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The whole of his study was full of books, arranged in subjects with immense care. Classics, hymnology, Theology and general literature. Over the Patristic class was inscribed, "Ex veris possunt nil nisi vera sequi." Over the classical books was TIC АMOKYɅICEI HMIN1. Over the Old Testament was "a longe aspicientes et salutantes." Over the Historical section was "aut facta scribere, aut scribenda facere," over a section dealing with Oriental and other religions "vario discrimine caeli tendimus," over the shelves that contained New Testament commentaries was ПICTOC Ο ΚΑΛΩΝ.

There were several tables used for different purposes; but his own special table was near the door and opposite to it, so that anyone entering the room, tumbling perhaps over the sandbag placed to exclude draughts, fell into the presence of the Primate as he sat facing the door; in this room all sorts of little curious mementoes, family trifles, and odds and ends accumulated. Henry Martyn's riding whip was over the mantelpiece; a plaster statuette of Newton with an Egyptian charm hung round the neck; a marble clock with a bronze statuette of a sitting nymph, which my father loved because of its exceeding ugliness. Any trifling presents that we gave him were always carefully arranged and displayed here, and he never failed to notice the absence of any familiar object. There were four great windows looking out, over the lawn and meadows, to quiet pastoral hills on which he loved to rest his eyes.

The packing up in this room of things to go to Lambeth was always a solemn function, and it took all his odd moments for days to complete this to his satisfaction. He had a tall chest of drawers that went to and fro and I remember once when he had mislaid some precious

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'Who will roll away for us [the stone]?" Mk. xvi. 3. 2 Heb. xi. 13.

B. I.

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3 "Faithful is he that calleth," 1 Thess. v. 24. 37

object, seeing him searching for it just after he had finished his packing, and turning out of the drawers all sorts of odd things that he had packed in to prevent, as he said, "the things churning about."

At the end of the study a tall door led into the Chapel, which, out of a bare room, he had made into a very seemly sanctuary, as he describes in his Diary. The altar was vested with fabrics unusual but effective. The East end was hung with the levitical colours in striped curtains of plush. His own stall had curtains "for state not for use" as he said.

The three eastern windows had a Crucifixion and SS. Edward and Augustine, given him by his old friend Canon Wickenden, the glass representing the Crucifixion having been used in a similar way in his chapels at Lincoln and at Truro. Over the East window was a fresco, of Christ in glory with the book of the Seven Seals in his hand. Characteristically my father insisted that the book should be unconventionally of a deep blue and that the stars of the background should be grouped and irregularly spaced.

Everything was done in the most seemly way but without elaborate ritual. Even when celebrating alone my father always read Epistle and Gospel from the proper stations. To the left of the altar were a plain wooden Archiepiscopal Cross' and a Pastoral Staff. The credence3 was supported on the mahogany pillars that had sustained the foundation stone of Wellington College.

At the South-Eastern corner of the house was a large room which was always called the schoolroom, used by my sisters as a sitting-room, and where, when alone, we had a nursery tea presided over by "Beth," who had nursed my mother and all her brothers, as well as all of us. Beth,

1 Now in the Parish Church of Pateley Bridge, Yorkshire.

2 Now in the Morning Chapel, Lincoln Cathedral.

3 Now in the Chapel of Wellington College.

who could never bring herself to address my father except as "Sir," always insisted on nursing him when he was ill with affectionate severity and much persuasive speech.

The floor above was approached by a hideous staircase, of the plainest Victorian character: I once commented adversely upon the appearance of this staircase and said. that it looked like that of a "workhouse." My father never forgot this criticism: it rankled in his mind, and he had the walls painted a light green, in spite of my protest, saying that it resembled a workhouse in one respect, that the expense entailed upon him by trying to bring it up to my aesthetic standard would certainly land us there. The railing of the gallery leading to the bedrooms was insecure, but he refused to have it mended, saying that when the Church was disestablished, and Addington confiscated, the sacrilegious spoilers of the house would come and lean upon it, and be precipitated into the hall, "and would all be killed." The walls were hung below with engravings of Archbishops and personal friends, and above with Arundels, in frames with moveable backs so that they could be periodically changed.

All the bedrooms had names either like "Wellington," commemorating places connected with my father's life, or referring to the pictures that they contained. My father was for ever adding pictures to the bedrooms, and having them hung under his personal superintendence.

My father always sighed and hankered after Addington when in London; he would go and picnic there at Whitsuntide or run down for a Sunday if he could. He imagined that his health and spirits were better there than at Lambeth, but it was not the case: he was often ill and more often depressed at Addington; while at Lambeth, though he groaned over his work, he was usually in good health and spirits: for he was suited for the fray.

Stately, beautiful and dignified as Lambeth is, it was never deeply loved by my father; the associations that he had with it were of hard unrelieved work, anxious interviews, momentous meetings; it was to him an official residence, whereas Addington was a home.

It has never been my lot to live in such an agreeable house as Lambeth; quite apart from its dignity, its associations, its beauty, it is wonderfully well-planned, cool in summer, warm in winter. The Northern outlook into a spacious and beautiful garden with a broad bowlinggreen, thickets and winding walks, sumachs and elms, is unique in London. The garden was my father's great delight; he loved to steal a few minutes' quiet there and to observe the wood-pigeons that made it their home. It was a peaceful enough place to walk in, even when the adjoining fields were full of shrieking children, but not satisfactory as a garden, for everything that one picked or smelt left black marks on fingers and nose. The roar of London only came there as a faint monotonous undertone of subdued sound.

The house itself was greatly improved by my father, who furnished it more completely than it had ever been furnished; he had search made, and indeed himself routed about in cupboards and garrets and dragged to light innumerable old chairs, chests and settees of beautiful and costly design, which had been allowed to drift out of sight, and which when restored furnished the great corridors. He discovered in one of the towers a rusty bundle of the pikes which were anciently carried before the Archbishop and are so represented in old pictures; these he had cleaned and displayed in a fan on the wall of the great entrance. He despoiled the great gallery, a most desolate useless place, where draughts and dust held undisputed sway of many interesting pictures which he had cleaned and placed in more favourable situations in the central corridor.

THE GARDEN FRONT, LAMBETH PALACE.

From a drawing by L. Beatrice Thompson.

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To face page 580, vol. i

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