Dear Dorothy—We came down here with our own horses; the first time for many years. How delightful after railroads! We baited at Gerrard’s Cross, twenty miles from town, and then strolled into Bulstrode Park to see the new house the Duke of Somerset is building in that long-neglected but enchanting spot. There, though they told us we should find nobody but the clerk of the works, we found the Duke and Duchess, who had come down for a couple of hours by rail from Slough, and so they lionised us over all their new creation, which is a happy and successful one—a Tudor pile, very seemly and convenient, and built amid the old pleasance which I described thirty years ago in Henrietta Temple; for Bulstrode, then mansionless and deserted, was the origin of Armine. Excuse this egotism, the characteristic of scribblers even when they had left off work. Adieu, dear Dorothy.
D.
OLD COUNTRY LIFE
In the days when landlords were able to live upon their estates and were content with a more or less simple country life, enlivened only by an occasional party of their friends, the country house was no inconsiderable political force. The views of its possessor, indeed, greatly influenced the neighbourhood, whilst as a rule a fairly contented tenantry followed their landlord—Whig or Tory—and voted according to his lead; besides this they took a genuine interest in everything which concerned him or his family. To-day this has ceased to be, for the rich city men or American millionaires are but seldom in touch with those living around their mansions, hired either for sport or pleasure. The modern standpoint as regards country life is well demonstrated by the remark of a lady whose husband had bought a country house, and was told that some pleasant people lived in the country-side near by. “Pleasant or not, it matters little to us,” was the retort; “we shan’t see anything of them,—we shall get our friends down from London with the fish.” Nor is such a standpoint to be wondered at when it is remembered how little a permanent resident in the country can be in touch with those whose whole life is a rush for pleasure and amusement, a habit of which they not unnaturally cannot divest themselves even when far away from town. Formerly country-house life was very quiet, perhaps even humdrum, but within the last thirty or forty years it has undergone a complete transformation.
In old days the possessors were wont to reside upon their estates for the greater portion of the year, whilst the people who hire country houses merely run down for week-ends in the summer and shooting parties in the winter.
The modern practice of letting one’s country house would have appalled the landed proprietors of other days when such a thing was yet undreamt of. There was then, of course, a real bond of connection (very often one of respectful sympathy) between a landlord and his tenants, which, except on a very few estates, has now quite ceased to exist.
At present the majority of country squires are far too poor to resist letting their places, which are naturally regarded much in the light of a commercial asset, their sale-value for the most part consisting in their capacity for affording some city magnate or American millionaire the shooting or hunting necessary to amuse him in the intervals of a life of business and speculation. Country life, or rather short spells of it, has now become a sort of luxury of the rich; but few of any considerable means care to reside for long periods in the country, as was the case in old days when people regularly settled down there.
In the late Lord Bath’s time I used to go a great deal to Longleat, the beautiful palace—for it is little less—built by Sir John Thynne, the favourite of Somerset, some of whose letters beginning “Edward, Protector by the Grace of God,” are still preserved in the house. The fourth Lord Bath was very much interested in politics, and many interesting people used to assemble under his hospitable roof. I well remember being at Longleat on the occasion of an election at which the present Lord Bath was standing as a candidate. His successful election was greatly assisted, every one in the house believed, by a canvasser of a race which has always been prominently to the front in political matters—a donkey—over whose back two panniers were slung, in each of which reclined one of Lord Weymouth’s children, whilst the legend, “Vote for Papa,” was prominently displayed.
Lady Bath and her husband were the very perfection of what a host and hostess should be, and besides the social pleasures of these visits there was always the beautiful park to drive about in, a veritable feast to the eye in itself, especially the picturesque spot very appropriately known as “Heaven’s Gate.”
HINCHINGBROOKE