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The Days Before Yesterday

L >> Lord Frederic Hamilton >> The Days Before Yesterday



This etext was produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.






THE DAYS BEFORE YESTERDAY



FOREWORD


The Public has given so kindly a reception to The Varnished Pomps
of Yesterday (a reception which took its author wholly by
surprise), that I have extracted some further reminiscences from
the lumber-room of recollections. Those who expect startling
revelations, or stale whiffs of forgotten scandals in these pages,
will, I fear, be disappointed, for the book contains neither. It
is merely a record of everyday events, covering different ground
to those recounted in the former book, which may, or may not,
prove of interest. I must tender my apologies for the insistent
recurrence of the first person singular; in a book of this
description this is difficult to avoid.




CONTENTS



CHAPTER I

Early days--The passage of many terrors--Crocodiles, grizzlies and
hunchbacks--An adventurous journey and its reward--The famous
spring in South Audley Street--Climbing chimney-sweeps--The story
of Mrs. Montagu's son--The sweeps' carnival--Disraeli--Lord John
Russell--A child's ideas about the Whigs--The Earl of Aberdeen--
"Old Brown Bread"--Sir Edwin Landseer, a great family friend--A
live lion at a tea-party--Landseer as an artist--Some of his
vagaries--His frescoes at Ardverikie--His latter days--A devoted
friend--His last Academy picture

CHAPTER II

The "swells" of the "sixties"--Old Lord Claud Hamilton--My first
presentation to Queen Victoria--Scandalous behaviour of a
brother--Queen Victoria's letters--Her character and strong common
sense--My mother's recollections of George III. and George IV.--
Carlton House, and the Brighton Pavilion--Queen Alexandra--The
Fairchild Family--Dr. Cumming and his church--A clerical Jazz--
First visit to Paris--General de Flahault's account of Napoleon's
campaign of 1812--Another curious link with the past--"Something
French"--Attraction of Paris--Cinderella's glass slipper--A
glimpse of Napoleon III.--The Rue de Rivoli--The Riviera in 1865--
A novel Tricolour flag--Jenny Lind--The championship of the
Mediterranean--My father's boat and crew--The race--The Abercorn
wins the championship

CHAPTER III

A new departure--A Dublin hotel in the "sixties"--The Irish mail
service--The wonderful old paddle mail-boats--The convivial
waiters of the Munster--The Viceregal Lodge--Indians and pirates--
The imagination of youth--A modest personal ambition--Death-
warrants; imaginary and real--The Fenian outbreak of 1866-7--The
Abergele railway accident--A Dublin Drawing-Room--Strictly private
ceremonials--Some of the amenities of the Chapel Royal--An
unbidden spectator of the State dinners--Irish wit--Judge Keogh--
Father Healy--Happy Dublin knack of nomenclature--An unexpected
honour and its cause--Incidents of the Fenian rising--Dr.
Hatchell--A novel prescription--Visit of King Edward--Gorgeous
ceremonial, but a chilly drive--An anecdote of Queen Alexandra

CHAPTER IV

Chittenden's--A wonderful teacher--My personal experiences as a
schoolmaster--My "boys in blue"--My unfortunate garments--A "brave
Belge"--The model boy, and his name--A Spartan regime--"The Three
Sundays"--Novel religious observances--Harrow--"John Smith of
Harrow"--"Tommy"--Steele--"Tosher"--An ingenious punishment--John
Farmer--His methods--The birth of a famous song--Harrow school
songs--"Ducker"--The "Curse of Versatility"--Advancing old age--
The race between three brothers--A family failing--My father's
race at sixty-four--My own--A most acrimonious dispute at Rome--
Harrow after fifty years

CHAPTER V

Mme. Ducros--A Southern French country town--"Tartarin de
Tarascon"--His prototypes at Nyons--M. Sisteron the roysterer--The
Southern French--An octogenarian pasteur--French industry--"Bone-
shakers"--A wonderful "Cordon-bleu"--"Slop-basin"--French legal
procedure--The bons-vivants--The merry French judges--La gaiete
francaise--Delightful excursions--Some sleepy old towns--Oronge
and Avignon--M. Thiers' ingenious cousin--Possibilities--French
political situation in 1874--The Comte de Chambord--Some French
characteristics--High intellectual level--Three days in a
Trappist Monastery--Details of life there--The Arian heresy--
Silkworm culture--Tendencies of French to complicate details--Some
examples--Cicadas in London.

CHAPTER VI

Brunswick--Its beauty--High level of culture--The Brunswick
Theatre--Its excellence--Gas vs. Electricity--Primitive theatre
toilets--Operatic stars in private life--Some operas unknown in
London--Dramatic incidents in them--Levasseur's parody of
"Robert"--Some curious details about operas--Two fiery old pan-
Germans--Influence of the teaching profession on modern Germany--
The "French and English Clubs"--A meeting of the "English Club"
Some reflections about English reluctance to learn foreign
tongues--Mental attitude of non-Prussians in 1875--Concerning
various beers--A German sportsman--The silent, quinine-loving
youth--The Harz Mountains--A "Kettle-drive" for hares--Dialects of
German--The odious "Kaffee-Klatch"--Universal gossip--Hamburg's
overpowering hospitality--Hamburg's attitude towards Britain--The
city itself--Trip to British Heligoland--The island--Some
peculiarities--Migrating birds--Sir Fitzhardinge Maxse--Lady
Maxse--The Heligoland Theatre--Winter in Heligoland

CHAPTER VII

Some London beauties of the "seventies"--Great ladies--The
Victorian girl--Votaries of the Gaiety Theatre Two witty ladies--
Two clever girls and mock-Shakespeare--The family who talked
Johnsonian English--Old-fashioned tricks of pronunciation--
Practical jokes--Lord Charles Beresford and the old Club-member--
The shoeless legislator--Travellers' palms--The tree that spouted
wine--Ceylon's spicy breezes--Some reflections--Decline of public
interest in Parliament--Parliamentary giants--Gladstone, John
Bright, and Chamberlain--Gladstone's last speech--His resignation--
W.H. Smith--The Assistant Whips--Sir William Hart-Dyke--Weary
hours at Westminster--A Pseudo-Ingoldsbean Lay

CHAPTER VIII

The Foreign Office--The new Private Secretary--A Cabinet key--
Concerning theatricals--Some surnames which have passed into
everyday use--Theatricals at Petrograd--A mock-opera--The family
from Runcorn--An embarrassing predicament--Administering the
oath--Secret Service--Popular errors--Legitimate employment of
information--The Phoenix Park murders--I sanction an arrest--The
innocent victim--The execution of the murderers of Alexander II.--
The jarring military band--Black Magic--Sir Charles Wyke--Some
of his experiences--The seance at the Pantheon--Sir Charles'
experiments on myself--The Alchemists--The Elixir of Life, and the
Philosopher's Stone--Lucid directions for their manufacture--
Glamis Castle and its inhabitants--The tuneful Lyon family--Mr.
Gladstone at Glamis--He sings in the glees--The castle and its
treasures--Recollections of Glamis

CHAPTER IX

Canada--The beginnings of the C.P.R.--Attitude of British
Columbia--The C.P.R. completed--Quebec--A swim at Niagara--Other
mighty waterfalls--Ottawa and Rideau Hall--Effects of dry
climate--Personal electricity--Every man his own dynamo--
Attraction of Ottawa--The "roaring game"--Skating--An ice-palace--
A ball on skates--Difficulties of translating the Bible into
Eskimo--The building of the snow hut--The snow hut in use--Sir
John Macdonald--Some personal traits--The Canadian Parliament
buildings--Monsieur l'Orateur--A quaint oration--The "Pages'
Parliament"--An all-night sitting--The "Arctic Cremorne"--A
curious Lisbon custom--The Balkan "souvenir-hunters"--Personal
inspection of Canadian convents--Some incidents--The unwelcome
novice--The Montreal Carnival--The Ice-castle--The Skating
Carnival--A stupendous toboggan slide--The pioneer of "ski" in
Canada--The old-fashioned raquettes--A Canadian Spring--Wonders
of the Dominion

CHAPTER X

Calcutta--Hooghly pilots--Government House--A Durbar--The sulky
Rajah--The customary formalities--An ingenious interpreter--The
sailing clippers in the Hooghly--Calcutta Cathedral--A succulent
banquet--The mistaken Minister--The "Gordons"--Barrackpore--A
Swiss Family Robinson aerial house--The child and the elephants--
The merry midshipmen--Some of their escapades--A huge haul of
fishes--Queen Victoria and Hindustani--The Hills--The Manipur
outbreak--A riding tour--A wise old Anglo-Indian--Incidents--The
fidelity of native servants--A novel printing-press--Lucknow--The
loss of an illusion

CHAPTER XI

Matters left untold--The results of improved communications--My
father's journey to Naples--Modern stereotyped uniformity--Changes
in customs--The faithful family retainer--Some details--Samuel
Pepys' stupendous banquets--Persistence of idea--Ceremonial
incense--Patriarchal family life--The barn dances--My father's
habits--My mother--A son's tribute--Autumn days--Conclusion





THE DAYS BEFORE YESTERDAY



CHAPTER I


Early days--The passage of many terrors--Crocodiles, grizzlies and
hunchbacks--An adventurous journey and its reward--The famous
spring in South Audley Street--Climbing chimney-sweeps--The story
of Mrs. Montagu's son--The sweeps' carnival--Disraeli--Lord John
Russell--A child's ideas about the Whigs--The Earl of Aberdeen--
"Old Brown Bread"--Sir Edwin Landseer, a great family friend--A
live lion at a tea-party--Landseer as an artist--Some of his
vagaries--His frescoes at Ardverikie--His latter days--A devoted
friend--His last Academy picture.

I was born the thirteenth child of a family of fourteen, on the
thirteenth day of the month, and I have for many years resided at
No. 13 in a certain street in Westminster. In spite of the popular
prejudice attached to this numeral, I am not conscious of having
derived any particular ill-fortune from my accidental association
with it.

Owing to my sequence in the family procession, I found myself on
my entry into the world already equipped with seven sisters and
four surviving brothers. I was also in the unusual position of
being born an uncle, finding myself furnished with four ready-
made nephews--the present Lord Durham, his two brothers, Mr.
Frederick Lambton and Admiral-of-the-Fleet Sir Hedworth Meux, and
the late Lord Lichfield.

Looking down the long vista of sixty years with eyes that have
already lost their keen vision, the most vivid impression that
remains of my early childhood is the nightly ordeal of the journey
down "The Passage of Many Terrors" in our Irish home. It had been
decreed that, as I had reached the mature age of six, I was quite
old enough to come downstairs in the evening by myself without the
escort of a maid, but no one seemed to realise what this entailed
on the small boy immediately concerned. The house had evidently
been built by some malevolent architect with the sole object of
terrifying little boys. Never, surely, had such a prodigious
length of twisting, winding passages and such a superfluity of
staircases been crammed into one building, and as in the early
"sixties" electric light had not been thought of, and there was no
gas in the house, these endless passages were only sparingly lit
with dim colza-oil lamps. From his nursery the little boy had to
make his way alone through a passage and up some steps. These were
brightly lit, and concealed no terrors. The staircase that had to
be negotiated was also reassuringly bright, but at its base came
the "Terrible Passage." It was interminably long, and only lit by
an oil lamp at its far end. Almost at once a long corridor running
at right angles to the main one, and plunged in total darkness,
had to be crossed. This was an awful place, for under a marble
slab in its dim recesses a stuffed crocodile reposed. Of course in
the daytime the crocodile PRETENDED to be very dead, but every one
knew that as soon as it grew dark, the crocodile came to life
again, and padded noiselessly about the passage on its scaly paws
seeking for its prey, with its great cruel jaws snapping, its
fierce teeth gleaming, and its horny tail lashing savagely from
side to side. It was also a matter of common knowledge that the
favourite article of diet of crocodiles was a little boy with bare
legs in a white suit. Even should one be fortunate enough to
escape the crocodile's jaws, there were countless other terrors
awaiting the traveller down this awe-inspiring passage. A little
farther on there was a dark lobby, with cupboards surrounding it.
Any one examining these cupboards by daylight would have found
that they contained innocuous cricket-bats and stumps, croquet-
mallets and balls, and sets of bowls. But as soon as the shades of
night fell, these harmless sporting accessories were changed by
some mysterious and malign agency into grizzly bears, and grizzly
bears are notoriously the fiercest of their species. It was
advisable to walk very quickly, but quietly, past the lair of the
grizzlies, for they would have gobbled up a little boy in one
second. Immediately after the bears' den came the culminating
terror of all--the haunt of the wicked little hunchbacks. These
malignant little beings inhabited an arched and recessed cross-
passage. It was their horrible habit to creep noiselessly behind
their victims, tip...tip...tip-toeing silently but swiftly behind
their prey, and then ... with a sudden spring they threw
themselves on to little boys' backs, and getting their arms round
their necks, they remorselessly throttled the life out of them. In
the early "sixties" there was a perfect epidemic of so-called
"garrotting" in London. Harmless citizens proceeding peaceably
homeward through unfrequented streets or down suburban roads at
night were suddenly seized from behind by nefarious hands, and
found arms pressed under their chins against their windpipe, with
a second hand drawing their heads back until they collapsed
insensible, and could be despoiled leisurely of any valuables they
might happen to have about them. Those familiar with John Leech's
Punch Albums will recollect how many of his drawings turned on
this outbreak of garrotting. The little boy had heard his elders
talking about this garrotting, and had somehow mixed it up with a
story about hunchbacks and the fascinating local tales about "the
wee people," but the terror was a very real one for all that. The
hunchbacks baffled, there only remained a dark archway to pass,
but this archway led to the "Robbers' Passage." A peculiarly
bloodthirsty gang of malefactors had their fastnesses along this
passage, but the dread of being in the immediate neighbourhood of
such a band of desperadoes was considerably modified by the
increasing light, as the solitary oil-lamp of the passage was
approached. Under the comforting beams of this lamp the little boy
would pause until his heart began to thump less wildly after his
deadly perils, and he would turn the handle of the door and walk
into the great hall as demurely as though he had merely traversed
an ordinary everyday passage in broad daylight. It was very
reassuring to see the big hall blazing with light, with the logs
roaring on the open hearth, and grown-ups writing, reading, and
talking unconcernedly, as though unconscious of the awful dangers
lurking within a few yards of them. In that friendly atmosphere,
what with toys and picture-books, the fearful experiences of the
"Passage of Many Terrors" soon faded away, and the return journey
upstairs would be free from alarms, for Catherine, the nursery-
maid, would come to fetch the little boy when his bedtime arrived.

Catherine was fat, freckled, and French. She was also of a very
stolid disposition. She stumped unconcernedly along the "Passage
of Terrors," and any reference to its hidden dangers of robbers,
hunchbacks, bears, and crocodiles only provoked the remark, "Quel
tas de betises!" In order to reassure the little boy, Catherine
took him to view the stuffed crocodile reposing inertly under its
marble slab. Of course, before a grown-up the crocodile would
pretend to be dead and stuffed, but ... the little boy knew
better. It occurred gleefully to him, too, that the plump French
damsel might prove more satisfactory as a repast to a hungry
saurian than a skinny little boy with thin legs. In the cheerful
nursery, with its fragrant peat fire (we called it "turf"), the
terrors of the evening were quickly forgotten, only to be renewed
with tenfold activity next evening, as the moment for making the
dreaded journey again approached.

The little boy had had the Pilgrim's Progress read to him on
Sundays. He envied "Christian," who not only usually enjoyed the
benefit of some reassuring companion, such as "Mr. Interpreter,"
or "Mr. Greatheart," to help him on his road, but had also been
expressly told, "Keep in the midst of the path, and no harm shall
come to thee." This was distinctly comforting, and Christian
enjoyed another conspicuous advantage. All the lions he
encountered in the course of his journey were chained up, and
could not reach him provided he adhered to the Narrow Way. The
little boy thought seriously of tying a rolled-up tablecloth to
his back to represent Christian's pack; in his white suit, he
might perhaps then pass for a pilgrim, and the strip of carpet
down the centre of the passage would make an admirable Narrow Way,
but it all depended on whether the crocodile, bears, and
hunchbacks knew, and would observe the rules of the game. It was
most improbable that the crocodile had ever had the Pilgrim's
Progress read to him in his youth, and he might not understand
that the carpet representing the Narrow Way was inviolable
territory. Again, the bears might make their spring before they
realised that, strictly speaking, they ought to consider
themselves chained up. The ferocious little hunchbacks were
clearly past praying for; nothing would give them a sense of the
most elementary decency. On the whole, the safest plan seemed to
be, on reaching the foot of the stairs, to keep an eye on the
distant lamp and to run to it as fast as short legs and small feet
could carry one. Once safe under its friendly beams, panting
breath could be recovered, and the necessary stolid look assumed
before entering the hall.

There was another voyage, rich in its promise of ultimate rewards,
but so perilous that it would only be undertaken under escort.
That was to the housekeeper's room through a maze of basement
passages. On the road two fiercely-gleaming roaring pits of fire
had to be encountered. Grown-ups said this was the furnace that
heated the house, but the little boy had his own ideas on the
subject. Every Sunday his nurse used to read to him out of a
little devotional book, much in vogue in the "sixties," called The
Peep of Day, a book with the most terrifying pictures. One Sunday
evening, so it is said, the little boy's mother came into the
nursery to find him listening in rapt attention to what his nurse
was reading him.

"Emery is reading to me out of a good book," explained the small
boy quite superfluously.

"And do you like it, dear?"

"Very much indeed."

"What is Emery reading to you about? Is it about Heaven?"

"No, it's about 'ell," gleefully responded the little boy, who had
not yet found all his "h's."

Those glowing furnace-bars; those roaring flames ... there could
be no doubt whatever about it. A hymn spoke of "Gates of Hell" ...
of course they just called it the heating furnace to avoid
frightening him. The little boy became acutely conscious of his
misdeeds. He had taken ... no, stolen an apple from the nursery
pantry and had eaten it. Against all orders he had played with the
taps in the sink. The burden of his iniquities pressed heavily on
him; remembering the encouraging warnings Mrs. Fairchild, of The
Fairchild Family, gave her offspring as to their certain ultimate
destiny when they happened to break any domestic rule, he simply
dared not pass those fiery apertures alone. With his hand in that
of his friend Joseph, the footman, it was quite another matter.
Out of gratitude, he addressed Joseph as "Mr. Greatheart," but
Joseph, probably unfamiliar with the Pilgrim's Progress, replied
that his name was Smith.

The interminable labyrinth of passages threaded, the warm,
comfortable housekeeper's room, with its red curtains, oak presses
and a delicious smell of spice pervading it, was a real haven of
rest. To this very day, nearly sixty years afterwards, it still
looks just the same, and keeps its old fragrant spicy odour.
Common politeness dictated a brief period of conversation, until
Mrs. Pithers, the housekeeper, should take up her wicker key-
basket and select a key (the second press on the left). From that
inexhaustible treasure-house dates and figs would appear, also
dried apricots and those little discs of crystallised apple-paste
which, impaled upon straws, and coloured green, red and yellow,
were in those days manufactured for the special delectation of
greedy little boys. What a happy woman Mrs. Pithers must have been
with such a prodigal wealth of delicious products always at her
command! It was comforting, too, to converse with Mrs. Pithers,
for though this intrepid woman was alarmed neither by bears,
hunchbacks nor crocodiles, she was terribly frightened by what she
termed "cows," and regulated her daily walks so as to avoid any
portion of the park where cattle were grazing. Here the little boy
experienced a delightful sense of masculine superiority. He was
not the least afraid of cattle, or of other things in daylight and
the open air; of course at night in dark passages infested with
bears and little hunchbacks ... Well, it was obviously different.
And yet that woman who was afraid of "cows" could walk without a
tremor, or a little shiver down the spine, past the very "Gates of
Hell," where they roared and blazed in the dark passage.

Our English home had brightly-lit passages, and was consequently
practically free from bears and robbers. Still, we all preferred
the Ulster home in spite of its obvious perils. Here were a chain
of lakes, wide, silvery expanses of gleaming water reflecting the
woods and hills. Here were great tracts of woodlands where
countless little burns chattered and tinkled in their rocky beds
as they hurried down to the lakes, laughing as they tumbled in
miniature cascades over rocky ledges into swirling pools, in their
mad haste to reach the placid waters below. Here were purple
heather-clad hills, with their bigger brethren rising mistily blue
in the distance, and great wine-coloured tracts of bog (we called
them "flows") interspersed with glistening bands of water, where
the turf had been cut which hung over the village in a thin haze
of fragrant blue smoke.

The woods in the English place were beautifully kept, but they
were uninteresting, for there were no rocks or great stones in
them. An English brook was a dull, prosaic, lifeless stream,
rolling its clay-stained waters stolidly along, with never a
dimple of laughter on its surface, or a joyous little gurgle of
surprise at finding that it was suddenly called upon to take a
headlong leap of ten feet. The English brooks were so silent, too,
compared to our noisy Ulster burns, whose short lives were one
clamorous turmoil of protest against the many obstacles with which
nature had barred their progress to the sea; here swirling over a
miniature crag, there babbling noisily among a labyrinth of
stones. They ultimately became merged in a foaming, roaring salmon
river, expanding into amber-coloured pools, or breaking into white
rapids; a river which retained to the last its lordly independence
and reached the sea still free, refusing to be harnessed or
confined by man. Our English brook, after its uneventful
childhood, made its stolid matter-of-fact way into an equally dull
little river which crawled inertly along to its destiny somewhere
down by the docks. I know so many people whose whole lives are
like that of that particular English brook.

We lived then in London at Chesterfield House, South Audley
Street, which covered three times the amount of ground it does at
present, for at the back it had a very large garden, on which
Chesterfield Gardens are now built. In addition to this it had two
wings at right angles to it, one now occupied by Lord Leconfield's
house, the other by Nos. 1 and 2, South Audley Street. The left-
hand wing was used as our stables and contained a well which
enjoyed an immense local reputation in Mayfair. Never was such
drinking-water! My father allowed any one in the neighbourhood to
fetch their drinking-water from our well, and one of my earliest
recollections is watching the long daily procession of men-
servants in the curious yellow-jean jackets of the "sixties," each
with two large cans in his hands, fetching the day's supply of our
matchless water. No inhabitants of Curzon Street, Great Stanhope
Street, or South Audley Street would dream of touching any water
but that from the famous Chesterfield House spring. In 1867 there
was a serious outbreak of Asiatic cholera in London, and my father
determined to have the water of the celebrated spring analysed.
There were loud protests at this:--what, analyse the finest
drinking-water in England! My father, however, persisted, and the
result of the analysis was that our incomparable drinking-water
was found to contain thirty per cent. of organic matter. The
analyst reported that fifteen per cent. of the water must be pure
sewage. My father had the spring sealed and bricked up at once,
but it is a marvel that we had not poisoned every single
inhabitant of the Mayfair district years before.

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