In the summer of 1902 an incident occurred—small in itself, but causing such intense mortification to Miss Cobbe that it cannot be passed over in any true account of the closing years of her life. In fact, those who saw most of her at the time, and knew her best, believe that she never recovered from the effects of it. A charge was brought against her of cruelly overdriving an old horse—a horse which had been a special pet. The absurdity of such a charge was the first thing that struck those who heard of it; but to Miss Cobbe it came as a personal insult of the cruellest kind. The charge was pressed on with what looked like malicious vindictiveness, and though it failed, the intention to give her pain did not fail. She wrote to me at the time that she was “wounded to the quick.” The insult to her character, the attempt to throw discredit upon her life’s work for the protection of animals from suffering, the unchivalrousness of such an attack upon an old and lonely woman—all this embittered the very springs of her life, and for a time she felt as if she could not stay any longer in a neighbourhood where such a thing had been possible. The results were very grievous for all who loved her, as well as for herself. It had been one of her pleasantest recreations to drive by the lovely road—which was full of associations to her—between Hengwrt and Barmouth, to spend two or three hours enjoying the sea air and sunshine, and the society of the old friends who were delighted to meet her there. To Barmouth also she had a few years previously bequeathed her library, and had taken great interest and pleasure in the room prepared for the reception of her “dear books.” Yet it was in Barmouth that the blow was struck, and she never visited the little town again. It was pitiful! She had but a few more months to live, and this was what a little group of her enemies did to darken and embitter those few months!
On September 6th, she wrote to me:—
“This week I have had to keep quite to myself. I am, of course, enduring now the results of the strain of the previous weeks, and they are bad enough. The recuperative powers of 80 are—nil! My old friends, Percy Bunting and his wife, offered themselves for a few days last week, and I could not bear to refuse their offer. As it proved, his fine talk on all things to me most interesting—modern theological changes, Higher Criticism, etc.—and her splendid philanthropy on the lines I once humbly followed (she is the leading woman on the M.A.B.Y.S., which I had practically founded in Bristol forty years ago), made me go back years of life, and seem as if I were once more living in the blessed Seventies.... Altogether, their visit, though it left me quite exhausted, did my brains and my heart good. O! what friends I once had! How rich I was! How poor I am now!”
In October of that year she decided to leave Hengwrt for the winter. It was a great effort. She had not left her home for eight years, and dreaded the uprooting. But it was a wise move. One is glad now to remember how happy Miss Cobbe was during that winter in Clifton. She lived over again the old days of her work in Bristol with Mary Carpenter; visited the old scenes, and noted the changes that had taken place. Some old friends were left, and greatly she enjoyed their company. At Clifton she had many more opportunities of seeing people engaged in the pursuits which interested her than in her remote Welsh home. Her letters at that time were full of renewed cheeriness. I quote a few sentences:
“November 13th.
“... I hope you have had as beautiful bright weather as we have had here, and been able to get some walks on the mountain. Now I can no longer ‘take a walk,’ I know how much such exercise helped me of old, mentally and morally, quite as much as physically. I see a good many old friends here, and a few new ones, and my niece comes to tea with me every afternoon. They are all very kind, and make more of me than I am worth; but it is a City of the Dead to me, so many are gone who were my friends long ago; and what is harder to bear is that when I was here last, eight or ten years ago, I was always thinking of returning home, and writing daily all that happened to dear Mary—and now, it is all a blank.”
“November 16th.
“... It is so nice to think I am missed and wanted! If I do get back to Hengwrt, we must manage to see more of each other.... I have come to the conclusion that for such little time as may remain for me, I will not shut myself up again, and if I am at all able for it, I will return home very early in the spring. I see a good many nice, kind people here, old friends and new, and I have nice rooms; but I sadly miss my own home and, still more, garden. And the eternal noise of a town, the screaming children and detestable hurdy-gurdies, torment my ears after their long enjoyment of peace—and thrushes.... I am shocked to find that people here read nothing but novels; but they flock to any abstruse lectures, e.g., those of Estlin Carpenter on Biblical Criticism. I have just had an amusing experience—a journalist sent up to gather my views as to changes in Bristol in the last forty years. Goodness knows what a hash he will make of them!”
During this autumn, the thought occurred to me that as Miss Cobbe’s 80th birthday was at hand, a congratulatory address from the men and women who appreciated the work she had done for humanity and the lofty, spiritual influence of her writings, might cheer her, and help to remove some of the soreness of heart which the recent trouble at Barmouth had left behind. Through the kind help of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting and Mr. Verschoyle in England, and of Miss Schuyler and Mrs. Wister in America, an address was drawn up, and a notable list of signatures quickly and most cordially affixed to it. The address was as follows:—
“To FRANCES POWER COBBE