
the story of her life there rings a tone of 
sadness there also sounds a note of courage, 
whence issued a life's accomplishment which 
does not always fall to the lot of others 
equally equipped but more happily placed. 
The story of her youth, as she tells it, is both 
instructive and interesting, and we are left 
with a wish that she had been less reticent 
of her career as a teacher, in which her brave- 
ness, keen observation, and common-sense 
enabled her to do such fruitful work. 

A. LL. E. 



Ascension Day, let June, 1848. 

Yesterday fortnight, as Ellen ^ and I were talking 
to my dearest mother in the full knowledge that, 
hmnanly speaking, her life could not be prolonged 
many days, probably not many hours, she mentioned, 
as one of her last wishes and requests, that I would 
try and finish an account she had begun of her early 
life, and other family circumstances of interest. 

Of course I gave the promise, though I felt at the 
time it would be very difficult to keep it. The history 
of a family, told by one of its members, must, in a 
certain degree, resolve itself into the history of the 
person who vmtes. This must especially be the case 
now, because, as nearly the youngest of twelve chil- 
dren, my recollections cannot go back very far to the 
childhood of the others. I can only state what I have 
heard, and relate my own impressions ; and a great 
part of the circumstances, which would have been 
important in my dear mother's eyes, passed before I 

^ Elizabeth Missijig Sewell's sister and constant companion. 




could understand them. Still I would try to do my 
best, because I have promised, and, moreover, I have 
often felt that many things in one's life were worth 
recording. We have all as a family been singularly 
cared for, and, on looking back, I can trace the most 
clear working of God*s Providence for our good, both 
as regards myself and others. It seems as if I could 
see the meaning of almost every joy and every sorrow. 
I can just recollect dimly what was quite my infancy 
at home. My father had removed to a larger and 
more convenient house in the High Street (Newport, 
Isle of Wight), before I was bom. It adjoined Mr. 
James Clarke's, and had a garden stretching back 
into Lugley Street. Our nursery was at the top of 
the house, and commanded a bright view for a town, 
as we could see beyond our garden to the hill on 
which the buildings of Parkhurst Barracks now 
stand. We had a very kind though rather rough- 
mannered nurse (Sally Pond), who was devoted to 
us. I was very small for my age — ^my brothers used 
to call me Blighted Betty — and Sally taught me my 
letters by putting me upon a little chair on the table 
whilst she washed up the tea things. I can remember 
also a very early religious taste — I really cannot call it 
more, for it certainly did not influence my life, as I 
gave way to a very violent temper, and was extremely 
self-willed. (My mother used to say she had had 
the three Furies in her family — ^William, Emma, and 
myself.) But in feeling I was always open to reUgious 
impressions, and would lie in my cot, whilst the nurse 


was preparing to dress us. and say Uttle prayers and 
hymns to myself, with a certain sense of comfort and 

We were all sent to school very early. It was a 
day school, but there were also a very few boarders. 
The school was kept by a Miss Crooke, a friend of 
my mother's, and the daughter of a post-captain in 
the navy. Ellen went when she was only three years 
and* a half old. I and my two younger sisters waited 
till we were four. 

Miss Crooke had a very independent mind, and was 
very clever naturally, though she could never have 
had much education. In temper she was hasty and 
capricious; her disposition was generous; but she 
was not particularly refined. Independence of spirit 
led her to set the world and its opinions at defiance. 
She insisted upon certain strict rules of dress, such 
as not wearing coloured sashes, or lace, or embroidery, 
and having the hair cut close like boys. She was a 
Eadical in politics, and I have heard of her standing 
at an open window wearing a bright blue bow on the 
day of a violently contested election when the town 
was in an uproar about the Keform Bill ; but she 
was an absolute despot in her own person, and when 
urged beyond her patience to break her rules, she 
was heard one day to exclaim, " Not if the King of 
England himself were to ask me ! " Still she had 
very noble qualities, strong religious principles, and 
a love of truth carried even to an extreme. She was 
unfitted to manage any but very young children, to 


whom she would sometimes show tenderness, and in 
after years we suffered much from her peculiarities ; 
but we were too much afraid of her to complain of 
anything we did not like, and my dear mother never 
knew, until we were grown up and had left the 
school, all we endured there. 

The contrast between school and home was very 
great. Home was a paradise of freedom. My 
mother insisted indeed upon implicit and instan- 
taneous obedience, but she never fretted us, and she 
entered into all our amusements. There was much 
variety in our life from the number of persons, con- 
nected with my father's business,^ who came to the 
house. I can understand now what a charm my 
mother's ease of manner and exceeding kindness of 
heart were to every one. She must have been natur- 
ally very clever ; for, although she had received little 
or no education, her knowledge of books, and her 
memory for poetry and apt quotations, were quite 
remarkable. She often talked to us of her studies 
as a girl ; how she used not only to devour novels, 
and read Sir Charles Grandison every winter, but 
how she also taught herself a little French, learned 
by heart long passages from the great poets, some- 
times read history, and especiaUy deUghted in 
Bayley*s Dictionary, with its long meanings and 
rules for pronunciation. The greater part of what 
may be termed her education was gained, I imagine, 
from constant intercourse with my father and the 
young men articled to my great-uncle, Bichard 



Clarke, who was himself a man of literary tastes, 
and assisted Sir Eichard Worsley in writing his 
History of the Isle of Wight. 

Mr. Clarke was the friend and correspondent of 
Pennant, the well-known traveller, and of Gilpin, 
the artist of the New Forest scenery, who gave him 
several of his drawings. My great-uncle added a 
manuscript volume to the History of the Isle of 
Wight, which is now in our possession. We have 
besides a set of Piranesi engravings, which came to 
us through him, and must have been given to him by 
Sir Kichard Worsley in acknowledgment of literary 
assistance ; also a copy of the Museum, Worsleyanum 
—a splendid specimen of printing, engraving, and 
binding, upon which Sir Kichard must have spent a 
very large sum in his wish to preserve a record of the 
treasures of ancient sculptures, etc., which he brought 
from Italy, and which were placed in the saloon at 
Appuldurcombe Park. But — sic transit gloria mundi 
— ^Appuldurcombe is now turned into a Boys* School,^ 
and Sir Eichard Worsleys treasures have passed into 
the possession of the Pelham family, and many have 
been removed to their seat, Brocklesby, in Lincoln- 
shire. Sir Eichard Worsley had no children, and 
his niece. Miss Simpson, who inherited a large 
portion of his property, married Mr. Pelham, after- 
wards the first Earl of Yarborough. She died before 
the earldom was bestowed. 

^ It is now (1907) and for some years past has been the home of a 
CSommonity of exiled French Benedictine Monks. 


A slight connection through the Burleighs of the 
New Forest existed between my mother's family — 
the Clarkes, and the Worsleys of Stenbury — a 
younger branch of the Appuldurcombe Worsleys. 
It was just sufficient to induce us to go into mourn- 
ing for one another. So far as I have been able to 
make out, Mary Worsley, daughter of Mr. David 
Worsley of Stenbury, married a Colonel Burleigh; 
and Colonel Burleigh's sister married Mr. Kobert 
Clarke, father of Mr. Eichard Clarke. 

At any rate the connection was amusingly recog- 
nised (so my mother used to tell us) at the time that 
Sir Richard Worsley — the great man of the Isle of 
Wight, to whom every one bowed down — was engaged 
in writing the History of the Island, When Uncle 
Richard Clarke was in Sir Richard's good graces he 
was addressed as ** my dear cousin," but if a difference 
arose, it was ** my dear Mr. Clarke ". 

But to return to my own story. The young men 
articled to Mr. Richard Clarke took an interest in 
books, and would lay bets about certain passages in 
classical and noted modem authors ; and this led to 
discussions, from which my mother doubtless gained 
a good deal of varied information. Yet it is incom- 
prehensible to me how she could have become what 
she was, for she was exposed to great temptations. 
She was very pretty, and there was a great deal of 
flirting with the officers who were at that time sta- 
tioned at the barracks ; and I believe she might have 
been married many times before she Anally accepted 


my father. I remember her telling us of her laugh- 
ing girlish impertinence towards an old French 
gentleman, one of the emigrants of the First Bevolu- 
tion. He was joking with her, I imagine, and she 
insisted upon his telling her whether he would not 
like to marry her. He looked at her, and replied, 
'' Show me a pistol in one hand, and Miss Jane 

Edwards in the other, and rather than be shot ! " 

and he shrugged his shoulders, and left her to draw 
the conclusion. I daresay many more such stories 
might have been told of heir, for her spirits must 
have been, as a young person, almost uncontrollable, 
since all the troubles of a life of seventy-six years 
had not entirely subdued them. I have heard her 
say that my great-aunt, Mrs. Lydia Clarke, used to 
prophesy of her that she never could come to any 
good. She lived to be the support and comfort of 
the whole family. 



My mother had extremely strict notions upon all 
questions of propriety, yet she could not well have 
gained them from the state of society at that time, 
or from the tone of her own family. There was an 
unfortunate marriage in the case of a near relative^ 
and to avoid meeting the lady, whose reputation was 
doubtful, or being obliged to entertain her, she gave 
up for many years all general society. There were 
dinner parties, but only for gentlemen. Persons of 
all ranks came to the house, and my mother showed 
attention to every one, but she managed admirably 
as to her intimate friends and acquaintances — ^guard- 
ing us from the gossip of a country town. As little 
girls, we were kept in the background when strangers 
were present ; but my mother devoted her evenings 
to us, helping us in games, etc. ; and when we went 
to bed she would go upstairs with us and read to us 
whilst we were being undressed, because she did not 
like us to run the risk of being frightened by ghost 
stories told by the nursery-maids, as she had been 
once frightened herself. I can recall now the 



pleasure with which (taking my turn with my sisters) 
I used to jump up into her lap and listen whilst she 
read to us Anson's Voyages, or Lemprier's Tour to 
Morocco, or the History of Montezuma. When she 
had finished, we all, kneehng around her, said our 
prayers and went to bed happy. 

Our house in the High Street was a very pleasant 
one. My father added to it from time to time, and 
took in a large space of pretty garden at the back. 
My mother, however, could not bear going to it, she 
was so fond of the house she left, which had a much 
larger drawing-room. She told me that she cried 
the first day they took possession of the house in 
High Street. I was bom in this house, 19th Febru- 
ary, 1815, and lived in it for seven and twenty years, 
till my father's death. 

My father was a very different person from my 
mother. He was irritable and cold-mannered, but 
most benevolent and really tender-hearted. His 
kindness of disposition was indeed almost a fault, for 
it led him into imprudence, and he would sometimes 
do what might be really an injury to his own family, 
rather than favour them against the interests of 
others. We were all afraid of him, though he scarcely 
ever punished us. Yet one of our chief delights, as 
we grew up, was to ride with him over the farms 
which, as agent to many landlords, he was accus- 
tomed to visit. He scarcely spoke to us, but we 
trotted or ambled by his side through the island lanes, 
and were quite satisfied. 


When I look back upon those days the style of 
our education seems strange almost beyond belief. 
Now, girls, as a rule, are supposed to learn every- 
thing, and be made to understand everything. At 
Miss Crooke's we were taught to read and spell 
correctly, to write and cipher ; we learned Pinnock's 
Catechisms of History and Geography, and parsed 
sentences grammatically. For religious instruction 
we read portions of the Old Testament, and the 
Gospels, and Acts of the Apostles in a class every 
day, using Mrs. Trimmer's " Selections " ; and on 
Sundays we repeated the Collect and learned Watts's 
hymns, besides going through the Church Cate- 
chism. We also had Crossman*s Catechism given us 
as an explanation of the Church Catechism ; but this 
Sunday work refers to an after period of our school life. 
At home we were only expected to repeat the Cate- 
chism as we learned it, by very slow degrees ; and 
with a Noah's Ark to amuse us, and the pleasure of 
dining in the parlour, and looking at the pictures in 
a large Bible, Sunday was a happy, bright day 
though the church services were very dreary. In 
addition to the EngUsh lessons at Miss Crooke's, we 
were taught music and drawing by very indifferent 
country masters, and had French lessons from a very 
courteous old gentleman, the Abb6 de Grenthe, who 
had left his country during the First Eevolution and 
set up a school in Newport. He told us half the 
words in the lesson we were expected to repeat, and 
# translated one word before us as we read to him, so 


that we were certain of not making a mistake. We 
were required to put French into English, but never 
English into French, and thus had but little difficulty 
in any way. 

This amount of instruction, with the addition of 
an occasional lesson in the working of problems on 
the globes, from our chief writing master (the head 
of the school, which had once been the Abbd de 
Grenthe's), and, as we grew older, a little very ele- 
mentary geometry in the holidays from our brother's 
tutor, was really all the teaching I had till I was 
thirteen. Now, such limited and mechanical lessons 
would be scoffed at, yet there was a counter-balancing 
good. All that we did was done thoroughly. Our 
short repetitions from Pinnock's Cateclusms were 
made without the smallest hesitation or the change 
of a single word ; and, to this day, my acquaintance 
with the History of England rests for a foundation 
upon a remembrance of the particular page in Pinnock 
in which the events were noted. Then we went over 
the little books again and again. The Catechism of 
English History I repeated from the time I was 
seven or eight years old (I should think) till I left 
school. Of course the facts were indelibly im- 
pressed upon my memory, and without confusion. 
They were few and far between, but they were 
landmarks which I have been thankful for ever 

The strictness of the school discipline was ex- 
treme. Not a word was spoken in school time ; and 


as for disobedience, it never entered onr thoughts as 
a possibility. Three mistakes, however trivial, in a 
lesson learned by rote, were punished by another 
lesson. To begin a word twice, or even to hesitate, 
was reckoned as a mistake ; and to secure our atten- 
tion, we were required to fix our eyes upon Miss 
Crooke's nose, rather a prominent object, and so far 
helpful If we were absent from school even from 
illness, all the absent-lessons (as we called them) 
were required of us before we could receive the usual 
reward — a card or ticket marked "merit" in black 
letters. A certain number of these were exchanged 
when gained, for a similar ticket with red letters; 
and for three of the red we received a golden ticket, 
" which was a piece of purple or red leather *' made 
into a ticket and marked with gilt letters. Miss 
Crooke certainly understood the importance of form, 
and colour, and ceremony in influencing children's 
minds. The beauty of the golden tickets formed 
their chief value in our eyes ; and although, when we 
had gained three, we were allowed to exchange them 
for a half-crown, I really believe no child ever gave 
them up and received the money instead without 
considerable regret. These rewards were not very 
expensive, they were so difficult to obtain. As a rule 
we could only gain one black ticket in the day, and 
for that we were required to be perfect in every lesson, 
and we might for any fault be made to forfeit a 
ticket. I was at Miss Crooke's from the age of four 
to thirteen, but I never gained more than one half- 


crown, though I was always striving after it ; yet the 
hope was something to work for. 

Miss Orooke's great error was that her system was 
unbending, and applied without consideration to all 
characters, careless or attentive, conscientious or in- 
different. She was most ingenious in inventing 
punishments, and all fared alike when a rule was 
broken. So far, no doubt, she was on the whole 
right, but she had no opening for extenuating circum- 
stances. For accidental, equally with deliberate 
offences, we were often disgraced by having to stand 
up in a corner of the schoolroom with some mark of 
ignominy upon us. A ram*s horn (picked up on the 
Downs), a rod, an old green tassel, and (tradition 
said) an old shoe were converted into instruments of 
humiliation by being fastened on the offender's head. 
The shoe was before my time. I have, however, a 
vivid recollection of the ram's horn, and also of some 
brown-paper ass's ears. 

Upon one point — truth — Miss Crooke was severe 
even to a fault. The smallest deceit, the slightest 
equivocation, was punished by a month's disgrace. 
During that period no tickets could be gained, how- 
ever perfectly the lessons might be learned or the 
rules observed ; and if a child told a lie, she was not 
allowed any reward for three months, and was ob- 
liged to stand up in the schoolroom for several hours 
with a long black gown on, and a piece of red cloth 
— <;ut in the shape of a tongue, and on which the 
word " Liar '* was worked in white letters — fastened 


round the neck so as to hang down in front. The 
awe which fell upon the school when Miss Crooke in 
a solemn voice said, '' Put on the Gown and the Liar's 
tongue/' was indescribable. I never had them on 
but once, and that was for a falsehood which I con- 
fessed of my own accord, because I was too miserable 
to bear the burden of a guilty conscience. I had 
vmtten in a little memorandum book the letters " 0. 
W." meaning "Old Witch," an epithet which some 
of us had ventured to apply to Miss Crooke. When 
the little book was called for (I forget why), I was 
frightened and threw it away, and then said I had 
lost it. No mercy was shown me, and the wretched- 
ness of feeling which the punishment caused I shall 
never forget. It seemed as if I were marked for life, 
the only one of my family who had ever committed 
such an offence. I can recollect, though, having 
deceived before ; so I suppose my conscience had 
not always been so tender. 



I HAVE mentioned previously that I had a very bad 
temper, and I was also extremely alive to praise or 
blame ; even as a very little girl I Uked to dream, of 
being noticed. I can remember going to the New- 
port Fair with my sisters, and watching some dancing 
on the tight-rope, and then coming home and fasten- 
ing a string from one post of a summer-house to 
another, and moving along it as far as I could with- 
out danger, whilst in imagination I was displaying 
my feats before a large party which I had heard had 
assembled at Lord Yarborough's cottage at St. Law- 
rence to meet one of the Boyal Dukes. But although 
I could thus be vain in my thoughts, I shrank from 
being actually brought forward, and did not at all 
enjoy personal remarks even when they were to my 
credit. But there was Uttle fear of my being spoilt 
by praise, I was laughed at because I was easily made 
to cry, and scolded because I was perverse and 
troublesome ; and I always felt myself rather a black 
sheep in the family, though I am 9ure I bad longings 



for something better, and vague dreams of distinction, 
kept under from the sense of being a girL 

The religious taste, of which I have before spoken, 
continued to show itself as time went on, though still 
my conduct was not influenced by it. When I was 
able to write with tolerable ease I remember compos- 
ing little sermons for my younger sisters, which 
doubtless would have been much better applied to 
myself ; and, whilst yet in the nursery, I learned the 
greater portion of the first chapter of the prophecy of 
Isaiah, and can repeat it at this day. No one told 
me to do so, or even knew that I had done it. The 
beauty of the language, the exquisite musical rhythm 
of the sentences caught my ear, but I had little per- 
ception of anything beyond. 

I am afraid I was by no means a pleasant child. 
My quick, irritable feelings were constantly bringing 
me into trouble, and then I shut myself up in my 
own thoughts and determined to keep aloof from 
every one. To be alone was never unpleasant to 
me. In the nursery my great pleasure was to sit by 
myself in a dark closet, opening into a room, with a 
little lanthorn by my side, and read a story, whilst 
my sisters played about. I enjoyed hearing their 
voices, but I did not wish to join them. But the 
self-consciousness which naturally goes with such a 
disposition was very easily seen ; and I was told that 
I was affected, and this again acted upon my irrit- 
able temper, and I grew more really reserved, though 
I am not aware that my manner showed it. I am 


alluding, however, rather to what I was as I grew 
beyond actual childhood. At the time I told the 
falsehood for which I was so severely punished I 
was about twelve years old, and had been for some 
time a boarder at Miss Crooke's school with my 

People now would scarcely believe what Miss 
Crooke's house was like, especially the wretchedness 
of the large bedroom which we four sisters and 
another little girl inhabited; the uncarpeted floor, 
the two blocked-up windows, with a third which we 
were forbidden ever to look out of, on pain of paying 
half a crown; the great worm-eaten four-post bed- 
steads, without an atom of curtain or drapery ; the 
deal tables for washing-stands, with the jugs holding 
rain-water, in which wonderful specimens of ento- 
mology disported themselves ; the two or three old 
chairs which, with our trunks, were the only seats — 
it makes me shudder to look back upon it all, for 
there was nothing to cheer us, all was dreary and 
hopeless. The touch of the coarse sheets, on the 
first night of going back to school, and the sight of 
the large horn lanthom, put upon the floor in the 
centre of the room, as our only light whilst undress- 
ing, were as chilling and depressing to the mind as 
to the body. In this large room we used to sit in 
the winter mornings learning our lessons until we 
were called down to a breakfast of milk and water, 
with an allowance of three pieces of thick bread and 

butter, but — except on rare occasions — ^no more, 



however hungry we might be. We were permitted, 
when the weather was very cold, to stand near the 
fire for a few minutes to warm ourselves, and then 
we were sent to our seats to get on as well as we 
could for the rest of the day. Lessons went on from 
morning to night with me, as a rule, for I was 
always in arrears, as regarded what we termed 
double (or extra) lessons. These extra lessons were 
imposed for any and everything, even for speaking 
ungrammatically in playtime; saying "come here,** 
instead of "come hither,** being deemed an error. 
Once I remember having seventy lessons in arrears. 
We were expected to accuse ourselves, and my 
conscience being a fidgety one I was always badly off; 
and when my regular lessons for the day were over, 
I used to sit until bed-time with my back to a long 
table, on which two candles were placed, and learn 
by heart columns of French idioms, knowing that I 
was scarcely advanced a step in the payment of my 
debt, and that I should be sure to increase it the 
next day. These lessons we said to each other, so 
Miss Crooke did not know how many were incurred, 
and when at the last she was told of my amount and 
my sister Emma*s she saw that she had been unwise 
and wiped them out ; but at that time the discipline 
was so strict, that no one dared to swerve from the 
exact law laid down as to the perfect correctness of 
the repetition. At eight o*clock we said our settled 
form of prayer, kneeling round the fire in the 
schoolroom, and taking tarn week by week to repeat 


it aloud, and then we were sent to our dreary 

The school itself was curiously mixed in a social 
sense. There were a few children of the professional 
class, and many whose parents were farmers and 
shopkeepers ; but we were too young to think about 
difference of position, and Miss Crooke, who, in 
some ways, was very wise, avoided anything like 
undesirable intimacy by obliging us all to use special 
forms of civility amongst each other. " Miss ** was 
the one appellation, we never adopted Christian 
names — ^yet we played together when the opportunity 
was given, and, stiff and dull though the life was, 
there were some pleasures in it ; — I doubt if children 
can exist without pleasure. If we said our lessons par- 
ticularly well, we were allowed to have tea and sugar 
instead of milk and water; or (a most singular 
reward I) we could stand up before dinner began and 
say, "Kyou please, ma'am, I claim gravy/'. This 
implies that as a rule we did not have gravy, which 
was the fact. Such little extra indulgences made 
us for the time proud and happy. Now and then, 
also, if Miss Crooke was in a good humour, she 
would tell us a story, or give us an amusing book 
to read ; and although it may seem hard that we 
should have had nothing but such trifles to brighten 
our lives, I have learnt from experience to be grateful 
for the temper of mind which was thus cultivated, 
and which has enabled me through my whole life to 

find amusement and diversion in small things. 



Newport was a close borough then, and my father 
had great political influence from being agent for 
the most important persons in the island, with 
whom the election of members of Parliament rested. 
This was one cause of our lavish expenditure. There 
were persons of all ranks, from Lord Yarborough to 
men of business and farmers, constantly coming and 
going — ^many frequently dining with us, so that to 
be a family party was quite an exception; to say 
nothing of friends staying in the house. We had 
few relatives in the town whom I can remember, 
except my great-aunt, Mrs. Lydia Clarke (her brother 
Mr. Eichard Clarke, with whom she had lived for 
years, died before I can recollect anything). 

Aunt Clarke was a character in her way, stiflf and 
stern, the head of the family, held in the highest 
respect by every one ; she was extremely clever, and 
I imagine could make herself very agreeable, but all 
I recollect of her is what she was when, being up- 
wards of eighty, she was bent with age and needed 
quiet and rest. Instead of a cap she always wore a 
little green silk bonnet, shading her eyes, and this 
to a child naturally marked her as some one quite 
distinct from the rest of the world. That she could 
be very outspoken when occasion required is evident 
from an anecdote related of her, which has always 
rested in my mind as affording a striking confession 
of human infirmity. A lady of her acquaintance, 
the wife of a poor curate, was always kind to the 
poor, but as time went on and the curate inherited 



a baronetcy, and a fortune, his wife left off contri- 
buting to the charities of the town. My aunt one 

day said to her, " Lady , I cannot tell why it is, 

but when you were Mrs. you were ready to help 

us Uberally ; now that you are Lady we can get 

nothing from you *'. " It is very true, Mrs. Clarke," 
was the reply, " but I think that when God gave me 
money He shut up my heart.'* 

Aunt Clarke had two old maid-servants, Molly and 
Betty, and one equally old man-servant, Eichard, 
and they lived with her so long that at last they 
quite got the upper hand; any one else might be 
disturbed or put out — ^but not the servants. There 
is a tradition in the family that on one occasion old 
Eichard was waiting at table, and Aunt Clarke 
begged to have another knife given her ; the answer 
was, **I gave you one just now," a reply accepted 
quite calmly, and without comment. My great-aunt's 
companion was a niece, my father's only unmarried 
sister. Aunt Lydia or Lyddy, as we called her, was 
a very kind-hearted, simple-minded person, but very 
peculiar — an immense talker, very homely in her 
dress and manners, but with a decided taste for 
reading. My chief acquaintance with the writers of 
the eighteenth century is derived from reading to 
Aunt Lyddy papers in the Spectator and The 
Rambler, Mason's plays, Addison's Cato, etc. This 
we were often called upon to do when we were 
invited to dine with Aunt Clarke. 

I first went to church in the evening on Christmas 


night. There was always a good deal of music at 
that special service ; the organ was played by an old 
man who used to boast *' I alters Handel ! '* Anthems 
were sung — very badly — ^but of that I was then no 
judge ; it was all very grand to me, and the church, 
lighted with tallow candles, stuck into the sides of 
the pews, looked infinitely imposing. The building 
was very large and quaint, vnth galleries and screens, 
and high square pews, and was sadly disfigured in 
all ways ; but it was full of mystery and romance, 
for I never could make out how it was possible to 
reach the distant galleries, and one of my early 
dreams was that I might some day find my way 
there, and make out for myself what the people saw 
who were the Sunday inhabitants of these far-oflf 

After Aunt Clarke's death (in 1827) Aunt Lyddy 
took a small house in Newport, and lived by herself. 
Uncle Edwards about that time left Binstead, gave 
up his profession as a barrister, and went to Scotland. 
The taste for pictures and books, which remains vnth 
us all to this day, was instilled into us by his example. 
His choice little library at Binstead gave my brothers 
the wish to have one in Newport ; and sums of money 
must have been spent upon our small collection. 
Besides certain special gems which our great-uncle, 
Mr. Clarke, had received as presents from Sir Eichard 
Worsley, there were classical books, rare dictionaries, 
standard English works, all handsomely bound, but 
none of them, or at least very few, in a woman's line 


(as women were then educated), and we were never 
allowed to touch them without permission, but yet I 
gained from them a knowledge of the names of the 
authors and a certain acquaintance with their style 
and principles, for the mere fact of sitting in the 
room which contained the library, as we often did, 
was a reason for all kinds of discussions and refer- 
ences. My first sight of German letters, and my 
first wish to know the language, was gained from 
being allowed to look at a beautiful copy of Burger's 
Lenore, illustrated by striking line engravings, and 
having the German on one page and the EngUsh 
translation on the other. 

My uncle was so particular about his books that he 
used to declare that when a child's finger had touched 
one it was spoilt. Acting upon this idea, he gave up 
certain books to us, when as children we stayed with 
him at Binstead, on condition of our never touching 
any othera My brothers had Glanvill's History of 
Witches, and we four had a handsome edition of the 
Arabian Nights' Entertainments, which, being un- 
expurgated, was not the wisest choice that could have 
been made, though it gave me hours of entrancing 
delight at the time, and taught me to understand 
allusions to tales which have become part of general 



When I was nearly thirteen it was proposed that 
Ellen and I should leave Miss Crooke's, and go to a 
school at Bath, for the advantage of masters ; this 
was my mother's doing. The education of girls was 
but little considered in those days, but my mother, in 
after years, told us that she had resolved her girls as 
well as her boys should be welk educated, because 
then they would be prepared for any change of for- 
tune which might meet them in life. Just at this 
time, after telling the falsehood to which I have 
before alluded, I had worked myself into a very 
fidgety self -worrying state of mind, which I daresay 
was one reason for the change of school. Miss 
Crooke herself must have been frightened at the 
mental condition to which her over-strictness had 
brought me, and she would have had still greater 
cause for alarm if she had known all that passed in 
my mind. 

I was always given to strange scrupulous fancies, 
and not long before had made myself miserable, after 
reading about Jephthah*s vow, because I imagined 



that every time the thought of making a vow came 
into my head I had actually made it, and was bound 
to keep it. I even went so tax as to worry myself 
with the question whether I was not bound to kill 
my mother, because I thought I had made a vow 
that I would. And another notion I had was that 
I must go off to America because I thought I had 
vowed I would. Of course no one knew about these 
troubles ; I could have borne anything rather than 
talk to Miss Crooke, and I had never been accus- 
tomed to unreserve with my mother; and I bore 
all, as best I could, in great wretchedness of mind, 
until at last the fancies reached a point when my 
own common-eense told me they must be stopped at 
all hazards, and I determined to cure myself. With 
this view I accustomed myself, whenever the trouble- 
some thoughts came into my head, deliberately to 
count six, and then say to myself, " No, I won't think 
of it," and thus the thoughts, being constantly kept 
down, after a time went away. 

Of all this inner suffering Miss Crooke knew 
nothing; her only idea of my worries arose from 
what went on after I had confessed to her that I 
had told a falsehood, and thrown away the paper on 
which I had marked the letters *'0. W/' for ''Old 
Witch ". 

The day after my grievous punishment for the lie, 
I became very miserable, from the thought of what 
Miss Crooke would say if she knew the full extent 
of my naughtiness. I went to my companions, and 


warned them that I was going to confess that we had 
called her names. None of them, I imagine, supposed 
it possible that I should carry out my threat ; but the 
following afternoon, after going through my usual 
reading lesson, I turned round to Miss Crooke, and 
said aloud, so that every one might hear, " If you 
please, ma'am, I called you a witch ". 

I can scarcely forbear a smile now when I think 
of the scene; but the moment was one of terrible 
agony to me then, for I never dreaded any one, and 
I don't think I ever could dread any one, as I did 
Miss Crooke, and I knew she would have no mercy 
upon me. 

There was a fearful silence in the school after I had 
made my confession. Miss Crooke only said, " Go 
and sit down in your place," and so I did, and there 
I remained in a state of dull hopelessness until the 
day-scholars had gone. Then all the boarders were 
called up, made to put their hands on their hearts 
as a sign of sincerity, and a token that they would 
speak the truth, and were most solemnly commanded 
to tell all they knew about the wicked proceedings. 
It was a kind of inquisitional examination, and the 
punishment was a species of slow torture, for it went 
lingering on for weeks. We were all exiled from 
favour, not allowed to have any rewards for our 
lessons, and subjected to cold looks, and cold words, 
until at length we became comparatively callous to 
them. My conscience, however, went on working ; 
having once begun to confess, the practice became a 


necessity, and I begged that I might be allowed to 
tell every day the things I had done wrong, because 
I felt so wicked. Miss Crooke at first treated me as 
a converted penitent, but by degrees she must have 
become alarmed. My confessions verged on the 
ludicrous, and the climax must have been reached 
when having received an order in common with my 
companions to mention if we saw any black beetles 
in the schoolroom, I made it a subject of confession 
that I had seen a black beetle crawl out from under 
a large bureau, and had not told of it. 

The state of mind which led to such a confession 
must have been incomprehensible to one who for 
years had not been subject in small matters to any 
daily human law but her own will. Miss Crooke 
talked to my mother, and the result was that I was 
one day told by my mother to leave off all confessions, 
and not to tell any one but herself my conscience 
worries. This order set me at rest at once, for my 
mother was so indulgent that I soon learned not to 
distress myself about imaginary shortcomings. And 
thus ended my first great trouble in life. And yet it 
did not really end, for to this day I can feel' its effects. 
The greatest difficulties that have come in my way since, 
as regards self-discipline, have arisen from the fatal 
necessity of using in those early years my common- 
sense as a defence against the working of a morbid 
and over-strained conscience. It laid the foundation 
of a sophistical habit of mind ; and some of the ac- 
tions of my life for which I most condemn myself 


can be traced to it. Happily I was by nature true, 
and though I might for a time satisfy myself in the 
indulgence of a wrong incUnation by reasoning against 
what I persuaded myself was only the check of my 
fidgety conscience, yet in the end truth generally 
gained the victory ; not, however, until I had often 
jrielded sufficiently to be heartily ashamed of myself. 
I am speaking of this temper of mind now without 
reference to religious principle, which, of course, must 
be recognised as, through God's grace, the chief means 
by which we escape the temptations of sophistry. 

It is but just to say when writing about Miss 
Crooke, that, notwithstanding all I suffered from her 
system of education, I always respected, and have 
never ceased to respect her. She acted entirely ac- 
cording to her view of what was right and would in 
the end be good for us ; and she was very charitable 
and strictly honourable. I remember, when at school, 
a little girl came from London to be a boarder, much 
to our surprise, for we thought that education in 
London must be very superior to that which could 
be obtained in the Isle of Wight. Great care was 
taken of this child, and she was especially favoured. 
Years after I learned that she was the child of a 
London tradesman, to whom Miss Crockets father 
had owed some money which he was unable to pay ; 
and this was the only mode by which the obligation 
could be recognised. 

When Miss Crooke gave up her school she had 
only secured forty pounds a year for all her expenses ; 


but she was so independent in her tone of mind that 
no one ventured openly to offer her any assistance. 
The knowledge that she could not have the comforts 
and the freedom from anxiety which her age required, 
and for which she had worked for so many years, 
distressed her friends ; and a little plan was formed 
by which she might be helped without hurting her 
feelings. It was arranged that a formal letter should 
be written to her by a lawyer in London, stating that 
if she would send a certificate of her birth and bap- 
tism to him, he was empowered to forward to her 
fifty pounds annually. No explanation was given, 
but the necessity of sending every year, on a fixed 
day, a certificate that she was alive, was strongly 

In her simplicity and ignorance of business Miss 
Crooke, though surprised and delighted, made no 
inquiries. She said that she supposed it was money 
due to her father which was thus paid to her ; and 
yearly, as the day came round, she was in a state of 
excitement and anxiety until she had sent her certifi- 
cate in due form. Thus she was freed from care, and 
had enough for her small needs ; and she died with- 
out any knowledge of the source from which the 
money came. I believe my brother William, who 
had been taught by Miss Crooke to read and spell, 
was the chief originator of the innocent deception, 
and contributed largely towards carrying it out. 

Very soon after I had disturbed the school by my 
confession, Ellen and I were taken away from Miss 


Crooke's care. It was a rejoicing time. The last 
night that we all stood up to repeat some lesson — I 
forget what — and when I had to give up my tickets 
and say " Good-bye " to absent-and-disgrace-lessons, 
I felt proudly ambitious for the future. I was going 
into a new world, and in that world I was resolved 
to make my mark. 



The only time that I had ever been out of the Isle 
of Wight before we went to our. Bath school, was 
when I was twelve years old, and stayed for a short 
time at Camberwell with Aunt Hanbury, and saw 
some of the sights of London ; but a new school was 
quite a different matter. I was not to be amused, 
but to work and obey, and I left home with a brave 
heart. We slept the first night at Southampton, 
and the following morning started at eight o'clock, 
in the coach, in which places had been secured for 
us, and under the care of one of our brothers, arrived 
in Bath, at 20 Camden Place (now Camden Crescent), 
between four and five in the afternoon. 

It is strange to me now to see how this question of 
a new school was arranged. No one knew personally 
Miss Aldridge and her sister Caroline, to whose care 
we were entrusted. They had the reputation of 
being nice people (as the expression is), and a lady 
who made inquiries about them for my mother, liked 
them ; and then my mother went to see them herself, 
and thought everything about the house neat and 



comfortable and home-like; but there might have 
been much that was misatisfactory underneath the 
outward appearance. My mother had never been at 
school, and was unsuspicious of evil, and, having a 
very quick insight into character, she depended upon 
her own judgment, and upon the whole was not 
mistaken. The house was comfortable, though we 
had no provision for privacy in our bedroom ; and 
Miss Aldridge and her sister were kind and good; 
and if they had, like the rest of the world, some 
weak points, they had also very sterling and valuable 
qualities to counterbalance them. Whatever evil I 
learned whilst I was with them was from my own 

There were twelve pupils, and we were treated 
very much as we might have been at home. No 
teachers Uved in the house, and we were watched 
over individually, and in some degree known and 
understood. In one respect our new governesses 
never could have understood me, for they oflEended 
my taste grievously in matters of rehgion. They 
had adopted the style of talking which in those days 
was thought to be a necessary part of Christian be- 
lief and conduct. This repelled me, and I always 
shut myself up in a sevenfold fence of reserve when 
religious subjects were introduced. Miss Caroline 
would put her pretty head to one side as she sat 
gracefully at the dinner-table, on a Sunday, and re- 
mark with an earnest drawl, "We had a beautiful 
and instructive sermon to-day. I trust we shall all 


profit by it ; " and then quite cheerfully, " which will 
you have — beef or mutton?" Of course I seized 
upon the beef or mutton, and put aside the sermon, 
and I am afraid I must often have given the impres- 
sion of haying a very hard heart. 

There was no straining of the conscience, however, 
which was one very great comfort. We were left in 
a great degree to ourselves as to the time which was 
spent in preparing our lessons. Masters came on 
certain days, and we were expected to be ready for 
them, but that was all. This suited me very well, 
for I was always eager to be beforehand with every- 
thing I had to do, and never thought myself at liberty 
to amuse myself, unless I had finished not only the 
exercises and compositions for the next day, but had 
begun those for the day following. This is one of 
the characteristics which has marked me through 
life, and which has its evil as well as its good side. 
To be constantly looking forward and planning for 
the future is not wise, and one may work too much 
as well as too little. The railway express pace is 
undesirable for mind and body for a continuance. 

We were not well taught at this Bath school. The 
French master was an indifferent one, and professed 
to teach Italian also which I question if he was at 
all competent to do. We had a second-rate dancing 
mistress, a fairly good sentimental singing master 
(who showed his grief for his child's death by play- 
ing psalm tunes on the piano in the short intervals 
between the lessons to the several pupils), a very 



inferior drawing master, whose artistic talent was 
not at all equal to that of Miss Aldridge herself ; and 
a music master with a great reputation, a violent 
temper, and an amount of conceit and vanity which 
made him tell us that he slept in white kid gloves to 
keep his hands white. He frightened me so much 
that I could never do my best before him ; but I had 
really very little talent either for music or drawing, 
whilst my elder sister had both in a remarkable degree, 
and came forward in consequence so prominently that 
I always felt myself to be in the background. As to 
the more essential subjects of instruction, we were 
not bound by strict laws. We had a master for 
arithmetic, and were carefully taught ; but the lessons 
we were expected to learn by heart were repeated 
according to the sense and not the exact words, and 
those who were quick got them up in a few minutes, 
said them fairly well, and forgot them immediately 
afterwards. Poetry, however, did not admit of this 
laxity. We learned passages from the best authors, 
and my delight in Walter Scott made me add to 
the regular lesson large portions of " The Lady of 
the Lake" which are fresh in my memory at this 

Certainly those two years and a half of school life 
were, in my case, years of most rapid growth for 
good and evil Emulation and companionship, and 
a constant collision of wits, brought out all I knew, 
and gave me a longing to know more; but at the 
same time they taught me things which I have since 


felt it would be the greatest boon that could be con- 
ferred upon me to forget. How one hates oneself 
for having gathered the fruit of the Tree of Know- 
ledge of Good and Evil wilfully, and how keen and 
lasting the punishment is ! 

Much that was wrong went on at our Bath school 
unknown to our governesses; not so much actions 
as conversation, involving feeUngs and principles in 
which were to be found the germs of life-long motives 
and actions ; but we were not a bad set of girls in 
many ways. We had a sense of honour amongst 
us, a love of truth, a perception of the folly of folly 
even when we indulged ourselves in it, and a good 
deal of religious seed, showing itself in odd ways, 
such as love of controversy, and delight in some 
favourite preacher — things which one should natur- 
ally condemn, but which were not so entirely without 
an element of good as they might have appeared to 
be on the surface. And there was life too — vigour 
and independence. We formed a book-club amongst 
ourselves, chose and purchased some special favourite, 
or one which we heard praised, read it in turn, and 
then sold it by auction. We bore openly to tell each 
other our faults, etc. — who was ill-tempered, who 
was selfish, who was thought the cleverest ; no one 
was supposed to be angry however much self-love 
might be wounded. And we had clear perceptions 
upon most points ; we saw what was inconsistent in 
those who were placed over us, and if sometimes we 

turned our masters and mistresses into ridicule, it 



was never from unkindness, but from a sense of the 
ludicrous, for which there was really a cause. 

I am sure some of us heartily wished to be better 
than we were, and now and then tried very earnestly 
to be so. Lucy Nedham and Marianne Seymour, 
who were afterwards our sisters-in-law, were those 
whose tone was highest in the school, and the one 
thing on which I have ever since that time prided 
myself (if I may use the expression) is that Ellen 
and I had sufficient good sense to make them our 
special friends. 

I had at that time great ideas of the duty of self- 
examination, and almost got into disgrace by being 
so long at my prayers ; and latterly I formed a habit 
of going by myself, about five o'clock in the after- 
noon, to a little room where boxes, walking-dresses, 
etc., were kept (for we were not allowed to go to our 
bedrooms after leaving them in the mornings), and 
there I went through a short self-examination, and 
said a little prayer standing. Some of these feelings 
I have described in Laneton Parsonage as hints for 
girls at school, but Madeline Clifford is as unlike 
what I was as light is to darkness. 



I WAS confirmed at school, with the companion to 
whom I have referred before. It was at my own 
request. I always look back upon this period as 
being, through God's merciful help, a kind of turning 
point in my life. Good principles which had before 
been only floating in my mind became fixed, and a 
reason for casting away those which were bad was 
suggested and enforced ; yet not from any external 
help or instruction, and not from any special out- 
burst of devotional feeling, for I was then experienc- 
ing a trial of indescribable misery connected with 
reUgion. I was full of sceptical thoughts. I did not 
like them, or indulge them. On the contrary, they 
were hateful to me, though they haunted me. They 
came to me quite suddenly, one Sunday evening, in 
Walcot Church during the evening service. I don't 
remember that anything in particular occasioned 
them, any verse in the lessons, or any word or ex- 
pression in the prayers, and they took all possible 
forms. Everything in the Bible that was at all 
perplexing was turned into a stumbling-block, and 



came before me, not only during the reading of the 
Scriptures, but at all times. I tried to reason against 
the difficulties, but that only increased the evil. 

Sometimes I stopped the thoughts by remembering 
the good and wise men of whom I had heard who 
were Christians, for I said to myself that I might 
well follow them and trust them : and at last I was 
able resolutely to crush the thoughts, as I had 
crushed the wild fancies which took possession of 
me at Miss Crooke's. This was done by a short 
quick prayer, and an almost physical effort to turn 
away from the suggestions. In that way I kept them 
under; I can scarcely say that they were entirely 
conquered, for there was a tender spot in my mind 
for years and years after — a wound healed which 
might be reopened, and would not bear being touched. 

It was not until middle life that I could face these 
phantom doubts boldly ; then, when my reason had 
fully developed, and I had learnt what the help of 
God meant, I could venture to inquire into the 
foundation of sceptical questionings, and could recog- 
nise that they were but the ''baseless fabric of a 
dream," that reason as well as faith is on the side 
of Christianity, and that the difficulties of unbelief 
are tenfold greater than those of belief. But at the 
time when these thoughts first came to me I was 
simply miserable. There has been no trial in after 
Ufe equal to that which they brought upon me — the 
sense of guilt, and the dread of not being forgiven, 
and the being followed about, as it were, by a spectre 


of evil from which I could not escape. I have sat in 
the drawing-room at Camden Place practising my 
music mechanically, whilst reasoning upon the pro- 
bability of the Jewish miracles till I was nearly wild. 
And I had no one to turn to. I could have borne 
anything rather than mention what I was suffering ; 
I so dreaded my governesses' way of talking about 
religion, and I had never been accustomed to unre- 
serve upon that subject with any one, not even with 
my mother, for her temperament was very unlike 
mine. She was enthusiastic, and outspoken as to 
her feelings, whilst I could not bear any words or 
expressions which were not quiet and suggestive 
rather than demonstrative. 

And in this state of mind I was confirmed with 
one companion. Now, I can see how the very 
wretchedness I endured made me more earnest, for I 
really was in earnest. I had no half -intentions for 
the future, and as well as I could I tried to prepare 
myself for the solemn rite. The help of a clergyman 
was in those days too often merely nominal : at least 
I am sure it was as far as I was concerned. We 
were taken to the rector of the parish, and asked one 
or two questions out of the Catechism, to which we 
gave correct answers, and then we were told that we 
did very well ; and that was all. Miss Aldridge gave 
us Henry's Communicanfa Companion — a fearful 
book fQled with questions which it would have taken 
months to answer — and I tried to find time for self- 
examination out of school hours, and at first thought 


myself obliged to answer every question, and at last 
gave up the attempt in despair. My own sense told 
me it was in vain. Nothing was said to me defi- 
nitely about the Holy Communion, and in fact I 
received it for the first time after my return home. 

The confirmation day was a strange medley. I 
think it must have been partly a holiday, for I re- 
member walking up and down Camden Place, in 
the afternoon, and watching a balloon, which had 
been sent up from the gardens below. It was the 
first I had ever seen, but it only ascended a little 
way, and came down upon the roofs of some houses 
in the town. Naturally it was a source of great 
excitement to us. I know that I felt as if I ought 
to be grave, and thoughtful, and different from the 
others, but I don't know whether I was so. 

We were to leave school almost immediately after 
the confirmation. I was then about fifteen, and 
Ellen was seventeen. We went home to undertake 
the education of our two younger sisters, Emma and 
Janetta. Plans for our work had already been made 
by us. Marianne Seymour helped us much. We 
used latterly to spend our play hours in making out 
Usts of celebrated contemporaries, and in this way 
trying to get up a httle information beyond the 
regular routine of lessons. 

My whole heart was bent at that time upon teach- 
ing Emma and Janetta, and making them happy. 
The pleasure of telling them that they were to leave 
Miss Crooke*s school was very great. Every ar- 


rangement was made for our comfort at home. We 
had a room appropriated to ns as a schoolroom, and 
ultimately we had a new and very pretty room built 
for us, but I am afraid we did not properly recognise 
the thought which was bestowed upon us. I suppose 
few persons do understand the extent of their parents' 
care until they are called upon themselves to think 
for others. 

Ellen and I began teaching most energetically, 
and upon the whole, perhaps, things went on as 
well as could have been — or rather ought to have 
been — expected; for it is really in vain to imagine 
that home education, under sisters, will ever have 
the spirit and energy of a school. One must take 
the good and the evil together in all such cases; 
or rather, one must do what is pointed out for 
us, as the best to be done under the circumstances, 
for these questions are usually decided for us by 
external surroundings over which we have little 

Just after we left school and came home to teach 
our young sisters, William was ordained, and as 
curate had the charge of the parish of Whippingham 
for a friend, Mr. James Ward, who was ill and 
was sent abroad for a year. I can see now that it 
was a singular arrangement, because William had 
had no experience in parochial work, and had never 
worked under a rector ; but such things were not 
then uncommon. That year, 1830, was a very sunny 
year — the sunniest of my life ; but if it had bright lights 


it had also deep shadows. We went backwards and 
forwards between Newport and Whippingham con- 
tinually, the distance being little more than three 
miles. This interfered with the lessons we had 
marked out for Emma and Janetta, and fretted me 
much; and when I remonstrated I was thought 
fidgety. Not that I disliked going to Whippingham : 
quite the contrary; but the irregularity disturbed 
all my plans. The parsonage, then a large house 
built of wood, standing in lovely grounds, was a per- 
fect paradise to me. I really idolised my brother 
William, whose great abilities, fervent piety and 
warm affection I was beginning to understand and 
appreciate ; and who captivated me with his sermons 
and poetry and conversation. I never loved any one 
else in the same intense way, and to him I owe 
(through the mercy of God) all that is most precious 
for Time and Eternity. But the feeling, like every- 
thing else of its kind, brought suffering with it, very 
acute at times. 

I was so entirely engrossed in my feeUng for my 
brother that I had no thought to give to any one 
else. Ellen was taken to dinner parties, balls, etc., 
but I was too young to go with her, and was quite 
contented when the lessons could go on regularly, 
and William would look happy and be fond of me. 
I used to study by myself, for I knew that I was 
wofully ignorant. Such books as EusselFs History 
of Modem Ev/rope and Eobertson's Charles the Fifth, 
I read, and also Watts on the Improvement of the 


Mind, and I plodded through an Italian history of 
the Venetian Doges, lent me by an intimate and 
valued friend of my father, Mr. Tumbull, who had 
travelled much, and was fond of books, and, as he 
lived in Newport, was often with us. I taught my- 
self besides to read Spanish — for having found a 
Spanish Don Quixote lying about, which no one 
claimed, I took possession of it, bought a grammar 
and dictionary, and set to work to master the con- 
tents of the book which I knew so well by name. 
The elements of botany on the Linnsean system was 
another of my attempted acquirements, but I am 
afraid my studies were very superficial : I knew 
nothing perfectly, but I read everything that came 
in my way. There was an excellent town library in 
Newport, from which I could get any good modem 
works; and, besides the graver literature, I had 
always some lighter book on hand, and especially de- 
lighted in Walter Scott's novels and poetry. Byron, 
too, was a great favourite. 



The one important event of the Whippingham year 
was my brother William's engagement to a lady, a 
little older than himself. The idea was not satisfac- 
tory to my father and mother, for it would, if carried 
out, have put an end to all prospect of University 
distinction, and in the end the engagement was 
broken ofif. 

It was a mournful ending to the happy year, or at 
least the year which was happy to me. I daresay to 
those more immediately concerned in all the Whip- 
pingham arrangements, it was a year of much 
anxiety. The curacy could not in any case have 
been permanent, and it was only held whilst Mr. 
James Ward was abroad, and he died before the 
year expired. 

The Isle of Wight was gayer at that time than it 

is now. There were archery meetings at Carisbrooke 

Castle, and balls and dinner parties — and, as our 

brothers* friends were frequently staying with us, 

there was a great deal of mirth and excitement in 

house — to say nothing of riding parties, picnics 



and excursions. The great social event of the year 
in the island was the Archery Ball. One lady was 
chosen as patroness for each year, and was called 
upon to select the dress which the archeresses were 
to wear at the meetings. Very ugly it often was, 
and rather expensive, and we were always very glad 
that we did not actually belong to the club ; but the 
meetings were very pleasant. The shooting went on 
in the bowling-green of Carisbrooke Castle, and there 
was a dance afterwards in the rooms — since taken 
down — which had formed part of Lord Bolton's 
house when he was governor of the island at the 
end of the last century. The Archery Ball had 
taken the place of the Hunting Club Ball, which 
was extinct before we began to go into society. 

For the latter ball there was a head or manager, 
termed the comptroller, appointed by a committee 
composed of the chief gentlemen in the island. They 
invited the guests, and chose a lady patroness to be the 
queen of the evening. On the night of the ball she 
stood at the upper end of the room, and every one 
who came to the entertainment was formally pre- 
sented to her. The last lady patroness of the Hunt- 
ing Club Ball was Eosa Hill, the only daughter of 
Colonel Hill, of St. Boniface House, Ventnor. She 
afterwards married the Kev. James White, and lived 
at Bonchurch for many years. I mention these few 
particulars because they show the gradual change in 
the island society, brought about, no doubt, by steam- 
boats and railways. In the last century and even 


when I was a girl, Newport was in all respects the 
capital of the island. Ryde was scarcely in existence 
then. I can remember when it had only one strag- 
gling street. Ventnor consisted of two or three 
thatched cottages, a small hotel, "The Crab and 
Lobster,** and a boarding-house, but there was no 
church. Cowes and Yarmouth were not very unhke 
what they are now. 

Newport, being the centre of the island, was a 
pleasant place to live in as regarded general society 
— though in itself it was dull; but society did not 
interfere much with me, as I did not go out and 
scarce wished to do so. About that time I was 
rather out of health — and remained so more or less 
for four or five years. I do not remember having 
been at more than half a dozen balls in my whole 

Our greatest family gaiety or change was going 
into the country for the summer months. We were 
at Sea View, near Eyde, after the Whippingham 
year. William had friends — young Oxford men — 
reading with him ; they were domiciled in one of the 
very few cottages which had then been built near the 
sea, and which were chiefly inhabited by smugglers, 
whose wives let lodgings, and so kept up an appear- 
ance of respectability for their husbands. We had 
rooms near, and there was constant intercourse be- 
tween the two households. The accommodation in 
the lodgings was very bad, and there was a good 
deal of personal discomfort, yet it was a very enjoy- 


able time. I wonder now that we did not get into 
trouble by flirting or falling in love ; but we did not, 
and I believe our brothers were our safeguards : we 
cared more for them than we did for any of their 
friends, who, as a rule, were pupils, and were re- 
garded by us rather as grown-up schoolboys. 

I have forgotten public matters at this time, but 
they were very troublesome and unpleasant. The 
year William was at Whippingham, the Eeform Bill 
was causing agitation everywhere. Newport being a 
close borough, was naturally extremely Eadical. My 
father, having had the whole management of the 
Parliamentary interest of the island up to this time, 
was unpopular. People said that he had made a 
great deal of money in connection with political 
matters, and that when the Eeform Bill passed we 
should be ruined; the truth being that my father, 
instead of receiving money, had expended large sums 
in keeping up the interest of the Holmes family, who 
were really the lords of the borough, and were at 
that time represented only by a lady, the widow of 
the last baronet. Sir Leonard Worsley-Holmes. 
Just before the passing of the Eeform Bill, there 
was some idea, I believe, of my father being himself 
one of the members, but it would never have done. 
He could not have managed the expense, even if 
he could have undertaken the work. Mr. Mount, 
of Wasing Place, Eeading, was one of the last 
members under the old system, and I remember 
how he and my father were hooted as they walked 


np the street arm-in-arm when the election was 

This feeling lasted after the Eeform Bill had 
passed, and on the occasion of the next election 
there were considerable disturbances in the town, 
and our windows were broken. The elections were 
very exciting, and we girls were inclined to take in 
good faith the civilities of the Conservative or Tory 
candidates, who were a great deal at our house. 
The only thing which excited our distrust was the 
fact that one of them, who was a great chess-player, 
allowed Ellen to win a game. She was triumphant 
at the moment, but when she found that the gentle- 
man had beaten the famous automaton chess-player 
in London, she discovered that her victory was 
merely a piece of electioneering flattery, and valued 
it as it deserved. 

In 1833 William had the charge of the parish of 
Taverland for the summer months. He took it for 
a friend, the Kev. Eobert Sherson, and we went there 
with a large party, some of whom lived at the farm- 
house, and some at the parsonage. We were a 
merry party, though even then care was creeping 
upon us, or at least we fancied it was. Eobert's 
health made us at times anxious, and Ellen and I 
were old enough to have responsibilities and fidget 
ourselves when everything did not go smoothly ; and 
we were keenly alive to the conflicts of different wills, 
and very sensitive about questions of attention and 
kindness, etc. Now that years have gone by I can 


trace, from that Yaverland summer, some of the 
circmnstances which, by bringing the different mem- 
bers of the party into intimate association, ultimately 
influenced their history and their surroundings at the 
end of life. 

But notwithstanding the small worries, which are 
unavoidable where many have to be consulted and 
cared for, we had on the surface a bright, almost un- 
clouded life. We never thought of expense except 
in that vague way in which, in my own case, the 
idea had grown up with me from my childhood, that 
we were spending a great deal of money, and that 
some day or other, possibly, we should suffer for it ; 
the idea being occasionally deepened by some obser- 
vation of my mother's. She had, I am sure, fears 
upon the subject. She was never made acquainted 
with the details of office matters ; but the fact that 
about this time n\y father separated from his partner, 
Mr. Heam, must have clearly diminished the family 
income. I was not very well or strong when at 
Yaverland. It must have been a silly, provoking ill- 
ness—nervousness, hysterics, and follies of that kind. 
I have often wondered since how my friends bore 
with me as they did. Worries also there were in my 
own mind which no one knew or dreamed of — the 
old phantom of evil in the form of sceptical doubts, 
and an increasing consciousness that I teased William 
by being fond of him. The real cares of life are 
much more easy to bear than imaginary ones. I 

have had sufficient experience of both. 



I think the bright part of my life ended soon after 
Lucy's ^ marriage. Cares thickened aromid me, and 
so cast a shadow upon myself. Yet we were very 
happy when Lucy's first child (Mary Ellen) was 
bom ; all the interest of the family seemed to gather 
round the baby, and a nightly pilgrimage was made 
to the cradle in which she slept, that we might kiss 
her before we went to bed. 

In 1835, Edwards, who had taken orders, had the 
curacy of Hursley. Mr. Gilbert Heathcote held the 
living, and Ellen and I were sent to Hursley to be 
out of the way whilst Lucy was ill. We were at the 
old vicarage, which had then only one sitting-room, 
or at least only one which we could use, for the floor 
of the other room was covered with Mr. Heathcote's 
books. They were very kindly left for our use, and 
I made an acquaintance with Sir Walter Scott's 
PauVs Letters to his Kinsfolk^ and read Shakespeare 
to Ellen, and led a quiet life, seeing no one. The 
parsonage at Hursley was then what it is now, ex- 
ternally, but the church was a specimen of the old 
bare and dreary ecclesiastical buildings almost uni- 
versal at that period ; and the service suited it. The 
musical instruments were tuned before the prayers 
began, and an irreverent scraping and twanging went 
on for some time as the congregation assembled, 
whilst the singing was of the same character. 

^ Lucy Nedham, daughter of General Nedham, and a school-friend 
of Elizabeth M. Sewell, was married to Henry Sewell at Broadwater 
Church, near Worthing, on the 15th May, 1834. 


Ellen always said she enjoyed the six weeks at 
Hursley vicarage excessively, but I don't think I did. 
I was out of health and out of spirits, and full of 
morbid fancies, for which a scourge would have been 
a good cure. I was longing for some one to take an 
interest in me, and had not yet learnt to make life 
happy by taking an interest in others ; so I was self- 
conscious and moody, and, never feeling very well, 
used to think myself much worse than I was, and 
liked others to do the same, a very uncomfortable, 
unsatisfactory state of mind, which, however, I am 
not sorry to have experienced. Vanity was at the 
bottom of it, I have no doubt now. 

We went back to the island to spend the summer 

at Northcourt, a very pretty old house, uninhabited, 

though furnished, and kept up well. It belonged to 

Sir Willoughby Gordon, and was lent to us on certain 

conditions, such as the payment of the gardener, etc. 

We were at Northcourt till November, 1835, but the 

latter part of the time I was in London having 

medical advice. I had been there before with Ellen 

— for masters, soon after leaving school. We stayed 

with our aunt, Mrs. Hanbury. Mr. Hanbury had 

moved from Camberwell, and was living in a large 

old-fashioned house in John Street, Bedford Eow. 

I never liked London, and now, not being well, did 

not see it under the best auspices. The house and 

the situation were alike dreary, and though my aunt 

and Mr. Hanbury were extremely kind, there was 

nothing to make up for the loss of my bright home. 

4 * 


The only gleam of romance I had in connection with 
the place was derived from the fact that the large 
bare house reminded me of a description of one like 
it in an old novel by Miss Hawkins — The Countess 
and Oertmde. 

The people I accidentally met in London were also 
for the most part distasteful to me ; religion seemed 
entirely out of their thoughts. Whatever might 
have been our family failings, and doubtless they 
were many, it was always considered that " one 
thing was needful," and being with William had 
deepened this feeling greatly in us all. Irreligious 
society, even if there was nothing said or done abso- 
lutely offensive to my feelings, was like putting me 
into an atmosphere in which I could not breathe. I 
shall never forget spending a Sunday at a lawyer's 
house in Chancery Lane, and during the long summer 
evening looking out upon the moon shining over the 
tops of the dingy houses in the narrow street, and 
hearing irreverent conversation, and being asked to 
play the overture to *' Semiramide,'* which in my 
moral cowardice I consented to do, though I had 
always been led to think that only sacred music was 
allowable on Sundays ; and at last feeling really re- 
lieved by hearing a gentleman who was present say, 
that he always went to church himself and made his 
servants do the same. 



A PLEASANT year or two externally succeeded our 
Northcourt suromer. I had a very delightful friend 
in Mrs. Charles Worsley, the wife of the incumbent 
of Newport, and we often had friends staying with 
us, and saw a good deal of society in a small way. 
My mind also had become much quieted and strength- 
ened by the reading of Butler's Analogy, which I 
had always heard mentioned with admiration, and 
which I stumbled upon, as it seemed accidentally 
(though doubtless it was a Providential help sent 
me), when we were spending a few days at the Her- 
mitaga I took it up first for curiosity, and read it 
through nearly, but not quite to the end; feeling 
very much afraid all the time that some one would 
inquire into my studies, and being greatly humiliated 
by an observation made by William, who one day 
found me with it in my hand. His surprised tone, 
as he exclaimed, *' You can't understand that," made 
me shrink into my shell of reserve, and for years I 
never owned to any one that Butler's Analogy had 



been to me, as it has been to hundreds, the stay of a 
troubled intellect and a weak faith. 

Ellen and I about this time began to undertake 
parish work: Mrs. Worsley wanted help, and we 
were glad to have a definite district assigned to us. 
My experiences in that line I afterwards described in 
Katherine Ashton. 

It was the district which first suggested to me 
any definite idea of writing. I think that I must 
always have had a vague consciousness of being able 
to do something in that way, but it had never been 
brought out. I remember, at Whippingham, think- 
ing that I would write a historical story for Emma 
and Janetta, and beginning something connected 
with Charles the Second and his escape after the 
battle of Worcester ; but it never came to anything 
though I spoke of it to my mother, and I can re- 
collect saying to her, **You know, mamma, Miss 
Edgeworth has written stories, and so perhaps I 
might be able to do the same " ; — a speech followed 
by a painful consciousness of having been terribly 
conceited, for I had all the time a great dislike to 
authoresses, and once startled a young lady who was 
dining with us by stating it as my opinion that 
women had no business to write. No one certainly 
could have had less perception in childhood or youth 
of possessing any power of imagination, or indeed of 
having any talent of any kind than I had. 

What with my lack of accomplishments, and the 
unsatisfactory state of my health, I was so little ac- 


customed to come forward, or to think it likely that I 
could be a favourite with any one, or even be noticed, 
that I used to feel quite surprised if any person, except 
some very intimate friends, spoke to me when I went 
down the street. I used to wonder how they knew me. 
And yet I can now trace a pleasure in the exercise of 
imagination far back to a time when, as a little child, 
I amused myself with describing to my mother a new 
kind of town which I should hke to build, and in 
which there were to be handsome streets of private 
houses, and disagreeable things, especially butchers* 
shops, should all be put out of the way, and after- 
wards at Miss Crooke's — when my favourite topic on 
a Sunday afternoon, if we went for a walk, was a 
plan for a college for girls ; the idea being suggested 
by my brothers having distinguished themselves at 
Winchester and Oxford. Happily there was no one 
near to make remarks upon anything I said or did, 
and I was such a very naughty child, and so con- 
tinually in disgrace, that the question of ability was 
always kept in the background, whilst my education 
was so deficient as regarded information, that when- 
ever I did compare myself with others it was to 
wonder at the extent of my own ignorance. 

My powers of composition were, however, a little 
exercised in one way after I left school. We had a 
doirs theatre, and we dressed up figures, and painted 
scenes, and then, as Ellen was the artist, I did my 
part by making out little plays to be read behind 
the scenes. The story of Ali Cogia, in the Arabian 


Nights, I turned into dialogue — and I even went so 
far as to write a little play of my own, which was 
acted in this way ; but I was very much ashamed of 
having it known that I had attempted anything of 
the kind, and was conscious that it was dull and 
stupid, and only useful for want of something better. 
The play, if I recollect rightly, had a moral purpose, 
and was decidedly heavy. Its subject was a struggle 
between two rival claimants of a throne, which 
should be the more disinterested. I doubt if there 
was any love in it, and certainly, if there was, it was 
a very subordinate matter of interest. 

Besides this play, I began, the year before we went 
to Northcourt, a story which never came to an end. 
There was little or no plot in it, and my only object 
was to bring out the working of religion in the mind of 
a young girl, who had been allowed to grow up with 
very little teaching upon the subject. I had not the 
least idea of publishing it, and only wrote it for my 
own amusement, and could never make up my mind 
whether it was good for anjrthing. One sentence in 
particular I remember being doubtful about. It was 
a description — and contained a simile in which the 
calm sea was compared to a child sleeping in its 
mother's arms. It sounded well, but I had a distant 
suspicion that it might be great nonsense. I showed 
the beginning of the story to Ellen ; but when I asked 
her whether she would like to hear it, the answer 
" By no means '* was certainly not encouraging. I 
persisted, however, and gained my point, and she 


owned that there was some interest in it. My 
mother also heard the first chapter, but the tale died 
a natural death. It was too defective in plot, and 
too unformed in principle to be of real value. 

Ab for Church principles, I did not then know what 
they meant, and when a friend (a clergyman) first 
suggested that the English Church claimed to have the 
Apostolical Succession, I did not know what he was 
talking about. With regard to baptism, I know that 
I used as a child to wonder what the particular good 
of it was, and why people made such a point of hav- 
ing their children baptised. It was not likely, there- 
fore, that there should be much of Church principle 
in my first attempt at writing a story. I knew more 
about such questions in my district-visiting days. 

I had seen some numbers of Tracts for the Times 
lying on the counter in a bookseller's shop in New- 
port, and they had excited my curiosity, and led to 
inquiry ; and, as my brother William's opinions had 
by that time become marked, he soon succeeded in 
indoctrinating all of us with them. A very great 
comfort it certainly was to myself to have my ideas 
cleared upon subjects which had long been floating 
about in my brain, and worrying me ahnost without 
my knowing it. Especially it was a relief to me to 
find great earnestness and devotion in a system 
which allowed of reserve in expression, and did not 
make the style of conversation, which I had met 
with in the only definitely religious tales I had read, 
a necessary part of Christianity. Mrs. Sherwood's 


Tales and others of a similar kind, described children 
as quoting texts, and talking of their feelings in an 
unnatural way, or what seemed to joae unnatural; 
and I had reaUy suffered so much at school from 
things said to me which jarred upon my taste that it 
was perfect rest to be able to talk upon religious sub- 
jects without hearing or using cant phrases. 

This is certainly rather low ground for adopting, or 
being influenced by church principles ; but I am not 
saying why they convinced me, but only why they 
harmonised with my feelings, and were attractive to 
me. At the time when they were first brought before 
me I went on without thinking— ahnost without 
knowing what I was learning, though I was more 
and more acquiring a knowledge of my true position 
as a Church person, and of the privileges and duties 
which belonged to me in consequence. 

The blessing bestowed upon a Christian by baptism 
was the point which most impressed me, and this I 
tried to bring out in the first thing I ever wrote 
which was published — Stories on the Lord's Prayer. 
I meant it at the time for a tract. I used to give 
away the Christian Knowledge Society tracts in our 
district, and thought them intensely dull ; and as I 
had a good deal of time to myself from not being 
very strong, and going very little into society, I 
thought I would try and write something more 
interesting. I wrote one or two chapters, and then 
put them by — always having the feeling that I was 
attempting what was beyond me. Then I began 


Amy Herbert — ^I scajrcely know why — only I had 
been reading some story of Mrs. Sherwood's, which 
struck me as having pretty descriptions, and I fancied 
I could write something of the same kind ; and as a 
matter of curiosity I determined to make the attempt. 
I read both the few chapters of the intended tract, 
and the beginning of Amy Herbert to my sisters, 
and they liked them ; and then I finished the Stories 
on the Lord's Prayer ; but Amy Herbert was for a 
while put aside, as I scarcely knew what I meant to 
do with it, and working out anything like a plot 
seemed beyond me. Afterwards I went on with it 
slowly from time to time. 



An event which was a great trial to us all — Aunt 
Anne's death — occurred in 1837, the year after we 
were at Northcourt. It made the first gap in the 
family since I had been able fully to understand and 
feel such losses. My aunt had occupied a peculiar 
place amongst us, both as regarded affection and 
usefulness, and when it was vacant there was no 
one to fill it. She had been my mother's constant 
companion and friend, and perhaps from this cir- 
cumstance we were less what may be termed intimate 
with our mother than daughters of our age would 
naturally have been. 

Newport was full of Dissent, and the clergyman 
of the place was unpopular. There was no Church 
school until my mother and some of her influential 
friends exerted themselves to set on foot what was 
called a National School, on the plan, I believe, of 
Dr. Bell, the great authority of the day for educa- 
tional subjects ; whilst the Dissenters had a Lan- 
castrian School, on the principles of Mr. Joseph 
Lancaster. As regarded the poor and suffering, 



both Church people and Dissenters worked together — 
on the whole amicably ; but the influential Dissenters 
were for the most pajt Unitarians, and the distinctive 
doctrines of Christianity were, in consequence, kept 
rather in the background — especially on the occasion 
of the Benevolent Society working parties, in which 
all shades of thought met, whilst reading aloud was 
the order of the day. 

Great was the difficulty, I remember, of finding 
any book which would not clash with the special 
opinions of some one of the party, but caution kept 
us on safe ground, and, as far as I could judge, all 
worked harmoniously, though I was not admitted 
into the secrets of the society. My brother William 
gave an amusing account of these parties when he 
wrote his novel Hawkatone, 

In 1839 my brother Eobert married. His wife was 
Miss Seymour, whom I have before mentioned as one 
of our school friends. We had known her family for 
years, for Mr. Seymour, who was a clergyman, had 
once been the curate-in-charge at Chale, and had 
afterwards lived in Newport. 

About this time (in 1840) I had an opportunity of 
seeing the most marked men of the Oxford leaders, 
with the exception of Dr. iPusey . My brother Edwards 
and I had been invited to dine and sleep at the house 
of Mr. Yonge of Otterbourn, and to be present at the 
consecration of a church at Ampthill, built through 
his instrumentality, and architecturally more perfect 
than Otterbourn Church, which was also his work. 


At the time the latter was built it was considered so 
beautiful, that travellers by the coach from South- 
ampton to Winchester were advised by a writer in 
one of the chief Reviews (the Quarterly, I think) to 
stop at Otterboum for the express purpose of seeing 
it. As the vestry of the church was at the east end 
behind the chancel, and the clergyman had to pass 
through the railing before the altar in order to reach 
the reading-desk, it may be seen how curiously im- 
perfect were then the ideas of the proprieties of 
church arrangement. (Otterbourn Church has been 
greatly improved since by Miss Yonge.) 

In 1840, Miss Yonge was a bright attractive girl, 
at least ten years younger than myself, and very like 
her own Ethel in the Daisy Chain. Great interest 
was expressed by her and her mother in Mrs. Mozley 
(Cardinal Newman's sister), the author of a tale 
called the Fairy Bower , which had appeared shortly 
before. It was the precursor of the many tales, 
illustrative of the Oxford teaching, that were written 
at this period, and which were hailed with special 
satisfaction by young people, who turned from the 
texts, and prayers, and hymns, which Mrs. Sherwood 
had introduced into her stories, and yet needed some- 
thing higher in tone than Miss Edgeworth's morality. 

Miss Yonge expressed the greatest wish to see 
Mrs. Mozley, who, she had hoped, would be present 
at the consecration, and to thank her for her book, 
but the authoress did not appear. There were, how- 
ever, other and more important celebrities present 


at the dinner which followed the consecration at 
Otterboum. The names of Keble, Newman, Isaac 
Williams, Henry Wilberforce, and of Serjeant Bel- 
lasis (a barrister, who for a time was a marked ad- 
herent of thetDxford party), will at once show to any 
one at all acquainted with the spirit of those days 
how intensely interesting the party was to me. Three 
of the guests, alas ! — Newman, Wilberforce and Ser- 
jeant Bellasis — afterwards seceded to the Church of 
Kome, but on the day of the Ampthill consecration 
the fear of such a change had not suggested itself, 
and I looked upon Newman with the most intense 
reverence, for I knew that he was regarded as the 
most influential and saintly man in the English 

Keble (I suppose, as I am speaking of a dinner- 
party, I ought to say Mr. Keble) took me in to dinner. 
He was always painfully shy, and conversation was 
a difficulty. The weather was chilly, and he asked 
me which side of the table I would prefer. My one 
longing was to be near Newman, and in a moment it 
struck me that he would be certain not to choose the 
side near the fire ; and I made my choice accordingly, 
and to my great joy, mingled, however, with alarm, 
I found myself seated next to him. 

His observations, so far as they were addressed to 
myself, were not so very unlike what he is reported 
to have said on an occasion when a lady, full of ad- 
miration for him, was introduced and the first words 
he said to her were— "Ice is as thick as a penny 


piece this morning I '' All I can remember is that 
we spoke of the strange dim recollections awakened 
by places which we have once visited, when we visit 
them again after a distance of years. He quoted 
the scene in Ghiy Mannering as a good description 
of the feelings called forth under such circumstances, 
and said he had felt something of the same kind 
once on revisiting Brighton. But the one impres- 
sion I did receive at that dinner-party, was of New- 
man's reverence for sacred things. The dilapidated 
and disgraceful condition of a church at Stafford 
was mentioned by some one at the table, and general 
remcbrks were made, and, in the course of them, cer- 
tain absurd details were mentioned. Every one at 
table, except Nevnnan, saw the ludicrous side, and 
laughed, but he was silent ; and when I glanced at 
him, there was an expression of such deep pain in 
his face, that I was recalled at once to the conscious- 
ness that we were treading upon sacred ground. 

That was the only time I ever spoke to Newman. 
I had heard him preach in Oxford before I met him. 
I was one of a rather gay young party. Sunday 
afternoon came, and my brother William said quietly, 
"I think we will go to St. Mary's and hear New- 
man". I did not know then what the preacher's 
power of influence was, and I don't think the sermon 
itself made any great impression on me, but what 
did remain was the effect produced by the personality 
of the man — his absolute earnestness, the stillness of 
his manner, his low tones. He spoke as in the pres- 


ence of God, and with an utter forgetfulness of every- 
thing but the message, the warning and advice which 
he had to declare, and so it was when I met him at 

It was this impression of the man, in himself, 
which — I cannot but think — gave the immense power 
to Newman's sermons. Those who had seen and 
heard him, and very many who had only heard of 
him, were prepared to emphasise his words, and to 
accept them almost as inspired. Yet they were often 
very severe, and even likely to produce alarm in 
young minds. My sisters and I had a volume of the 
sermons given us by an Oxford friend of our brother 
William; but it was with the caution that there 
were two sermons which it was better for us not to 
read. The prohibition was ultimately taken off, but 
not till our friend had made up his mind that we 
were not likely to have our minds disturbed by the 
new teaching, which was extremely stem, and likely 
in some cases to be discouraging. 



It was in 1840 that I first published anything. I 
had finished the little book, Stories on the Lord's 
Prayer, and it struck me that if I sent it to the 
Cottagers Monthly Visitor, which was the only 
magazine I knew likely to accept such a contribution, 
it might be inserted. I asked William whether there 
could be any objection, and when he said " No," it 
was sent. Dr. Davy, Bishop of Peterborough, was 
the editor of the Cottager's Monthly Visitor, and I 
was curious to know whether he would object to any 
of the statements I had made. I heard nothing 
until the numbers came out, and then I found that 
some of the expressions about baptism were altered ; 
but the stories were soon after reprinted again in 
their original form, as by my brother William's 
arrangement the little book was republished by 
Burns — then an English Churchman — but after- 
wards a Eoman Catholic. I did not give my name, 
and no one knew anything about it, except my 
mother and sisters. I have often vexed myself since 
— thinking that I did not tell my father — but I had 



a dread of any person talking to me about my 
writing, and I knew that if he was pleased he would 
not be able to keep himself from telling me so. I 
was reading the little book aloud to my mother one 
evening when he was in the room, and not being well 
was lying on the sofa half asleep, as I thought ; but 
he listened, and I think was interested, for he asked 
me what I was reading. I forget exactly what 
answer I made, but it certainly was not that I was 
reading anything of my own, and so I lost the 
opportunity of giving him pleasure. 

Our life was a good deal altered after our brothers 
married. There were more wills to be consulted, 
and there was a constant moving to and fro between 
Newport, Pidford, and Milbrooke. 

Money difficulties, owing to the failure of two 

local banks, became more pressing about 1840. I 

looked on and understood something, but not all. 

As my father's uneasiness increased, his health began 

to fail. He was subject to attacks of gout, and the 

complaint was always hanging about him, and 

causing great depression so that he could not rally 

his energies to meet his difl&culties hopefully. The 

worry was extreme and was increased by an accident 

that happened to my mother, by which her arm was 

dislocated. I went on writing Amy Herbert as well 

as I could at odd moments. The feeling that kept 

me to my work was the hope that, if great sorrow 

should be coming upon us, my writing might be an 

interest to my mother when she would not care for 

5 * 


anything else ; and so it proved. After my father's 
death, the only reading, except the Bible, which, for 
weeks, she would listen to, was Amy Herbert. 

About Easter my brothers were obliged to go back 
to Oxford, and then they were very anxious that my 
father should be moved there. The idea of his re- 
turning home was put aside, for it would only have 
been plunging him into the midst of anxieties which 
he was unequal to beaj. William, as usual, came 
forward to take upon himself a large shaje of the 
burden of expense, but my father at first strongly 
objected to Oxford. Suddenly, however, and just as 
the question became more urgent, he changed his 
mind, and consented to go. 

As my father grew worse, my mother and sisters 
joined us at Oxford. We remained there from Easter 
to the month of June. My father rallied a little 
occasionally, but we soon saw that there was very 
little hope of his ultimate recovery. The disease was 
suppressed gout, which caused the most miserable 
depression and weakness. Sometimes his mind 
wandered a little, and confused thoughts of business 
troubled him. He sent for me one Sunday morning 
as I was preparing to go to the early celebration of 
the Holy Conununion at St. Peter's in the East, and 
began to talk to me in a vague way about a small 
legacy which had been left me, and of which I had 
been accustomed to receive the interest. He was 
earnest and excited in trjdng to make the little 
business clear to me, and I grew more and more 


oppressed and sorrowful, for I felt that the end was 
drawing near; and when, an hour afterwards, I 
knelt at the altar in St. Peter's Church, it was with 
the conviction that a new life of anxiety — a Ufe of 
which I was to bear the burden for others as well as 
for myself — was all but begun, and that only God 
could keep me from being crushed by it. I have 
scarcely ever gone into the same church since, with- 
out a remembrance of that morning — nor, I hope, 
without a sense of thankfulness for the sustaining 
Power which has never failed me. 



My father died on the 25th of June, 1842. We re- 
turned to the Isle of Wight immediately, for it was the 
especial wish of my mother that my father should 
be buried at Newport. We — sisters — travelled with 
her by night for the sake of quietness. A strange 
and most dreary journey it was. An overpowering 
weight was upon us apart from our sorrow. We had 
long known what must come, but no one can tell 
beforehand what the reality of such trials will be. 
My brothers were kinder than can be told, but then 
it was voluntary kindness — not the protection which 
a child naturally claims from a parent. My mother 
seemed stunned. We reached Newport early in the 
morning. The change in the house was indescribable, 
and we knew that there must be worse changes be- 
hind. I went out into the garden after breakfast to 
a little room which, when we were children, had 
been a half summer-house, half play-room, and which 
had since been used for what we called a painting- 
room, where we could amuse ourselves as we pleased 

without fear of interruption. I was alone there 



when my sister-in-law, Marianne, came to me. We 
began talking of the state of the family aflfairs. 

One thing was certain. Some change in our 
establishment and mode of living must be made im- 
mediately. We calculated upon having £500 a year 
to live upon ; and I had a vision of a little cottage 
in the country, and a life of extreme quietness. But 
my brothers had a different plan in view. They 
thought that it would be better for us at once to 
remove to Pidford. 

Pidford as a residence had always been in idea our 
great aversion. The house was nearly square, lying 
very low, and with the ground rising in front so as 
to preclude a view — if there had been one. The only 
things to be seen from the front windows, besides 
the drive, the small lawn, and the fields and trees 
adjoining, were the tops of the carts and waggons 
which passed along the high road to Newport. The 
drawing-room and dining-room on each side of a 
little entrance hall were square and formal, and 
there were bedrooms of the same size above, except 
that a small dressing-room was taken out of them ; 
whilst at the back there was a range of dark, dull 
rooms, looking out into a kind of farm-yard. One 
of these was fitted up as a sitting-room for my mother 
and ourselves. The others were the children's nur- 
series. There were large waste attics at the back, 
and two or three in the front. The latter my sisters 
were to occupy, and, with the family love of improve- 
ment and ornamentation, we soon set to work to 


make them more picturesque than at first would have 
seemed possible. I chose a little room half-way up 
the front stairs, which I could have to myself, though 
with the uncomfortable proviso that whenever it 
should be needed for a visitor I was to move out of 
it, and migrate to a back attic. 

Pidford being far from a church, and with no 
regular village near it, but only scattered cottages 
belonging to three different parishes, it seemed at 
first that there would be nothing for any one to do 
who lived there ; — a great mistake as it proved, but, 
at the moment when the idea of making it our 
home was first suggested we were not inclined to 
be reasonable. 

My father was buried at Newport. Many persons 
attended his funeral, and the shops in the town were 
closed. Every one, I think, felt what a friend they 
had lost. It was settled that we should go at once 
to a large house at Blackgang, called Southlands. It 
belonged to a friend, and was, I believe, lent to us. 
Preparations were to be made for us at Pidford, and 
the Newport establishment was to be broken up at 
once. The pain of leaving our early home was in a 
degree softened by this arrangement. 

My mother rallied but little whilst we were at 
Blackgang, and after a time she grew anxious to be 
at Pidford. Perhaps she wished at once to try what 
her new life would be. 

For ourselves there was much really to occupy us, 
for besides reading to my mother and cheering her, 


we had Lucy's children to teach and a little work in 
looking after the few poor people who were in our 
neighbourhood. It struck me that a school was much 
needed. In those days education was not enforced 
by law, and as Pidford was on the borders of three 
parishes, there was no one clergyman to take the 
matter in hand, and the cottagers' children were left 
uninstructed. We had no .money to spare, but it 
might be possible, I thought, to obtain help from our 
friends. The attempt I made was certainly of an 
original kind. I found out a man named Eeynolds, 
who was a cripple, but who could read fairly well, 
and knew something of arithmetic. By promising 
him a very small sum weekly, he was induced to 
undertake the oflBce of schoolmaster in his cottage, 
and, by small contributions from one and another, a 
few books and slates were provided. It was a most 
primitive aflfair, and I cannot say much for the in- 
struction the children received. I heard Eeynolds 
say to them one day, l-a-u-g-h, law, Ue-r, ter — lawterf 
All the poor people around, however, were willing 
to send their children, and the little ones really did in 
the end learn to read, and write, and reckon, and were 
taken to church on Sundays. The parents were, for 
the most part. Dissenters, but more, I think, from 
necessity than choice. Many of them seldom saw a 
clergyman, and as they were too far from a church 
to attend the service regularly, they had built a 
chapel for themselves, and managed their religious 
affairs their own way. We did not attempt any 


crusade against Dissent, but merely offered advan- 
tages in the way of instruction to those who would 
send their children to school and to church. In other 
respects we treated all alike. If we had remained at 
Pidford, we might have done more permanent good, 
but that was not to be. 

If we had had a clergyman to help us I think we 
might have enjoyed the parish work ; but, as it was, 
our efforts were unsatisfactory. Besides the little 
school for the children, we had a class of older boys 
at the house once a week for writing and arithmetic, 
and I think some girls came also at a different time, 
but I am not quite sure. 



I WENT on writing Amy Herbert all this time. 

William had arranged to have the Stories on the 

Lord's Prayer published as a little book, for which 

Burns was to give me five pounds. This made Ellen 

speak to him about Amy Herbert. He looked at 

the first chapters, and liked them, and begged me to 

finish the story. Amy was originally intended to be 

only nine years old, but I found as I went on that 

she was too thoughtful for that age, and I made her 

a few years older. Emmerton Hall was an enlarged 

picture of Northcourt. I found it a great help to 

have a place I had seen before my eyes, for my 

power of word-painting was by no means great. 

There was no chapel indeed at Northcourt, but the 

exterior of the house resembles the description given 

of Emmerton. The story itself was the outcome of 

the influence which the Oxford movement had not 

only upon myself but upon all around me. But I 

had no delight in being an authoress. My objection 

to the name existed in full force, and when the little 

book — Stories on the Lord's Prayer — appeared, I 



flattered myself that it would not be in good taste 
for any one to speak to me about it; and greatly 
surprised and disturbed I was, when one day at Pid- 
ford, an excellent friend, a clergyman, hoping to please 
me, gave me some praise for what I had written. 

I was, I am afraid, far from courteous or seemingly 
grateful, not at all because I was not in my heart 
pleased, for of course I was ; but praise given me to 
my face made me feel extremely awkward, and I have 
never conquered my dislike to it. Written praise 
was quite different, and is so still, but spoken words 
were and are trials. There is no special humility 
or modesty in such a dislike, it is merely a matter of 
shyness which many persons would think absurd. 
The test of humility is the spirit in which censure 
can be accepted, and I have just as much distaste to 
that as any other author or authoress can have. 

We all met together as usual at Christmas, 1842, 
only it was at Pidford instead of Newport ; but by 
this time a new source of anxiety had sprung up — 
Lucy's health. Though she had never been strong, 
we had not suspected the existence of any consump- 
tive tendency. Now, however, she had a hard, harsh 
cough, for which we could not account. 

Things went on very quietly through the spring of 
1843. Then our uncle Edwards died suddenly. He 
had been for some time living at Speen, near Newbury, 
and we had lately seen but little of him ; but his death 
was a shock, and we had only just recovered from it 
when Lucy's health became so much worse that it 


was thought desirable again to try change and 
travelling. Henry planned a little summer tour in 
Wales, and it was arranged that I was to go as 
Lucy's companion, and very pleasant it would have 
been but for anxiety. We went to Capel Curig, and 
Llanberris, and Henry and I managed to get to the 
top of Snowdon, and then we went to Beddgelert, 
Festiniog, Bala and Welshpool, spending a day or 
two with an old gentleman who lived in a house 
which had formerly belonged to the Welsh princes, 
and boasted of a Banshee and other legendary and 
mysterious distinctions. My father and brothers had 
assisted him in some business matters, and once or 
twice he had stayed with us at Newport. A kindly 
disposed old gentleman he was, but we sisters were 
not partial to him, for he would kiss us when we 
went to bed, and to this we strongly objected. 

The night of our arrival at his house he told us a 
ghastly story of a former occupant of the place, who 
in his grief at the loss of his first wife used to spend 
night after night in the vault which contained her 
coflBn. The clergyman of the parish objected to this, 
and, at last, the coffin was removed, and put into a 
closet in the house, where it remained till the bereaved 
husband found a second wife who begged that the 
body of her predecessor might be restored to the vault. 
As our old friend ended this tale he put his face (a 
singularly plain face, surmounted by a brown wig) 
close to mine, and gave an unearthly groan, which 
sent me to my old-fashioned bedroom full of nervous 


terror, not lessened when I found a large closet 
adjoining it, precisely fitted for the cofi^ of the first 

Onr host's wish, undoubtedly, was to make us 
comfortable, but he was a widower, and had peculiar 
ideas of comfort, and when, on the next morning, I 
found it impossible to open the drawing-room window 
to give Lucy a little fresh air, and inquired of the 
housekeeper if she thought we might have it un- 
fastened, her reply was, ** No doubt we might, but 
her master had not opened the window since his 
wife died forty years ago ! " 

Our old friend's history, carried to its end, was a 
strange and very painful one. I do not remember 
all the details perfectly; I only know that after 
having gone on for many years striving to regain 
money from the hands of Chancery, he had just suc- 
ceeded (a short time after our visit) when, as he was 
staying in the house of a nephew, he was found 
dead one morning, hanging in some way by a 
window. Whether he had committed suicide, or was 
murdered, or whether his death could possibly have 
been accidental, no one could determine. By the 
death of our old friend his nephew obtained some of 
the property, and there was a mysterious report of a 
bank note for a thousand pounds which was found 
in the possession of the housekeeper, hidden in the 
ticking of her mattress, and which, she said, had been 
given her by her master. My brother Henry fully 
believed that an inquiry would be made into the 


aflfair, but the family apparently dreaded exposure. 
It was hushed up, and the mystery remains to be 
revealed when all secrets are known. To me it had 
a special interest, because our old friend had often 
said when staying with us that he wished I could 
marry his nephew. 

As the winter went on we gave up all thought of 
returning to Pidford. The place was too cold and 
exposed for Lucy. What was to be done was a 
great diflBculty. The question of climate being so 
important, we at length determined to take a house, 
either at Ventnor or Bonchurch, for my mother, my 
sisters, and myself, with the elder children. We 
went to every house which we thought might suit 
us, but were unsuccessful, till WilUam, who happened 
to be staying with us for rest after overwork at Ox- 
ford, came back from a walk one day, and said he 
had found at Bonchurch precisely the place we 
needed. This was quite true. The house suited us, 
and we felt ourselves obliged to take it, but it was a 
most odd-looking place — a small, square house, with- 
out the shade of a verandah, standing in a tiny 
garden which sloped down to the road, with a wall 
at the bottom, low enough to allow the passers-by 
to look up and see everything we were doing; a 
wilderness at the back, partly weedy, partly cleared 
away, and resembling a disused coal-yard or stable- 
ysird ; and cabbages growing up the cUflfs. These 
cliffs were in themselves very picturesque ; the view 
from the front of the house was lovely, but the 


aspect of the place was — ^to use the words of an old 
friend — "just like the garden of the sluggard de- 
scribed in the book of Proverbs *'. All we could say 
to cheer ourselves in the prospect of inhabiting it 
was, that it was more cheerful than Pidford. 

Just before Aiwy Herbert was published, Lucy's 
little girl, named Marianne, was bom — on 25th 
February, 1844. Lucy was able at the moment to 
take an interest in it, and I was excited myself in a 
way, but I was already beginning to feel the weight 
of that great pressure of pecuniary anxiety and 
personal responsibility, which has ever since crushed 
any feeling except that of momentary pleasure con- 
nected with the success of my books. I had finished 
Amy Herbert and begun Oertmde before we left 
Pidford, but I had little hope of making the latter 
a success. My sisters did not like it as well as Amy 
Herbert, and I had an impression that having written 
one story I had exhausted all my powers ; and I 
quite smiled to myself when William one day said 
to me, that having begun writing tales I could go 
on and write some more. But the impulse came at 
last. The Oxford movement was just then in its 
full strength. Everyone seemed waking up to a 
sense of unfulfilled duties, and the question con- 
stantly discussed was, which had the primary claim, 
home, or church services, and works and charity? 
I heard it said that young ladies rushed about to 
visit the poor, and were constant at daily service, 
whilst they were neglectful of their parents. There 


were, I knew, many misunderstandings on the part 
of the parents, and many inconsistencies on the part 
of the daughters, and a casual observation made by 
a friend of my own age at an evening party led me 
to think that she considered family duties of second- 
ary importance. 

Thus the story of Oertmde was suggested. There 
is nothing in the scenery or in the characters drawn 
from what was actually before me. The tale merely 
represents the tone of ordinary society, and the sub- 
jects in which persons were interested at that period. 
Churches were everywhere being restored, and new 
churches built — for the most part in utter ignorance 
of architectural rules. A gentleman once said to me, 
in reference to a well-built but hideously ugly church 
of his own planning, that the only thing to be done 
with such edifices was to burn them down. And his 
words were true of many others. It was this rage 
for church building which explains the prominence 
given to the subject in Oertmde. One thing I would 
notice as regards the description of the consecration 
service. There is no reference at the close to a cele- 
bration of the Holy Communion. When the tale was 
written such an addition to the consecration service 
would not, as a rule, have been thought of. Now, it 
would be deemed indispensable. So much higher is 
our idea of the importance of the sacramental rita 
But. this has been the growth of years. 

We remained at Ventnor all the spring, and were 

busy in preparing to move into our new home at 



Bonchnrch, which we were abeady talking of im- 
proving. The entrance drive was to be made at the 
back — the road was to be shut out — ^the cliffs were 
to be cleared and planted, and a verandah was to be 
added to the housa We did not dream of doing so 
much at first (and I will not say that the alterations 
were wise), but the idea grew upon us. As a family 
we were never patient with ugliness, and of course 
we have suffered accordingly. 



We moved into our Bonchurch house, then called 
Sea View, but now known as Ashcliflf, in May, 1844. 
Lucy was then at Milbrooke, sinking gradually. 
Marianne nursed her, so did Ellen ; her mother also 
came to her (her father, General Nedham, had died 
in the preceding winter). It was a strange and 
very trying time. The house at Bonchurch seemed 
so small that we fancied we could not fit ourselves 
into it. We knew scarcely any one, and I had an 
impression that we were going to live there with the 
nightingales in absolute retirement. So different our 
life has been from that fancy ! I went to Milbrooke 
occasionally. My chief wish was to be useful to the 
children. I could do little or nothing in the way of 
nursing, for I was near-sighted and deficient in 
muscular strength, often very necessary in a sick- 
room ; but the care of the children was quite within 
my powers. I wrote to Lucy from Bonchurch, 
telling her that I would always care for and love 
them, and look upon them as my special charge, and 

in answer to this she said to her mother that she 

88 6* 


considered them my children, and that she could not 
say what a blessing it was. The same trust was 
expressed for all of us. She knew, as she said on 
another occasion, that they would be well taken care 
of, for she looked upon them as ours. I mention this 
because it shows how entirely the children became 
the one interest of our lives — taking the place with 
me of any desire for literary society, or any craving 
for literary fame — and giving us all a bitter heart- 
pang when, in after years, the idea of being parted 
from them was suggested to us. 

In July dear Lucy grew much worse, and sank 
rapidly. Ellen and I were both at Milbrooke then. 
It was a very gradual and painless fading away, and 
full of mercies. The simple, trustful life had been 
the forerunner of a simple trustful death. (28th 
July, 1844.) 

The well-known lines of Hood always come to my 
mind when I think of those last hours : — 

We watched her hreathing through the night — 

Her breathing soft and low — 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about : 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied ; 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 


For when the mom came, dim and sad. 

And chill with earlj showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another mom than ours. 

We went back to Bonchurch after that great 
sorrow. The children were given over to us, and 
they became our one object. My first visit to a 
foreign country was made about that time. I kept 
a journal, but its chief interest lies in the small 
differences between travelling as it was then and as 
it is now. We went by diligence from Havre to 
Paris, and came back by Abbeville, Amiens, and 
Calais — so that I saw a good deal in a short time. 
The chief use I made of the journey was long after, 
when, in writing Ursula, I needed a few incidents of 
foreign life for the plot of the story. 

(29th November, 1881.) 

This book has long been put aside. I had brought 
up our family history to the point where a private 
journal which I have kept for many years began, and 
then I left it. Now I would very briefly give the 
outline of events between 1844 and the present time, 
just noting that Eobert lost his dearly loved wife, 
Marianne, in 1849, five years after Lucy's death, so 
that we then had two brothers widowers. 

The condition of Church affairs at Bonchurch was 
the chief source of discomfort during the first years 
of our residence there. I have already spoken of 
the very small church accommodation, the Sunday 
services alternating with Shanklin, and the Holy 


Communion being administered only four times a 
year. Week-day services were unheard of. The 
first time in the memory of that generation when 
there was a service on Ascension Day, it was held 
at the request of our family. We happened to have 
a clergyman staying with us, and we wrote to our 
rector, the Bev. Justly Hill (Archdeacon of Bucking- 
ham), who lived at Shanklin, and asked if he would 
allow this friend to ofl&ciate. The answer was " Yes, 
if we could undertake to let the parishioners know," 
and accordingly we sent round a notice to our neigh- 
bours, and from that time the service has never been 

The village of Bonchurch, when we went to live 
in the place, consisted of two rows of thatched 
cottages, lovely to look at, but very uncomfortable to 
live in. The larger houses were East Dene, Wood 
Lynch, Under-rock, Orchardleigh, Undermount, and 
Coombe Wood (then called Uppermount), in the 
lower ground ; and a few villas on the hill, besides 
a small hotel. 

The population was much too large for the little 
old church, and the greater part of our family were 
obliged to go for a second service in the afternoon 
to St. Catherine's, then the only church at Ventnor. 
The long, hot walk, followed by a very long sermon, 
made it extremely difficult to keep awake. I often 
took a pin and pricked myself to quicken my atten- 
tion, though to very little purpose. Still, looking 
back on the Pidford days, and the solitary walk 


to Godshill, I was very thankful for the increase of 
church privileges, and there was a prospect of better 
things to come, for the idea of building a new church 
at Bonchurch was under discussion. Admiral (then 
Captain) Swinburne, of East Dene, took a large share 
in the plans, and, vsrith other members of his family, 
contributed munificently towards carrying them out. 

There was no regular school, but Mrs. White 
(Bosa Hill), to whom the greater part of the property 
in the parish belonged, held a small Sunday school 
at her own house, Wood Lynch. 

A new schoolhouse was contemplated as well as a 
new church, and towards the fund of the school, the 
Bev. William Adams (author of the well-known al- 
legories), my brother William, and myself, gave a joint 
contribution from the profits of a little book called The 
Sketches, which is now out of print. The idea of the 
book was that my sister Ellen should give a certain 
number of sketches (six, I think), and introduce into 
them any figures she might choose, and these 
sketches we were each to make suggestive of a short 
story. At the time we were all popular writers, and 
the little volume was successful. I think it brought 
us two hundred pounds. I was also able to publish 
two very small books containing four stories, A 
Friend in Disguise, The Fate of a Favov/rite, Was it 
a Dream ? and The New Churchyard. They were 
sold to Mr. Burns, the publisher, for ten pounds, and 
the money was given for the purchase of church 
furniture. When Burns joined the Church of Bome, 


I believe these little books passed into the hands of 
Mr. Masters, but I fiikncy they are all now out of 

Admiral Swinburne's family gave the rest of the 
money required for the schoolhouse, and the school 
itself being thus on a private foundation, we were 
able to manage it our own way. We chose our own 
committee, and filled up the vacancies from our own 
friends, an arrangement which afterwards brought us 
into great trouble, as the subscribers who maintained 
the school expected to have a voice in the election 
of the committee. 

Though a very small parish, Bonchurch was for 
some time in a chronic state of disturbance in regard to 
church matters. Our old rector at Shanklin had, in 
primitive days, left us very much to ourselves. He 
came over once on the Sunday, went through the 
service without music or singing of any kind, gave us 
a sermon, and went back again ; but, as the residents 
increased in number, this was not sufficient. The 
first great change that was made was the introduc- 
tion of singing. The rector's custom had been to 
sit down before going into the pulpit, and face the 
little congregation in the quaint old church, whilst, 
as he said, he rested. We looked at him. He looked 
at us. Stillness prevailed. Then he rose — (a very 
tall, large man — his figure made to appear still larger 
by his black gown) — and ascended the pulpit steps, 
preached his sermon, and the congregation departed. 

But shortly after we came to Bonchurch, it was 


suggested by a friend of ours, the Bev. George Leigh 
Cooke, vicar of Cubington, in Warwickshire, who 
was taking the Sunday duty for our rector, that it 
would be possible and desirable to introduce a hymn 
into the service. He made the proposition to me late 
on a Saturday afternoon. ** Why don't you ladies 
sing ? " was his sudden question. My reply naturally 
was that singing could not be introduced without 
the rector's permission. But the objection was 
quickly put aside. Mr. Cooke said he was going to 
Shanklin the next morning to preach for the rector ; 
the subject should be mentioned ; permission was 
certain. We had only to collect some young ladies, 
and tell them our intention. Miss Cooke was ac- 
customed to train a choir — she would lead us — and 
the thing would be done. He was so earnest that I 
could not refuse to make the attempt, at least by try- 
ing to collect a few singers ; — but time was short, 
and the utmost I could .do was to arrange with a 
certain number of young people — ^personal friends — 
to meet the next day in the old church some time be- 
fore the hour for afternoon service, and practise two 
Psalms, one of which was, if I remember rightly, the 
100th Psalm, so as to be ready if needed. Miss Cooke 
was to meet us, and be our leader. 

The hour fixed was two p.m., the service was at 
half -past two, but we had forgotten the custom of the 
old people in country parishes assembling and gos- 
siping in the churchyard before the service began ; and 
when we met according to appointment, a number of 


persons were lingering about. We were all very 
shy, and at once gave up any attempt to practise 
beforehand, and went into the church. Mr. Cooke 
was to take the duty for the rector. Just before he 
appeared in the reading-desk, the old clerk, whose 
voice was the chief support of the congregation in the 
responses, came up to the great square pew in which 
we, trembUng singers, were congregated, and, lean- 
ing over it, said in a very audible and impressive 
whisper, '* The Archdeacon says you may sing ". And 
we did sing, quaveringly, I am afraid, and untun- 
ably, but from that day music of some kind has al- 
ways formed part of the Bonchurch service. 

The new church was the matter of chief interest to 
us in those first days at our new home. The dijBB- 
culties, and disagreements, and conflicting opinions 
respecting it, were, I imagine, only such as attend 
any undertaking of the kind. The questions which 
interested me most, had reference to the services 
which had for some time been voluntarily shared with 
the rector by a friend and near neighbour, the Bev. 
Bandle Feilden, who was now to be our curate. Any 
service, besides one on a Sunday, had never been 
heard of. Even a recognition of Holy-week was not 
thought of until, in 1847, Dr. Coleridge, who hap- 
pened to be staying at Bonchurch, obtained per- 
mission to have prayers every day. The weather, 
I remember, was lovely. The small congregation 
met in the old church almost like a family party, 
and on Good Friday the quietness of the solemn 


service, with the antiquity of the httle building in 
which it was held, and which had stood for nearly 
800 years, and the beauty and repose of the scenery 
around — ^the trees, and rocks, and hills, and the sea 
sparkling in the sunshine — made an impression on me, 
as we came out of church, which I have never for- 

The express wish of some of the most influential 
persons in the parish was to have a celebration of 
the Holy Communion once a month — no one then 
dreamed of asking for more. One gentleman, how- 
ever, was said to have " Scotch views,'* and he did 
not desire such a frequent service. Through a friend 
of my own, who was nearly connected with the family 
of the bishop (Dr. Sumner), I learned that the ques- 
tion of frequency had been discussed between the 
bishop and our rector, and that the bishop had ex- 
pressed his opinion that a monthly celebration was 
desirable, but still I did not feel at all sure that the 
opinion would be attended to. One day the rector 
came from Shanklin to call on one of my brothers, 
who was staying with us. When he was gone, I 
asked if anything had been said about church matters, 
and especially what were our prospects as regarded 
the Holy Communion. The reply was to the effect 
that we were to be allowed a celebration every six 

This seemed very hard upon us. We had agreed 
to subscribe for the curate's stipend upon certain 
conditions, and though this particular point had not 


been especially mentioned, it was because it had been 
taken for granted. I determined in my own mind 
that I would not let the matter rest, and without 
delay I went to a friend, Lady Hampson (Uving 
at Cliff Den), whose name would, I knew, have weight 
with the rector, and begged her to write to him 
upon the subject. Writing myself was out of the 
question. Such absurd stories were going about as 
to my church principles and the probabiUty of my 
becoming a Eomanist — that whatever I said or did 
was likely to be misinterpreted, and do more harm 
than good. 

After some consultation, a letter to the rector was 
written in Lady Hampson's name, stating our wishes 
and reminding him it had been agreed that the cur- 
ate's stipend should be given upon certain condi- 
tions, and adding that the bishop, we knew, had 
expressed his approval of the monthly celebration of 
the Holy Communion. The following day I had a 
visit from Mr. Feilden. He had just returned from 
Shanklin. The letter had been received by the rector, 
who was much annoyed, and wished that the ladies 
of Bonchurch would not. interfere in such matters. 
**Did I know anything about the letter?'' "Oh, 
yes," I said; "I helped to write it." Mr. Feilden 
laughed, and so did I ; and then we went on to 
discuss the matter — and in the end we had our way. 
I only mention the circumstance to show what the 
subjects were on which church conflicts in those days 
arose. Since that time a weekly celebration of the 


Holy Communion has been gradually introduced at 
Bonchurch — and it is to be hoped that it may never 
again be discontinued. 

The foundation-stone of the church was laid on 
the Festival of St. John the Baptist, by the Eev. 
William Adams; and the completed church was 
consecrated on the 13th of December, 1848. The 
advowson of the living was soon after purchased by 
a gentleman (Dr. Leeson), who was afraid of any- 
thing connected, however remotely, with the Ox- 
ford movement. When Archdeacon Hill died, the 
rectors who succeeded him, though good and earnest 
men, were suspicious of everything which had a 
decided Church tendency. The first rector, indeed, 
was more inclined to be cordial. He was an elderly 
man, and rather delicate, and when he took a lodg- 
ing very near us we won his heart by sending him 
a loaf of home-made bread when he was ill, and 
upon the strength of that kindly overture on our 
part he forgave us for asking if there was to be 
service on Ascension Day, which I heard he looked 
upon as a suspicious inquiry — and we became ex- 
cellent friends. He told us afterwards that he had 
been warned against us before he came into the 

The succeeding rectors were more decided in their 
antagonism to Church principles, and the misunder- 
standings and uncomfortable feelings which were the 
result, might, if told in detail, fill a small volume, 
but it is better to let them pass. They did form an 


article in Blackwood* 8 Magaaine, written by onr clever 
friend with the " Scotch views " ; and at last, when 
there came an open split between the school com- 
mittee and the rector, we had a scene in the draw- 
ing-room at East Dene which might have been nsefol 
to Charles Dickens, who occasionally stayed at Bon- 
church with Mr. White. He had been present at 
the first school examination held in the temporary 
schoolroom — contrived out of Admiral Swinburne's 
coach-house. This was the only time I ever saw 
him, for we did not go into society, partly from in- 
clination, and partly because society involved expense. 
The position of the rector, on the occasion to which 
I refer, was most unfortunate. He stood alone — 
accused by the committee of introducing Dissenting 
books into the school library without their knowledge. 
The committee were equally accused by the rector 
of introducing books to which he objected. To whom 
the right of selection belonged was not clear. The 
dispute ended by the books disapproved of by both 
parties being withdrawn from the library and put 
aside ; and the succeeding rector, finding it trouble- 
some to keep them, and not knowing what to do 
with them — without saying a word to any one — 
burnt them. On that occasion I suffered, in the 
person of my books, in company with Bishop Ken 
and Jeremy Taylor, and I have always looked upon 
this autO'da-fd as the greatest honour that has ever 
been conferred upon me. 



Church matters and the troubles connected with the 
Newport business occupied our thoughts greatly for 
two or three years after we came to Bonchurch, but 
that which afterwards more particularly engrossed 
us as affecting our home interests was the prospect 
of Henry's second marriage, which came before us in 
1847, the year before my dear mother's death. 

My journal takes up the story at this time, and 
the extracts I have made from it will give a few 
details of the events following. But one remark I 
will make — the journal was written solely for per- 
sonal interest. I have been a great reader, and at 
one time I made notes from various books, but they 
were for my own private use, and would be dry and 
heavy for any one else. I have never moved in 
literary society, and have seen very few celebrities — 
so that I have no anecdotes to relate. When I first 
had a name, stray persons coming to Bonchurch 
occasionally asked for an introduction, but I was 
much too shy and too conscious of my literary 
deficiencies to cultivate their acquaintance. Mrs. 



Sarah Austin called upon me one day, just before 
our early dinner. She awed me greatly, as she led 
the conversation, whilst I said only what was abso- 
lutely necessary in reply ; and when she took leave 
of me I felt as if I had been reading a long article in 
the Quarterly Review^ and rushed away to my early 
dinner, and the society of my sisters, with a feeling 
of intense relief. Sir Charles Trevelyan also called 
— ^but there again I was quite unprepared to meet 
him on literary ground, and felt all the time he was 
talking that he had simply come to look at me and 
see what I was like. It was a curiosity which I 
knew would find nothing to satisfy it, as my brother 
(the Warden of New College) once said of me to 
a lady who made some inquiries about me, "My 
sister Elizabeth is not remarkable in any way,'* and 
I heartily endorsed the opinion. 

Miss Fenwick, the friend of Sir Henry Taylor, 
Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, was another 
person whom I am afraid I greatly disappomted. 
I was an intimate and dear friend of her niece (after- 
wards my sister-in-law — my brother Bobert's second 
wife), and she once paid me a free and cordial visit ; 
but, as I heard afterwards, she did not at all com- 
prehend why I shrank into my shell as soon as she 
alluded to Laneton Parsonage, which had been recently 
published. It seemed to her naturally enough a very 
foolish sensitiveness. She had lived amongst literary 
people all her life. Criticism of one kind or another 
was her daily mental food; and as she was a very 


clever woman, her opinion and appreciation were 
highly valued. That I should not seek her approval 
must have seemed unaccountable — but so it was; 
and she left Bonchurch without making any second 
attempt to break through the crust of my reserve. 

The only way in which my journal could have the 
slightest public interest is that it gives occasional 
notices of the Church principles which were gaining 
ground in the country, and which influenced my own 
life. Otherwise those only would care to look at it 
who might have a personal interest in myself, and in 
the cares and disappointments connected with family 
interests and affections, which have filled my heart 
and occupied my time and thoughts far more than 
my writings have done. 

Laneton Parsonage was begun after dear Lucy's 
death, and when we first took the entire charge of her 
children. The idea of connecting it with the Church 
Catechism had been originally suggested to me by 
Mrs. Sherwood's stories on the same subject, which 
in my childhood had been a great source of Sunday 
amusement ; and there was a satisfaction in having 
a plan marked out beforehand, which might, in some 
degree, be a guide to me in carrying out my ideas as 
to events and characters. I was able in those days 
to do, what I certainly could not have done at a 
later period, write at odd times and in any place. I 
remember sitting down in what was then our little 
dining-room, to begin Laneton Parsonage, but find- 
ing myself in a state of absolute dulness, and looking 



oat upon the sea, lon^ng for inspiration, and feeling 
quite helpless, when suddenly it occurred to me that 
Buth should have a twin sister. The suggestion 
made everything clear. I cannot now say how, but 
it was really the key to all the events and lessons, 
which, according to the plan sketched in my mind, 
I knew I had in some way to bring into my story. 
I imagine it must have been the possibility of the 
contrast of the two characters which assisted me, 
formed as they would be under precisely the same 
circumstances. The working out of the distinctive 
principles of their actions was likely, I knew, to be 
useful, and I hoped it would be easy. From that 
moment I went on cheerfully. That which princi- 
pally touched myself in writing Laneton Parsonage 
was the afiEection of Lady Catherine Hyde for Alice, 
her adopted child. The interest of my life was at 
the time chiefly concentrated in Lucy's children. 
The feeling for them, which we all more or less 
shared, was not likely to be understood by the world 
generally, who knew nothing of their mother's 
charm, and the way in which they had been left to 
us almost as a legacy. By the outside world we 
were naturally regarded simply as aunts, undertak- 
ing a duty which could not be avoided ; and it was 
a real relief to me to be able to express through Lady 
Catherine's affection for Alice, the love which lay 
deep in my own heart, but which I did not venture 
to bring forward openly, lest it should be regarded as 


Laneton Parsonage was originally published in 
three separate parts successively — a very expensive 
and not very desirable way of bringing out a story. 
The first two parts had been published, when the 
Oxford Church movement received such a great and 
sudden check from the secessions to Eome that my 
brother William urged me to write something which 
would be the means of pointing out to young people 
the true claims of the English Church, and the 
grounds of our separation from Bome. This sugges- 
tion led me to delay the completion of Laneton 
Parsonage, and devote myself to Margaret Percival, 
which was actually written and published before the 
third part of Laneton Parsonage appeared. My dear 
mother was then failing rapidly in health. 

Margaret Percival gave me much more trouble 
than my previous tales, and was by no means as 
successful. It produced an impression that I was 
favourably inclined towards the Church of Eome, 
because I did not abuse it ; and as persons dreading 
Eome thought me too charitable, so persons tending 
towards it thought my arguments dry and uncon- 

My one consolation, when criticised, was, and is, 
that the statement of the historical grounds on which 
the English Church rests were privately approved by 
a man whose learning and character had gained the 
respect and confidence of the most influential leaders 
of the moderate Church movement — the Eev. Samuel 
Bickards, rector of Stowlangtoft, Esse^c. He was 



staying in Ventnor when the book came out, and 
gave me his thorough sympathy and approval. Mr. 
Bickards also advised me to write a little history of 
the early Church, which I afterwards did. He saw 
part of it, and liked it. 

As regards the story of Margaret Percival, the 
outline of one of the chief characters was suggested 
by a picture which I happened to see when going 
over the house and grounds of Stoke, in Gloucester- 
shire, a place belonging to the Duke of Beaufort. 
It was the full-length portrait of the first Duchess of 
Beaufort, taken when she was fourteen. Through 
her, I was told, Stoke came into the Beaufort family. 
She is represented standing in a garden, with a 
basket of flowers on her arm ; her brother is by her 
side, and very like her, but not so handsome. The 
face of the girl is lovely and gentle in its expression, 
though it is said she was so proud that she would 
not allow her servants to turn their backs to her. 

The picture haunted my memory, and came to 
my aid when I needed it. The fascination which 
the Countess Novera exercised over Margaret Percival 
had also been brought to my mind by an acquaint- 
ance with the only daughter of the first Earl of 
Yarborough, who at one time spent part of every 
year at Appuldurcombe Park. 

Lord Yarborough (only a baron when he inherited 
the Isle of Wight property from his mother, a niece 
of Sir Eichard Worsley) kept open house at certain 
seasons, and when I was a mere child I was greatly 



attracted by my mother's description of the lovely, 
graceful, little motherless girl, about twelve years 
old, who came down to dessert after one of the 
great dinners at Appuldurcombe. As I grew older 
and really knew her I was able to appreciate myself 
the winning charm which beauty and the most per- 
fect simplicity and refinement gave to a character so 
pure and noble, so benevolent, sympathetic and 
earnestly religious, that I may with truth say I have 
never met its like again. Miss Pelham, afterwards 
Lady Charlotte Copley, was only the germ developed 
in the Countess Novera. There was not the slightest 
resemblance in their lives and circumstances, and 
the chief use (if I may so call it) which I made of 
Lady Charlotte was by realising the influence which 
I saw she exercised over those who knew her. The 
incidents of the short visit to France belong to my first 
acquaintance with a foreign country, when I went with 
Eobert and Marianne to Paris after dear Lucy's death. 

The EarVs Daughter was also begun before my 
mother's death, and I read part of it to her, but she 
saw from the beginning that it was likely to be sad, 
and I think it rather oppressed her. Margaret 
Percival I read to her entirely, and also a portion of 
Laneton Parsonage, and I remember being obliged 
to assure her that Alice Lennox (in the latter tale) 
when taken ill would not die, she took such a vivid 
interest in the story — which was only completed 
after her death. 

My writings had now become a pecuniary necessity 


for the whole family. My mother fully recognised 
it, for she said to me one day that she would rather 
be dependent upon me than upon any one else. Not 
that my brothers failed in assisting us to the utmost 
of their power, but the business claims were still a 
perpetual anxiety, and the pressure upon us all was 
so great that any one who made or could make 
money was called upon, as a matter of course, to give 
it to the general fund. My mother knew very little 
of all these cares in detail. During the last year of 
her life, that which touched her and all of us most 
deeply was the prospect of Henry's second marriage. 
He was very lonely in London, where he was carry- 
ing on his business in connection with Newport; 
and Elizabeth Kittoe (whose father, Captain Kittoe, 
was dead, and whose mother was an old friend of my 
mother's) was likely to make him an excellent wife. 

My mother's last illness and death, in 1848, followed 
soon after the iBrst announcement of Henry's in- 
tended marriage. A more peaceful, blessed end to 
a holy life could not have been. She had suffered 
much a year or two previously, having fallen down and 
injured her leg. I was away at the time the accident 
happened, and when I returned home I found her 
much altered in many ways ; but she had recovered 
wonderfully before this last illness, and even to the 
end her strength was wonderful. She did not keep 
to her bed for a single day, and died in her sleep, 
20th May, 1848. My journal, which I had then 
begun to keep regularly, gives the history of those 
last days of trial and sorrow. 


Rydal Mount. 

Saturday, 19th August y 1848, Oxford, — A fort- 
night ago I went up to Henry's house for two days 
to see a dentist. I was very glad to get back to 
Oxford again. London is so overwhelming, and it 
rained, and I went about in cabs with the children, 
and made awkward blunders. Amongst other things, 
I had to arrange for Mary and Eleanor to have danc- 
ing lessons, and with this object I took them with 
me, and told the cabman to drive to Willis's rooms 
where I expected to find the dancing mistress, 
Madame Michaud. The man was evidently per- 
plexed, and drove me first to a wrong place, then he 
went to another, and a thundering knock at a kind 
of portiere was answered by a scarlet-plush and 
powdered footman, two others waiting behind, all 
eagerly bending towards me as if anxious to show 
me every honour. It was strange; but ignorant 
as I am of London and London ways, I did hot 
exactly see why the grand Madame Michaud should 
not have plush and powdered footmen as well as any 
one else. I got out of the cab and entered a fair- 



sized hall. The footman waited for my name; *'I 
am wishing," I said, **to see Madame Michaud ; I 
believe she has classes for dancing here *\ The look 
and gesture of the man and his companions, who had 
hurried up to him, were indescribable. **We give 
no dancing lessons here. This is the Duke of Cleve- 
land's,'* and as I heard the words I rushed back to the 
cab in a fit of laughter, but with no little confusion, 
and gave my next order, **To the Charing-Cross 
Hospital '\ 

An accident had happened the day before, for which 
Henry's cabman was responsible, — a little boy had 
been injured and taken to the hospital, and I wished 
to inquire how he was going on. It was raining 
hard. A crowd of men were at the door. I was 
told afterwards that they thought it was a *'case," 
and were prepared to carry me. I felt painfully 
nervous, and only anxious to get away from the won- 
dering gazers. Unable in my confusion to reckon, I 
put my purse into the cabman's hands and told him 
he must take his fare. And he did take it ! What 
the sum was I never could quite make out, but there 
is no question that his morning's work had been 
advantageous. Once in the entrance I felt safe, and 
having paid my visit to the child, returned home 
with a most assured conviction which has never left 
me, that I was not made to go about London alone. 

11th December, Bonchurch. — I must write to-day 
merely to mark the consecration of the new church. 
The world grows busier than ever with church 


matters and school matters; and the Swinburnes 
gone, and things left to be done by any one who 
chooses. But the day has gone off extremely well, 
the weather beautiful, marvellous quite for December, 
so bright and calm and soft ; at luncheon we sat with 
open windows, though for weeks before we had had 
rain. The church was very crowded — £95 collected. 
Afterwards I went down to the schoolroom, and the 
children had tea and cake ; and played in the Sweep 
at East Dene, and were as happy as possible. It is 
very fatiguing work but we are most thankful to have 
a church and a school ; and there is a prospect of a 
second service, and a very faint, a very distant hope of 
a curate. Things are improving, but I dread make- 
shifts. The Swinburnes being gone was a very sad 
blank. They were afraid to wait because of the 
weather, and they had to travel to Northumberland. 
As it happens they might have waited very well, but 
when people act for the best one must depend upon 
things turning out well. 

7th April, 1849, Easter Day, — I remember sa3dng 
last Easter Day that things seemed brighter, though 
I scarcely knew why. I can see why now, though 
we have gone through much since then, and that 
has passed from the earth which can never return — 
the " glory, " as Wordsworth calls it, of one's child- 
hood, which so peculiarly centred in my dear mother s 
love. But there is rest now. . . . The new church 
to-day was very nice. Certainly last year I should 
hardly have expected such a satisfactory arrangement 


as to the services ; one has a great deal to be thank- 
ful for, — perhaps, more than anything, that life has 
so few charms and so many interests. . . . Added 
to writing and home duties it makes the world go at 
a railroad pace in the way of work, but it is better 
than idleness, and I am making my mind up to it. 
"Rest was not made for earth,*' the Lyra Apos- 
tolica says, and it consoles me. 

(Written on my Lake expedition when Captain and 
Lady Jane Swinburne took me with them to the 
Lakes and Capheaton — a kindness not to be forgotten.) 

8th September, Kirby Stephen. — We have left the 
Lakes, but I have such visions of blue water and 
grey rocks before my eyes, it seems as if they haunted 
me still. Certainly it is scenery much more beauti- 
ful than I could have supposed from what people say 
generally, and we had such glorious weather — quite 
wonderful for this country. I should very much 
have liked another day, but I shall live in the hope 
of seeing it all again some of these days. Our last 
day was given to our visit to Wordsworth, to whom 
I had a letter of introduction from Miss Fenwick. 

I never felt anything like the uncomfortableness of 
expectation I had then, except when I have been 
going to a dentist. We all hated the intrusion, 
though Algernon was greatly interested at the thought 
of seeing the great poet ; it was so intensely awkward, 
and so odious, going to see a person merely to say 
you have seen him. I did not enjoy the drive in the 
least, lovely though it was, and Lady Jane and I 


could not decide which should go in first and intro- 
duce the others, as the introduction was mine, but 
the etiquette of precedence hers. When we got to 
Rydal Mount we found that the family were just 
finishing dinner, so the man-servant begged us to 
walk in the garden, and we found our way to the 
view in front looking to Windermere. Very lovely 
it was. The afternoon was cloudy, which was against 
it, but it must be exquisite in sunshine. 

Presently the servant came out and suggested that 
we might, if we liked, go back to the house, and we 
were shown into what I concluded was the draw- 
ing-room — small, panelled with oak wainscotting, and 
the furniture yellow; a bookcase, with apparently 
some splendid books, a few pictures, and one or two 
casts, one of a child holding a shell to his ear ; the 
other, Captain Swinburne fancied, might be the monu- 
ment to Wordsworth's daughter. It was a reclin- 
ing figure, modern evidently. I feel rather vexed 
with myself for not having looked about more, but I 
dislike feeling curious, even by myself. The room 
was dark — one of the windows blocked up by a sofa. 
We waited an immense time. Mrs. Wordsworth 
came at last — a very pleasing old lady, rather shy in 
manner, but so simple and kind, she put one quite at 
ease. Wordsworth, himself, came a few minutes 
after. He was much older and more feeble than I had 
expected, and I had a painful feeling of having in- 
truded upon him. 

I could almost say I am sorry I went, though, I dare- 


say, by-and-by I shall be glad. We were all stiflf 
and restrained, and talked at intervals — with fearful 
pauses — a little about the Lakes and the scenery, 
and Mr. Smith's family living near the Barrow Falls 
at Derwent Water, where we had been the day be- 
fore ; and we said how many people there were in 
the world of the name of Smith, and how they tried 
to vary the spelling. Wordsworth spoke of people's 
misusing the privilege of going there, and said some 
one had stolen a guttapercha cup which had been 
given to his sister by Miss Fenwick ; and added, that 
although he "could understand the wish to possess 
some memorial of a person whose writings had per- 
haps been read and admired, yet the act was un- 
justifiable. Somehow (I am afraid I am over-fas- 
tidious), but I wished the writings and the privilege 
had been kept in the background; and I wished 
too that it had not been so evidently a favour con- 
ferred on us to be admitted to him, and that there had 
been some apology, as in ordinary cases there must 
have been, for the length of time we had waited. 

No one could, in the least, have mistaken the visit 
for a common one. One respects him so much, and 
his age makes him so venerable, that I quite hate 
myself for thinking of these things. And he was so 
kind, and so very nice to Algernon especially, at last, 
that I could have cried, as Algernon did, when we 
went away. He took us round his garden to see the 
views of Eydal and Windermere, and talked of a visit 
to the Isle of Wight, and told us of a person he had 


seen there who was the original of the portrait in 
West's picture of the death of General Wolfe. It 
was fortunate for Wolfe, he said, that he died as he 
did, for he was wasting away with consumption, and 
could not have survived two months longer, though 
no one, I believe, was aware of his illness. Wolfe 
was a great admirer of Gray's ** Elegy '* ; and as he 
was going down the river with his officers, previous 
to the storming of Montreal, he read the poem to 
them to while away the time, for it was then a new 
thing, just published. When he had finished he 
turned to them and said, ** Gentlemen, I had rather 
have been the author oi that poem, and have given 
utterance to the sentiments expressed in it, than I 
would enjoy all the honour which I believe awaits us 
in this expedition **. 

We went into the house again before we left Eydal 
Mount, and Wordsworth showed us the oak chest 
which has been in his family more than three hun- 
dred years, and has the name of William Words- 
worth upon it ; and he pointed out to us, very nicely 
and simply, the pictures of the Eoyal children, which 
had been sent him by the Queen's command, and 
seemed very anxious to show us everything that might 
interest us. There was a beautiful sketch of him by 
Haydon, and two busts — one of himself and one of 
Southey. The room was very simple, and, like the 
other, dark. I felt much more at ease at last. He 
would go with us to the gate. Lady Jane said what 
a pleasure it had been to bring Algernon, and how 


he looked forward to it, as he was ahready acquainted 
with his writings. Wordsworth's answer was, " Yes, 
he supposed Algernon might have read 'We are 
Seven' and some other little things. There was 
nothing in his writings that would do the boy harm, 
and there were some things that might do him good." 
Some observation was made about Algernon's not 
forgetting his visit, and Wordsworth's words were, 
"he did not think Algernon would forget him". It 
was the tone more than the words which made the 
tears come to my eyes — it spoke so strongly of the 
certainty that they would not meet again on earth. 

14:th September J Capheaton {Sir John Svyinbv/me's). 
— ^Very odd it is to be here ! We came the day 
before yesterday, having slept at Carlisle. From 
Tebay to Penrith the road is interesting. Shap lies 
between the two places. It is a kind of watering- 
place — at least there is an hotel with a few houses 
something in the style of Llandrindod Wells. I 
fancy our family ancestors came from it. Sewell is 
a common name in Carlisle. We had a drive of 
fifteen miles the next day, passing by Swinburne 
Castle, from which the Swinburne family takes its 
name. The property was forfeited in Jacobite 
times. Lord Derwentwater's papers were hidden at 
Capheaton in the top of the house, and were found 
there. After luncheon yesterday we walked to the 
only hill in the neighbourhood, where in 1815 the 
Jacobites assembled at the instigation of the Swin- 
burnes, and drank the health of the Pretender in a 


bowl of punch, the bowl being formed by a large 
hollow in a rock. ... Sir John is very tolerably 
well. He is eighty-six, and as active in mind and body 
as ever apparently. Capheaton House is a square 
ornamented stone building (date 1668) with wings 
added by Sir John. There are woods around it, 
but it does not command any view, — in fact, it is a 
place to be described but not sketched. 

8v/n,day, IQih September. — We have been to church 
at Kirk Welpington, five miles off, necessitating the 
old family coach and post horses. A wretched place 
it was when we got there — cold, bare, and puri- 
tanical. The clergyman gave us an essay upon 
sects and opinions, and left out ithe letter **h '* fear- 
fully, and the clerk sang to the congregation. I 
have wished Sir John " good-night ** and " good- 
bye** at the same time. I shall not see him to- 
morrow, and never again probably, but he does not 
allow a formal leave-taking. Yet he recognised that 
it was farewell, for he was especiaUy kind in his 
manner, and said ''God bless you,'* which one 
always values much from an old man. Nothing 
indeed can exceed the kindness which he and all the 
family have shown me. It has been a most interest- 
ing visit. 



The life which began after my mother's death was 
at first intensely dreary. 

My visit to the Lakes, however, with the Swin- 
burnes, and to Capheaton brought a little brightness 
to myself, but new troubles had arisen after Henry's 
marriage, which took place in the beginning of the 
year 1849. The financial arrangements of the 
family, as I have before said, were almost of necessity 
mixed up in a way which made it impossible to say 
where the burden of responsibility of expense lay. 
Every penny that I made went into the general 
account, and in this way we managed to get on, but 
not satisfactorily ; and in consequence we were con- 
tinually planning new arrangements, which involved 
the question where the children were to live, and 
how they were to be educated. 

In 1851 I went abroad with some friends — Lady 
Hampson and her son and two daughters. Mr. 
Deane, a barrister and intimate friend of the Hamp- 
son family, was also of the party. We were absent 
about three months, and travelled through Germany, 



Switzerland, the North of Italy and the Tyrol, re- 
turning by Paris. I published a Journal of a 
Summer Tour after my return, thinking it might 
be useful for the upper classes in the National 
Schools. But it was not a success ; I lost about 
a hundred pounds by it. It was brought out in 
three parts, instead of one, which greatly added to 
the expense, and it neither suited the purpose for 
which it was intended, nor met the needs of any 
other class of readers. It was not thoughtful enough 
for the old, nor bright enough for the young, and so 
it fell to the ground. The tour was exceedingly 
interesting, and in a certain degree enjoyable; but 
I could not forget the important changes which were 
pending, and my mind was never really free from 
forebodings. It would have been infinitely better 
for me in all ways if I could have left the future in 
God's hands without disturbing fears, but the tempta- 
tion to forecast sorrow has always been very great 
to me, and I do not think I have ever rightly striven 
against it. 

It was about this time that I wrote the Experience 
of Life, and gave myself as the author, instead of 
having an editor. I had previously written two little 
histories of Rome and Greece, and brought out some 
definitely rehgious books. Readings for Lent, com- 
piled from the writings of Bishop Jeremy Taylor, 
was the earliest ; and Passing Thoughts on Religion, 
Thoughts for the Age, and Thoughts for the Holy 

Week followed later. As a rule I had always two 



books of ditferent kinds on hand. The first History 
of Rome was financially the most successful of all my 
books, and Greece also answered very well. They 
filled up a blank which at the time was generally 

But nothing I have written has ever been as really 
popular as The Experience of Life — probably because 
it is what its name denotes. It is indeed in no way 
a picture of my own family history, but the ground- 
work is constructed from facts which belong either 
to my own experience, or personal knowledge and 
observation. Having lived in a country town in my 
early days, I have drawn a general picture of the life 
belonging to it. Aunt Sarah's house is the exact 
description of my great-aunt Clarke's house and 
household. Her three old servants (Molly, Betty 
and Eichard) were among my earliest friends. The 
delicacy of the home-made bread, the roast chicken 
and mashed potatoes, which the young niece so 
enjoyed, belong to the remembrance of the Saturday 
holidays which we sometimes spent at Aunt Clarke's. 
The verbena plant which was deemed so precious 
that no one was allowed to touch it — the fuchsia, 
which, being recently introduced into England, was 
regarded with similar reverence — are part of those 
early recollections. Many of the engravings in my 
own house came to us through Aunt Clarke, and 
among them is one from West's picture of the Death 
of Nelson, with the skeleton print by its side, which 
is especially mentioned in The Experience of Life, 


Carsdale is really Newport. The description of the 
quaint old church, and of the impression made by 
the quiet, dreary, week-day services is exact; but 
beyond this there is nothing in the early part of the 
story which represents any special place or person, 
though the Blue School Charity, still existing, is the 
prototype of that which Lady Emily Eivers desired 
to set on foot. 

Sarah's troubled mind was a record of my own 
personal feelings, but I had no Aunt Sarah to com- 
fort me. The only other scenery (if I may so call it) 
in The Experience of Life which is real is found at 
the end of the story. The village of Leigh, in which 
Sarah spent her last days, is a real village, Avebury, 
in Wiltshire. ** The great stones, relics of heathen 
worship, and the vast mound said to be the work of 
human hands,'* stand, and will stand probably for 
centuries to come, ** to tell of the creed of the genera- 
tions gone by." To me they must always speak of 
most kind friends who, in my almost yearly visits to 
them, gave me days of bright and hallowed rest in 
the midst of the anxieties of my life. Canon 
Meyrick's name is well known in the history of the 
English Church at the present day, and it is more 
than pleasant to me thus to record my gratitude for 
the loving sympathy of his rarely endowed mother, 
the bright companionship of his sisters, and the 
intense respect inspired by his brother James, the 
vicar of Avebury, and one of the most earnest and 

devoted of English clergymen at a time when the 



Church generally had been roused to new and active 

As regards the inferior events and persons of the 
story, they are merely shadows of realities. Mrs. 
Colston was drawn from a description, given me by 
a friend, of the criticisms and severe judgments of 
an aunt, who was a kind of oracle in her family; 
but Horatia Gray is an exception to these outline 
sketches from nature. Probably we all feel that 
some names have in themselves characters. Horatia 
was to me the symbol of abrupt manners and a 
scheming mind. I always said to myself that if I did 
use the name I would make the person who bore it 
very disagreeable ; and I really think I succeeded. 

Aunt Sarah herself, though shadowed out by 
Aunt Clarke's position in the family, is an imaginary 
character. The absolute trust and peace of her 
dying hours, and even the words in which she ex- 
pressed her happiness, are, however, taken from my 
dear mother's similar confession of unswerving faith 
and joy — a confession which has again and again 
been a support to me in life, and which I would fain 
hand on to others tossed on ** the waves of this 
troublesome world," and dreading lest faith and 
hope should be overwhelmed in the tempest. 

I have now reached the year 1852, by which time 
I had taken my financial affairs into my own hands, 
and had come to the conclusion that pupils were a 
necessity. The idea had been suggested during my 
mother's lifetime, but she had always disliked it so 


much that we shrank from urging it. In 1852, how- 
ever, we all felt that there was no alternative, and 
the work began with one little girl, of an age to be 
a companion to our nieces, and then increased by 
degrees. For a long time we had only six pupils, 
and we never for a continuance had more than ten. 
Of this education period I can say nothing, except 
that experience has taught me many lessons. Al- 
though my principles of training, as expressed in a 
book called Principles of Education, which I pub- 
lished in 1865, have remained unaltered, I have found 
it desirable to make many changes in the mode of 
instruction to meet the requirements of the day. 
The details of life in the schoolroom could not be 
given without a reference to individuals, which would 
almost be a breach of confidence. Having but one 
pupil at first, we made her call us aunts, in order 
that she might feel herself to be on the free footing 
of our little nieces. The custom thus begun, as it 
were accidentally, was continued. It has made our 
pupils feel more at home with us than they might 
otherwise have done, but it would not be a practic- 
able plan generally, and certainly could not be adopted 
where there were numbers to be kept in order. 

At first Ellen and I undertook the teaching entirely, 
with the exception of French and German. After- 
wards, we found it necessary to have extra masters, 
besides a governess, in the house. But although I do 
not attempt to describe the schoolroom life, I can 
say most sincerely that amongst our pupils we have 


found, as time has gone on, our truest and most 
cherished friends, dear to us only one degree less 
than the nieces who have been the delight of our 
lives ; always ready with sympathy, eager to help us 
in difficulties, widening the horizon of interest, so 
that we have lived in each other's lives, " rejoicing 
with them that rejoiced and weeping with them that 
wept ". Life would have often been very dreary but 
for our pupils, though of course there have been many 
trials connected with them, many anxieties 'and dis- 
appointments, and (I can say for myself) very deep 
cause for self-reproach. 



20th June, 1845, Bonchurch, — The Meyricks have 
been here to-day. Mr. Meyrick told Edwards there 
was no doubt that Newman is going over to Eome, 
which agrees but little with an observation made by 
Dr. Pusey to G. F. a short time since that no one 
could know how devoted a servant of the Church 
Newman was till after his death. The Church 
though may mean the Catholic or Universal Church, 
and so Eome may be included. It is a horrid, start- 
ling notion, but a sermon of Newman's I was reading 
to-night would be a great safeguard against being led 
into mischief by it. "Obedience, the remedy for 
religious perplexity.'* It is an immense comfort to 
have one's days so occupied as to leave little time for 
abstract thought. A recollection which gave me ease 
when the idea was first presented to me this after- 
noon was, that such men as Bishop Andrewes and 
Jeremy Taylor had lived and died in the English 
Church, and I could hardly wish to be wiser or better 
than they were. 

24:th June, — We had the Meyricks here again 



yesterday. Mr. Meyrick in talking of Newman, said 
that the common report is that he has had doubts 
about going over to the Church of Eome for years ; 
and that his constant prayer is that if he is not to go, 
he may die first. He has lately edited a book of Mr. 
Bowden's, and given a sketch of his life, in which he 
says that " Mr. Bowden died in full communion with 
the Church of Andrewes and Laud, and that none 
need wish for a holier or a happier death,*' which, 
as Mr. Meyrick remarked, does not sound like Eoman- 
ism. It is certain, too, that he was instrumental in 
keeping back Mr. Thomas Meyrick from the Church 
of Eome for some time. 

26th June, — ^We had quite an expedition yester- 
day. We were up at 5 A.M., or rather were called 
then, and left Bonchurch before 7 a.m., in a kind of 
rainy mist, to go to Southampton. Some foreign- 
looking people came on board the steamer, and seated 
themselves near us (two gentlemen and a lady). I 
caught a few words of their conversation and found 
out from their talking about ** our steamers,*' that 
they must be Americans, and when they passed 
Netley Abbey, and wanted to know what it was, I 
spoke and told them, and some conversation followed 
between the lady and myself. 

It was very agreeable meeting an American lady 
for the first time. She seemed struck with the 
prettiness and comfort of England and English 
cottages, charmed with Oxford, curious about the 
Queen, and surprised at the general ignorance as to 



American civilisation ; one lady having asked her if 
they had carpets and curtains, and another saying 
that she should not like to be in America because 
of the diflBculties of travelling. The best book on 
America, she said, was Mr. Murray's. We parted at 

Mondayy BOth June, — I have seen a good deal of 
the Americans, much more than I could possibly have 
anticipated. Friday was wet, and we heard nothing 
about them, but on Saturday morning as Henry and I 
were walking in the garden after breakfast, a strange 
gentleman appeared, whom I knew at once to be one 
of them. (He was a Mr. Parkes, a clergyman.) 

I introduced him to Henry and my mother, and 
we walked round the garden, and up the cliff as every 
one does ; and at last he asked me if I had written 
Amy Herbert, and told me that ten thousand copies 
had been circulated in America he knew, and there 
might be ten thousand more, for it had been published 
by two houses. The first publisher was what we 
should call a Dissenter, who thought it would do for 
a cheap novel. The other, I believe, purified it by 
expurging the part on baptism ; but Mr. Parkes had 
settled just before he left America to superintend a 
new edition. We talked a little about the American 
Church, and Mr. Parkes seemed much pleased when 
I said what an interest we took in England in the 
Church in America. He said that it was quite 
reciprocal ; that a fortnight after things had been 
said and done here, every one knew them there. He 


spoke of Dr. Pnsey, whom he had seen, and his 
humility and deep devotion, and, in fact, said what 
every one says ; and then he alluded to Newman, and 
said that whatever his end might be, we still had 
the Parochial Sermons ; and that he had seen him too, 
yet it was not seeing him, for though Newman was 
perfectly courteous and hospitable, there was no 
getting at him. Mr. Parkes was going to London, 
but the friends who were with him, Mr. and Mrs. 
Kip, stayed at Ventnor, and came to us for luncheon 
on Sunday (the Eev. W. Ingraham Kip was after- 
wards the first Bishop of California). 

After church, Mr. Kip began upon Church matters, 
and talked a great deal, and very well. We spoke of 
slavery, but he seemed rather shy of the subject, 
though he allowed it was a great blot on the nation. 
He thought it possible that by-and-by there might 
be a separation of the Northern and Southern States ; 
— the Ohio forming the great natural boundary. If 
they separated in peace, he said they might live in 
pea.ce. Speaking of The Tracts for the Times, he 
said that an American clergyman had made the 
observation to him when they first came out, that 
he could not think why the English people made 
such a fuss about them, since they were quite the 
A B C of the Christian religion — doctrines which in 
the American Church were never doubted. 

We parted after a walk in the landslip, at the 
bottom of Bonchurch Hill; they to go to church 
again and I to stay at home, for I could not manage 


the evening service. They were to sail in a day or 
two. One thing more I remember. On mentioning 
the Dairyman's Daughter, Mr. Kip said that her chair 
was kept by some Tract Society in America, and 
that on certain days they had it brought out as a 
relic ! 

9th JvZy, — ... I have been obliged lately to 
write down some anti-Eomanistic arguments for E.'s 
benefit, and it has made me bring out my own ideas 
more clearly. First, the great mistake of joining 
another Communion under the notion of becoming 
holier in consequence. Then the grievous folly it 
would be to leave the Church upon a doubt as to the 
line of the Apostolical Succession, such as is suggested 
by the often disproved "Nag's Head" story; for the 
succession being proved from past facts, must neces- 
sarily, like all historical questions, be open to the 
possibility of doubt, not that I have any doubt myself, 
the evidence in our favour is far too strong. Also 
the positive errors of Eome, and the negative errors 
of the English Church, and the absurdity of laying 
any very great stress upon the question of a Visible 
Head, since it is one which dates, after all, from some 
centuries after the Apostles ; and, could it be proved, 
it would not affect our duty to remain where we 
are, unless we are clearly proved to be heretical or 
schismatical. Heretical we cannot be, for our creeds 
are the creeds of the Apostles and the early Church, 
and schismatical we cannot be, unless we entirely 
overlook the fact that the supremacy of Eome is a 


comparatively modem imiovation upon the rights of 
each separate National Church. 

26th August. — We only went into Bristol yesterday 
shopping, and Emma had a drawing lesson in the 
morning. Her master, Mr. Holmes, gave us rather 
an amusing account of his first introduction to 
Hannah More, when — as a schoolboy — he trespassed 
on her grounds, from a strong desire to have a sketch 
of the house — though he dreaded the coachman and 
the dog. Then, being caught by Mrs. Patty More, 
and carried off to the house, and at length, after con- 
fessing his motive, being tortured by hearing — " Now, 
sir, you shall choose ". But the choice turned out 
to be between cake and wine, and bread and cheese, 
and he was treated very kindly and afterwards invited 
to dinner, and had books given him. He said that 
Hannah More*s manners were delightful. Several 
years after he took her a picture he had done, and 
she asked him if he would like to be introduced to 
Bowland Hill, and in consequence he went there — I 
rather think to dine. He was seized on by a very 
zealous Dissenter who came with Eowland Hill, and 
who tried to talk to him seriously, but he contrived 
notwithstanding to hear something of the conversa- 
tion between Hannah More and Eowland Hill. It 
turned upon the doctrine of final assurance, and 
Eowland Hill ended it by saying — **I tell you what, 
Mrs. Hannah, I shall never believe I am in heaven 
till the gates are closed behind me ". 

2nd September^ Bath, 20 Camden Place (School), — 


Bath seems very natural, and I like being here of all 
things. We went to a new church on Sunday — St 
Stephen's — ^built on the hill. The building is hand- 
some as far as ornamental goes, but very defective in 
architecture. . . . The vestry room is behind the 
altar, yet there is a considerable improvement com- 
paring it with churches built some years ago. We 
were at Laura Chapel in the evening. I liked going 
there for old acquaintance sake, but the chapel itself 
really shocked me. I never before was aUve to the 
monstrosities of a proprietary chapel of the kind — 
the pulpit reading desk and organ, all crowded to- 
gether so as completely to hide the altar. 

10th SeptembeVf^ Newnton Rectory, Wiltshire (The 
Rev. E. Estcourfs). — We had a dinner party at Est- 
court (House) yesterday. There was some good sing- 
ing in the evening; I sat next Mr. W. Estcourt 
at dinner, and as usual we fell upon Church matters, 
and he surprised me by saying that he was anxious 
to try the scripture reader plan, and thought it might 
be the means of giving the people higher notions of 
the clergy, when they found that men who could 
do all which their Dissenting preachers do, yet were 
unable to perform the services of the Church. Dr. 
Hook wishes the order of deacons to be more clearly 
re-established, but an objection to this would be 
the introducing an inferior body of men into the 
Church — inferior in education and position — whether 
this is an objection, though, seems to some persons 
doubtful. Mrs. Estcourt told me the other day that 


there is a chance of Newman's going to the Scotch 

IQth September, 3 Park Villas, Richmond, — (Visit 
to a friend, Miss Hooper.) . . . The beauty of the 
river grows upon me every time I see it, but I do 
long so for clear sight. The charm to me about 
Eichmond is, that it is a place where all classes seem 
to enjoy themselves. Sunday is the only day one 
grudges the general pleasure, and even for that there 
are many excuses to be made, at least for the people 
who are shut up all the week. Those most to blame 
are the persons who prevent them from having the 
Church holidays. . . . We had a wet day yesterday, 
and amused ourselves with reading aloud " The Life 
of Stephen Langton " in The Lives of the English 
Saints, (These lives were small biographies written 
by the more extreme members of the Oxford party.) 
It is well written and interesting, but I cannot 
go with it. Thomas a Becket is no saint to my 
mind, and I dislike the uncalled-for hits at the Ee- 
formation. One observation was manifestly unfair- 
that all the bad literature of the Middle Ages was 
eagerly seized on by the reformers (or rather, per- 
haps, at the reformation) from a feeling of sjonpathy 
with it, and from the satisfaction which was found 
in the discovery that the same customs of the Church 
which were then brought into ridicule had before 
been assailed by the worst persons of former days. 
This was the substance which may have a founda- 
tion of truth in it, but it was disagreeably put. 


2l8t October, Bonchurck, — The Estconrts came to 
the hotel on Wednesday, and stayed there till 
Friday. Some of us went for a lovely walk yesterday 
by the sea cliffs to St. Lawrence. Mr. Edgar Est- 
court (who was on the point of joining the Eomish 
Church) was one of the party. He talked to me a 
little about William's novel Hawkstone, doubting 
the fact told me about the Jesuits, and wishing they 
could be tried in a court of justice ; and afterwards 
he gave me an article about them in the Oxford and 
Cambridge Review, most laudatory of them, and of 
Ignatius Loyola, and very condemnatory of Luther. 
It had no effect upon me however. There is too 
much of the partisan style about it, and it is too 
bombastic, and contains few facts. . . . The account 
of Paraguay and the Jesuit success there is marvel- 
lous, but here there are no attested facts, only a 
declaration that such things were. It is asserted by 
a Portuguese bishop, not a friend to the Order, that 
under the sway of the Jesuits no single mortal offence 
was committed against God from the beginning to 
the end of the year — meaning, I suppose, that no 
one did anything for which he could be put in 

28th October, — The Estcourts went away this 
afternoon. We have had as pleasant a week as we 
could have had under existing circumstances. Mr. 
Edgar Estcourt*s case seems hopeless. He talks of 
the necessity of having a visible centre of unity, and 
how that somehow the Bishop of Eome came to be 


regarded as that centre — and if he is satisfied with 
that — ^there is nothing more to be said, the case is 
no longer one for argument. On Thursday we had 
a picnicking and donkey-back expedition to St. 
Catherine's and the Hermitage. Ellen and I went 
to the house and were allowed to go round the 
garden. The place was looking lovely, but the walks 
were in bad order. I had some reminiscences on 
the downs, but there is something gone from me 
which no sight or sound seems able to bring back 
even for an instant. My heart never bounds now, 
and all I can enjoy is the Taemory of a feeling which 
to me is the most wonderful of all memories. 

Mary Estcourt went with us for a walk last even- 
ing when it was getting dark, on the shore, over the 
wet sands and the shingle to a beautiful smooth piece 
of sand between Bonchurch and Ventnor where we 
could walk up and down delightfully. It was dreamy 
and sad, with the tide low, and the white cliffs stand- 
ing out in a ghost-like manner, and the dark sea- 
weed covered rocks forming a foreground; but if I 
never have boundings of heart now, neither have I 
depressions. Life seems too busy to give time for 
painful thought, and the words which are most often 
in my mind are those of last Sunday's Collect, " that 
we may cheerfully accomplish those things that Thou 
wouldest have done ". They have been a comfort 
to me ever since. 

I have been with my mother to-day to see Mr. 
Adams (the Eev. William Adams, author of The 


Shadow of the CrosSy The Old Man's Home, etc.). 
Poor Mr. Adams has been spending some miserable 
lonely evenings, doing nothing scarcely from seven 
to eleven — under the doctor's orders and from his 
own weakness — and not allowed to have tea. 

11th November, — ^We are living a most quiet life 
now ; and have eschewed all company. Fanny and 
Susan Mejorick came over one day from Shide and 
had luncheon, and stayed a long time, and, as usual, 
we got upon Newman and Bomanism, though I had 
made a half resolution in my own mind that I would 
not discuss the subject. But I was induced to bring 
forward as many anti-Bomish arguments as I could 
— and as they are not my own, there is no harm in 
giving them. Mr. James Meyrick is to have a curacy 
at Avebury in Wiltshire, and all the family are 
going there, which I am sorry for. We have had 
William's University sermon for the 5th November, 
which pleases me much. The historical question 
with Bome is evidently the only safe one, and if any 
one takes up the theory of development that is gone 
too. The case of the English Church is to me Uke 
that of an accused person before a judge, when the 
first maxim of our law is that we are to believe 
in innocence until guilt is proved. People seem to 
take up the opposite view now, and presuppose guilt, 
and of course begin the argument with a wrong bias. 

Mr. Hatfield (afterwards Bishop of Wellington) has 

sent us the journal of the Bishop of New Zealand 

(Selwyn). There are hard names and hard facts in 



it, but I am certain from my own feelings of interest, 
that a real Church feeling would be one of the very 
strongest bonds of union of which human beings are 

Septerriberf 1846. The Manor House, Finchley 
(Rev, Charles Worsley*8). — I came here from Eed- 
boume. Lady Hampson drove me in the pony 
carriage to St. Albans, and saw me safely into the 
coach which took me to Finchley. The change in 
my life is complete ; a boy*s school ; the day cut up 
into bits by the necessary regularity. Being with 
old friends is very pleasant. Mrs. Worsley and I 
have had a long talk about various matters. She 
suits me more and more, and we agreed that if we 
were placed in any situation where we could work 
together, we should both like it, and might hope to 
succeed, as far as unity of taste and principle could 
ensure success. She quite feels with me about 
children's confessions being very undesirable; and 
sees the danger of vanity even in other confession, 
especially with women. 

After supper one evening, the curate came in. 
He is earnest and unpretending, but I should fancy 
crotchety. He advocates rather the idea of persons 
standing during the Church service — that is, standing 
and kneeling — the latter being the posture of rest. 
I should like to have him turned into a woman not 
in very strong health (and this is the rule, not the 
exception), and then see how he would like the 
custom. The only other visitor we have had is 


another clergyman, Mr. Thomas — much smitten with 
William's Christian Morals, He is quite young, 
handsome and agreeable, and, I should think, not 
likely to be extreme. Candour and humility would 
probably be his safeguard, for he was quite free from 
the sharp criticising tone which marks the young men 
of the present day. 

We went into London one day, and at Kolandi's I 
was tempted to buy an Ollendorff s Italian grammar, 
from which I intend to teach Mary, but I have 
rather repented since. It is a question whether any 
of these royal roads to learning are good. However, 
as I have it I must try it. Bums's is a dull shop 
decidedly. You see the same books time after time. 
It is very much like what that man-servant of ours 
said, when, a complaint being made that the cheese 
was not good, he was asked if there were any more 
cheese in the house — " Yes, sir, a large piece of the 
same ". It is an inconvenient shop too. No place 
to sit down at, and the books crowded close to the 
door. I took up Chollerton (a Church tale) and 
skimmed parts through the uncut leaves and was 
not fascinated. It seemed strained and the fasting 
was brought forward prominently, and there seemed 
too much womanish humility. In one place the 
authoress cannot follow a young clergyman, by de- 
scription, in his feelings, or intrude " into that sacred 
edifice which formerly a woman's foot was forbidden 
to profane". This is, if I remember rightly, the 

drift of the observation, and really my humility 



cannot reach that depth. I think I can imagine 
something of what a clergyman might feel, and I 
should never consider it an intrusion to go where- 
ever men go, taking them as men. Of course the 
altar is different ; but there the distinction is not 
between men and women, but between God and 

26th November, Bonchurch, — ^It is very strange 
to be at home again with all one's cares and business 
crowding upon one. The proof sheets of Margoiret 
Perdval come every day, which takes up my time, 
and Miss Ady, who is staying at Bonchurch with 
her aunts, comes each morning to give me German 
lessons. I am rather making progress which charms 
me. I read nothing scarcely, all my spare time 
being given to German exercises. Miss Martineau's 
Tales on the Oame Laws I began, but they are so 
dull to me that I have scarcely patience to finish. 
The thing I like about them is their fairness. The 
rich people are not all wretches, though Miss Mar- 
tineau's sympathies are evidently with the poor. 

19th December, Bonchurch, — The weather has 
been intensely cold, and the frost is only just broken 
up, but we have had no snow. We have made ac- 
quaintance with Mrs. Harrison and the Misses Conolly 
— sisters of that poor Captain Conolly, who, with 
Colonel Stoddart, was taken prisoner by the Ameer 
of Bokhara, and is said to have been murdered ; but 
the evidence seems very imperfect, and the family 
still live in hope. Anything like the expression of 


agonised suspense in the face of one of the sisters 
I never saw. The Ameer has been known before 
to give out a false report that persons were dead, to 
suit his own purposes ; and at the first interview 
with Dr. Wolff, who went to Bokhara to inquire 
into the matter, he would tell nothing. Afterwards, 
when he found that the English Government be- 
lieved in the murder, he was more circumstantial — 
not of course as regarded the murder, but the fact 
that the prisoners were dead. Still there are reports 
of their being alive. One rumour is that when the 
Ameer heard of Dr. Wolff's mission he sent them 
to Samarcand. It is a horrible state of suspense 
for the two families. (My mother won the hearts 
of the Misses ConoUy by her sympathy with them 
in their hope. Persons generally urged them to 
resign themselves to their loss.) Dr. Wolff, I believe, 
went again to Bokhara and became assured that the 
prisoners were actually dead, but I do not know 
whether the murder was proved. The Misses Conolly 
gave my mother a little chess table when they left 
Bonchurch. I always feel that it has a most tragic 

Margaret Percivdl is out at last. 

16th February, 1847 (Ash Wednesday). — Mr. 
Feilden gave us a service here to-day — quite a 
novelty! The clerk actually did not know where 
to find the proper prayers. 

5th March. — I have said nothing of the great topic 
which every one thinks about and talks of — the 


famine in Ireland. Lord John Eussell said in 
Parliament, that it was a famine of the thirteenth 
century acting upon a population of the nineteenth, 
and the result is fearful beyond expression. We 
have done what we could, and sent money through 
private hands, but the utmost seems a mere nothing. 
The Government made a great mistake at the begin- 
ning — lending money upon the Irish estates; and 
then, instead of encouraging the proprietors to employ 
the people on their lands, employing them themselves 
upon unproductive public works. The mistake has 
been discovered, and in a degree remedied, but the 
suffering that has been, and exists still, is quite 
beyond ordinary description. One could scarcely 
bear to write some of the facts — they are so horrible. 
Mr. Wingfield, an Irish clergjmaan, said, when preach- 
ing at Bonchurch on Sunday, that it was calculated 
that nearly a third of the whole population would 
perish. There is to be a day of public fasting and 
humiliation, which one feels to be quite right. 

First Sunday in February, — Eeport that I have 
become a Eomanist, stated first in the Church and 
State Gazette ! Two visits soon after from Mr. 
Coleman (the incumbent of Ventnor, and a very Low 
Churchman). Query — To inquire into my principles ? 
I have begun a short story — written to illustrate six 
sketches of Ellen's. It is the result of an agreement 
between William, Mr. William Adams, and myself. 
Each is bound to write a tale, bringing in the sketches 
and the figures in them — the proceeds to be given to 


the new Church, which is in contemplation here (at 
Bonchurch). I have also had deaUngs with Bums, 
about two tiny stories — A Friend in Diaguiae, and 
The Fate of a Favourite — the money to go to 
the Irish. 

25th August, Avebury. — Fanny Meyrick and I 
have been to see Bowood to-day. A delicious day it 
was, sunshiny at intervals, with a blue mist over the 
distance. We stopped to see Lady Lansdowne's 
schoolhouse (not the school, for it was harvest time) 
— a pretty cottage, with a large pleasant room where 
boys and girls are educated together, and learn 
granmiar and geography, and are clothed — a large 
number at least — by Lady Lansdowne. Derry Hill 
church also we saw. I remember being at Newnton 
when it was consecrated seven years ago. It has the 
grievous faults of a church of the time, but it is a 
step in improvement, and so far satisfactory, though 
it has a gallery, no middle aisle, and a miserable 
ceiling. Bowood is very lovely — like a great many 
other noblemen's places ; with wood and water, and 
pretty peeps of the distant country — bright flowers, 
picturesque cows, and clean, aristocratic pigs — which 
I noticed especially, but we both agreed that the 
charm was more for us than for the owners. The 
house is a plain square building. We were not 
allowed to see the interior. 

Saturday, 28th August — My last day at Avebury. 
Possibly I may never be here again. It has been 
a calm, pleasant, very quiet time — disturbed only 


by what Emma calls the shocks from the galvanic 
battery at home. I shall always have a bright, peace- 
ful, and very grateful remembrance of the place, and 
my most kind friends. Especially, I shall think of 
one particular view at the end of the middle walk in 
the kitchen garden, where there is a little gate open- 
ing into the vicarage fields, and beyond them is seen 
the curious old Silbury HjII and the downs spreading 
away on each side. There are always soft blue mists 
over the hills, and now that the fields are bright and 
rich with the com, the colouring is exquisite, and old 
Silbury stands up in the mist like a giant to guard 
the country. 

3l8^ December, Bonchurch {New Year's Eve), — 
Mr. Adams, William, and I, have finished and pub- 
lished our three t les for the benefit of the church 
here, and now I am busy with a Child's Boman 
History, and the third part of Laneton Parsonage. 
Also the second part of Laneton is published. I read 
a little now, and am almost afraid I am learning to 
do without reading. Napoleon's battles in Alison's 
history are so dreadfully dry, after one has been 
writing and working all day. 

Wednesday, 27th January, 1848.^The day of Mr. 
Adams's funeral. It seems strange that one can write 
about it so calmly now. The loss seemed at first so 
great — but one has learnt to think of it more as the 
change is to him, and every one feels the same. I do 
not think any person could ever have excited more 
universal feeling. His child-like simplicity and holi- 


ness are what all dwell upon. The last time I saw 
him at his own house was on the day before Christmas 
Day. Henry had brought down on Thursday the 
very first copy of The Sketches, and I took it to him 
in the morning. He seemed quite pleased to see it, 
and was not worried as I thought he would have been 
at the mistake in the binding up of the lithographs. 
We called on Christmas Day and heard he had an 
attack of hsemorrhage. I saw Miss Martin (his aunt), 
and she looked grave about it. His new allegory. 
The King's Messenger, had just come, and I brought 
back a copy for Georgy. Mr. Adams rallied from 
this attack, and I had one or two little notes from 
him — the last of all, giving me his opinion of Lane- 
ton, which I had lent him. The Saturday after, I 
fully meant to have gone and seen him, for I had 
met him on horseback one day in Ventnor, and just 
spoken — so that I knew he was much better. 

I cannot remember what prevented me. I think it 
was merely the fancy that I had more pressing busi- 
ness elsewhere, and could see him another day. But 
the " other day " never came. He was seized with a 
second and worse attack, and his strength gave way. 
His family were sent for — and we all felt what must 
be, though there were times when we heard there 
was a faint prospect of his rallying again. He 
lingered for a week, getting weaker and weaker. On 
Monday, Miss Martin wrote us word that " he was 
quite aware that his short earthly course was nearly 
run, that he was quite calm and happy and could 


listen to prayers read, and verses from the Psalms 
and the New Testament, which he took great delight 
in". His mind wandered a little, at the last, and 
about midnight he just ceased to breathe. Miss 
Martin's expression to my mother was that **his 
departure was perfect peace*'. The blank in the 
morning to us was indescribable. It seemed strange 
why it should be so. We kept on wondering why 
everything appeared so altered, when really our in- 
tercourse had been comparatively recent and slight. 
Serjeant Adams has asked Ellen to take two sketches 
— one of the landslip, the other of the churchyard 
from Winterbourne (the house in which Mr. Adams 
lived), to be put into the new edition of The Old 
Man's Home, His works are, I hear, to be sold for 
the benefit of charities. I dislike the word beautiful, 
generally, as applied to the human mind, but it often 
occurs to me when I think of Mr. Adams. 

The morning that I heard of his death I was at 
the Nursery (the house next to our own — occupied by 
the children), having slept there. Georgy had lately 
received many little notes and messages from Mr. 
Adams, so that they seemed to be dear friends, though 
they had never met, and when I went downstairs he 
asked me whether I was not sorry for Mr. Adams. 
I replied, '' No, I did not think I was ". (It was not 
the feeling any one could really have.) The child 
understood immediately, and said, ** It would be 
wrong to grieve for him ". Afterwards in the course 
of the day, he called Ellen to him, and said, ** Aunt 



Ellen, I hope every one rejoices for Mr. Adams". 
The other night, too, he said to me, *' Aunt Eliza- 
beth, I may die to-night, and then I shall see Mr. 
Adams ". The simple way in which a child realises 
such ideas is startling to one's mind. 



The determination arrived at in 1852 to take pupils 
involved a larger house. I had already purchased 
the leasehold of Ashcliff (or, as the house was then 
called, Sea View) to prevent its passing, with all the 
improvements we had made, into other hands, and 
thus had in a certain sense paid for these improve- 
ments twice over. The sum for which the original 
owner had built it was, I believe, £800. He was 
about to sell it over our heads for £1200 when I took 
upon myself to urge the purchase being made in my 
own name, the money being raised by an insurance 
on my life. But for this we should have been obliged 
to leave Bonchurch, and the course of our lives would 
have been greatly changed. It was the first time I 
had taken a perfectly independent step, but I have 
never repented it. The additional building, rendered 
necessary by having pupils in the house, was a great 
undertaking, but we were able to manage it by a 
mortgage, and we had advice and most kind help 
from friends, especially from Admiral Swinburne. 



The plans were made and the building completed in 
a year. 

Theoretically I dread and dislike having house 
property, and for many reasons it might have seemed 
better for persons situated as we were to have our 
money differently invested ; but looking back I can- 
not see that we could have done otherwise than 
build. The landmarks of life seemed to point that 
way, and events have proved that the decision was 
wise. Our household was, from the time of Lucy's 
death, gradually increasing in number, and when the 
children first came to us we were obliged to take 
rooms for them in the next house, then a lodging- 
house, but now called Grey Cliff, where they lived 
an almost independent life under the care of their 
faithful nurse, Mary Goodwin. The youngest boy, 
George, a singularly precocious child, showed 
symptoms of consumption soon after they came to 
us. He was nursed by Goodwin with unceasing 
attention, but he died shortly before my mother, 
who felt his loss deeply, for he had been the one 
brightness of her widowed life, and she was devoted 
to him. Eobert*s three children also became our 
charge after his wife's death, — not indeed at once, 
for Emily went at first to her mother's relations, but 
as our house became more distinctly a house for 
education, with lessons, masters, etc., it was thought 
desirable that she should be sent to us, whilst her 
two brothers naturally looked upon our home as 
theirs in the holidays. Altogether, from first to last, 


we had, more or less, the charge of nine nephews 
and nieces besides our pupils. We did our best to 
supply the loss which the children had suffered, but 
there are some circumstances to which one can 
only resign oneself without a hope of remedying 
them. ''That which is crooked cannot be made 
straight " is a text which I have often and often re- 
peated to myself to calm my mind when perplexed 
by the untoward events which, in my ignorance and 
blindness, I have longed but been unable to alter. 

Katherine Ashton (1854) followed the Experience of 
Life in the order of publication. It has in many 
ways a reference to my own life. The opening scene 
of the school represents my surroundings when as a 
little girl I was Miss Crooke's pupil. The social 
grades and the small politics of the town of Bilworth 
were part of my own personal knowledge and ob- 
servation. The "Green Dragon" in Newport, like 
the "Bear" in Bilworth, afforded a good-sized room 
for dancing, and the Union Ball describes the at- 
tempts made from time to time to bring all classes 
together, sometimes on the plea of a charitable 
object, and at others with a political purpose which 
naturally followed upon the extinction of close 
boroughs and the efforts of Parliamentary candidates 
to become popular. Mr. Ashton's bookseller's shop, 
in the centre of the High Street, is the same which 
existed in my yoimg days, and is carried on at the 
present day ; but Katherine Ashton herself does not 
belong to Newport. The character is real in spirit. 


but imaginary in form. Long after Newport ceased 
to be my home, I learned by acquaintance with not 
one but several persons of Katherine's grade that it 
is possible to unite the most perfect refinement of 
mind with a simplicity of manner and taste which, 
though not evincing a knowledge of the forms of 
what is termed society, will render social intercourse 
delightful. In all these cases there was the instinc- 
tive good breeding which prevented intimacy from 
degenerating into pretentious familiarity. If we can 
only make the young people of the present day see 
that the primary characteristic of a ** lady " in the 
truest sense of the title is that of courteously acknow- 
ledging the social claims of others, we need have no 
fear of the vulgarities which may at first sight appear 
inseparable from the spread of democratic principles. 
Colonel Forbes also had in a certain sense a pro- 
totype ; that is to say, he is drawn from observation 
of the power which a man — not by any means wil- 
fully unkind, but only rather selfish and unsympa- 
thetic — has of tyrannising over his wife. Colonel 
Forbes has not in appearance, position and surround- 
ings the least resemblance to his protot3rpe ; yet that 
the character is in the main true was shown to me 
strangely by the fact that the gentleman who gave 
me the idea of it came to me after he had read 
Katherine Aahton and owned that Colonel Forbes 
resembled himself, though no one else ever suggested 
the likeness. I feel, however, that he did himself 
considerable injustice by the acknowledgment. His 


character was really only the germ of that which in 
Colonel Forbes was fully developed. 

Cleve Hall in 1855 followed quickly upon Katherine 
Ashton, for writing was now a necessity. I began 
the story with the idea of making a change from 
simple domestic life to something more stirring and 
interesting to young people, and I own I was disap- 
pointed when I found that it was not as attractive as 
I had hoped it might be. There is more plot in it, 
more description and excitement, but I suppose it 
was not as much in my line, and as it told less of my 
own experience it was less natural. 

The smuggling episode was suggested to me by the 
recollection of stories I had heard in my childhood 
as connected with the Isle of Wight. Smuggling 
cases were tried week by week in Newport, and I have 
a vivid remembrance of the sorrow of our cook, whose 
two brothers were on one occasion brought before 
the magistrates for this offence. Smuggling, how- 
ever, was by no means deemed disreputable, and it 
was often connived at. The smugglers used fre- 
quently to cross the grounds where my uncle lived 
at Binstead, and no notice was taken of them ; no 
one watched or traced their footsteps ; and as a token 
of gratitude, a little keg of brandy was once left at 
the door of the house. My old governess, Miss 
Crooke, used to relate with great amusement an in- 
cident of her own experience connected with smug- 
gling. She was one day sitting on the top of the 
cliffs at Niton. A party of smugglers landed, and she 


watched them as they hid some kegs of brandy in the 
hollows of the rocks. Presently the captain of the 
coastguard came up, and entered into conversation* 
He told her that he was on the look-out for smug- 
glers ; he knew that they were on the point of landing, 
and he was ready for them. Miss Crooke, the stern- 
est of the stern, as regarded all matters of truth and 
honour, yet did not feel herself obliged at all to aid 
the authorities against the delinquents, and the coast- 
guard captain, after a little time, went away without 
the slightest suspicion that the contraband goods were 
hidden within a stone's throw of him. 

Ella's adventure on a hill above a lake, as described 
in Cleve Hall, was suggested to me by an expedition 
which I paid to Wast Water when I was staying 
with a great friend, Mrs. Hornby, at Dalton Hall, in 
Westmoreland. There is a sliding cliff above the 
lake at Wast Water, and it made me shudder to look 
at it, as I thought how terrible it would be to find 
oneself going down and, having nothing to which to 
cUng, so as to arrest one's descent — ^and the feeling 
lingered with me long afterwards. 

Ivors, which succeeded Cleve Hall in 1856, was my 
first attempt at a regular novel, or a story in which 
love is the essential interest. Up to the time when 
I wrote it, I had always tried to show that life could 
be happy, and its events of importance apart from 
marriage. I thought, and I think still, that marriage 
is a beginning, not an end — and that it is very mis- 
leading to young people to represent it in a different 



light. But love is, of course, a very prominent factor 
in human existence, and having fairly well established 
my reputation as a writer of fiction without it, I 
thought that I might venture to introduce it, en- 
deavouring, if possible, to avoid the usual ending — 
** and so they were married, and lived happily ever 
after '*. But I did not quite succeed. My own in- 
terest lay with Susan, whom I left unmarried ; but 
my readers did not, I think, as a rule, feel with me. 
She was '' too good for human nature's daily food," 
and the wayward, contradictory Helen was the 
favourite. My own reply to such a choice would be 
— Which will you take to live with you ? — but readers 
of novels do not enter into such a question, neither 
do persons outside family lifa To them, clouds 
merely enhance the beauty of the sunshine — ^in fact, 
they scarcely recognise the sunshine without them ; 
but when marriage is under consideration, the man 
who trusts his happiness to a variable, moody girl, 
thinking that her changes of humour will fascinate 
him as much by his fireside as in a ball-room, is not 
much wiser than he who, after watching Punch and 
Judy exhibited by a showman at a fair, bought the 
puppets, expecting that they would, without his 
efforts, amuse him in his own home. I could never 
have represented Helen as being happy in her married 
life, if she had not learnt self-discipline by suffering ; 
and still my own interest and sympathy go to Susan 
in her calm unselfishness, and her quiet acceptance 
of the life-long pain of disappointed affection. The 


small incidents of travel in the foreign journey through 
the Tyrol to Venice are taken from the tour which I 
made with Lady Hampson in 1851, and which pre- 
sented themselves very opportunely for my purpose 
of changing the scene of the story from England to 
the Continent. 

Urmia, which was pubHshed in 1858, is, as regards 
scenery, more entirely part of my early associations 
than any other of my tales — for Dene, Ursula's first 
home with her brother Boger, represents the Her- 
mitage, where my happy holidays were so often 

Ursula's description of the place, its romantic 
charm, her delight in the peacock's beauty, and the 
joy of finding its dropped feathers, are all parts of my 
own memories. The sound of the peacock's harsh 
scream even now gives me pleasure because of those 
early associations. True also in description is the 
uncomfortable sense of change and pretension which 
came over Ursula when the place lost its primitive 
simplicity; and truer than all is the painful regret 
which rested in her mind when Dene was visited in 
after days ; as it rests in mine at this moment when 
I think of the Hermitage as it was in my youth, 
and contrast it with what it afterwards became, and 
I saw it decayed and neglected. It has passed into 
better hands since, but it can never be again what it 
was to me in my young days. The verandah at 
Ashcliff, which is unlike any other in the neighbour- 
hood, is copied from the Hermitage verandah now 



taken down, and which (I was told as a child) was 
entirely the work of a very old conntry carpenter. 

The places mentioned in the neighbourhood of 
Dene are those which are really near the Hermitage. 
Compton is Ghale ; Hatton is Niton ; and Hove is 
Newport ; Sandcombe is a farm know as Downconrt ; 
and Longside another farm called Fairfields. Every 
description is in fact taken from reaUty. Compton 
Heath represents the scenery and the houses near 
Blackgang Chine. In my childhood there was no 
high road to Blackgang. Persons wishing to drive 
from Chale to Niton were obUged to follow the cart- 
track over St. Catherine's Down. Mrs. Weir's cot- 
tage, ** The Heath,** is one amongst the many small 
villas which have sprung up between Niton and 
Blackgang. I think it is now called " Ninestones ". 
Stoneclifife is Southlands, a large house on the lower 
edge of the cliflf. 

Ursula's first evening at The Heath, when she was 
preparing for the arrival of Mrs. Weir, describes an 
experience of my own, when I was expecting and 
making preparation for my invalid sister-in-law, 
Marianne, who had taken the cottage for a few 
weeks. The old woman lying on a mattress on the 
bedroom floor, the wind pouring down upon her 
in gusts from the little fireplace, and howling, as only 
a wind at Blackgang can howl, — no milk in the 
house, and in consequence no comfortable provision 
for tea, — are, as people say, ** scenes from life ". So 
also the little incidents of the French journey, the 


uncomfortable inn at Andely, and the description 
of the picturesque ruins of ChAteau Gaillard, are 
derived from the events and scenes which were part 
of my own personal experience during my first visit 
to France with Eobert and Marianne in 1844. 
Probably many persons may consider I have exag- 
gerated the beauty of the view looking from the cliffs 
under St. Catherine's over the rocks and trees to the 
sea: but I speak of it in Ursula as it was to my 
young imagination, before villas and roads had in- 
truded upon its quiet loveliness. The drive along 
the Undercliflf from Niton to Bonchurch has great 
attractions still, but nothing can restore the lost 
charm which haunts my remembrance to this day 
as a prophecy of the beauty of a future and better 



Wednesday in Easter Week, Srd April, 1850. — I 
have finished the corrections of the EarVs Da/vughter, 
and am only waiting for William's approval to get it 

The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Judicial 
Conmiittee, the Bishop of Exeter and Mr. Gorham, 
are in every one's mouth as subjects of conversation. 
There again one cannot realise that one lives in 
strange days, and that evil times may be coming 
upon us. We are going to Lady Elizabeth Pringle's 
this evening. So the world goes on, the same ex- 
ternally till the tale is told, and then one shall see 
what the object of all has been. 

22nd June, Finchley, — Since I have been here 
(at Finchley) I have been up to London with Mrs. 
Worsley and her two girls, sight-seeing; first the 
water-colours, then the overland journey. I saw 
good drawings, and heard good music on an instru- 
ment which wonderfully resembles a brass band. 
It is called the harmonium. 

29th June, Gubington (Warwickshire: the Rev. 



Q, Cookers), — ^I came here on Tuesday and have 
lionised Coventry, and seen Kenilworth, and Guy's 
Cliflf, and Warwick Castle, and experienced the 
greatest kindness from every one. It has been a 
great pleasure to see Miss Skene, daughter of the 
Mr. Skene to whom Walter Scott dedicated one of 
the cantos of " Marmion *'. Her singing is delight- 
ful. She sets The Christian Year to chants, and 
makes one understand it like a new book. 

12th Augvst, Elford Rectory (Rev. Francis 
Paget* s). — ^I came here on the day of the great parish 
fSte. There was a procession to the church, tea 
drinking, and games, and fireworks, and many 
visitors. The new hymn, " The Church's One 
Foundation," was sung. Mr. Eobert Eden (after- 
wards Bishop of Moray and Ross) preached the 
sermon. It was all eminently successful. A few 
days after I arrived we went to Blithfield (Lord 
Bagot's — the Pagets are relations). There was only 
a family party, but it was very enjoyable. The 
house is Gothicised and battlemented, and built 
round a quadrangle. The grounds are well laid out 
with long broad walks, which I always delight in, 
under trees, and commanding views of wooded dis- 
tance. I wandered about by myself to my heart's 
content. The Bagots must always have been loyal. 
I was shown the skull cap sent by Charles the First 
to Colonel Salisbury the day before his- execution. 
In the time of the Pretender there was a stranger 
living in the house, who came late on a winter's 


night, tapped at the window of a room where some 
of the ladies of the family were admitted, and asked 
to speak to Sir W. Bagot. The result was that he 
remained at Blithfield, lived in a room over the 
entrance gate, and was treated with peculiar dis- 
tinction by Sir W. and Lady Bagot, who were 
extremely proud. He died in the house, and no one 
to this day has been able to guess his name. 

I am to stay at Elford longer than I intended, for 
I want to see Mr. Bennett, of St. Paul's Knights- 
bridge, who is expected to-day. It is very restful. 
When I am in the parsonage garden I seem to have 
no consciousness of any other place or people but 
my much-valued host and his most fascinating wife, 
and the children. The fact of walking to the church 
every day through the garden of the Hall which 
adjoins the parsonage, strengthens the sense of 
isolation. I sit out of doors and read ; and the 
river, the bright flowers, the green fields, and woods 
give me all I want in the way of home scenery. 
The church is beautiful, and everything thoroughly 
cared for. Elford is, in fact, a perfect specimen of 
an English parish. 

19th August, Cubington, — I have been reading 
Southey's Life; it does me a great deal of good. 
His life in a book, and Mrs. Charles Worsley's in 
actuality, have helped me more than any sermon. 
Southey's hard work and pecuniary anxieties come 
home to me. His plodding on, longing to be free ; and 
yet his perfect contentment. The EarVa Daughter 


was published before I left home. I get heaps of 
praise, and am lionised till I am heart-sick and 

Monday, lHh August, 1854 (Elford). — Euskin's 
Lectures on Architecture and Painting which I have 
been reading, interest and please me immensely. 
They certainly are dogmatical. They are disfigured 
by exaggerated tirades against Eomanism, but they 
are full of wonderful thought, and an intense feeling 
for truth, which must have an effect, one would think, 
upon those who read, or who have heard them. It 
is very interesting too, to watch the providential 
raising up of such a man at the time when there 
is also a resurrection of old principles — a theorist, 
not a practical man — if he did practise, his power 
would be lessened, he could never realise his own 
ideas,— not even a churchman in the strict sense of 
the word, and so exciting no prejudices against the 
architectural principles which are in fact the embodi- 
ment of those of the Church. Doubtless he has a 
great work to do, and even his defects are working 
for it, for so God vouchsafes to bring good out of 
evil. Nature as a guide, truth as a principle, these 
seem the key-notes of all he says and thinks. 

16^^ August, Beckley, — ** Heaviness may endure 
for a night but joy cometh in the morning." I think 
we ought to treasure up and remember the gleams 
of joy which shoot across our mind much more than 
we do. Manning says that a man's true self is 
what he is in his best moments. One may hope it 


is so, and certainly, I suppose our true existence — 
that for which we were created — ^is what we feel in 
our happiest moments. We forget very much what 
this can be. As we get into middle life care crushes 
us down, until we think that the very power of en- 
joyment is dead. But that which is a part of our 
being cannot die. It must be immortal as the soul, 
and God teaches us this at times. He restores to us, 
though but for an instant, the "thrill of joy, the 
glowing hope, the ecstacy of spring " of our childhood, 
doubtless to show us that they have been but taken 
from us for a while to be restored to us for ever. 
The gleaming of sunlight amongst trees, and the 
glimpses of deep blue sky amidst white clouds will 
bring it back occasionally. This has been a chang- 
ing, flickering morning, not warm enough for sitting 
out of doors, but exquisitely bright and sunny at 
times within ; and when the sun shone full into my 
room, and the sky and the white clouds were seen 
above the trees, it seemed as if — take but away the 
daily burden of anxiety — even at nine-and-thirty the 
heart would spring up rejoicing as eagerly as at nine- 
teen, and perhaps far more deeply and thankfully. 

14ith Av^guaty 1855 {Summer Holidays), Bordesley 
Hall, Worcestershire {Mr. Kynnersley's new home), — 
Talking to Mr. Kynnersley has brought out, in a more 
definite form, a plan which has for years been work- 
mind for a training institution for private 
in connection, to a certain extent, with 

aenmie lorm, 
^Il^ri4|||p my min 
J^ Ikesses, ii 

W m*s Collet 


ever come to anything. I have a superstitious feel- 
ing in my own mind that it may, because I foresee 
it must be supported by a large school, and I have 
always set my mind against large schools, and 
throughout my life I have been brought to do the 
very things against which I have been most bent. 
If I were free and alone, I should certainly try some- 
thing of the kind. 

Three things I remember amongst my girlish de- 
clarations. One, that women ought not to write 
books ; another, that I would never be a useful aunt, 
for aunts, I felt, were put upon, — and if my brothers 
married they must take care of their own children ; 
and a third, that I never would see, or rather never 
wished to see Bonchurch, after new houses had been 
built there, for it was a dream of beauty before, but 
then it must be spoilt. 

19th February, 1856, Bournemouth, — ^I came here 
for a fortnight and have stayed a month. I have 
written a little, and read a good deal, — ^the second 
volume of Sir Charles Metcalfe's Life, which makes 
me look upon him as more of a hero than many 
whom Carlyle would worship ; and Hypatia and 
two sermons of Dr. Pusey's against Germanism, and 
part of Hero Worship, to say nothing of pamphlets 
and magazines, and a diligent study of The Times 
every evening. Hypatia is a marvel ; very painful 
because it gives such a miserable view of Christianity 
in those days. In striving to be true, the description 
seems as if it must be untrue, even by its own ac- 


knowledgment. There most have been self-denial, 
and faith, and charity working beneath those turbu- 
lent outward scenes. Yet it gives one no sjrmpathy 
with philosophy. Mrs. Meyrick and I both agree 
that Pelagia wins our affection much more than 
Hypatia. I doubt whether any religion or any 
principle but that of Christianity has solved the 
problem of love. Platonism certainly does not. 
Love is there, but as an abstraction, and because it 
cannot be grasped; weak human nature naturally 
falls into the contrary extreme. Christianity ac- 
knowledges the human element, but sanctifies 
it ; for the union of husbaod and wife is typical of 
the union of Christ and the Church. 

I was reading to-day the 5th chapter of the epistle 
to the Hebrews. I have taken this epistle for a par- 
ticular study this Lent. It is a great favourite of 
mine. In so many ways it comes home to one's 
everyday trials and needs. Thinking of my birth- 
day threw me back into the past, and the description 
of our Lord having been made perfect through suffer- 
ing seemed to harmonise with the great lesson which 
I suppose we all learn as we go on in life, that what- 
ever we have done, or said, or thought, which may 
be in any way of value (if one may use such an 
expression), is the fruit of suffering. It is suffering 
— labour, toil, inward struggle against outward trials 
— which stands forth prominently in the retrospect 
of the past. And so it must be doubtless to the end. 
The thought is very full of energy and life. It seems 


to give me strength. If one must suffer in order to 
doy it seems that suffering, in whatever form it may 
come, will be easy to bear. And so too one learns 
the meaning of that mysterious truth told us in the 
verses which says that our Lord " offered up prayers 
and supplications " to Him who could ** save Him 
from death," which were heardy and yet that He 
was made perfect through sufferings, and by them 
became " the Author of eternal salvation unto all 
them who obey Him''. Doubtless such in their 
measure is the acceptance of our prayers against 
suffering. They are heard and answered, not by 
the removal of the trial, but by our own sanctifica- 
tion and the good of others. So let it be, if it should 
be the Will of God. 

August, 1856. — The holidays came. I went away 
first, and stayed one day at Ashley, — and then went 
to Norwood by myself, or at least only with Goodwin. 
I wanted rest and quiet, and could not get it in any 
other way. The Crystal Palace was quite close, and 
I went there whenever I liked, and enjoyed it 
thoroughly. . . . The music was delicious. I 
used to sit and listen to it whilst Goodwin went 
about in the galleries examining the different stalls. 
After Norwood I went up to London and stayed at 
Dr. Oldham's and heard Jenny Lind in the ** Crea- 
tion," and was more enchanted even than I had 
expected to be ; as much with her manner as with 
her voice. Her perfect simplicity is wonderful, — 
the way in which she can face that great audience 

168 EXTRACrrS FROM THE JOURNAL, 1850-1860 

without a passing look of self-<K>nscioTisne8S. Her 
voice is marvellous, but there are notes which are 
more surprising than pleasing. It seemed a great 
effort to bring them out. People say this is more 
the case now than it used to be. I was with Mrs. 
Praed (Winthrop) in Chester Square, also for a few 
days, and had the opportunity of hearing Jenny Lind 
a second time, for Mrs. Praed was ill and offered me 
her ticket for the very last concert. The same im- 
pression was made on me the second time as on the 
first. When Jenny Lind made her final curtsey I 
felt as if I must rush after her and tell her what I 
thought of her. I was really delighted to watch the 
full attention she gave to the other singers, and the 
heartiness with which she joined in the applause they 

nth April, 1857, Friday, Easter Week, Bonchv/rck, 
— I meant to have written on Easter Day, but could 
not find time. I was called away as I wrote the last 
words to see Tennyson — JUr. Tennyson now, for he has 
become an acquaintance, almost a friend. Ellen did 
a drawing for him of the New Zealand Lake, named 
after him, and he came to thank her the other day 
with Dr. Mann. Then yesterday we dined at St. 
Lawrence with him, on the occasion of his brother's 
marriage with Miss Elwes (a cousin of Lady Charlotte 
Copley), who has been staying some little time with 
her sister, Mrs. West, at Lord Yarborough's 
cottage. This morning he came with Dr. Mann 
again to see another picture which Ellen has done, 


a water-colour drawing from an engraving in Dr. 
Kane's book, of a huge natural pillar found in the 
Arctic regions and called Tennyson's Pillar. I think 
I could be fond of him ; all his friends are. One sees 
that he is simple and warm-hearted, and unspoilt by 
the world. I like the shake of his hand especially. 
We had a very quiet unpretending party at St. 
Lawrence, only Mr. Hambrough and two clergy- 
men besides ourselves. Mrs. Tennyson was there, 
and charms me more than he does. She is tall, and 
slight, and simple, and sensible, with something of a 
thoughtful melancholy about her which interests one 
much ; not that it is anything approaching to un- 
happiness, and he seems quite devoted to her. 

12th May. — We were expecting a farewell visit this 
evening from our American friends, who have been 
at the hotel all the winter — Bishop Doane's family. 
They have taken possession of the hearts of the Bon- 
church people. (1891. — These friends soon became 
very dear, and have grown more and more precious as 
the years have rolled on. Mrs. Cleveland's home is 
at Nutwood near Boston. Since 1857 I have written 
to her regularly once a fortnight.) Mrs. Cleveland 
has been driving me about a good deal, and we have 
had immensely long talks. Some things she under- 
stands better than any one I ever met. 

Tuesday Evening, 9th June, — ^I have just finished 
Mrs. Gaskell's Life of Miss Bronte, Years ago, when 
Jane Eyre came out I read it. People said it was 
coarse, and I felt it was, but I felt also that the person 


who wrote it was not necessarily coarse-minded, that 
the moral of the story was intended to be good ; but 
that it failed in detail. The Ufe is intensely, pain- 
fully interesting. A purer, more high-minded person 
it seems there could scarcely be, wonderfully gifted, 
and with a man's energy and power of will and 
passionate impulse; and yet gentle and womanly 
in all her ways, so as to be infinitely touching. Even 
her little niceties of dress, her want of physical health 
and strength, her morbid fears and superstition, come 
home to one as awakening sympathy; and her 
London visit, the shrinking from strange faces, and 
notoriety, are so entirely feminine. One thing it is 
impossible not to be struck with. Her life was sad 
in its circumstances, — very sad ; — but it was sadder, 
so it seems, than it need have been. One asks why ? 
Something there must have been in constitutional 
depression, but there seems a want in the religious 
element ; not that she was not religious — very much 
the contrary. But religion with her was abstract 
beUef not personal love — at least so it strikes me, and 
her life was sadly lonely. That love would have 
cheered her, and it does not seem to have presented 
itself to her. 

28th June, Visit at the Leverets^ Birmingham (Mr, 
Kynneralej/a). — At dinner yesterday we talked of 
elections. Mr. Kynnersley said that in one instance 
he had hired twenty-five prize fighters from Bir- 
mingham to keep the peace ; — pay, one guinea, — no 
spirits allowed, — an unlimited quantity of ginger beer 


dmnk. He himself had at one election been protected 
by a prize fighter. The people were so frightened at 
them — ^they slunk away. I have been to see the 
reformatory, the prison, and the hospital. The 
chaplain at the prison said, Birmingham was the best 
town in England in point of morality. (Commitals in 
Manchester were 1 in 88 — in Birmingham 1 in 620 
or some number very near it.) The average of all 
England is 1 in 500 and something. 

Left Birmingham on Monday, 4th July — came to 
Kaithby by Derby, Nottingham, Grantham, Boston, 
and Firsby — a tiring journey with innumerable 
changes, and a crowded omnibus as a finale, or not 
quite that, for Mr. Eawnsley's carriage met me at 
Spilsby. I saw Boston Church, whilst I waited there 
an hour. It has been beautifully restored. The 
place was hot, quiet, and misty, — and the country 
Cuyp-like. Near Spilsby it is pretty. The people 
talk with a most astonishing accent. Raithby is very 
pretty — not the house but the grounds, and Mrs. 
Eawnsley is a delightful hostess. Whilst I have been 
resting and enjoying myself, Mrs. Cleveland and all 
with her have nearly lost their lives at Perugia. The 
town threw off its allegiance to the Pope. The Swiss 
troops were sent to retake it, and plundered and 
massacred in a frightful manner. The story reached 
me at the Leverets. I can't be happy till they are 
out of Italy. No one can say that the same horrors 
may not be repeated any day. One is sadly unthank- 
ful. I find I dwell more on what they all went 


162 EXTRACTS FROM TEffi JOURNAL, 18501860 

through, than on their final escape. They are at 
Florence now. 

Saturday, 9th Jvly, Baithby HaU, — I have been 
to Somersby (Lincolnshire) — Tennyson's birthplaca 
This is quite his country, and every one knows him. 
Mr. Bawnsley's father was his guardian. I dined with 
Mr. and old Mrs. Eawnsley at Halton yesterday. We 
talked a good deal of Tennyson. His poetical talent 
showed itself early. He and his brother when quite 
young published a volume of poems at Louth, surrepti- 
tiously. Dr. Tennyson, the father, was a very strict 
man. He undertook to teach his boys, and the labour 
was so great to him that he used to rush away from 
them and go over to Halton, to Mr. Eawnsley, to re- 
fresh himself for a week at a time. Mr. Bawnsley's 
friendship began curiously. Dr. Tennyson took his 
boys to school, and coming back called on Mr. 
Bawnsley, then a young curate lately come into the 
neighbourhood. He was asked to stay and sleep, and 
they mutually liked each other, but did not become in- 
timate till many months after ; when one night Mr. 
Bawnsley's boy, an infant about three months old, was 
ill. At twelve o'clock at night Dr. Tennyson walked 
over a distance of seven miles, on a cold winter's night, 
to ask for him and give advice how he should be man- 
aged, because, as he said, he was the first child in the 
Eawnsley family, and they knew nothing about babies, 
whilst he had had eight boys. Of course this brought 
a friendly feeling, and it ended in Mr. Eawnsley be- 
ing appointed guardian to young Tennyson, 


Sunday, 19th February, I860.— My forty-fifth 
birthday. I can only record the fact with great 
gratitude. The " tale " of one's life is very marvel- 
lous. The teaching that has enabled one, through 
God's grace, to teach others I how untrue any bio- 
graphy — even an autobiography — of any human being 
must be ! How much there is which can never be told 
except to God, but on which all that is really life has 
depended. I have just returned from Bournemouth. 
It was most resting; the Church atmosphere inde- 
scribably soothing. Mrs. Meyrick is infirm, but 
wonderful in intellect and interest. 




I HAVE brought down our family history nearly to 
the year 1860, when my brother Edwards was made 
Warden of New College. Up to that date writing 
and teaching were my chief interests, whilst the 
College or Public School at Badley was my chief 
anxiety. I desire to speak upon this subject plainly, 
because I feel that much misapprehension has arisen 
in connection with it. 

But I see that I have taken little or no notice 
of that which preceded it — the founding of St. 
Columba's in Ireland. This was my brother 
William's first interest of the kind. St. Columba's 
was begun in 1843 or '44 (I forget exactly which) in 
conjunction with Lord Adare (afterwards Earl of 
Dunraven), Mr. William Monsell (afterwards Lord 
Emly), and Dr. Todd of Trinity College, Dublin. 
The wish was at first to found by donation and sub- 
scription a school which might be the means of educat- 
ing the sons of Irish gentlemen and especially those 
who were likely to take holy orders, so that they 
might teach the people, and preach to them in the 



Irish langaage. It was thought that this would be 
a great means of reaching the hearts of the Irish 
population. But the idea was found to be impractic- 
able, and St. Columba's then took the form of a 
Church Public School for Ireland, which it has since 

Unhappily before the College was placed on a firm 
foundation, William discovered that Lord Adare and 
Mr. Monsell were on the point of joining the Church 
of Bome. He was not at liberty to state his mis- 
givings openly, and he therefore took the only step 
in his power and withdrew from the management of 
the College affairs. I believe he was severely judged 
for this at the time, as he was often during his life 
for acts which originated from the highest motives, 
but which the world did not understand. 

He was not a man of business habits, and his 
delight in seeing beauty around him often showed 
itself in a way which caused him to be misjudged 
and thought careless of expense. As an instance of 
this, he was fond of collecting specimens of old 
furniture for his rooms at Exeter College, and at 
one time they were quite a show for visitors ; but 
when, after leaving Oxford for a time in consequence 
of illness, he returned to it again, he chose some 
rooms over the gateway looking into Broad Street, 
and furnished them in the plainest way, because, as 
he said to me himself, he knew that his indulgence 
of a love for artistic surroundings had been censured 
as showing too much thought for personal gratifica- 


tion, and therefore being a bad example for young 
men who were his pupils. 

His religious earnestness was his attraction to me, 
and I know that it was equally felt by others — for 
his pupils were devoted to him, and many there 
were who owed to him the impressions which made 
their Oxford life the turning point of their characters 
for good. When once convinced of the truth of a 
principle, William carried it out without a thought 
of expediency or compromise ; but he belonged to no 
party, and from the beginning of the Oxford move- 
ment he kept himself independent of the great 
leaders, Mr. Newman, Dr. Pusey, and Mr. Keble. 
At the same time, he showed so much sympathy 
with the principles of the movement that they were, 
I fancy, constantly reckoning upon his support, and 
as constantly finding themselves — in an emergency — 

I have given this slight analysis of my brother 
William's character because both his virtues and his 
failings worked for the foundation of Kadley. He 
had been disappointed in the efforts he had made 
for St. Columba*s ; the undertaking had passed out 
of his hands by the force of circumstances, but the 
ideal of a Church College still remained in his mind 
— the one desire of his heart was to realise it, and 
the experience from which he had lately suffered led 
him to the conviction that, in order to be a success, 
Eadley must be his own work, managed under his 
own direction, without any external help except the 


money to be subscribed by the friends and supporters 
of the project. 

The first Warden, Mr. Singleton, had been Warden 
of St. Columba's, but he left the College when my 
brother gave up his connection with it. He had 
many quaUties in common with William ; they were 
one in energy, and devotion, and adherence to Church 
principles, but practically they did not suit each 
other. William looked upon himself as the reaJ 
head of the College, being in the position of founder ; 
whilst Mr. Singleton, I imagine, considered himself 
a partner in the government. 

After a short time Mr. Singleton resigned. I have 
reason to think that, from the beginning, the finan- 
cial responsibility had not been clearly defined, and 
that misunderstanding was the result. Mr. Singleton 
thought himself in some way injured, and WilUam 
felt hurt and disappointed. 

The second Warden of Eadley, the Eev. William 
Heathcote, was a most honourable, single-minded 
man, and a personal friend of our family, but I 
doubt if he was fitted for his position, which was one 
of great difficulty. My brother William's theory 
was that the boys were greatly influenced by out- 
ward beauty and refinement, and that if they were 
to imbibe the tastes, manners, and feelings of Eng- 
lish gentlemen, they must have the surroundings of 
gentlemen in their school. Therefore, on principle, 
he desired to make Eadley beautiful. But expense 
naturally accompanied beauty, and as the school, 


though it excited a great deal of notice, was at first 
by no means full, the financial position became a 
source of constant anxiety, and by the time Mr. 
Heathcote gave it up, which he did after a com- 
paratively short Wardenship, there was a debt of at 
least £4000 to be met. 

With the debt of £4000 to begin with, the Eadley 
finances were a grievous burden upon William's 
mind. His influence, indeed, worked in a most 
marked manner for the success of the school; he 
gave his whole heart to it, and its reputation in- 
creased in consequence ; but the expenditure was 
always beyond the income. 

It was at this time that my brother Robert, having 
given up the Newport business to his partners, went 
to Eadley with the express object of taking the finan- 
cial management off William's hands.^ 

And now I must go back to 1860, when Edwards, 
the youngest of my brothers, was made Warden of 
New College, and Janetta, my youngest sister, went 
to live with him there. That was before the Eadley 
troubles began. We were anxious at the time about 
Annie (or Marianne), Henry's youngest girl, and our 
special pet, for she had been left to us as a baby of 
six months old. I spent five months in Italy and 
Germany, — months of most delightful rest and 
change, so far as my most kind friends could pro- 
cure such blessings for me, — ^but Annie's increasing 

^Then came the crisis, which led to Uncle William giving up 
the schools, Uncle Robert of coarse retiring with him. — E. L. S. 


illness, and the rumours respecting Eadley affairs, 
which reached me from time to time, cast a cloud 
over me, especially at the last, which prevented me 
from thoroughly realising the pleasure that was 
intended for me. Yet I can never cease to be 
grateful for the affection which planned and carried 
but such a scheme of enjoyment. We were in Italy 
at a most exciting time. Political events were 
our every-day interest. I was in Turin on the day 
of Count Cavour's funeral, and the feeling which 
the death of the great statesman aroused in the 
people could not fail to touch the hearts of strangers. 
Italian politics have of late years been to me second 
only to those of England. On my return I published 
Impreaaions of Rome, Florence, and Turin, a small 
volume which paid its way and had a temporary 



Ist December^ 1864, College Street, Winchester, — 
I have been in London for a day with Jennie Craw- 
ford (sister of Mr. Prank Marion Crawford — ^the 
novelist), consulting Mr. Bowman about her eyes; 
and I have been at Oxford a few days, and now I am 
at Winchester with the Misses Yard — ^renewing the 
free pleasant life I used to lead with them. Mud, 
and mist, and gas, were my chief London impres- 
sions, and I was very thankful when Mr. Bowman 
said there was not much amiss with Jennie's eyes, 
and let us go. I went off to Oxford on business. 
On Friday there was a meeting in the theatre, the 
Bishop of Oxford in the chair ; the object to increase 
the endowments of small Uvings in the diocese. 
Disraeli spoke very eloquently, in a very declama- 
tory style, gaining great applause ; and if one could 
only have believed that he felt what he said he might 
have made an impression; but his object was too 
evidently political — the wish to put forth what his 
measures would be if he were Prime Minister. I 



stayed till Tuesday at Oxford — and heard the Bishop 
again on Sunday at St. Peter's, an Advent sermon 
which brought in an appeal for the S.P.G. — earnest 
and thoughtful as the bishop's sermons always are, 
but too strained to be really impressive. One is per- 
verse enough never to be affected by an evident 
attempt to touch the conscience or the heart, how- 
ever real the speaker may be. Here I am leading a 
very quiet life ; going to the cathedral ; sitting by 
the fire, seeing visitors. Mrs. and Miss Yonge came 
in from Otterbourn this afternoon to call, and we go 
there to drink tea to-morrow. I have an idea that 
Miss Yonge might help me in an historical idea I 
have in my mind. (Two volumes of Historical 
Selections were the result of this idea. We hoped 
to have carried the work farther, but it was not 
sufficiently popular.) It is the assize week, and the 
judges are in the town. There was a sermon in the 
cathedral in consequence this evening, but it was 
very unimpressive. Yet Advent and the judgment 
might be made so much of. I cannot quite forget 
myself that the fate of so many rests on the trials of 
to-morrow, but then I am not used to assizes. The 
world generally seems to think it rather a merry 
time. I suppose it is excited by the view of the 
scarlet robes. They did look very well in the glori- 
ous old cathedral ; and there was William Euf us 
Ijdng in his coffin just before me, gone to his assize 
— and his tomb, only a sight of curiosity for anti- 
quarian visitors. So things pass and appear to 


become nothing ; but the trem^idons reality which 
lies beneath ! 

2Sth Janua/ry. — ^I am reading French Essays an 
LUercUure — so clever they are ! Charles de Bemnsat 
describes the French of the eighteenth centnry as 
" Des gens qni ne lisaient qn'afin de poavoir parler ". 
Could anything be more apt? That jonmey to 
Dewlish has left a lasting impression on my mind. 
It was a piteous day, bitterly cold, snow falling. I 
found myself at Byde in a doubtful state of mind. 
Should I cross to Portsmouth, or turn back and give 
up my visit ? (In those days we went down Byde 
pier in bath chairs.) I took a chair — got to the end 
of the pier — still doubtful The chairman came for- 
ward to assist me out of the chair — ^I hesitated ; first 
I would go, then I would not. Keen was the wind, 
fast fell the snow. " Bless the woman," exclaimed 
the man as he stood shivering, "doesn't she know 
her own mind ! " It was the first time in my life 
that I had ever realised my position as merely a 
woman — one of a crowd. I came to my senses at 
once, went on board the steamer, and found my way 
safely to my journey's end. 

18^A May, 1866, College Street, Winchester, — Stay- 
ing with the Misses Yard. I would just note that it 
is the day of Mr. Eeble's funeral, and that he died 
on the Thursday before Easter Sunday. The world 
will know all about it. Such a man cannot pass 
away unnoticed. Mrs. Keble outlived her husband 
just long enough to arrange all that needed arrange- 


ment. She was thankful that he was taken first, 
and for herself she knew that they could not long be 
parted. The story of their end is contained in the 
words, "They were lovely and pleasant in their 
lives, and in their deaths they were not divided". 
Their two funeral days have been exceptional in 
loveliness — sunny, hopeful, brilliant, with the fresh 
green of spring — just the days which suited the asso- 
ciations of The Christian Tear. 

It was especially brought home to me to-day, when 
I went to call on Mrs. Moberly (wife of the head- 
master of Winchester College, afterwards Bishop of 
Salisbury); she could speak of nothing else. This 
is the last evening of my little holiday. 

25th July, 1866, The Lodge {afterwards called 
L'Hyvreuse), Cambridge Park, Guernsey, — ^I am sit- 
ting in a queer little dining-room, opposite the kitchen 
— a brick passage between. Outside a wilderness of 
scarlet geraniums, fuchsias, strawberries, cabbages, 
roses ; tangled walks between. Above is a drawing- 
room about the same size, with a recess newly built 
— furniture like the garden, a mixture of art and 
nature, with wood -carving and pictures, chairs and 
sofas, very tasteful, cool, inviting, and home-like. 
There is another room close to the drawing-room, 
which Mrs. Clarke calls her work-room. From the 
window of my little bed-room I look out over the 
garden to a most glorious blue sea. Sark — misty, 
rugged, and pencilled with delicate shadows, in the 
distance ; beyond, a line of the coast of France — ^in 


the foreground the harbour, shut in by granite walls ; 
one arm stretched out to Castle Cornet, which is a 
fortress, once standing alone, but now joined to the 
mainland. It is very warm, very bright — the im- 
pression I have of the whole place is that of colour — 
the island was so bright with gold and green, and 
the sea such an indescribable blue, when we came 
in this morning about twelve o'clock, after a remark- 
ably good passage of six hours. 

let August, Ouemsey, — I am just returned from 
Sark. I went in the steamer, which does not go 
every day, and returned by the cutter, a kind of Eyde 
wherry. Started at 8.30 — wind dead against us — a 
passage of four hours and a half, and very rough. 
My face is scorched quite red, and I have been asleep 
half the afternoon, trying to recover from the fatigue 
of the last two days. Yet it was quite worth the 
voyage. Sark is a marvellous place. Fancy Dunnose 
in perpendicular granite, with huge masses of cliiBf 
separated from the main portion — the sea dashing 
between. Other rocks — battlemented, jagged, pre- 
cipitous, scattered along the coast, which is formed 
into deep bays by cliffs and far-stretching promon- 
tories. At the summit of the clilBfs there is short 
green turf, fern and gorse. This is one side of the 
island. On the other the cliffs are nearly as precipi- 
tous, only instead of Dunnose you must imagine the 
slope of St. Boniface Down terminating in low cliffs, 
the blue sea washing its base — Guernsey, Jersey, 
Herm, Jethou, and a long line of the coast of 


France stretching away in the distance are seen on 
all sides. 

The island is in fact a tableland. It is all but 
inaccessible. The Creux^ which is the Uttle harbour 
at which we landed, is shut in by granite cliffs, and 
the island is entered through a tunTiel, The Misses 
Aplin had lodgings in a most primitive little hotel, 
but everything was very clean and comfortable. I 
went down into an apparently inaccessible cave the 
first evening, or rather afternoon — returned and 
rested, and went out again in another direction. The 
next day, yesterday, we had our dinner out of doors, 
and walked first to one side of the island, then to 
the other, scrambUng along the side of the steep 
slopes— very sHppery they were— and looking down 
upon the most exquisite sea; then dining by the 
edge of a fearful hollow, and afterwards wandering 
off to a high promontory, narrowed into a mere 
ridge at the summit, and shelving down on each side 
into a tremendous ravine with the sea at the ex- 
tremity. The wind was too high to admit of our 
going along the top, so we made our way through 
narrow lanes, by the primitive parsonage, and most 
puritanical little church, to the Seigneuriey the only 
gentleman's house in the island. Mr. Ceilings is the 
Seigneur, and keeps up a regular feudal dominion. 
He has lovely grounds, cultivated and brilliant, the 
only pretty thing in the interior. Mrs. CoUings met 
us. She was going to dinner, so we went to the Port 
de Moulin, another bay, with mighty granite cliffs 


inexpressibly grand. The sea nearly caught ns, 
indeed quite caught us, as we were scrambling 
through an arched rock. There was no danger, but, 
to save my best boots I took them off, and waded 
through the water to the great damage, or rather 
suffering of my poor feet, the granite pebbles being 
anything but agreeable. 

The great need of the island is ponies. There is 
nothing to take one about, and as the scenery is all 
at the edge, one has to walk through long narrow 
lanes, leading across the island, in order to get from 
one fine point to another. The scrambling is really 
alarming at first. You stand at the top of these 
almost perpendicular cliffs, and see scarcely a trace 
of a path, and on you go feeling that the least false 
step would precipitate you to the bottom, and when 
at length you reach the base, the rocks are so 
scattered, and so huge, that it seems a marvel that 
you can make your way amongst them without 
breaking your leg. But worse than the rocks is the 
slippery grass. That really did frighten me. How- 
ever, I am thankful to say I escaped all dangers, and 
very glad I am to have been. The air of the island 
is certainly more softly exhilarating than anything I 
ever felt. From the window of this room I can see 
over the harbour, and Castle Cornet, and the sea to 
the long line of the Sark cliffs, and trace just where 
the Great Sark ends, and Little Sark begins — Little 
Sark being not a separate island, but half an island, 
joined to the other half by a mighty cliff, called the 


Couple, about three hundred feet high and six or 
seven feet broad. 

6th August, Ouemaey. — ^I have been for a long 
drive to-day with the Misses Aplin to Plainmont — a 
Guernsey Freshwater — at the other end of the island ; 
— and have an impression of granite rocks, tossing 
sea, a gale of wind, and a strange weird old cottage, 
made memorable by Victor Hugo's description of it 
in his last novel, Lea Travailleurs de la mer. If this 
letter should go to Janetta, tell her that I have seen 
the Maison Viaionnde at Plainmont, and the Hanois 
Eocks ; she will be interested — so would you be if you 
had read the book. 

l&th August^ Cambridge Park, — I am at Guernsey 

again, as you will see. I came back yesterday. My 

Jersey visit was very pleasant. The island is lovely, 

the most home-like, wooded, delicious little place 

possible, but I would not live there ; it is too far away. 

All one*s wandering thoughts go to France, when 

one is there. England seems at the Antipodes. 

There is an unnatural fascination in looking for the 

spire of Coutances, instead of the spire of Chichester 

Cathedral. It was a quiet middle-aged atmosphere I 

lived in there. Nothing could exceed the kindness 

shown me. We drove every day. Saturday we 

went to St. Helier's. Strangely and sadly it was the 

very day there had been an execution there; the 

rarest of all events in Jersey. It was, of course, all 

over before we went, but it was horrible to be so 




16ih August, Guernsey, — ^Went over Victor Hngo's 
house with Dora and Miss G. Carey. House fur- 
nished with drugget — ^peculiar in many ways. In 
the dining-room tiles round the walls. Chair with 
chain across it. No one may sit in it because it is 
reserved Jor Victor Hugo's ancestors. The date 
fifteen hundred and something. At the top of the 
house is a space covered in with glass, like the room 
set apart by photographers. Beautiful view of the 
fort, cliff, Castle Comet, Sark, and sea. Table at 
which Victor Hugo writes. Two drawing-rooms 
— Salon Rouge, ScUon Bleu — ^filled with curiosities. 
Belt with jewels which once belonged to Matthias, 
King of Hungary. Panels worked in gold and 
beading ; belonged to Christina of Sweden. Table 
inlaid, representing the four elements; belonged to 
Charles H. of England. A table in the inner room 
— a kind of Japan and papier macIU — which be- 
longed to Henry H. of France. A conservatory 
opening out of the Salon. Altogether, French, dark, 
dirty, picturesque. The old woman who showed 
us over it was deeply engaged in a conflict with les 
papillons (otherwise, I suppose, moths), and no 

11th September, Ashcliff, — The wedding day of our 
assistant teacher at the Bonchurch National School. 
The breakfast was given by us. I note the event 
especially as the end of that of which I saw the 
beginning when the Bonchurch School was started 
in 1848 ; for Miss Cowan, our old mistress, is giving 


up her position. We had a parish tea on Friday 
last, and gave her a purse with £161. She was going 
away with aknost nothing ; her salary had been so 
small she could not save out of it. I begged for her 
and represented the case, and this is the result. It 
has been most satisfactory. Again and again I think 
of the words, "But saw I never the righteous for- 
saken *'. Six years ago, when I went to Rome, I 
believed that both the mistress and teacher would be 
unjustly dismissed, and sent to seek their home else- 
where as they could. I desire to be thankful for 
what has been effected. 

The Ventnor Eailway was opened yesterday, and 
there were grand illuminations ; but underneath the 
excitement which these changes bring, my heart 
aches with the news from Bome. Dear Jennie 
Crawford (once my pupil) has died of bronchitis and 
fever. There is another added to the number of those 
whom I think of as waiting to greet me when I enter 
another world ; but the world is sad and empty with- 
out them. 

6th January, 1867. — Dr. Martin is dead. The 

loss comes home to one singularly. He was the 

man who first practically brought the Undercliff into 

notice for its climate, and he has been mixed up with 

all our trials of sickness and death since we came 

to Bonchurch. Intense cold, and wind, now that a 

thaw has begun, suit well with the gloom that hangs 

over the place. These losses make me think of the 

lines vn a so-called 




Two bands upon the breast. 

And labour's done ; 
Two pale feet crossed in rest. 

The race is ran ; 
Two eyes with coin-weights shut. 

And all tears cease ; 
Two Ups where grief is mate, 

And wrath at peace. 
So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot, 
God, in His kindness, answereth not. 

Two hands to work addrest. 

Aye for His praise ; 
Two feet that never rest. 

Walking His Ways ; 
Two eyes that look above, 

Still through all tears ; 
Two Ups that breathe but love. 

Never more fears. 
So cry we afterwards, low on our knees, 
Pardon those erring prayers ! Father ! hear these. 

Christmas Day, 1867. — Nothing very particular 
has been happening, and nothing is in prospect, ex- 
cept the goings and comings of pupils. I have had 
constant work, but I am quite satisfied to have it. 
It is work for Christ, and so it brings happiness. 

The world swarms with rationalistic books, but 
though they are at times startling and painful, the 
more one thinks, the more one feels the enormous 
preponderance of probability on the side of belief, 
and, as Butler shows, probability is the guide of hfe. 
If we had absolute demonstrative certainty there 


would be no room for faith. The great weakness of 
rationalism is that from its very nature it cannot re- 
cognise the inward evidence of Christianity, gathered 
from its effect on the character, and the comfort and 
peace which it bestows ; and which certainly ought 
to be taken into account when we are judging of its 
truth. If it had professed to give comfort, and to 
convert men from sin, and to purify the heart and 
affections, and had failed to do so, the failure would 
at once have been seized upon as a conclusive argu- 
ment against it. Success therefore must be accepted 
as evidence on the contrary side, and no one can 
dare to say that Christianity received into the heart 
in its. simplicity and perfection is not both holiness 
and peace. 

Saturdayy 29<A Febrria/ryy 1868, New College, — 
Came here on Thursday. Yesterday heard Mr. 
Liddon at St. Mary*s in the evening — a wonderful 
sermon on the responsibilities of revelation — ad- 
dressed to the indifferent, the antagonistic, and the 
unbelieving. The appeal to the indifferent was 

Sunday, — Sermon from Dr. Pusey on the last 
judgment — an assize sermon — very striking, but 
stem. Some would have said there was no preach- 
ing of the Gospel in it. Sermon in the evening — 
Mr. Liddon — text " Honour all men " ; — the reason 
given why men should be honoured, as being made 
in the image of God, and redeemed by Christ Who 
has taken our nature into union with His own Deity. 


A very interesting sermon, bnt not so mnch so as the 
Friday sermon. 

7th November. — ^Began Laeordaire's Confirencea de 
Notre Dame, He starts with premises open to 
mach discussion, and all his arguments fall to the 
groond unless one can accept the premises. 

Man is a creature to be taught. 

There must be a Teacher. 

That Teacher must be on earth 

The Church claims to be the Teacher. 

The evidence of her authority is her catholicity. 

But it seems to me two questions have to be an- 
swered before these premises can be accepted. 

1. Is the office of the Church primarily that of a 
Teacher? Is it not rather that of a witness to the 
Truth delivered to it ? 

2. Is the Boman CathoUc Church catholic when 
she adopts an exclusive sense of the word, and ad- 
mits no other Church to share her catholicity even 
upon the basis of Baptism and the Apostles' Creed ? 

21st May, 1869. — Miss Yonge had luncheon here 
to-day with Alice Moberly. Sir John Coleridge 
(afterwards Lord Coleridge) and Jane came in the 
evening. We had not met for twenty years. Jane 
scarcely looks a day older. They brought Mildred 
Coleridge with them and Kate Bichardson. 

let JvXy^ 1869 {Dinner Party , 1 Sussex 8qua/re). — 
Dean Stanley and Lady Augusta, Mr. Browning, 
Judge Wells, Mr. Vernon Harcourt, Lady Crewe, 
Miss Crewe, loads of others, twenty at dinner, 


others in the evening. Dresses really beautiful, most 
rich silks, pink, blue, green, richly trimmed, diamonds 
not many ; long trains, nothing extreme in the way 
of d4collet6-ne88. Mr. Browning took me in to dinner, 
Dean Stanley the other side. Browning very cordial, 
pleased to see me, talked of his wife ; told me his son 
never could mention his mother; when obliged to 
refer to her did so by implication. Young Browning 
now at Christchurch, Oxford, very English, fond of 
shooting, which he (the father) hates, goes on very 
steadily. General conversation very interesting and 
exciting. Mr. Vernon Harcourt and the Dean told 
stories of Mr. Bright. They don't like him. Among 
the anecdotes was one referring to an interview be- 
tween him and the Prince of Wales. The Prince said, 
"Mr. Bright, I hear that you think my mother will 
be the last sovereign of England ". Mr. Bright re- 
plied, " Your Eoyal Highness, the people of England 
are devotedly attached to monarchy. It depends 
upon the Eoyal Family themselves whether the at- 
tachment will continue.*' Certainly a courteous 
warning to the Prince. Talked of the House of 
Commons and the Trust Bill. The Dean talked low. 
I could not hear all he said. He struck me as 
sharper and more self-conscious than when I last saw 
him. He said little to me at dinner. Browning 
talked a great deal to me. Lady Augusta after dinner 
came up and spoke of William's Eussian friend whom 
she knew, and who is nearly well. Lady Augusta 
very simple and straightforward, talked with me a 


great deal afterwards about girls* education, and the 
new colleges. I gave her my opinion, and told her 
that girls of her class could only be influenced really 
by persons of their own standing. The evening very 
free and pleasant for a dinner party ; every one ad- 
miring the beautiful rooms. So odd it was to me to 
be standing on the staircase with Lady Augusta, Dean 
Stanley and Browning, looking at Jane Coleridge's 
frescoes. The Dean came up and talked a little to 
me, but we did not get on very flowingly. 

A little music. Mildred Coleridge played small 
things very nicely. Some one sang. A Mrs. Long 
wished to be introduced to me, and talking about 
deaconesses said, would I go and see the institution? 
They would all be so pleased at my caring about 
them. Browning almost affectionate when we 
parted; said he was so glad to have seen me. 

2Srd July, Paris, Hotel de Londres, — P6re 
Hyacinthe preached at the Madeleine to an enormous 
congregation, many poor, many of the middle class ; 
the subject, Mary Magdalene, a type of the Church's 
love. St. John was taken as the type of science, St. 
Peter of authority; St. John's science was quite a 
new idea. The sermon had no argument, only great 
fervour for the Church, and a severe censure on the 
French, who were called the Pharisees of Christian- 
ity, and understanding law only as despotism, and 
Uberty as revolution. There was a musical service 
before the sermon, and another after. We were in 
church three hours. 


(Pfere Hyacinthe afterwards joined the Alt-Catholic 
movement being unable to receive the decree of papal 
infallibility, promulgated at the Vatican Coxmcil. 
He married, and has since been known as M. Hya- 
cinthe Loyson.) 

15th July, 1870, Eisenach. — ^I wrote a short letter 
from Weilburg, which will have told you of our 
doings up to that time, and I should not have written 
again till we reached Dresden, only I think you may 
perhaps be anxious about us now that war is actually 
declared. We heard the news this morning as we 
were at breakfast in the Salle. Some one (I think it 
was the master of the hotel) came up and laid before 
me a printed slip of paper. I had just before been 
talking about railway trains, and thought this had 
something to do with them. When I read it you 
can understand the surprise. We had quite given up 
the idea. Only yesterday, when we were going over 
a lovely castle once belonging to the Grand Duke 
of Hesse-Cassel, but now Prussian, we discussed the 
war with a party of Germans, and one very intelligent, 
gentlemanly man said that he had no idea that it 
would come to anything. Louis Napoleon only 
wanted to give his people free scope for bluster and 
talk, he himself did not desire war. My first thought 
this morning was to return, but the second was to 
go on. At Cologne we should be in the immediate 
neighbourhood of the war. At Dresden we are quite 
out of the way as long as Austria keeps neutral. 
Should she side with France, we must make our way 


to Berlin — a day's journey only from Dresden ; and 
from thence go either to Hamburg or Bremen. If 
we had money, time and strength, we might find our 
way to Munich and Innsbruck and so to Zurich, and 
home through France — but this is far too much of an 
undertaking. I am very unwilling to break oflf our 
tour ; the three girls are so enjoying it, and indeed, I 
like it much myself. Of course, this notion of wsur 
has damped us, and one feels that one ought to be even 
sadder at it than one is. It will bring such terrible 
sufferings. The spirit of the Germans is completely 
roused. They feel sure of conquering in the long run. 
Wednesday, 2l8t Jvly, Dresden. — Dresden a strik- 
ingly beautiful town. Houses much ornamented, 
streets handsome, views by the Elbe very pretty. 
Theatre from 7 p.m. till 10 or 9.30 p.m. We saw 
Valentine by Gustav Freitag, dilBScult at first to 
understand, exaggerated acting, much applauded. 
Fraulein Ulrich, the favourite actress. She cannot 
ask for a candle without looking over her shoulder 
scornfully. The hero, Saarfield, a stick with a fierce 
moustache. The best character, Benjamin Spiitz- 
bube, Saarfield's servant. One speech excited laughter 
— a Napoleon is given as a present — the man who takes 
it (Benjamin) says, *' A Napoleon? He is not good 
for much?'* This, I fancy, was an interpolation. 
The feeling about the war is intense. In this house 
soldiers are to be quartered. Every 4tage takes so 
many. In ordinary times soldiers are billeted only 
on householders, now every one must receive them. 


even strangers who are living in rooms they have 
furnished themselves. This is the case with some 
English people in Dresden, who have been absent 
and are obliged to return. 

Ten thousand troops are to be billeted in Dresden, 
chiefly Landwehr, men who have served their time, 
retired, and are now called up again. First enrol- 
ment of the army — young men from twenty to twenty- 
five — if more are wanted those from thirty to forty 
are called out ; so it goes on. Young men are found 
better able to bear fatigue, less requiring comforts, 
no wives and children. Stories were told us of the 
excellent behaviour of Prussian soldiers in the war 
between Prussia and Austria in 1866. In this house 
they even took off their shoes when they went up- 
stairs, not to disturb the ladies. 

Wednesday^ 10th Augv^tj 1870^ Dresden, — These 
are wonderful days — telegrams say that the Emperor 
has fled, and the French have laid down their arms. 
Before this reaches you the war will seem almost 
like a dream. We go to Berlin to-morrow. There 
is one line, rather round-about, by which we can 
travel certainly, and there is a hope of a more direct 
line at 5 p.m., so that we may get to Berlin about 10 
o'clock. This new turn of the war will make a great 
difference in the conveyance of men and ammunition 
to the frontier, so that we may hope to find every- 
thing easy. I do trust you will not worry yourself 
about us. There is not the slightest cause, and it 
only increases your home worries. 


23rd Auffuatj Calais. — ^Very tiresome journey from 
Antwerp. Bainy day. Lost the train, because of 
having to go back to the hotel after we had started, 
for a shawl which had been forgotten. Bnsh at 
lalle. Soldiers of the Grardes Mobiles, tipsy, and 
noisy, going off to the wi r. No time for mnch at- 
tention at the Doaane, so we got off well. Bnshed 
along the line, looking into the carriages for one that 
mi^t be free — almost all filled with dronken soldiers. 
At last saw two priests in a carriage, no one else — 
hurried into it. Priests talked together a little about 
the war. One of them went only a short way and 
then got out Changed again at Hasebruck. Still 
greater rush. Platform crowded. Nearly dark. 
We did not know which way to go for the other 
train. Priest gave us no help; but his back was 
very broad, and as he pushed on in front I told the 
three girls to follow in Indian file behind him, so we 
made our way through the excited crowd to the rail- 
way carriages. Priest went with us to a station be- 
yond. Gardes Mobiles went off by another line to 
Paris. Priests in talking of the war called it a rude 
guerre, said they did not have news, and often 
suffered grave inquietude. I did not tell them we 
had come from Berlin. Beached Calais about a 
quarter to eleven p.m. Comfortable rooms at the 

Wednesday^ 24<A August, Dover. — We crossed by 
the very last steamer which was allowed to pass for 
weeks. We might have been delayed very awk- 


wardly. At the moment of departure a difficulty 
arose. The passport was asked for, just as we were 
going on board the steamer. Not thinking it would 
be needed I had given it to Catherine to keep as a 
remembrance. For a moment I was frightened; I 
thought she had put it into her trunk. Happily it 
was in her carriage-bag, and was produced without 
delay. (That was our last alarm.) 

Aahcliff. — ^It was about this time, or rather before 
this, that we changed the name of our house from 
Sea View to AshcliiBf. My dear Bella Spencer Smith 
died on the 3rd of September. On that day we 
heard of the battle of Sedan, and the surrender of 
the Emperor Louis Napoleon. 

10th September. — Heard of the sad loss of the 
turret ship the Captain in the Mediterranean. 
Captain Cowper Coles on board. I went over the 
ship before it sailed, it was at Portsmouth. The 
captain's cabin, prepared for him by his wife, showed 
such loving and serious thought, with the Scripture 
texts on the walls. The vessel was grim and oppres- 
sive, from the absence of daylight, except just on 

15th August, 1871, Ashbourne Oreen, Derbyshire. 
— ^After short visits at Windsor and New College I 
came on to my kind friends, Mrs. Blunt and Miss 
Child. I have been reading Episodes of an Obscure 
Life, and have made up my mind that I know as 
little of the hfe of the East End of London, or rather 
of the hves of the people, as I do of those of the 


angels. Write, or think, or work as one may, there 
are thousands one could never reach, simply because 
one could not understand them. Perhaps it would 
be happier, and for some reasons better, if one re- 
membered this more, and took a smaller circle and had 
special aims. Young girls of the educated class are 
mine, and I ought to be contented, but then there is 
such a risk of sitting down satisfied in ignorance, not 
even praying for those who are suffering. 

I was at the Bath Congress in October with Mrs. 
Bridges. One of the best speeches addressed to 
working men was by the Bishop of Oxford (Dr. 
Mackarness). The Bishop of Manchester (Dr. 
Fraser) was also teUing and interesting. Arch- 
deacon Denison began a stormy speech against the 
bishop, but was stopped by the unanimous feeling 
of the meeting. The Congress Hall, a large wooden 
building constructed for the occasion, was the only 
place of assembly that I went to, but there were 
other meetings at the rooms. The impression of the 
whole was satisfactory as regarded a wish for un- 
animity and mutual concession on the part of the 
different sections of the Church. Father Benson 
spoke eloquently and mystically on the deepening of 
the spiritual life. It seemed easier for all to see 
what was amiss, than how the evils were to be 

I have published nothing this year but a series of 
papers in the Monthly Packet on ** Questions of the 
Day ** — sceptical questions which perhaps young 


people may read when they would not undertake any- 
thing longer, also a little Roman History Catechism. 

Wi July. — Interview with Mr. William Longman 
about my PopvZar French History. St. Paul's after- 
wards, saw Dean Church and Mrs. Church. 
Academy — ** Koll Call,'* wonderful but not as interest- 
ing as Miss Thompson's picture ** Missing," which 
she painted at Ventnor, I think about the time of 
the Franco-German war. 

Sunday, 2nd August, Norfolk Square. — ^Went to 
St. Paul's for the afternoon service. Canon Liddon 
preached on Solomon's character and fall. Tea at 
Canon Liddon's (Amen Corner). Met Mr. MacCoU. 
Lord Salisbury's children appeared suddenly while 
we were at tea, having come up from Newhaven for 
a freak. 

August, 1882. — Mrs. Cleveland and I went to New 
College to a meeting of a few persons interested in 
schools like St. Boniface. We hope to form a Dio- 
cesan Union. The Warden offered all hospitalities, 
and we had there — the Archdeacon of Northampton 
(Mr. Thicknesse), Mr. Eichards (the Chaplain of St. 
Michael's, Bognor), Mr. Pennethorne (the Secretary 
of Holt School, Worthing), Mr. Boyce (the diocesan 
inspector for Winchester), Mr. Watkins (vicar of 
Gamlingay), who is acting as a kind of honorary 
secretary, besides four head mistresses of schools 
resembling St. Boniface. One of them. Miss Glan- 
ville of Uffculme, Devonshire, is connected with a 
scheme of Canon Brereton's, which would admit 


Dissenters as boarders, and so she did not entirely 
see her way to being one with ns ; for we want to 
establish Church Schools (joint boarding and day 
schools) in small towns, which conld not support a 
High School. 

We had a very pleasant gathering, a dinner at New 
Ck)llege, with several persons stajdng in the Warden's 
house, and a regular business meeting, at which 
we discussed principles, and found out what each 
thought; but we did not attempt much beyond. 

Since then but little progress has been made, for 
we have not yet reached our first step of advertising 
ourselves altogether as Diocesan Schools belonging 
to a Union ; but Mr. Watkins, who manages these 
matters, hopes to do so soon. In the meantime, St. 
Boniface has flourished and is flourishing, only we 
have no end of trouble about a bad investment, made 
by a lawyer in whom we trusted. 

13th November, 1882. — I have allowed so many 
months to go by without note, that I must try by 
degrees to gather up the scattered memories. The 
summer holidays come first. I was away only a 
short time, and did not leave home until the 14th of 
August. Then I went for one night to Otterboum. 
Miss Yonge met me at Dean Bramston's, Winchester. 
Mr. Boyce, the diocesan inspector, was there, and 
we discussed the probability of getting Diocesan 
Schools established, and I think the little meeting 
may have results. The next day I went to Malvern, 
to the G.F.S. House of Best. Mrs. Jerome Mercier 


was there. She also is interested in Diocesan Schools, 
and she took me to Tewkesbury, and we inspected a 
school which has been established there. 

Since- then the only important event beyond the 
daily routine of lessons has been a short visit with 
Eleanor at Farnham Castle. We went there to be 
present at a meeting, convened by the bishop, for 
the purpose of considering the question of schools, 
like St. Boniface, being established in the diocese. 
We were there from Saturday to Monday. The 
weather was wretched and I caught a bad cold, as 
I pottered about the town on Monday visiting the 
Deaconess Home for children. Sister Emma was 
fascinating in her earnest work. The meeting was 
fairly successful. People seemed interested, and the 
bishop was most considerate in insisting upon the 
points which I had previously mentioned to him as 
being of importance. The clergy, of course, were 
nimierous. Canon Holland came from London and 
discoursed upon High Schools, and gave us a good 
deal of information; but unfortunately, it did not 
really help us, because High Schools are established 
upon shares, and can afford to pay dividends, whereas 
Diocesan Schools — ^if they are to be successful — must 
be almost entirely founded by subscription, and can- 
not afford to pay any dividends beyond, perhaps, the 
interest of £200. 

The real pleasure of the Farnham visit was the 

intercourse with the bishop and his family, including 

Sir Thomas and Lady Gore Browne (who knew 



Henry in New Zealand), and a very pleasant daughter. 
The tone of life was everything one conld desire — 
simple, refined, definitely religions, services in the 
chapel, meals in the large hall, great freedom for 
everyone, and interest in things and people not ex- 
clusively ecclesiastical. Through it all, one felt that 
it was a bishop's household. 

22nd May, 1883. — My Oxford visit was interest- 
ing, because I was able to be present at a concert, 
with the Prince of Wales as patron, held in the 
new schools, and also saw the procession when the 
memorial stone was placed in the New Indian Insti- 
tute. Sir Harford and Lady Brydges were staying 
at New College, and recalled very old days. 

Beckley was quiet and resting as usual. London 
was not resting, it never can be, but it has given me 
a change and something to think of. I went to the 
Vaudeville Theatre in the afternoon with Kate White- 
head, and saw Mrs. Stirling and Farren in "The 
Bivals,'' and was amused but not fascinated, and 
every now and then asked myself — Can swearing be 
allowable? The Grosvenor Gallery, the French 
pictures, and the Academy were all pleasant in their 
way, but not striking. London was excited at the 
opening of "The Fisheries Exhibition," and the 
world enjoyed itself, I imagine, in the Whitsuntide 
holidays. I cared most to make the acquaintance of 
the Duke of Argyll's ideal daughter, Lady Mary 
Glyn, the wife of the vicar of Kensington. She and 
her husband dined one day at Colonel Darling's, 


where I was staying ; no one else was there. I think 
of her as of a dream of sweetness, grace and good- 
ness, though she is not by any means endowed with 
brilliant beauty. Mrs. Darling always makes me 
feel how possible it is to be in the world and yet not 
of the world. 

20th February, 1885. — ^Yesterday was my seventieth 
birthday. I meant to have recorded the fact at the 
time, but the day was fully occupied — seventy ? the 
allotted age of man? It needs only to write the 
figures to see "how short my time is'*. May God 
be with me to the end. 




I MUST now return to my own writings. The last 
but one of my tales, A Olimpse of the World, was 
begun before I went to Pau, and I took it with me 
and finished it there. It was unquestionably a novel, 
except that the love affairs do not directly concern 
the heroine. I fancy, from remarks which were made 
at the time the book was published, that some per- 
sons thought I had rather diverged from the right 
path in attempting a tale which contained a decidedly 
sensational marriage incident. They supposed that 
I always wrote for children, and A Olimpse of the 
World was therefore a disappointment. To myself 
there was a certain pleasure in writing it, because I 
put into Myra's character, at the beginning of the 
story, thoughts and feelings and faults which belonged 
to my own personal experience. I was not called 
upon to imagine what she would have felt, or how 
she would have acted at sixteen. I had only to note 
down what I should have done or felt myself in her 
place, and at her age. As regards the marriage in- 
cident, it happened that, about the time when I was 



writing A Olimpse of the World, some circumstances 
of a similar kind had come to my knowledge, and I 
was therefore not afraid of exaggerating possibilities. 

The details of the foreign tour represent small ad- 
ventures of my own when travelling, in 1858, with 
my friend, Julia Cooke, through Germany and a part 
of the Tyrol known as the Salzkammergut. The 
Lake of St. Wolfgang, the village, the grand old 
church, and the ch&teau, with its beautiful grounds, 
which forms a show-place for visitors to Ischl, are 
all described as I saw them. I stayed myself at the 
little inn, and made acquaintance with the Irish wife 
of the Austrian gentleman who owned the ch&teau. 
Most useful they all were for my story. As to the 
characters, there is nothing particular to say about 
them, except that I had learnt, during the years 
which had elapsed since the writing of Amy Herbert, 
to take a wider view of clerical characteristics. I no 
longer supposed that every clergyinan must be per- 
fect, or formed exactly upon the Oxford model. Dr. 
Kingsbury was not, by any means, my ideal ; but I 
felt that the good points of what might be termed 
the old school had been overlooked, and I was glad to 
show that I could sympathise with a tone of mind 
and a course of action, belonging rather to a former 
generation than to that from which I had received 
my own most serious impressions. The book was 
published after my return to England from Pau. 

The most important family event of the years im- 
mediately following was the marriage of my brother 


Eobert's daughter, Emily, to the Rev. Henry Hawtrey, 
in 1868. William had by this time settled himself at 
Deutz, on the Ehine, opposite to Cologne, and occu- 
pied himself chiefly in a critical study of the Greek of 
the New Testament. He also wrote two fairy tales, 
one of which, Uncle Peter's Fairy Tale, was full of his 
natural brightness and power. He was in good spirits, 
and absolutely contented with his position, but his 
health was much broken. I paid a short visit to him 
in 1869, when I travelled with a friend (Caroline 
Cooke) in Germany and Holland, and visited the 
Deaconess Institution at Kaiserswerth, and on my 
return I gave a short account of the deaconess work, 
which was published in Macmillan*8 Magazine, 

I also undertook a new taie which, in accordance 
with the suggestion of a friend, was intended to show 
the actual working of certain ideas I had shortly before 
put forth in a work bearing the title of Principles of 
Education, But even before the tale was published 
I had nearly come to the conclusion that my day, as 
regards writing, was over, and afterwards I was con- 
firmed in my misgiving. 

Home Life and After Life, my new story, was not 
exactly a failure, but certainly it was not a success ; 
and yet, on looking at it after a lapse of nearly thirty 
years, I honestly confess that I think it deserved a 
more cordial welcome than it received. I know that 
I gave more thought to it than to any of my other 
tales, with the exception of Margaret Percival, and 
certainly the plot is worked out more thoroughly than 


it is in them. But I made a mistake in bringing it 
out, which would probafcly have stood in the way of 
its popularity, indepen^nt of the fact that sensational 
novels were the fashion of the day. 

The form I had chosen was a journal. To describe 
the look, manners, and tone of voice of the writer, 
Mrs. Anstruther, was, therefore, out of the question. 
I put into her mouth the words which I felt I should 
have uttered myself ; I niade her act as I thought it 
likely I should have acted myself; I described her 
feelings from my own experience ; and then, when I 
presented her to the public my friends said, " What 
a dreadful caricature of yourself — we can't endure 
her **. I had given the features, but hot the expres- 
sion ; the form, but not the spirit of the words. It 
had never struck me that it was necessary to say, 
what in fact, writing in the first person, could not be 
said, ** Mrs. Anstruther 's words were severe, but her 
tone and manner were loving *\ I took it for granted 
that every one would understand that she was not 
severe at heart, or rather I never thought about it ; 
and I was scarcely ever more surprised and dis- 
appointed than when Mrs. Anstruther was held up 
to me as an object of aversion by persons who I 
knew were really fond of me. At one time I thought 
whether I could rewrite the story, for the cheap 
edition of my tales. I felt that there was more real 
interest in the plan, especially in the working out of the 
consequences of a death-bed promise, than in any other 
of my tales ; but it would have been a fruitless task. 


The taste of the day has changed. All I conld 
do, I have done. In an introdnctory chapt^ to the 
last edition I have described Mrs. Anstrnther as I 
imagined her, rather than as the world saw her — ^a 
totally different person from myself, and, therefore, 
not to be compared with me in any way, except as 
she expressed my thoughts upon certain subjects. 
Beyond this I could not soften the impression which 
she had, I found, made. I did not intend to represent 
her as perfect or infallible, and for that reason I in- 
troduced her friend, Mrs. Bradshaw, as a rather 
sharp though friendly critic. Between the two I 
hoped the via media of educational principles might 
be reached. Mrs. Anstruther has been considered 
suspicious and exacting in her treatment of her step- 
daughter, Ina ; and all I can say in excuse of her is, 
that the persons who make the complaint can never 
have had to deal with what I must call a sUppery 
character — one which cannot be grasped and held fast 
When I wrote Home Life and After Life I had had 
an experience of such a character in more than one 
instance, and Ina's evasive words, and double motives, 
and half-obedience, combined with pleasant manners 
and real good nature, are in spirit taken from life. I 
have found one person, but only one, beyond my own 
immediate circle, who could understand the difficulty 
of dealing with such a character, and could therefore 
exonerate Mrs. Anstruther from the charge of want 
of confidence in her step-daughter. 

The promiHe demanded by Colonel Anstruther on 


his death-bed was suggested to me by a somewhat 
similar engagement which had come to my own know- 
ledge. The consequences led me to work out in my 
story the strong conviction I entertain of the undesir- 
able nature of death-bed wishes. The journey to 
Pau, with the little adventures in Spain which fol- 
lowed, is in outline a representation of an episode 
of my life to which I have already referred. The dis- 
position of my much-loved pupil, Louisa Cookson, is 
exactly portrayed in that of Cecil Anstruther. It was 
a relief to me to describe my own feelings and ex- 
perience under a feigned name and with feigned in- 
cidents — to make the story, as it were, a cryptogram. 
But it did not follow that the world would be equally 
pleased, though I hoped that the plot of the tale, 
which had nothing to do with myself, would carry 
on the reader's interest. The sketch of life at Bou- 
logne at the end of After Life is, in like manner, a 
description of a delightful visit which I paid to some 
English friends with French relatives some years 

Miss Faulder, and her mother and sister, gave me 
not only then, but also at other times, the refresh- 
ment of a home life with foreign surroundings. Miss 
Faulder is also intimately associated in my mind 
with Mrs. Winthrop Praed, the widow of the poet, 
and worthy of the honour. She lived at Bonchurch 
for some time, or at least she came there every 
winter, and we were extremely intimate. It was at 
her house that I first met Miss Faulder. Mrs. Praed 


was always lookiiig forward to the publication of the 
complete edition of her husband's poems, but the 
work was not in her hands, and there were many 
difficulties and delays, and it gave me a feeling of 
keen regret when she died, shortly before the dearest 
wish of her heart had been accomplished. 

In revising and considerably shortening Home Life 
and After Life, so as to fit it for the cheap edition of 
my tales, I have left out certain suggestions as to 
education, which were not especially important, and 
which rather intruded upon the succession of events. 
I have come to the conclusion that the young people 
of the present day leave out reflections and advice in 
a tale, just as I used to leave out the texts and 
prayers in Mrs. Sherwood's stories. It is decided 
that medicine must be medicine, and jam, jam; so 
that a choice may be made between them. Forty 
years ago, we all felt it incumbent upon us to take 
the medicine, and were only too thankful when its 
flavour could be moderated by the jam. Since the 
publication of this — my last tale — I have only written 
occasional papers in magazines, some of which have 
been collected and published together, such as Ques- 
tions of the Day, a series of papers on the prevailing 
rationalism; The Note-hook of an Elderly Lady, 
and Letters on Daily Life ; but I am no longer a 
recognised popular authoress. 

The Note-hook of an Elderly Lady touches upon 
the new educational system of examination for girls, 
and my experience in the working of the system as 


connected with St. Boniface School, which by the 
help of kind friends, I was able to set on foot at 
Ventnor in the hope that it might be useful to the 
town. It was begun in 1866, before the University 
examinations were deemed essential for girls, but I 
have been obliged to yield to the demands of the day. 
We have yet to learn the wisdom of the advice in- 
sisted upon in the Church Catechism — ^to "do our 
duty in that state of life unto which it shall please God 
to call us". It almost seems to me as I watch the 
spirit of the age, that the chief object of some of its 
energetic women teachers, and workers, is to do their 
duty in that state of life to which God does not call 
them. But I am old, and perhaps cynical. 

The great sorrow of 1872 was dear Kobert's death, 
which was very unexpected and quite broke down 
his wife's health — she never really recovered from it. 
That year I went abroad again to meet Mrs. Cleve- 
land in Switzerland. I have never undertaken a 
foreign journey since, though I have often dreamed 
of how much I should enjoy it — if only — a great if — 
I had strength to bear the fatigue. I have a craving 
for beautiful scenery, greater than for music, or art, 
or literature. It v^ill be satisfied in another world, 
and with that expectation I am content. 

The Franco-German war, and the consequent dis- 
turbed state of the Continent, had by this time 
brought my brother William back to England. He 
took lodgings at Bonchurch, close to us, in the house 
since purchased by me, and known as Grey Cliff. 


Being near us gave him the feeling of home which 
he needed. He remained with ns until 1874, when 
his health failed greatly, and wishing, I am sure, to 
spare us the anxiety of nursing him, he went to his 
nephew Arthur, who then had a school at Litchford 
Hall, near Manchester, where he was most tenderly 
cared for, and there he died on the 14th of Noyember. 
When Arthm: wrote to tell us of oar loss, he added : 
'* I was charged to give yon each and all one loving 
message, and say that 'All is love and Christ'". 
My brother was buried at Blackley, a village in the 
neighbourhood of Manchester. It is a matter of 
great, though unwise, regret to me that he was not 
laid to rest in the lovely churchyard at Bonchurch, 
where we might have tended his grave with the 
graves of others dear to him as to us. 

I will make but one short comment on the " life 
which was then brought to an end, as a tale that is 
told '*. The peaceful satisfaction of my dear brother 
in the life he lived at Bonchurch, and the way in 
which he threw himself into the small interests and 
hospitalities of a narrow circle, were a proof (if any 
were needed) of the truth of what he had always 
said, that the Oxford and Eadley social expenditure 
was not for his own enjoyment. A small cottage, 
a few books, and a few friends, were all that were 
required for the full earthly satisfaction of a heart 
which was enabled by Divine grace to bear mis- 
representation silently, and unkind judgment char- 
itably; and in which— though doubtless subject to 


much human infirmity — the love of God reigned 

But I must pass on to the few general incidents 
which remain to be told. 

In 1875, Henry with his wife, whose health was 
shattered, and who had become a most anxious care 
to her family, came back from New Zealand,^ and 
settled near Komf ord for a time, afterwards removing 
to Cambridge. This took from us Eleanor, the only 
one of our large family of nephews and nieces who 
had been left to live with us, for, of course, her 
father's claim on her was imperative. 

1877 brought the terrible trial of the sudden death 
of our dearly-loved sister-in-law (Kobert's widow), 
who had never recovered the loss of her husband, 
and this again had broken down the health of my 
eldest sister, but we have Eleanor with us again. 
Her father died in 1879 ; and her poor invalid step- 
mother, who lingered for a year longer, went then 
to live with her sister, Mrs. Elwyn, at Waresley, 
near Cambridge. Eleanor was thus set free for us, 
selfishly a comfort inexpressible. 

This is our position at present, but a new genera- 
tion is springing up around us. We live in the 
future, in the lives of nephews and nieces, and their 
children, who are the one great interest left us. 

My brother Henry was denied the happiness of 
seeing, before his death, his son Harry, with his wife 
and two little grandchildren. Harry, who had been 

1 They had gone there in 1852. 


in the Indian Civil Service since 1862, and had 
married ten years after that date, came home in 1879 
for a two years' leave ; and a week before reaching 
England his father died. I can never think of it 
without pain. Henry had such an eager longing to 
see his grandchildren. The words he spoke years 
before when he urged us to take charge of his own 
children, and we hesitated, were strangely fulfilled. 
" They are more your children than mine," he said, 
alluding to our love and care for them, and so it has 
been from the action of events over which we have 
had no control 

6th JanuQ/ry, 1891. — ^Nearly twelve years since 
my reminiscences were closed. They have been 
years of grave import, for they have brought me 
very near to the great end. The stoiy of the years 
that are to follow will in all human probability be 
written by another hand. We have had our especial 
warning. My youngest sister (Janetta) died last 
July. She had lived with Edwards at New College 
for thirty years, and as he said to me when he stood 
by her dying bed — ** she was an unspeakable blessing 
to him". A life of constant suffering never stood 
in the way of the duties of hospitality and benevol- 
ence. The first break has been made in the band 
of sisters so singularly united — bom after seven 
brothers, and going through life together as ''we 

Who will be the next called? God only knows, 
and we need not care to ask, for it must be well with 


us. His loving providence has brought us now to 
a time so free from anxiety that I look around me 
with thankful wonder at our position ; and He will 
assuredly never forsake us in the future. 

We have given up pupils— we are reUeved from 
the necessity of work, and we are able to Uve at 
Ashclifif in comfort, with those we love very near us. 
If I could have foreseen at the beginning of life's 
struggle the peace which has been granted at its 
close I might have been a happier, but I should not 
have been a better woman. 

The trial was needed, and I would not have had 
events otherwise ordered; but none the less do I 
thankfully recognise the rest that has been granted ; 
and whilst giving my first feeUngs of gratitude to 
God — offer i!ny heartfelt acknowledgments to the 
English and American friends who in the year just 
past provided us with an addition to our small in- 
come by the gift of an annuity. 

Many of these friends are very dear to us all. 
Others there are in America whom I have never 
seen, but who have most generously striven to make 
compensation for the loss they felt I sustained by 
an absence of an international copyright. To one 
and all I would say that they have been the means 
of bringing me, after a long and stormy voyage 
across **the waves of this troublesome world, to a 
quiet and happy haven," from whence in humble 
hope and expectation, trusting myself in full con- 
fidence to my Saviour, I can gaze upon the green 


pastures of Paradise, and see beyond them the 
glorious city of* the redeemed. 

10th July, 1893.— On the 26th of June in this 
year, my very dear friend Mrs. Cleveland died sud- 
denly at Parva Domus, her daughter's cottage in 
New Hampshire (United States). 

Thus ends for earth the friendship of nearly forty 
years. I have written to her once a fortnight regu- 
larly, since 1857, except when she has been with us. 
The blank in life is great — ^but the time of separation 
is short — and I think of her as blest and happy in 
" God's holy keeping *' and looking for reunion with 
her loved ones. Hundreds will lament her loss, for 
she was one with whom few — ^if any — could compare. 

E. M. S. 



For many years Miss Sewell has dropped out of the 
ken of the world in general, and of the literary world, 
which from the forties until the eighties, she enriched 
with her valuable works. Happy those of us who 
can look back to the first days of Amy Herbert^ Ldne- 
ton Parsonage, The Experience of Life, and other 
such tales that took the place of Miss Edgeworth's 
books in drawing-room, and in schoolroom, appeal- 
ing as they did to the younger generation of that 
day, and creating a new school of thought in the 
training of young minds and hearts for this world 
and the next. These works of Miss Sewell did not 
deal with the higher ranks of society alone. Katherine 
Aahton and Uravla testify to her interest in what 
we may perhaps be allowed to speak of as socially 
"middle class". 

Her life in the Isle of Wight during her father's 
lifetime brought her into contact with the tenant 
farmers and their families, and made her thoughtful 

and anxious for their better education. 

209 14 


" She was seriously impressed by the utterly in- 
sufficient education which children of the middle 
class received to be of real use to them in after life. 
Miss Buss's High School in London had drawn 
public attention to the need of thorough mental and 
intellectual training, and not superficial teaching for 
girls. Miss Sewell was another pioneer in the same 
direction of education which has so marvellously 
developed in late years ; and St. Boniface School, 
Ventnor, demands very special mention as the out- 
come of Miss Sewell's anxious consideration in this 

"From the early days of this school, Miss Sewell 
gave me the privilege of her thoughts and plans 
about it and entrusted me with certain work to do 
for her in connection with it, and later I had a place 
in the Council. For these reasons I have been asked 
to write an account of it. 

"St. Boniface has made little or no stir in the world, 
but from its doors many and many a girl has gone 
forth, carrying with her a memory of happy days, of 
good teaching, of friendships to last for ever with 
fellow-students and head-mistresses and teachers, 
but over and above all other memories will be that 
of the foundress of St. Boniface School, the beloved 
Miss Elizabeth Sewell. 

'* Miss Sewell was never one to act on impulse, nor, 
on the other hand, to delay what could be done, 
with the excuse of ' if things were different '. The 
result was that in due time she had evolved a scheme 


for establishing a school for girls of the class we have 

" Her intention was to educate the elder girls in 
order that they might teach and train the younger 
ones in after days. Certain it is that Miss Sewell's 
influence, through her school, raised and beautified 
the lives of hundreds of well brought up girls during 
the years the school lasted. The spirit of true and 
honest work, the longing for the best they could give, 
the higher and holier thoughts that were brought to 
bear on their several characters, sent these girls back 
to their homes noble and educated women, fitted to 
face life bravely and cleverly. Miss Sewell's name is 
a watchword with numbers.*' 

These words, written to me by a friend who saw 
the school from its first days, are fully confirmed by 
letters from pupils since Miss Sewell's death, from 
two of which I will quote. 

" I shall never forget the honour and privilege I 
was given by dear Miss Eleanor Sewell, who allowed 
me to look once more on the face of her whose voice 
and words of counsel have been such valuable factors 
in my life, and whose hand was always doing good 
as her heart was always feeling for all with whom 
she came in contact. If only one could follow in her 
steps at ever so far a distance one will not have Uved 
in vain." 

Another writes : " I should like to have been with 

you all yesterday (the funeral) . . . but it was quite 

impossible. ... I have written to my sister and 



given her your message. We both of us owe a great 
deal to our early training at St. Boniface, and we 
shall always look back with gratitude to the influence 
that the dear and great lady who has just passed 
from this world imparted to us then." 

Miss Se well's maxim must have been " despise not 
the day of small things," for those of us who were 
privileged to be associated with her in her plans 
often look back with astonishment and gratitude to 
that tiny beginning. Four rooms in a httle house, 
at the junction of High Street and West Street in 
Ventnor, were taken by Miss Sewell on her own 
responsibility, and a lady who had been trained at 
Fishponds took possession of them vsdth three 
resident pupils. This was in 1866. One or two of 
the townspeople sent their children at once as day 
pupils, of whom three remained until their education 
was finished, and they took positions, in private 
families and in schools, as governesses. One of these 
three went to the Cape to take the post of head- 
mistress of a school at G-raham's Town, and in other 
positions carried on educational work for many years 
in Cape Colony. She is now editor of The African 
Monthly, and in an article or notice of Miss Sewell 
we have these words which can be only the editor's 
own: — 

** . . .In these days of restless activity, there is 
something refreshing in the contemplation of such a 
life as that of Miss Sewell. Ninety-one years passed 
in the island of her birth, and yet hers was no cramped 


and narrow conception of life. Wide reading and 
intense sympathy, added to frequent intercourse with 
cultured minds, proved in her case a valuable sub- 
stitute for worldly experience. Her books belong 
essentially to her own time, the conditions of social 
and intellectual life are so different now, that few if 
any of her stories would find readers to-day, but the 
influence of such a life as hers is the heritage of future 

Miss Sewell visited the little school constantly, 
took friends to see it, and was thankful that her 
VTishes had been so far blest. 

It was not long before the school became so 
popular that it outgrew the house, and was removed 
to 7 St. Boniface Terrace, and when numbers still 
increased and part of the next house had to be en- 
gaged also, Miss Sewell saw that she must face the 
responsibility of building. Before we go further it 
will be well to point out that Miss Sewell was at this 
time no idle woman. Besides family ties and anxieties 
and a large correspondence, she was engaged in 
writing, and received pupils into her own house. But 
nothing daunted by the undertaking, with the help 
of her sister Ellen, she planned the schoolhouse, 
employed a local builder, found the money, and in 
the space of about a year the building was ready for 

A generous friend of Miss Sewell's advanced 
money for furnishing, and many friends and people 
she interested in the scheme of the school became 


subscribers. Her plan was to ask for annual sub- 
scriptions of five shillings and upwards for a limited 
time, to be renewed if they were willing, to pay off 
the loan or to buy new furniture as it was needed. 
The house could accommodate twenty-two to twenty- 
four pupils, and three or four mistresses, including 
the headmistress. By this time the school had as- 
sumed such proportions as to make the foundress f eeL 
that she would be wise to enlist the interest and sup- 
port of others in carrying on its management. So 
she formed a council, after consulting the vicar of 
Holy Trinity Parish, the Eev. Arthur L. B. Peile, 
now Master of the Eoyal Collegiate Chapel of St. 
Katharine, Eegent's Park, and appointed him the 
President. The members of the council, both ladies 
and gentlemen, were personal friends of Miss Sewell, 
not in Bonchurch and Ventnor only, but in other 
parts of the island, so that the knowledge of St. 
Boniface School might spread. 

A prospectus was drawn up with the names of 
the council and of the Bishop (Harold Browne) of 
Winchester who had kindly consented to be ** Visitor," 
and the title of Diocesan was added, and the school 
was called St. Boniface Diocesan School. 

The religious teaching had from the first been, and 
was always to be, strictly Church of England, a con- 
science clause being allowed for day pupils. Arrange- 
ments were made for an examination in religious 
knowledge, by the Diocesan Society for the Eeligious 
Instruction of Intermediate Schools, instituted by 


Bishop Wilberforce. The Eev. Edward Boyce, 
rector of Houghton, was the secretary. 

The terms were fixed at a low rate, thirty guineas 
a year for boarders, for board and instruction. Low 
as these terms appeared to be there were yet many 
who were desirous to send their girls to St. Boniface, 
but were unable to pay the whole fees and extras for 
French, Latin, and music. Miss Sewell therefore 
considered what could be done to help them, and 
asked for subscriptions, when the furniture was paid 
for, to form a fund to supply the deficiency in the 
parents' fees. It was called " The Exhibition Fund," 
and in later years, when Miss Sewell had retired 
from the Council, it was called *' The Sewell Exhibi- 
tion Fund," and she reserved to herself the distribu- 
tion of it. 

For many years Miss Sewell was to be seen 
walking to the school once a week or oftener to give 
a lesson in history or to say a word of encourage- 
ment or reproof. And during the preparation for 
Confirmation she made a point of private talks with 
every candidate. How precious those words and 
their tender sympathy were, can well be imagined ; 
and as we think of the hundreds of St. Boniface girls 
who have gone into all parts of England, her colonies 
and her dependencies, we must hope and beUeve that 
the spirit and influence of those interviews have 
been carried as good seed and borne fruit unto 
eternal hfe. 

Since these words were written, Miss Eleanor 


Sewell has put into my hands a letter from an early 
pupil of St Boniface which so realises the hope that 
I had expressed that I feel it should be published. 

" North Adelaide, 
" October, 1906. 

" My dear Miss Sewell, 

*'I have just seen by the Oentlewoman, 
that my dear friend Miss Elizabeth Sewell has passed 
to her rest. It was a wonderful age to have reached, 
and I trust that the last days of peace were unclouded 
by suffering. What a grand life it has been, an ideal 
for one to look up to. She was a ' Eock of Faith * 
to me from the first moment I knew her, and twice 
during the past twenty-five years, once when I was 
very ill, and very lonely in London, and once when 
my faith was shaken to breaking point by sudden 
troubles, did she by her wise counsel and letters keep 
me * steadfast in the Faith/ and turned my eyes to 
look for, to quote her own words, ' the Peace of G-od 
which passeth all understanding '. 

'* If there is anything in my life that has helped 
others, if I am able to teach my children anything 
of *true religion,' I got it first from her. The 
thought of her is a strength which will go with me 
to the end of my life. ... I hope you will not mind 
my asking for some friend to send me word about 
the last day, and if she is laid in the beautiful Under- 
cliff cemetery, within sound of the sea. I know it 
well. She unlocked the gate and took me through ; 


a beautiful spot in the daily walk of school life, when 
all the scenery was lovely. 

"I must not trespass on your time, but I know 
you will understand that I was bound to add my 
tribute to the grand hfe-work of one whom all must 
admit it was a privilege to know. With much love 
and sympathy, believe me to be, 

** Yours affectionately, 

Another very important feature of Miss Sewell's 
solicitude for the pupils was the way in which she 
made herself acquainted with their family circum- 
stances, and, when they were leaving school, with 
their probable future. She spared no pains or trouble 
in discussions with the head-mistress, in interviews 
with the girls themselves, and in correspondence 
for them, so that she might, if possible, ensure 
that they were placed in the positions for which 
they were best suited for making their way in the 

It was a source of considerable disappointment, that 
the class for whom the school was especially estab- 
lished valued its advantages less than was anticipated 
and hoped for. But many clergymen and professional 
men were thankful to find in St. Boniface an excellent 
education for their daughters at its moderate charges. 
As years went on and we had to move with the times, 
the girls were prepared for the Oxford local examina- 
tions and for Trinity College and the Eoyal Academy 


of Music ; and the list of " Passes *' and " Honours " 
is no inconsiderable one. 

Some days at St. Boniface stand out pre-eminently 
before me. One when Bishop Harold Browne came, 
and was shown over the school, and afterwards stood 
in the school-room and spoke to us all, especially the 
children, words of earnest and fatherly counsel. Then 
there were the prize-days in connection with the Dio- 
cesan Society for Eeligious Education. The prepara- 
tions, the excitement and enthusiasm of every one 
until the supreme moment, when all the visitors had 
arrived and been seated, and all eyes were turned to 
the door to watch for the entrance of the foundress ! 
A thrill ran through the school as she entered, and all 
rose to their feet until she had taken her seat, after 
bowing to all assembled and speaking her ever bright 
and loving greeting to her loyal mistresses, and to 
the children. Mr. Boyce followed with the certificates 
and the prizes of Bible and Prayer-book, handsomely 
bound, with the arms of the diocese stamped in gold 
outside, and the bishop's signature written inside. 

The day before the break-up for the summer holi- 
days, when the prizes for the year's work were pre- 
sented, Miss Sewell would go to see the prize list 
and write the names in all the books, a work of con- 
siderable fatigue in the palmy days of St. Boniface, 
when the register showed more than sixty pupils. 

But to return to the more matter of fact history of 
Miss Sewell's school. It went through many vicis- 
situdes in the early days, both financial and otherwise. 


But Miss Sewell was always hopeful and full of re- 
source, and, when many a year's end saw us with 
barely two pounds in hand, she always said to me : 
" Well, my dear, if we shut up to-morrow the sale of 
the furniture would pay our debts, and I should be 
always glad that I had started the school ". 

Then for some years St. Boniface was a great 
success, numerically and financially. A sister of the 
head-mistress of that time came to Ventnor and opened 
a boarding-house for day pupils, and added by this 
means greatly to its popularity. But about the year 
1866 there was a turn in the tide. High schools were 
being rapidly established all over the country. Win- 
chester had not, as yet, opened one, but, being anxious 
to do so, consulted Miss Sewell on the subject, and 
from the day that it was established St. Boniface 
began to decline in numbers. Great efforts were 
made to draw in more pupils and to awaken fresh 
interest by enlarging the borders of the council. 
Alterations were made in the teaching staflf, their 
number was reduced, though it was felt to be a some- 
what dangerous experiment for the efl&ciency of the 

From the first placing of the school on the basis 
of a council. Miss Sewell most kindly insisted that 
her council should feel no financial responsibility; 
and so when things grew worse it was she who 
suffered by taking lower rent for the house. If the 
school were given up entirely, the building being fit 
for a school only, it would be a dead loss to Miss 


Sewell, and that conld not be allowed; besides, if 
any enterprising person should wish to take it for 
such a purpose, she would let it only on condition 
of its being a Church school. It was the falling off 
of the boarders that made so much reduction in its 
income ; the numbers of the town children kept up 

Well, St. Boniface was not given up then, and in 
1889, when a new Vicar of Holy Trinity Parish 
entailed a new president of the council, the Bey. 
Arthur P. Clayton, he took a different view from that 
which Miss Sewell had so kindly wished the council 
to take, and he pointed out to them that they had 
legally financial responsibilities, and must every one 
take his share of the liabilities, which they inmiedi- 
ately did. Miss Sewell and her niece among the rest. 

When again it seemed inevitable that the school 
must be closed, the same president inspired fresh 
energy by positively declining to assent to such a 
motion, saying, " that it was of vital importance to 
the whole town of Ventnor that a Church school 
such as St. Boniface should not be given up without 
another effort," and he carried the council with him. 

It was after the first of the two crises just 
mentioned, that Miss Sewell, whose strength was 
failing from advancing years, withdrew from the 
council, but consented to take the position of visitor, 
which since the death of Bishop Harold Browne had 
remained vacant. At the same time she sold the 
house to the president and two other gentlemen of 


the council, and from that time the school was carried 
on in a great measure independently of Miss Sewell ; 
but she never failed to accept the invitation to be 
present on the break-up day, and to present the prizes, 
until her strength entirely failed her, and then she 
asked leave to depute her niece to act for her, and 
by her she sent words of sweetest greeting and love 
to all assembled, more especially to her St. Boniface 
children. Her last letter on such an occasion will 
jBittingly finish this sketch of the story of St. Boniface 
as Miss Sewell's school : — 

"My Deab Children, 

" Old age prevents me from being with you 
to-day ; I could not bear the fatigue, but I have been 
asked to give you a motto for the year, and I have 
chosen — Onward I Forward ! Upward ! 

** Onward ! never to stand still and think you have 
learned enough or done enough. Forward I to make 
each day a decided step in advance, being more 
diligent, more careful, and, above all, more constant 
in your remembrance that God's eye is upon you, 
that you are working for Him. Upward! looking 
up to God in all you do and asking Him for His 
blessing, His guidance, and cheered by the blessed 
hope of His eternal reward. 

" May He in His mercy grant it to us all. This 
is the earnest prayer of your affectionate old friend, 

"Elizabeth M. Sewell. 

" AsHOLiPF, 27th July, 1898." 


Id looking through some of Miss Sewell's corre- 
spondence, there were found letters to clergymen 
who had asked her opinion on middle-class education, 
and to others describing a scheme in the Winchester 
Diocese in 1889, on which she was especially con- 
sulted, and which she assisted, by visits to the bishop 
at Famham Castle, to Bingwood and Grodalming, for 
the purpose of talking with those interested, and 
giving them her experience. She was very desirous 
to have schools such as St. 'Bonilace established over 
the country, and called St. Boniface Schools. ''I 
believe," she said, " very much in a name." 

Her foresight and prophetic spirit are shown by 
the following passage in one letter : — 

" What I earnestly desire to see established, is a 
training school for upper-class mistresses, on the 
same system as those for the National School, only 
a little enlarged. I believe myself that this would 
reach the need of the middle class more than any- 
thing else. Provide good mistresses and good schools 
must follow. If Government would offer to all 
schools placed under such upper-class mistresses (of 
course supposing them to be first provided) I believe 
they would find good schools for the middle classes 
spring up all over the country, and the young girls 
who now slave as nursery governesses, because they 
are above taking the position of National School 
mistresses, would I believe willingly accept the train- 
ing of these upper schools. But this is a dream. 


I am only doing my very little to work out this idea 
under disadvantageous circumstances. I may not 
be able to carry it out myself, but I am anxious to 
spread the principle, because in these days nothing 
is done except from a conviction of practical results. 
Two or three successful schools, founded and carried 
on upon the system I have described, will be better 
than the most eloquent words of the wisest of living 
men — by better, I mean more convincing." 

Again in another letter : — 

"If Tetbury and Tewkesbury could be called Dio- 
cesan Schools, the same system would be begun, which 
we hope to carry out in the Winchester Diocese, and, 
if begun, it would spread. The schools need not all 
be on one plan ; some would be for a higher, some for 
a lower grade of children ; but the same principles of 
careful religious training and public supervision would 
be maintained in aU, and then we might hope to 
secure the young generation from the terrible evils of 
rationalism and a low moral tone which are threaten- 
ing them. I speak only of girls, my business lies 
vydth them,* and they are the class left mostly without 
satisfactory education. The State is making rapid 
strides in its efforts and threatens to grasp the whole 
of the lower middle class in its secular arms, and alas ! 
for England when it shall have succeeded, as as- 
suredly it will succeed, if we do not each of us in our 
small way do the work which lies before us to pre- 
vent it, by forestalling it. I have written my mind 


freely ; yoa can make any use of my letter tliafc yon 

'' Always afifectionately yoors, 


How prophetic these wards were, the events of the 
past year (1906) sufficiently prove. 

S. J. Si. 



A TEACHER, a teacher of girls ! This was the title, 
the sphere, the power which Miss Elizabeth Sewell 
realised and claimed as her own, and to which through- 
out her life she devoted her unusual gifts. Gifts of 
intellect and spiritual insight which made her no 
ordinary instructress, but (I am quoting from a letter 
received this day from Miss Soulsby) " one of those 
great teachers who influence so widely and so deeply, 
that their ideas change the outlook of the next genera- 
tion, and this to such an extent that, they themselves 
are sooner forgotten than smaller people who press 
some special point which continues to stand out as a 
memorial to its inventor ". 

Miss Sewell's teaching voice and pen have been 
silent for many years, but it is by this standard that 
the influence of her life-work must be measured. 
Her books, even the very early Amy Herbert and 
Laneton Parsonage series, were never intended for 
amusement, they are distinctly didactic in tone and 
intended to illustrate the truths of the Christian faith 
as practised in English homes. 

The notices in the daily and weekly papers of 

226 15 


August, 1906, in their comments on the literary work 
of Miss Sewell missed the point of this single object 
of her work. Though many of her stories were 
written for pecuniary profit (which was at one period 
considerable), each had its own definite point of in- 
struction in some part of the faith and practice of 
the English Church. This sets aside the often re- 
peated comparison with the stories of Miss C. M. 
Yonge whose popularity lasted on into another gen- 
eration of girl readers. Miss Yonge aimed at the 
"harmless novel" and innocent amusement with 
an equally religious tone and the same school of 
thought. And Miss Yonge's stories, as such, are no 
doubt more interesting and amusing in plot and 
character, though personally Miss Sewell had a far 
keener sense of humour than her contemporary writer. 
In the early Victorian period, when these tales 
were published, parents began to realise that Mrs. 
Sherwood and Mrs. Cameron were hardly suitable 
reading for girls who had once gone through their 
course of Fairchild and Henry Milner. The Oxford 
Tracts had roused many to think what had better be 
taught their children about the Church, and they 
thankfully turned to the tales of Miss Sewell. 
Laneton Parsonage seems to have been particularly 
useful in reference to baptismal doctrine. I am al- 
lowed to use the words of the Eev. J. J. Lias, Chan- 
cellor of Llandaff Cathedral, who in 1889 wrote to 
Miss Sewell, sending to her a book of his own 
authorship. He writes: — 


" I am sending this book in recognition of invalu- 
able help rendered by you to me nearly half a cen- 
tury ago. The recognition is somewhat tardy and 
altogether inadequate, yet I did not feel justified 
in intruding on your leisure without something in the 
nature of an introduction. When I fijcst fell in with 
Laneton Parsonage I was in a stage of sentimental 
evangelicalism in which the reading of good works 
and thinking of (perhaps) good thoughts was to me 
the whole of religion. When my tutor gave me 
Laneton Parsonage, its doctrine of baptismal grace 
and privileges at once inspired me, and the desire 
to offer every daily thought, word, and deed to God 
has, I trust, never left me. I never became an 
advanced High Churchman, but my sympathies 
have been with the common-sense practical Church- 
manship you have taught in your books — a Ca- 
tholic Christianity which holds fast the Word of 
God and the Creeds, and honours the Sacraments. 
Allow me at the beginning of this New Year to wish 
you every happiness; if it be any addition to that 
happiness to know that you are sincerely loved and 
respected and have been so for the last half century 
by many who have never had the privilege of seeing 
your face, allow me to assure you that this is, and 
has been, the case. 

"I remain, dear Madam, 

** Yours gratefully, 

'^J. J. Lias." 


This same gentleman, writing to Miss Eleanor 
Sewell in 1906, says : " I do not know what book of 
mine I sent your aunt, but I have written a good 
many, and those written for the Cambridge Bible for 
Schools have had a wide circulation. Also as Pro- 
fessor at Lampeter and Vicar of St. Edwards, Cam- 
bridge, I had an opportunity of influencing many 
lives, so there is no knowing how far the influence 
may have gone. I am now past three score and ten, 
but the sober, steady, strong Church teaching of your 
aunt has been ever of use to me." 

Ma/rgaret Percival was designed for older girls and 
was somewhat alarming to the extreme evangelical. 
The definite Anglican teaching of Uncle Sutherland, 
which now appears so very mild and of everyday 
practice, was regarded with suspicion of ** Popery " 
by those brought up in the school of Simeon and 
Venn. How much these simple lessons have had to 
do with bringing the life of the children of the Church 
of our land more into line with her Prayer-book 
doctrine we cannot say, but they must count (as also 
the novel of Hawkstone, by Dr. W. Sewell) as a very 
sound, useful and remarkable part of the Anglican 

Experience of Life stands on a much higher literary 
level, and appeals to all thoughtful readers. Few 
characters can be more vigorous than that of Aimt 
Sarah, few pictures of English middle-class provincial 
life more delicately drawn. The book in this way 
ranks with Cranford, and its delightful English 


places it almost on a par with the daintily painted 
miniatures of Miss Austen. Mrs. Vaughan, one of 
Miss Seweirs devoted American admirers, writes: 
"Miss Sarah Mortimer has helped me in many a 
hard place **. Of course ! for she spoke the words of 
wisdom which her originator gave to her ''children," 
as those who were taught at Ashcliflf delighted to 
call themselves. Truly a large and wide-spreading 
family ! 

The many school books published by Miss Sewell, 
Histories and French and Italian Headers, hardly 
need notice here. They have had their use but are 
out of date now. Of the Italian history, Sir Mount- 
stuart Grant Duff wrote to the authoress thanking 
her for her intelligent grasp and clear account of the 
modem history of Italy, in whose politics Miss Eliza- 
beth Sewell took a most keen interest. 

In relation to the Ashcliff Educational Plan, con- 
trasted with the High School Scheme, it may be 
interesting to insert this letter from Miss Soulsby to 
Miss Sewell, written in 1888 : — 

" 19th Febriuiry, 1888, 
" The High School, Oxford. 

*' Dear Madam, 

** Will you allow me as a High School mis- 
tress to thank you for your very suggestive paper. I 
myself was brought up on your books, and owe you a 
large personal debt of gratitude for the * Greece * and 
* Eome ' and * Egypt ' which are prominent among 


my earliest recollections: and although I am now 
engaged in a branch of educational work which is 
supposed to run counter to yours, yet I entered it 
with a firm hope, which I still hold, that in course 
of time the modem system may sway back to a more 
womanly education. Such papers as yours (though 
not practical as a working scheme — I conclude that 
you did not mean it for that) are so helpful in keep- 
ing our deficiencies before us. I wish you would 
write a paper on what perplexes me more than any- 
thing else in woman's modern education — what good 
comes of it at last ? 

" Putjking aside the exceptional few who thirst for 
student life, why should the ordinary girl lose nerves 
and temper and home graces in order to bring herself 
to the level of a clever undergraduate. They say 
that she must do it in order to teach. But I never 
see it pointed out that this is creating a fictitious 
demand — which it surely is — if she teaches what her 
pupil only needs in order to hand on when her time 
or teaching comes. Why not agree to divert the 
energy of both teachers and taught to subjects which 
are, in themselves, useful to \yomen ? 

** With apologies for the liberty I have taken in 
thanking you, 

" Believe me, 

** Yours faithfully, 

"Lucy H. M. Soulsby.*' 
The devotional books, Passing Thoughts^ Thoughts 


for the AgCy Thoughts for Lenty etc., are only known 
to those who have used them continually, as express- 
ing most clearly the mind of the writer on the sub- 
ject which she loved best. Amid so many new 
manuals, I have never found any on the Holy Com- 
munion as useful as her Preparations ; it has all the 
sound doctrine of Hooker and the CaroUne Divines, 
and avoids those somewhat grotesque expressions 
which are too common. The httle book on the 
Holy Week is full of reverent suggestions for that 
week of self-communing. 
This letter from Miss Wordsworth is of interest : — 

** Lincoln, 16th December ^ 1906. 

"You ask me to contribute any reminiscences of 
Miss Elizabeth Sewell, but I fear, beyond a general 
recollection of the brightness and sympathy which 
marked her intercourse, there is little I could chron- 
icle. We very rarely met, though I heard a great 
deal of her through others — notably my sister-in-law 
who spoke of *Aunt EUzabeth' as one of those, 
perhaps the one more than all others except her 
parents, to whom she had been indebted for the re- 
ligious influences which guided her life. There must 
have been many others who could say the same, and 
I think Laneton Parsonage was the book which 
produces the greatest impression in these ways. 

** Were I, however, asked to name my favourite I 
should without hesitation name Experience of Life. 
In it I think the author achieved her greatest sue- 


cesses in character painting, and made Miss Sarah 
Mortimer a vivid personal reaUty to many among us. 
The shrewd old lady's sayings often even now recnr 
to one's mind — and there is a pleasnre in these bus- 
tling days in sitting even in imagination in her quiet 
old-fashioned parlour listening to Miss Cole's tran- 
quil reading of the Spectator. How deliciously 
soothing it must have been ! or in stealing out of 
doors and surreptitiously pinching the leaves of 
Molly's and Betty's lemon plants ! and did ever any 
coffee taste so good as that which charmed away 
Sarah's nervous headache after an evening of misery ? 
It is also very interesting to have a glimpse of 
good old-fashioned Church people like Lady Emily 
Bivers. In that way the book has almost an histori- 
cal value. 

"We are all apt to forget how much good there was 
in England before * Tractarianism ' had become a 
potent influence in the Church. There is one little 
book I should like to name, though it is in part at 
least a compilation — Preparation for the Holy Com- 
munion by the author of Amy Herbert. It was 
given me years ago, and I have found it very helpfuL 
There is an earnestness and sobriety, I might say 
* good sense ' in its tone, which makes it very suitable 
for many who would shrink from making use of the 
less restrained phraseology of more modern manuals. 
I should say this sense of balance and proportion 
was one of the leading characteristics of the writer 
and made her books and her influence so specially 


valuable to young girls. It was the best possible 
antidote to vulgarity, self-assertion, and love of sensa- 
tion. If she did not find them Christian gentle- 
women she made them so. Would her influence 
might last ! and it will directly or indirectly through 
many coming generations. 

'* Yours etc., 
* * E. Wordsworth. ' ' 

Bather later she issued, in the Churchman's Maga- 
zine, a most useful paper on '*The Influence of 
Kationalism on the Minds of Women **. We hardly 
hear of rationalism in the early twentieth century 
when socialism and theosophy are to the front, but 
it was a very Hvely danger in the early days of 
Higher Female Education; and Miss Sewell was 
much consulted by women whose faith had lost grip. 
She wrote in reference to this very striking paper: 
" There are thoughts in it I would Uke to put into 
your heart as well as your head, for they are the 
result of experience **, 

In addition to her published works Miss Sewell 
was an accomplished and indefatigable letter writer. 
In correspondence with intimate friends, she had a 
habit of beginning a letter and laying it aside to be 
resumed as time allowed — and her letters, as her 
conversations, are marked by her happy way of 
inviting interest in her own affairs as well as giving 
it to others. During many years in the Australian 
Bush these deUghtful letters came to me at very 


regular intervals, and always brought that sense of 
self-respect which her friendship gave to those much 
younger than herself. One missed them terribly 
during the last years of her life. 

I think I had read all her books when at the age 
of fifteen (and straight from Frome Selwood where 
the " Bennett Case " was bringing the holiest things 
into ordinary and angry discussion, and surrounding 
reUgion with sharp jars in many homes) I was drifted 
under her influence. I say drifted, for there was no 
link of formal pupilage or family tie. But from that 
time, until the cloud fell on her memory in 1896, 1 
knew what it was to have a teacher and a friend. 
With no claim whatever but that of a girl who read, 
thought, and was thoroughly unsatisfied with faith 
and practice, she taught me all I have known of the 
way of the Church. The strength of the teaching 
lay in her own complete mastery of what she taught 
and its being a living thing in her practice. Can 
those of us, who went through those courses of in- 
struction on Butler's Analogy and Wordsworth's 
Theophilus Anglicanus, ever cease to be thankful 
for them, or ever look at one of those classics without 
thought of the tiny hand (with its gold pencil always 
ready) turning the leaves of book and note-book, the 
clear voice, reading and questioning, the bright smile 
at a thoughtful though wrong reply, and the crushing 
reproof of anything like inattention. The logic and 
Italian lessons were of course less memorable, because 
the centre of her life and thought was religion, and 


only when dealing with this subject was she qnite at 
her best. 

Nor was all the teaching given in lesson hours. 
There were some years when, through lack of the 
same privileges at Bonchurch, the Ashcliflf party 
attended the daily and yearly services at Holy Trinity, 
Ventnor. Provided by the late Dr. Leeson with 
keys of his estate, the steep road and the hundred 
steps were avoidable, and the walk through the lovely 
UndercUflf gardens gave not only chances of private 
talk, but of personal help. 

And here the teacher taught again, with that God- 
given tact which can never be learned. 

Nor, though respecting the feehngs of the most 
de&cient, did she hesitate to give an honest opinion 
if it was sought. The then Vicar of Holy Trinity 
once said, ** You know, Miss Sewell, I always feel 
nervous when preaching before you '* ; at once came 
the prompt reply : " Well, Mr. Peile, I think you do 
sometimes strain the types of the Old Testament, but 
I am always happy when you give out a text from 
the New*'. 

It was my privilege and honour in 1865-66 to be 
able to do the drudgery of some press corrections and 
index marking which had fallen to her already busy 
life, and afterwards to write the Catechism of English 
History which was the first of a series brought out 
by her. The hours spent in this service gave me a 
method in work and a sense of moral duty in per- 
forming it, which have stood me in good stead during 


a strenuous life. Miss Sewell would read rapidly 
through the parts prepared for her, and as rapidly, if 
possible, stop, and balance a sentence, being as par- 
ticular of the truthful colour given to even insignifi- 
cant personages as if fearful of a prosecution for libel. 
Few women have had such a sense of justice, and 
very few have developed intellect so much in advance 
of emotion. Nor was it those only who had the 
delight of being often with her who were impressed 
by the teaching faculty. Among many casual in- 
stances is that of a girl who was detained at the foot 
of the Lollard's Tower, Lambeth, and showing her 
impatience of delay, was addressed by a little lady, 
who was also waiting her turn with a party, and 
asked to spend the time in learning more about the 
Lollards and the locality. The girl afterwards saw 
the lady's name in the visitors* book, was led to read 
her works and learnt for life the love of study, though 
she never met Miss Sewell again. 

Miss Sewell had, in a degree I have never found in 
any other person, the gift of strong sympathy. She 
really put herself in the place of the one needing 
advice, and with this there was never mingled a grain 
of patronage. How many of us, now able to com- 
prehend the pressure on her time, thoughts, mind, 
and the many serious family anxieties which con- 
stantly beset her, almost reproach ourselves for claim- 
ing her interest in our less important affairs ! 

Among some tributes from old pupils we may quote 
a few : ** I can never forget all I owe to her and how 


she made one feel that the Will of God was the only 
thing that really mattered ". 

Another : ** Looking backward I can see so plainly 
that it is only through what one learnt at Ashclifif 
that I have struggled through my life as far as this — 
there seems a great gap in the world to-day ". 

Again : ** She first taught me the beauty of religion, 
and her simple words that * Our Lord was her best 
Friend/ lived out day by day with such splendid 
courage, love, and sjrmpathy for others, will never be 
forgotten by me ". 

One of her few desires for herself was to outlive 
her sisters that she might as far as possible save 
them by keeping the burden of business on her own 
shoulders. "I want," she once wrote, as of a fault, 
"to be a Providence to those I love." The desire 
was fulfilled, beyond probably its own intention. 

Miss SewelFs best loved and never exhausted book 
of Devotions was the Book of Psalms, and of those 
the 119th Psalm in particular. The impress of her 
personality survives in the words for those who have 
heard her repeat them, and it was with a thrill of 
fulfilment that it was found that out of that Psalm 
our dearest and holiest friend had selected for her 
grave-stone the simple sentence : "I am Thine, O 

save me ". 

If there is a revival of interest in the Amy Herbert 
series of tales, it will be from those who are interested 
in the domestic history of the years of the Anglican 
Eevival. It is hardly to be expected that they 


would suit the taste of the educated girl of the 
twentieth century, and they were not intended for the 
uneducated. But in the many homes where Ash- 
cliff pupils are now elderly mothers, or workers for 
the children of other people, or living quiet lives of 
study and contemplation, or engaged in literary work, 
or leaders in society, or even far away in Colonial 
and American homes, the sound doctrines learnt from 
Miss Sewell are surely spreading, and the voice and 
words of the teacher come back at critical and puzzling 
moments of hesitation amid the problems of life. 

To have been one of " Aunt Elizabeth's Children " 
is a blessing some of us who are grandparents have 
not outgrown, and her small dainty personality with 
the intense refinement and courtesy of manner and 
frequent bright flashes of humour we treasure in our 
memory, while the Ashcliff teaching is for daily prac- 
tice, and the renewal of intercourse will come where, 
as Canon Liddon writes : — 

** The most experienced teacher will greatly rejoice 
in beginning a new education in the immediate 
Presence of the Great Master*'. 

I. B. C. 



Miss Sewell's arduous life-work came to an end as 
she has told in her own words in 1890, and from 
that year to 1897 she kept up many outside activities, 
visiting St. Boniface School, attending committees 
there, visiting the village school, keenly interested 
in events of the day, reading the Times aloud in the 
evening or some book of note. 

She was working at her Outlines of Italian History 
and paid various visits to London and New College. 
She took up various pursuits, for which her busy Hfe 
had left Uttle time to indulge her taste, and I have 
before me two books of most delicately drawn 
sketches in sepia showing ability of no mean order, 
especially noticeable for what artists call " values," 
which she finished during these years, all bearing 
the marks of great accuracy and truth of detail. 

Her sympathy was always ready for her friends 
at their need, so strong, so understanding and withal 
so tender, that it held untold comfort in its depths. 

So hfe went on until the last shock of the sudden 
death of her sister Emma in 1897 broke down that 



faithful heart, which had borne so many shocks and 
sorrows in undaunted trust and endurance; after 
that her brain became gradually clouded, shown first 
in lapses of memory as to trivial things and weari- 
ness which craved more and more for sleep. It was 
very wonderful during that time how if a reUgious 
subject were started she would enter into it for a 
while vdth all her old keen interest. But the weari- 
ness increased, and when the last two deaths came, 
that of her brother the Warden of New College in 
1903, and of her sister Ellen, the inseparable sharer 
of her work, her joys and sorrows for over ninety 
years, she did not know that her unselfish prayer, 
the great desire of her heart, " that if it were God's 
vnll she might go last," had been granted to her. 

One thing indeed was most noticeable in those long 
months of weakness and weariness passed mostly in 
sleep that preceded the end ; the habits of a lifetime 
of self-control and discipline held complete sway. 
Her patience, gentleness, and courtesy never failed, 
there was generaUy the attempted response to any 
caress, the murmured thanks, the assurance to the 
anxious watchers that she was " quite comfortable 
and had all she wanted*'; pathetic enough to the 
hearers at the thought of the limitations of that dear 
life ebbing away, which had been so richly endowed 
itself and had been the means of such untold blessing 
to others. 

None could tell what passed in the mind we loved 
during that time, when we must believe she was 


being prepared for that rest to which she was called 
on Friday, 17th August, 1906. That knowledge lies 
in the deep mysteries of God. 

C. M. W. 

Now that she has passed beyond the veil, we who 
are left and can look back through a great part of her 
long Ufe must be struck with two special points — the 
first, the extraordinary changes which in the course 
of her Ufe she witnessed; and the second, the un- 
changeableness of the principles which she held and 
taught. Those changes, not only in increased know- 
ledge, scientific and mechanical, " as the thoughts of 
men are widened with the process of the suns,'* but 
also in politics and religion, were keenly noted and 
weighed by her, not without many misgivings in re- 
gard to the latter. It is certain that a mind so active 
and logical as hers widened in many respects, but 
she never ceased to hold to the great principles on 
which her life was founded; and those principles, 
which in her books and her conversation she always 
taught to the blessing of her readers and hearers, 
Uve on, and we trust will live on, to the blessing of 
generations yet unborn. ** She hath done what she 

A fitting requiem may be found in these words of 
hers : *' There is a peace which passeth understand- 
ing. Sunday after Sunday the prayer is offered that 
it may be granted us. If, in the boundless mercy of 

God, it should ever be bestowed upon us, we shall 



need no deeper rest on earth, for we shall have had 
a foretaste of the unspeakable rest of Heaven/' to 
which God in His boundless mercy has brought her, 
for '' the souls of the righteous are in the hands of 

H. A. F. 


A Becket, Thomas, 126. 

Adams, Serjeant, 138. 

Adams, Eev. William, 87, 93, 128 ; 

an agreement with, 134 ; illness 

of, 129 ; funeral of, 136, 137. 
Adare, Lord (aft. Earl of Dun- 
raven), 164, 166. 
Ady, Miss, 132. 
Aldridge, the Misses, 31, 32. 
African Monthly, The, the Editor 

of, 212. 
Alison's History, the description 

of Napoleon's battles in, 136. 
Amerioa, the best book on, 121. 
America, the Church in, 121. 
Ampthill, consecration of a church 

at, 61. 
Ainy Herbert, 69, 67, 76, 209; 

aim of, 226 ; circulation of, in 

America, 121 ; completion of, 

80 ; the story of, 76. 
Analogy, Butler's, 63, 234. 
Andely, the Inn at, in Ursula^ 149. 
Anstruther, Cecil, in Home lAfe 

and After Life, 201. 
Anstruther, Colonel, in Home lAfe 

and After Life, 200. 
Anstruther, Mrs., in Home Life 

and After Life, 199. 
Anglican revival, the, a useful 

part of, 228. 
Aplin, the Misses, 176, 177. 

Apostolical Succession, the ques- 
tion of, 67, 123. 
Appuldurcombe Park, 6. 
Arabian Nights Entertainments, 

The, 23 ; the story of Ali Cogia 

in, 66. 
Ashbourne Green, 189. 
Ashcliflf, 83, 189, 207; purchase 

of the leasehold, 140 ; verandah 

at, 147. 
Ashcliff educational plan, the, 

Ashley, 167. 
Austin, Mrs. Sarah, a visit from, 

Avebury village, 116, 136. 

Bagot, Lord, his residence, 161. 

Bagot, Sir W. and Lady, 162. 

Baptism, 67, 68. 

Barrow Falls, the, 108. 

Bath, Elizabeth M. Sewell's school 

days at, 31 et seq.; Laura 

Chapel, 126; St. Stephen's 

Church, 126. 
Bath Congress, the, 190. 
Bayley's Dictionary, Mrs. Sewell's 

delight in, 4. 
Beaufort, a portrait of the first 

Duchess of, 100. 
Beckley, 163, 194. 
Bell, Dr., 60. 




Bellasifl, Serjeant, 63. 
Bennett, Bev. William, 152. 
Benson, Father, 190. 
Binstead, smugglers at, 144. 
Birmingham, morality in, 161. 
Blaokgang, 72, 148. 
Blaokley, 204. 
BlackwdoSs liagatine^ an article 

in, 94. 
Blithfield, a visit to, 151. 
Bine School Gharity, the, 115. 
Blunt, Mrs., 189. 

Bokhara, the Ameer of, 182, 138. 
Bolton, Lord, his house at Garis- 

brooke, 45. 
Bonohuroh, 79 ; Ghuroh affairs at, 

85, 88 ; consecration of new 

Ghurch at, 93, 104 ; life at, 83 ; 

National School, 178 ; proposed 

changes at, 82 ; rectors of, 93 ; 

the village of, 86. 
Bordesley Hall, 154. 
Boston Ghurch, 161. 
Boulogne, the sketch of life at, in 

Home lAfe and After Life^ 201. 
Bournemouth, 155, 163. 
Bowden, Mr., a book by, 120. 
Bowman, Mr., 170. 
Bowood, 135. 
Boyce, Rev. Edward, 191, 192, 215, 

Bradshaw, Mrs., in Home Life 

and After Life, 200. 
Branston, Dean, 192. 
Brereton, Ganon, a scheme of, 191. 
Bridges, Mrs., 190. 
Bright, John, a story about, 183. 
Broadwater Ghurch, 50 (note). 
Brocklesby, 5. 
Browne, Bishop Harold, 193, 214, 

Browne, Sir Thomas and Lady 

Gore, 193. 
Browning, Robert, 182, 183, 184. 
Brydges, Sir Harford and Lady, 

Burleigh, Golonel, 6. 

Burleighs of the New Forest, the, 

Bums, James, 66, 75, 87, 135 ; his 

shop, 131. 
Buss, Miss, her High School, 210. 

Galaib, 188. 

Gamberwell, a visit to, 81. 
Cambridge Bible for Schools, the, 

Cameron, Mrs., the books of, 326. 
Canterbury, the Archbishop of, 

Capheatoh, a visit to, 110.' 
Gapheaton House, 111. 
Captain, H.M.S., the loss of, 189. 
Carey, Miss G., 178. 
Garisbrooke Oastle, archery ball 

at, 45 ; archery meetings at, 44 ; 

Hunting Club ball at, 45 ; Lord 

Bolton's house at, 45. 
Garsdale in The Eoffperienoe of 

Life, 115. 
Castle Comet, 174. 
Catechism, the, wisdom of the 

advice insisted on in, 203. 
Catechism of English History^ 

The, 235. 
Gavour, Count, the funeral of, 169. 
Ghale, 148. 
Chancery Lane, a Sunday in a 

lawyer's house in, 52. 
Charles I., the skull cap of, 151. 
Charles V,, Robertson's, 42. 
Chateau Gaillard, in Ursula, 149. 
GhUd, Miss, 189. 
Child's Roman History, A, 136. 
Chollerton, a Ghuroh tale, 131. 
Christian Morals, Rev. Wm. 

SeweU's, 131. 
Christian Tear, The, 151. 
Church, Dean, 191. 
Ghurch, Mrs., 191. 
Church and State Gazette, The, a 

report circulated in, 134. 
Ghurch Schools, an attempt to 

establish, 191, 192. 



Churchman's Magazine^ a paper 

in, by Elizabeth M. Sewell, 238. 
" Ghnroh'B One Foundation, the," 

Clarke, James, the house of, 2. 
Clarke, Lydia, 7; her oharacter, 

20; her engravings, 114; her 

servants, 21. 
Clarke, Eichard, 6 ; articled pupils 

of, 6; assists Sir Biohard 

Worsley in his literary work, 5 ; 

death of, 20. 
Clarke, Eobert, 6. 
Clayton, Rev. Arthur P., 220. 
Clerical characteristics, 197. 
Cleve HaXh 144, 145. 
Cleveland, Mrs., 159, 161, 191, 

203 ; death of, 208 ; her home, 

Clifford, Madeline, in Laneton 

Parsonage^ 36. 
Cole, Miss, in The Experience of 

Life, 232. 
C<deman, Bev. Mr., 134. 
Coleridge, Dr., 90. 
Coleridge, Jane, 182, 184. 
Coleridge, Sir John (aft. Lord), 182. 
Coleridge, MUdred, 182, 184. 
Collings, Mr. and Mrs., 175. 
Colston, Mrs., in The Experience 

of Life, 116. 
Communicants* Companion^ The, 

Compton, in Ursula, 148. 
Conferences de Notre Dame, La- 

cordaire's, 182. 
Conolly, Captain, 132. 
Conolly, the Misses, 132, 133. 
Cooke, Caroline, 89, 198. 
Cooke, Bev. George Leigh, 89. 
Cooke, Julia, 197. 
Cookson, Louisa, 201. 
Coombewood, 86. 
Cottager's Monthly Visitor, The, 

Countess and Gertrude, The, Miss 

Hawkins's, 52. | 

Coup^, the, 177. 

Cowan, Miss, 178. 

Cowes, 46. 

Cowles, Captain Cooper, 189. 

Crawford, Jennie, 170 ; her death, 

Creux, the, 175. 

Crewe, Lady, 182. 

Crewe, Miss, 182. 

Grossman's Catechism, 10. 

Crooke, Miss, her character, 3 ; a 
favoured pupil of, 28 ; her house, 
17 ; her poverty, 29 ; her school, 
3, 10, 19 ; her treatment of 
smugglers, 144, 145; punish- 
ments inflicted by, 13. 

Crystal Palace, the, 157. 

Cubington, a visit to, 151, 152. 

Daikyman's Daughter, the, 123. 
Daisy Chain, Charlotte Yonge's, 

Dalton Hall, 145. 
Darling, Colonel and Mrs., 194, 195. 
Davy, Bishop (of Peterborough), 

Deaconess Home for Children 

(Famham), 193. 
Deane, Mr., 112. 
"Death of Nelson, the," West's 

picture of, 114. 
Dene, in Ursula, 147. 
Denison, Archdeacon, 190. 
Derry Hill Church, 135. 
Derwentwater, 108. 
Derwentwater, Lord, 110. 
Deutz, 198. 
Dickens, Charles, 94. 
Diocesan Schools, the establish- 
ment of, 191, 192, 193. 
— Society for religious education, 

the, 214, 218. 
Disraeli, Benjamin, at Oxford, 170. 
Doane, Bishop, the family of, 159. 
Don Quixote, 43. 
Dover, the last steamer to, during 

the Franco-German War, 188. 



Downooort, 148. 

Dresden, 186 ; the billeting of 
troops in, on the outbreak of 
the Franco-German War, 186, 

EarVs Daughter, The, 101, 160; 

pnblioation of, 153. 
East Dene, 86 ; a scene at, 94. 
Eden, Bobert (aft. Bishop of 

Moray and Boss), 151. 
Edgeworth, Miss, the books of, 

Educational effort, an, 73. 
Edwards, Axin, death of, 60. 
Edwards, James, 22, 76. 
Eisenach, 185. 
Electioneering flattery, a piece of, 

Elford Bectory, a visit to, 151. 
Ella*s adventure, in Cleve HaU^ 

Elwes, Miss, 158. 
Elwyn, Mrs., 205. 
Emmerton Hall, in Amy Herbert^ 

English Ohuroh, the, the case of, 

129 ; statement of the historical 

grounds on which it rests, 99. 
Episodes of an Obscure Life, 189. 
Estcourt, Bev. E., 126, 127. 
Estcourt, Mary, 128. 
Estcourt, Mrs., 126, 127. 
Estcourt, W., 126. 
Examination for girls, 202. 
Exeter, the Bishop of, 160. 
" Exhibition Fund " of St. Boni- 
face School, 216. 
Ea^[>erience of Life, 118, 209, 231 ; 

characters and construction of, 

114 ; literary value of, 228 ; 

popularity of, 114 ; scenery 

depicted in, 116. 

Fairfields, 148. 

Fairy Bowery Mrs. Mozley's, 62. . 

Famham Castle, a visit to, 193. 

Famham, Deaconess Home for 

Children at, 193. 
Farren, the actor, 194. 
Fate of a Favourite, The, 87, 135. 
Faulder, Miss, 201. 
Feilden, Bev. Bandle, 90, 92, 133. 
Fenwick, Miss, 96, 108. 
Finchley, a visit to, 130, 150. 
Fisheries Exhibition, the, 194. 
France and Germany, declaration 

of war between, 185. 
Eraser, Bishop, 190. 
French Essays on Literature, 172. 
Friend in Disguise, A, 87, 135. 

Gebmans, the, their spirit on the 
declaration of war with France, 

Gertrude, 80; how the story was 
suggested, 81; scenery and 
characters in, 81. 

Glanville, Miss, 191. 

Glimpse of the World, A, 196 ; the 
foreign tour in, 197 ; the mar- 
riage incident in, 196. 

Glyn, Lady Mary, 194. 

Goodwin, Mary, 141. 

Gordon, Sir Willoughby, 51. 

Gorham, Bev. George, 150. 

Governesses, a plan for a training 
institution for, 164. 

Grant-Duff, Sir M. E., 229. 

Gray, Horatia, in The Experience 
of Life, 116. 

Grenthe, the Abbe de, 10, 11. 

Grey Cliff, 141, 203. 

Guernsey, a visit to, 173, 177. 

Halton, 162. 

Hampson, Lady, 92, 112, 130, 147. 

Hambrough, Mr., 169. 

Hanbury, Mr., 61. 

Hanbury, Mrs., 31, 51. 

Hanois Bocks, the, 177. 

Harcourt, Vernon, 182, 183. 

Harrison, Mrs., 132. 

Hatfield, Bishop, 129. 



Hatton, in Ursula, 148. 

Hawkstane, 61, 127, 228. 

Hawtrey, Rev. Henry, 198. 

Haydon, his sketch of Words- 
worth, 109. 

Heam, Mr., 49. 

Heathoote, Gilbert, 50w 

Heathoote, Bev. William, 167, 168. 

" Heath " Ck)tta^e, the, in Ursula, 

Hebrews, the, filth chapter of the 
Epistle to, 156. 

Helen, in Itnrs, 146. 

Hermitage, the, 53, 128, 147. 

Hero Worship, 166. 

High Schools, 193, 219. 

Hill, Rev. Justly, 86, 93. 

HiU, Rosa (aft. Mrs. White), 46, 

Hill, Rowland, 124 ; his conversa- 
tion with Hannah Moore, 124. 

Historical Selections, 171. 

History of Egypt, 229. 

History of Greece, 113, 114, 229. 

History of Modem Europe, Rus- 
sell's, 42. 

History of Rome, 113, 114, 229.. 

History of the Isle of Wight, Sir 
Richard Worsley*s, 6. 

History of Witches, Glanvill*s, 28. 

Holland, Canon, 193. 

Holmes, Mr., 124; his introduc- 
tion to Hannah Moore, 124. 

Holmes family, the, 47. 

Home Life and After Life, 198 ; 
characters in, 199, 200 ; cheap 
edition of, 202; form of its 
publication, 199 ; thought given 
to it, 198. 

Hook, Dr., 125. 

Hooper, Miss, 126. 

Hornby, Mrs., 146. 

Hove, in Ursula, 148. 

Hugo, Victor, his house in Guern- 
sey, 178 ; his last novel, 177. 

Hursley, 50. 

Hyacinthe, P^re, 184, 185. 

Hyde, Lady Catherine, in Laneton 

Parsonage, 98. 
Hypatia, 155. 

Impressions of Rome, Florence cmd 

Turin, 169. 
Improvew>ent of the Mind, 

Watts's, 42. 
Ireland, the famine in, 134. 
Isle of Wight, the, gaiety in, 44. 
Italian politics, 169, 229. 
Ivors, 146 ; characters in, 146 ; 

incidents of travel in, 147. 

Jacobites, the, at Capheaton, 110. 
Jcme Eyre, 159. 
Jersey, 177. 
Jesuits, the, 127. 

Journal of a Summer Tour, A, 

Eaisebwebth, the Deaconess In- 
stitution at, 198. 

Katherine Ashton, 64, 209; charac- 
ters in, 142, 143 ; scene of the 
story, 142. 

Keble, Rev. John, 63 ; funeral of, 

Keble, Mrs., 172. 

Kingsbury, Dr., in A Glimpse of 
the World, 197. 

King*s Messenger, The, 137. 

Kip, Rev. W. Ingraham, 122. 

Kirk Welpington, 111. 

Kittoe, Elizabeth, marriage of, 
to Henry Sewell, 102. 

Kynnersley, Mr., 164, 160. 

Lacobdaibe*s Conferences de Notre 
Dame, 182. 

Lakes, the, 106. 

Lancaster, Joseph, 60. 

Laneton Parsonage, 36, 96, 209, 
231; aim of, 226; characters 
in, 98 ; commencement of, 97 ; 
connection with the Church 
Catechism, 97 ; publication of, 



99, 136 ; use of, in reference to 

baptisnuJ doctrine, 226. 
Lansdowne, Lady, her sohool- 

honse, isi5. 
Lectures on Architecture and 

Painting, Buskin's, 153. 
Leeson, Dr., 93, 235. 
Leigh, the Tillage of, in The Ex- 
perience of Life^ 115. 
Lennox, Alice, in Laneton Par- 

eonage, 101. 
Lenore, Borger's, 23. 
Letters on Daily Life, 202. 
Leverets, the, a visit at, 160. 
Lias, Bev. Chancellor J. J., letter 

from, 227, 228. 
Liddon, Canon, sermons by, 181, 

Life of Charlotte Brontif, Mrs. 

Qaskell's, 159. 
Lind, Jenny, 157, 158. 
Lives of ihe Enffiish Saints, 126. 
London, society in, 52. 
Long, Mrs., 184. 
Longside, in Uraula, 148. 
Longman, William, 191. 
Louth, publication of poems by 

Tennyson at, 162. 
Loyola, Ignatius, 127. 

MacColl, Mr., 191. 

Maokamess, Bishop, 190. 

Macmillan*s Magasine, an article 
in, 198. 

Maison Yisionnee, the, 177. 

Malvern, 192. 

Manchester, committals in, 161. 

Mann, Dr., 158. 

Manning, Henry E., a dictum of, 

Margaret PercivcU, 99, 132; chief 
character in, 100 ; definite 
Anglican teaching in, 228 ; im- 
pression produced by, 99 ; publi- 
cation of, 183; story of, 100; 
thought devoted to, 198. 

Martin, Miss, 137, 138. 

Martin, Dr., 179. 
Masters, Mr., 88. 
Meroier, Mrs. Jerome, 192. 
Meyrick, Fanny, 129, 135 ; 

brightness of her intellect, 115. 
Meyrick, Bev. James, 115, 129. 
Meyrick, Susan, 129, 156, 163. 
Meyrick, Canon Thomas, 115, 120. 
Meyricks, the, 119. 
Michand, Madame, 103. 
Middle Ages, bad literature of, 126. 
Milbrooke, 83, 84. 
" Missing,** Miss Thompson's, 191. 
Moberly, Alioe, 182. 
Moberly, Mrs., 173. 
Monsell, William (aft. Lord Emly), 

164, 165. 
Monthly Packet, The, papers on 

** Questions of the Day,'* in, 190. 
Moore, Hannah, 124. 
Moore, Mrs. Patty, 124. 
Mortimer, Sarah. See Sarah. 
Mount, Mr., of Wasing, 47. 
Mozley, Mrs., 62. 
Museum Wbrsleyanwn, The, 5. 
Myra, in A Glimpse of the World, 


" Nao*8 Head,** story, the, 123. 

Napoleon, Louis, 185; surrender 
of, 189. 

Nedham, General, 50 (note) ; 
death of, 83. 

Nedham, Lucy, children of, 83, 
84; death of, 84; friendship 
with, 36; health of, 76; mar- 
riage of, 50. 

New Churchyard, The, 87. 

New College, Oxford, a meeting 
at, 191 ; a visit to, 181. 

Newman, John Henry, 63, 129; 
his devotion to the Church, 119 ; 
his doubts as to going over to 
the Church of Bome, 120; his 
personality, 64; his reverence 
for sacred things, 64 ; power of 
his sermons, 65 ; reported to be 



going over to the Scotch Church, 
126 ; sennoDs by, 64, 119. 

Newnton, 125. 

Newport, dissent in, 60; Lan- 
castrian School at, 60; library 
in, 43 ; National School at, 60 ; 
political disturbances in, 48; 
radicalism of, 47; society in, 
46; the home in the High 
Street, 2, 9. 

Newport fair, 15. 

"Ninestones," 148. 

Niton, 148 ; a party of smugglers 
at, 144. 

Northcourt, a summer at, 51. 

Norwood, a visit to, 167. 

Notebook of an Elderly Lady, 
The, 202. 

Novera, Countess, in Margaret 
Percival, 100, 101. 

Oldham, Dr., 157. 

Old Man's Home, The, 129, 188. 

Orchardleigh, 86. 

Otterboum Church, 61, 62. 

Outlines of Italian History, 229, 

Oxford, the New Indian Institute 

at, 194 ; a visit to, 170. 
Oxford, the Bishop of, 170 ; 

sermon by, 171. 
Oxford amd Cambridge Review, 

The, an article in, on the 

Jesuits, 127. 
Oxford leaders, the, 61 et seg. 
Oxford movement, the, 80; Rev. 

Wm. Sewell's sympathy with, 

Oxford tracts, the, 226. 

Paget, Bev. Francis, 151. 
Paraguay, Jesuit success in, 127. 
Paris, 184. 

Parkes, Mr., 121, 122. 
Parochial Sermons, 122. 
Parva Domus, 208, 

Passing Thoughts on BeUgion, 
113, 230. 

Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk, Sir 
Walter Scott's, 60. 

PeUe, Rev. A. L. B., 214, 285. 

Pelagia, 156. 

Pelham, Miss (aft. Lady C. 
Copley), 101. 

Pelham fiebmily, the, 6. 

Pennethome, Mr., 191. 

Perugia, riots at, 161. 

Pidford, 71; education at, 73; 
family gathering at, 76. 

Pinnook*s Catechisms, 10, 11. 

Piranesi engravings, a set of, 5. 

Plainmont, 177. 

Pond, Sally, 2. 

Popular French History, 191. 

Port de Moulin, the, 176. 

Praed, Mrs. Winthrop, 158, 201. 

Preparation for the Holy Com- 
munion, 231, 232. 

Principles of Education, 117, 198. 

Pringle, Lady Elizabeth, 150. 

Privy Council, the, the Judicial 
Committee of, 160. 

Prussian soldiers, behaviour of, in 
the Austro-Prussian war, 187. 

Psalms, the Book of. Miss Sewell's 
love for, 237. 

Pupils taken by Miss Sewell, 117, 

Pusey, Dr., 119 ; assize sermon by, 
181 ; devotion and humility of, 
122; sermons against Ger- 
manism, 166. 

Questions of the Day, 190, 202. 

Badley College, 164 ; finances of, 
168 ; founding of, 166 ; wardens 
of, 167. 

Raithby, 161. 

Rationalism, the great weakness 
of, 181. 

Rationalistic books, 180. 



BawnBley, Mr., 161, 162 ; appointed 
guardian to Tennyson, 162. 

Bawnsley, Mrs., 161, 162. 

Readings for Lent^ 113. 

Bedboume, 130. 

Reform Bill, the, 47 ; uproar over 
it in Newport, 3. 

Beligioos books published by Miss 
Sewell, 58, 113. 

Bemusat, Charles de, his de- 
scription of the French of the 
eighteenth oenturyi 172. 

Biohards, Bey. Mr., 191. 

Biohardson, Kate, 182. 

Biohmond, a visit to, 126. 

Biokards, Bev. Samuel, 99, 100. 

" Bivals, the,»' 194. 

Bivers, Lady Emily, 115, 232. 

Bolandi's shop, a visit to, 131. 

" Boll Call, the," 191. 

Roman History Caiechiwn^ 191. 

Borne, the historical question with, 
129 ; the supremacy of, 123, 124. 

Bomish Church, the, arguments 
against, 123. 

Bussell, Lord John, his dictum on 
the famine in Ireland, 134. 

Ruth, in Laneton Parsonage, 98. 

Bydal Mount, a visit to, 107. 

Ryde, 46. 

St. Boniface School, 192, 210; 
beginnings of, 212; change of 
title, 214 ; " Exhibition Fund," 
216 ; prize-day at, 218 ; progress 
of the school, 213, 214 ; removal 
to a larger house, 213 ; sale of 
the house, 220 ; terms of, 215 ; 
vicissitudes of, 218, 219. 

St. Catherine's, view from the 
cliffs under, 128, 149. 

St. Columba's College, Lreland, the 
founding of, 164. 

St. Heliers, 177. 

St. Lawrence, 127, 168. 

St. Wolfgang, the Lake of, 197. 

Salisbury, Colonel, 161. 

Salisbury, Lord, the children of, 

Salzkammergut, the, 197. 

Sandcombe, in Ursula, 148. 

Sarah, Aunt, in The Experience of 
Life, 114, 115, 116, 228, 232. 

Sark, 173, 174. 

Scott, Sir Walter, his dedication 
of MarrMon, 151. 

Sea View. See Ashcliff. 

Seaview, a reading party at, 46. 

Sedan, 189. 

Selwyn, Bishop, 129. 

Sewell, Edwards, appointed war- 
den of New Coll., Oxford, 164, 
168 ; takes orders, 50. 

Sewell, Eleanor L., 193, 205 ; a 
letter to, 216. 

Sewell, EUen, 1, 42, 48, 56, 75, 87, 
213 ; death of, 240 ; enjoyment 
of her visit to Hursley, 51; 
goes to school at Bath, 31; 
helps to educate her young sis- 
ters, 40 ; helps her sister with 
pupils, 117 ; leaves Miss Crooke*s 
school, 30 ; makes a drawing 
for Alfred Tennyson, 168 ; two 
sketches by, 138 ; undertakes 
parish work, 64. 

Sewell, Emma, 2, 40, 124 ; death 
of, 239. 

Sewell, Emily, 141 ; marriage of, 

Sewell, George, 138, 141. 

Sewell, Harry, 206, 206. 

Sewell, Henry, his longing to see 
his grandchildren, 206; marri- 
age of, 60 (note) ; returns from 
New Zealand, 205 ; second 
marriage of, 96, 102. 

Sewell, Mrs. Henry, death of, 206. 

Sewell, Mrs. (nie Jane Edwards), 
character and education of, 4 ; 
death of, 102 ; notions of pro- 
priety, 8 ; pleasure in listening to 
Amy Herbert, 68 ; her pleasure 
in Laneton Parsonage, 101. 



Sewell, Elizabeth Missing, annuity 
to, 207 ; appointed " visitor " 
of St. Boniface, 220; books 
read by, 21, 23, 42, 53 ; Church 
teaching of, 227, 228 ; com- 
ments of the Press on her 
literary work, 225, 226 ; confes- 
sion by, 26 ; confirmation of, 
37, 39 ; contrast between her 
home and school life, 4 ; death 
of, 241 ; devotional books by, 
58, 113, 230; early literary 
essays, 55 ; early religious taste, 
2, 16 ; educates her young sis- 
ters, 40 ; education of, 10 et 
seq, ; first visit to church, 21 ; 
haunted by sceptical thoughts, 
37 ; her home at Bonchurch, 
83 ; her home at Hursley, 50 ; 
her home at Newport, 2, 9 ; her 
home at Northcourt, 51 ; home 
education, 37 et seq. ; infancy 
of, 2; influence of, 211, 225; 
interest in education, 210 ; 
later days, 239 ; letter to her 
pupils, 221; letters of, 233; 
life at Pidford, 72 ; love for her 
brother William, 42 ; objections 
to authorship, 75 ; parish work 
of, 54 ; pecuniary anxiety, 80, 
102, 112; principles of, 241; 
religious books by, 58, 113, 
230 ; reported to have joined 
the Church of Home, 92, 134 ; 
sceptical thoughts, 37, 49; 
scheme for a training institu- 
tion for governesses, 154, 222 ; 
school books by^ 113 ; school- 
days of, 10 et seq., 24 et seq,; 
self-consciousness of, 16, 51 ; 
sphere of, 225 ; strange fancies 
of, 24 ; strictness of her school 
discipline, 11, 18 ; sympathy of, 
236, 239; takes pupils, 117; 
teaching of, 225, 234 ; travels 
abroad, 85, 112, 168, 184 et 
9eq., 203 ; work at St. Boniface 

School, 213 et seq.; youthful 
impressions, 15 et seq. 

SeweU, Fanny. See Hanbury, Mrs. 

Sewell, Janetta, 40 ; death of, 
206 ; goes to live with her 
brother at New College, 168. 

Sewell, Marianne (daughter of 
Mrs. Henry SeweU), 80, 168. 

Sewell, Mary Ellen, birth of, 50. 

Sewell, Robert, death of, 203; 
death of his wife, 85 ; health 
of, 48 ; children of, 141 ; mar- 
riage of, to Miss Seymour, 61 ; 
takes up the financial manage- 
ment of Badley, 168. 

Sewell, Thomas, burial of, 72 ; 
character of, 9 ; death of, 70 ; 
dissolves partnership, 49 ; health 
of, 67; political infiuence in 
Newport, 20, 47; removal to 
Oxford, 68. 

Sewell, Rev. William, 2, 29 ; char- 
acter, 165; Christian Morals, 
131 ; connection with Radley, 
164 et seq. ; with St. Columba's 
College, 164; death of, 204, 
240; engagement of, 44; fairy 
tales by, 198; given charge of 
the parish of Whippingham, 
41 ; of Taverland, 48 ; novel 
by, 61, 127; opinions of, 57; 
ordination of, 41; religious 
earnestness, 166; returns from 
abroad, 203; settles abroad, 
198 ; sympathy with the Oxford 
movement, 166 ; university 
sermon by, 129. 

Sewell Exhibition Fund, the, 215. 

Seymour, Marianne, 71, 83 ; death 
of, 85; friendship with, 36; 
marriage of, 61. 

Shadow of the Cross, The, 129. 

Shap, 110. 

Sherson, Rev. Robert, 48. 

Sherwood, Mrs., T<Ues of, 58, 97, 
202, 226. 

Silbury Hill, 136. 



Simpson, Miss, marriage of, 5. 

Singleton, Mr., 167. 

Sir Charles Metcalfe's Life, 155. 

Skene, Miss, 151. 

Sketches, The, 87, 136, 137. 

Smith, Bella Spencer, 189. 

Smuggling episode, a, 144. 

Somersby, 162. 

Soulsby, Miss Luoy M., letter 

from, 229. 
Southey, a bust of, 109. 
SoiUhey*8 Life, 152. 
Southlands, 72, 148. 
SpUsby, 161. 

Stanley, Dean, 182, 183, 184. 
Stanley, Lady Augusta, 182, 183, 

Stirling, Mrs., 194. 
Stoddart, Colonel, 132. 
Stoke Park, 100. 
Stories on the Lord's Prayer, 58, 

59, 66, 76. 
Sunmer, Bishop, 91. 
Susan, in Ivors, 146. 
Sussex Square, a dinner party at, 

Sutherland, Uncle, in Margaret 

Perdval, 228. 
Swinburne, Captain (aft. Admiral), 

87, 88, 106, 140. 
Swinburne, Algernon, 106, 108, 

Swinburne, Lady Jane, 106, 109. 
Swinburne, Sir John, 111. 
Swinburne Castle, 110. 
Swinburnes, the, 105. 

Tales, Mrs. Sherwood's, 58, 97, 

202, 226. 
Tales on the Game Laws, Miss 

Martineau's, 132. 
Tennyson, Alfred (aft. Lord), 158 ; 

his birthplace, 162 ; his poetical 

talent, 162. 
Tennyson, Dr., 162. 
Tennyson, Mrs., 159. 
Tennyson's Pillar, 159, 

Tewkesbury, a diooesan school at, 

Theophilus Anglica/n/us, Words- 
worth's, 234. 

Thicknesse, Archdeacon, 191. 

Thomas, Bey. Mr., 131. 

Thomson, Miss (now Lady Butler), 
pictures by, 191. 

Thoughts for the Age, 113, 230, 

Thoughts for the Holy Week, 113, 

Todd, Dr., 164. 

Tracts for the Times, 57, 122. 

Trevelyan, Sir Charles, 96. 

Travailleurs de la Mer, Les, 
Hugo's, 177. 

Trinmier's " Selections," Mrs., 10. 

Tumbull, Mr., 43. 

Ulrich, Fraulein, 186. 

Uncle Peter's Fairy TaU, 198. 

Under-mount, 86. 

Under-rock, 86. 

Uniyersity examinations for girls, 

202, 203. 
Upper-class mistresses, suggested 

training schools for, 222. 
Upper-mount, 86. 
Ursula, 85, 209 ; incidents for the 

plot of, 85, 148 ; scene of, 147, 148. 

Valentine, Gustay Freitag's, 186. 

Vaughan, Mrs., 229. 

Ventnor, 46, 81 ; the only church 

at, 86. 
Ventnor Bailway, the, opening of, 


Wales, the Prince of (now H.M. 

King Edward Vn.), 183, 194. 
Wales, a visit to, 77. 
Ward, Bev. James, 41 ; death of, 44. 
Waresley, 205. 
Was It a Dream ? 87. 
Wast Water, a visit to, 145. 
Watkins, Bev. Mr., 191, 192. 



Weir, Mrs., in Urstda, 148. 

Wells, Judge, 182. 

West, Mrs., 158. 

West's picture of the "Death of 

Nelson," 114. 
Whippingham parsonage, 42. 
White, Mrs. See Bosa Hill. 
White, Bey. James, marriage of, 45. 
Whitehead, Kate, 194. 
Wilberforoe, Bishop, 215. 
Wilberforoe, Henry, 63. 
Williams, Isaac, 63. 
Willis's Booms, a visit to, 108. 
Winchester, 170; proposal to 

establish a High School at, 219. 
Wingfield, Bev. Mr., 134. 
Wolfe, General, 109; West's 

picture of the death of, 109. 
Wolff, Dr., his mission, 133. 
Women, the modem education of, 

Wood Lynch, 86, 87. 
Wordsworth, 107 ; Haydon's 

sketches of, 109 ; oak chest of, 

109 ; a visit to, 106 et seq. 

Wordsworth, Miss E., a letter 

from, 231. 
Wordsworth, Mrs., 107. 
Worsley, Mrs. Charles, 53, 130, 

150 ; her life, 152. 
Worsley, Bev. Charles, 130. 
Worsley, David, 6. 
Worsley, Mary, 6. 
Worsley, Sir Bichard, 6 ; literary 

work of, 5. 
Worsley-Holmes, Sir Leonard, the 

widow of, 47. 
Worsleys of Stenbury, the, 6. 

Tabbobough, Mr. Pelham, 1st Earl 

of, 5, 20, 100. 
Yard, the Misses, 170, 172. 
Yarmouth, 46. 
Yaverland, a summer at, 48. 
Yonge, Charlotte, 62, 171, 192; 

aim of, 226 ; popularity of her 

works, 226. 
Yonge, Mr., of Otterboum, 61. 
Yonge, Mrs., 171. 



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