INTRODUCTION.

The story of the beautiful life which came to an end on the 5th of April, 1904, is told by Miss Cobbe herself in the following pages up to the close of 1898. Nothing is left for another pen but to sketch in the events of the few remaining years.

But first a word or two as to the origin of the book. One spring day in 1891 or ’92, when Miss Cobbe was walking with me through the Hengwrt grounds on my way to the station, after some hours spent in listening to her brilliant stories of men and things, I asked her if she would not some day write her autobiography. She stood still, laughing, and shook her head. Nothing in her life, she said, was of sufficient importance to record, or for other people to read. Naturally I urged that what had interested me so greatly would interest others, and that her life told by herself could not fail to make a delightful book. She still laughed at the idea; and the next time I saw her and repeated my suggestion, told me that she had not time for such an undertaking, and also that she did not think her friend, Miss Lloyd, would like it. At last, however, to my great satisfaction, I heard that the friends had talked the matter over, and were busily engaged in looking at old letters and records of past days, and both becoming interested in the retrospection. So the book

grew slowly into an accomplished fact, and Miss Cobbe often referred to it laughingly as “your” book, to which I replied that then I had not lived in vain! It is possible vithat the idea had occurred to her before; but she always gave me to understand that my persuasion had induced her to write the book. She came to enjoy writing it. Once when I said:—“I want you to tell us everything; all your love-stories—and everything!” she took me up to her study and read me the passage she had written in the 1st Chapter concerning such matters. The great success of the book was a real pleasure to both Miss Cobbe and her friend. She told me that it brought her more profit than any of her books. Most of them had merely a succès d’estime. Better still, it brought her a number of kindly letters from old and new friends, and from strangers in far off lands; and these proofs of the place she held in many hearts was a true solace to a woman of tender affections, who had to bear more than the usual share of the abuse and misrepresentation which always fall to those who

engage in public work and enter into public controversies.

The sorrow of Miss Lloyd’s death changed the whole aspect of existence for Miss Cobbe. The joy of life had gone. It had been such a friendship as is rarely seen—perfect in love, sympathy, and mutual understanding. No other friend—though Miss Cobbe was rich in friends—could fill the vacant place, and henceforward her loneliness was great even when surrounded by those she loved and valued. To the very last she could never mention the name of “my dear Mary,” or of her own mother, without a break in her voice. I remember once being alone with her in her study when she had been showing me boxes filled with Miss Lloyd’s letters. Suddenly she turned from me towards her bookshelves as though to look for something, and throwing up her arms cried, with a little sob, “My God! how lonely I am!”

It was always her custom, while health lasted, to rise early, and she often went to Miss Lloyd’s grave in the fresh viimorning hours, especially when she was in any trouble or perplexity. Up to within a few days of her death she had visited this—to her—most dear and sacred spot. Doubtless she seemed to find a closer communion possible with one who had been her counsellor in all difficulties, her helper in all troubles, at the graveside than elsewhere. She planted her choicest roses there, and watched over them with tender care. Now she rests beside her friend.

Yet this anguish of heart was bravely borne. There was nothing morbid in her grief. She took the same keen interest as before in the daily affairs of life—in politics and literature and social matters. There never was a nature more made for the enjoyment of social intercourse. She loved to have visitors, to take them for drives about her beautiful home, and to invite her neighbours to pleasant little luncheons and dinners to meet them. Especially she enjoyed the summer glories of her sweet old garden, and liked to give an occasional garden party, and still oftener to take tea with her friends under the shade of the big cherry tree on the lawn. How charming a hostess she was no one who has ever enjoyed her hospitality can forget. “A good talk” never lost its zest for her; until quite the end she would throw off langour and fatigue under the spell of congenial companionship, and her talk would sparkle with its old brilliance—her laugh ring with its old gaiety.

Her courtesy to guests was perfect. When they happened not to be in accord with her in their views upon Vivisection (which was always in these years the chief object of her work and thought), she never obtruded the question, and it was her rule not to allow it to be discussed at table. It was too painful and serious a subject to be an accompaniment of what she thought should be one of the minor pleasures of life. For though intensely religious, viiithere was no touch of the ascetic in Miss Cobbe’s nature. She enjoyed everything; and guests might come and go and never dream that the genial, charming hostess, who deferred to their opinions on art or music or books, who conversed so brilliantly on every subject which came up, was all the time engaged in a hand to hand struggle against an evil which she believed to be sapping the courage and consciences of English men and women.

It is pleasant to look back upon sunny hours spent among the roses she loved, or under the fine old trees she never ceased to admire; upon the gay company gathered round the tea-table in the dark-panelled hall of Hengwrt; best of all, on quiet twilight talks by the fireside or in the great window of her drawing-room watching the last gleams of sunset fade from hill and valley, and the stars come out above the trees. But it is sadly true that the last few years of Miss Cobbe’s life were not as peacefully happy as one would have loved to paint them to complete the pleasant picture she had drawn in 1894. Even her cheery optimism would hardly have led her to write that she would “gladly have lived over again” this last decade.

The pain of separating herself from the old Victoria Street Society was all the harder to bear because it came upon her when the loss of Miss Lloyd was still almost fresh. Only those who saw much of her during that anxious spring of 1898 can understand how bitter was this pain. Miss Cobbe has sometimes been blamed for—as it is said—causing the division. But in truth, no other course was possible to one of her character. When the alternative was to give up a principle which she believed vital to the cause of Anti-Vivisection, or to withdraw from her old Society, no one who knew Miss Cobbe could doubt for an instant which course she would take. It was deeply pathetic to see the brave old veteran of this crusade brace up her failing strength to ixmeet the trial, resolved that she would never lower the flag she had upheld for five-and-twenty years. It was a lesson to those who grow discouraged after a few disappointments, and faint-hearted at the first failure. This, it seems to me, was the strongest proof Miss Cobbe’s whole life affords of

her wonderful mental energy. Few men, well past 70, when the work they have begun and brought to maturity is turned into what they feel to be a wrong direction, have courage to begin again and lay the foundations of a new enterprise. Miss Cobbe has herself told the story of how she founded the “British Union;” and I dwell upon it here only because it shows the intensity of her conviction that Vivisection was an evil thing which she must oppose to the death, and with which no compromise was possible. She did not flinch from the pain and labour and ceaseless anxiety which she plainly foresaw. She never said—as most of us would have held her justified in saying—“I have done all I could. I have spent myself—time, money, and strength—in this fight. Now I shall rest.” She took no rest until death brought it to her. Probably few realise the immense sacrifices Miss Cobbe made when she devoted herself to the unpopular cause which absorbed the last 30 years of her life. It was not only money and strength which were given. She lost many friends, and much social

influence and esteem. This was no light matter to a woman who valued the regard of her fellows, and had heartily enjoyed the position she had won for herself in the world of letters. She often spoke sadly of this loss, though I am sure that she never for an instant regretted that she had come forward as the helper of the helpless.

From 1898 until the last day of her life the interests of the new Society occupied her brain and pen. It was at this time that I became more closely intimate with her than before. Her help and encouragement of those who worked xunder her were unfailing. No detail was too trifling to bring to her consideration. Her immense knowledge of the whole subject, her great experience and ready judgment were always at one’s service. She soon had the care of all the branches of the Union on her shoulders; she kept all the threads in her hand, and the particulars of each small organisation clear in her mind. For myself, I can bear this testimony. Never once did Miss Cobbe urge upon me any step or course of action which I seriously disliked. When, on one or two occasions, I ventured to object to her view of what was best, she instantly withdrew her suggestion, and left me a free hand. If there were times when one felt that she expected more than was possible, or when she showed a slight impatience of one’s mistakes or failures, these were as

nothing compared with her generous praise for the little one achieved, her warm congratulation for any small success. It was indeed easy to be loyal to such a chief!

Much of Miss Cobbe’s leisure time during the years after Miss Lloyd’s death was spent in reading over the records of their old life. I find the following passage in a letter of December, 1900:—

“I have this last week broken open the lock of an old note-book of my dear Mary’s, kept about 1882–85. Among many things of deep interest to me are letters to and from various people and myself on matters of theology, which I used to show her, and she took the trouble to copy into this book, along with memoranda of our daily life. It is unspeakably touching to me, you may well believe, to find our old life thus revived, and such tokens of her interest in my mental problems. I think several of the letters would be rather interesting to others, and perhaps useful.”

There remain in my possession an immense number of letters, carefully arranged in packets and docketed, to and xifrom Miss Lloyd, Lord Shaftesbury, Theodore Parker, Fanny Kemble, and others. These have all been read through lately by Miss Cobbe, and endorsed to that effect. Up to the very end Miss Cobbe’s large correspondence was kept up punctually. She always found time to answer a letter, even on quite trivial matters; and among the mass which fell into my hands on her death were recent letters from America, India, Australia, South Africa, and all parts of England, asking for advice on many subjects, thanking for various kindnesses, and expressing warm affection and admiration for the pioneer worker in so many good causes. With all these interests, her life was very full. Nothing that took place in the world of politics, history, or literature, was indifferent to her. She never lost her pleasure in reading, though her eyes gave her some trouble of late years. At night, two books—generally Biography, Egyptology, Biblical Criticism, or Poetry—were placed by her

bedside for study in the wakeful hours of the early morning. In spite of all these resources within herself, she sorely missed the companionship of kindred spirits. She was, as I have said, eminently fitted for the enjoyment of social life, and had missed it after she left London for North Wales. Up to the last, even when visitors tired her, she was mentally cheered and refreshed by contact with those who cared for the things she cared for.

In the winter of 1901–2 she was occupied in bringing out a new edition of her first book, “The Theory of Intuitive Morals.” She wrote thus of it to me at the time:—

“I have resolved not to leave the magnum opus of my small literary life out of print, so I am arranging to reprint ‘Intuitive Morals,’ with my essay on ‘Darwinism in Morals’ at the end of it, and a new Preface, so that when I go out of the world, this, my Credo for moral xiiscience and religion, will remain after me. Nobody but myself could correct it or preface it.... As I look back on it now, I feel glad to be able to re-circulate it, though very few will read anything so dry! It was written just 50 years ago, and I am able to say with truth that I have not seen reason to abandon the position I then took, although the ‘cocksureness’ of 30 can never be maintained to 80!”

During the same winter, Miss Cobbe joined the Women’s Liberal Federation, moved to take this decided step not only by her strong disapproval of the war in South Africa, but by her belief that the then existing government was in opposition to all the movements which she longed to see carried forward. Her accession to their ranks met with a warm welcome from the President and Committee of the Women’s Liberal Federation, many of whom were already her personal friends. To the end she kept in close touch with all that concerned women; and only a few days before her death, was asked to allow her name to be given to the Council as an Honorary Vice-President of the National Union of Women Workers of Great Britain and Ireland.

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 xiiime 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 xivwere 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:

“... 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.”

“... It is so nice to think I am missed and wanted! If I do get back to Hengwrt, we must manage to see more xvof 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:—