To MRS. EDGEWORTH.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET,
April 1831.
Such a day as yesterday! sun shining—neither too hot nor too cold. This
was just the time of year, I think, that you saw Knowle, and I never did
see a place and house which pleased me more; exceedingly entertained
with the portraits, endless to particularise. Several of Grammont's
beauties, not so good in colours as in black and white. Sir Walter's
black and white portrait of James I. made the full length of his
unkingly Majesty a hundred times more interesting to me than it could
otherwise have been,—mean, odd, strange-looking mortal. And then the
silver room, as it is called, how it was gilt to me by the genius of
romance, all Heriot's masterpieces there, would have been but cups and
boxes ranged on toilette table and India cabinet but for the master
magician touch. But we had to leave Knowle as we had engaged the day
before at Brandfold to go to Mr. Jones (on the Distribution of Wealth) at Brasted. Such crowds of ideas as he poured forth, uttering so rapidly as to keep one quite on the stretch not to miss any of the good things. Half of them, I am sure, I have forgotten, but note for futurity; specially a fair-haired heiress now living, shut up in an old place called the Moate, old as King John's time. Mr. Jones had invited Dr. and Mrs. Felton, and had a luncheon comme il y en a peu and wines of every degree: hock from Bremen, brought over by our mutual friend Mr. Jacob, and far too valuable for an ignoramus like me to swallow.
Chevening? You are afraid we shall not have time to see Chantrey's
monument. "O! but you must see it," said Mr. Jones, and so he and Dr. Felton ordered gig and pony carriage to let our horses rest, and follow and meet us, and away we went. Mr. Jones driving me in his gig to a beautiful parky place where Dr. Felton flourishes for the summer, and saw his children, who had wished to see the mother of Frank and Rosamond. Then through Mr. Manning's beautiful place—never travelling a high road or a by-road all the way to Chevening churchyard. The white marble monument of Lady Frederica Stanhope is in the church; plain though she was in life, she is beautiful in death, something of exquisite tenderness in the expression of her countenance, maternal tenderness, and repose, matronly repose, and yet the freshness of youth in the rounded arm and delicate hand that lightly, affectionately presses the infant—she dies, if dying it can be called, so placid, so happy; the head half-turned sinks into the pillow, which, without touching, one can hardly believe to be marble. I am sure Harriet recollects Lady Frederica at Paris, just before she was married.
We left Chevening, and can never forget it, and drove through the wealds
and the charts, called, as Mr. Jones tells me, from the charters, and
see a chapel built by Porteus to civilise some of the wicked ones of the
wealds or wilds, and Ireton's house, where some say Cromwell lived, now belonging to Perkins the brewer. Then "see to the right that rich green field, where King Henry VIII. used to stop and wind his horn, that people might gather and drag himself and suite through the slough," and it was near eight before we got to town, and Lestock waiting dinner with the patience of Job. He, Lestock, not Job, is a delightful person to live with, never annoyed about hours or trifles of that kind.
1 NORTH AUDLEY STREET,
April 30, 1831.
On Monday last I drove to Apsley House, without the slightest suspicion
that the Duchess had been worse than when I had last seen her. When I
saw the gate only just opened enough to let out the porter's head, and
saw Smith parleying with him, nothing occurred to me but that the man
doubted whether I was a person who ought to be admitted; so I put out my
card, when Smith, returning, said, "Ma'am, the Duchess of Wellington
died on Saturday morning!"
The good-natured porter, seeing that I was "really a friend," as he
said, went into the house at my request, to ask if I could see her maid; and after a few minutes the gates opened softly, and I went into that melancholy house, into that great, silent hall: window-shutters closed: not a creature to be seen or heard.
At last a man-servant appeared, and as I moved towards the side of the
house where I had formerly been—"Not that way, ma'am; walk in here, if
you please."
