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                               MARY BOYLE

                                HER BOOK




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[Illustration:

  SVB SOLE VANITAS
]


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                               MARY BOYLE

                                HER BOOK



                 EDITED BY SIR COURTENAY BOYLE, K.C.B.





                            Publisher’s Logo




                                 LONDON
                   JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
                                  1901


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                                   TO

                      MY TWO WELL-BELOVED COUSINS

                     GERTRUDE (COUNTESS OF KENMARE)

                                  AND

                           LADY SARAH SPENCER

           WHOSE HEARTS, HANDS AND HOMES ARE EVER OPEN TO ME,

                THESE PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

                                   BY

                               MARY BOYLE

                              (“VANESSA”)




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                         EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION


These sketches of my dear aunt’s life were begun by her only a few years
before she died. The discretion as to their publication was left to
those on whose judgment she relied, and at their request I have
undertaken to prepare the sketches for presentation to the public, and
to add to them here and there a few explanatory notes of my own.

I have left her chapters almost exactly as she wrote them. They are well
described in her Preface, and are very characteristic of herself. Like a
light-winged butterfly she flits from flower to flower, resting long on
none, nor caring to return to what she had apparently only quitted for a
moment. As is natural to one writing after a lapse of years, she refers
within the space of a page or two to events which happened at wide
intervals of time.

She dwells with pardonable pride on her love for the drama and the
dance. Those who knew well her proficiency in these will prefer to let
their memory rest on the brilliant wit and imperturbable good nature
which made her a welcome guest in many societies. As a girl she had many
opportunities of sharing in the Court life of her own country and more
than one continental state. Later she became intimate with literary men
of the highest position. All through her life she had the _entrée_ to
many pleasant country houses, in which were gathered men of influence in
affairs, and clever and amusing women full of knowledge of the events of
the society in which they moved. She was everywhere popular, and this
was not a little due to the fact that she hated scandal and eschewed
gossip. She could not be ill-natured if she chose. Probably the severest
thing she ever uttered was said of a young man who, seeking a greater
prominence than he deserved, had somehow trodden on her toes. “Well,
but, Mary, you must at any rate admit that he is a good mimic.” “Is he?
then I wish he would always imitate some one else.” I have reason to
believe she even repented this.

In my father’s house there was ever a room allotted to her and known by
her name. It was occasionally my privilege to occupy it, and to read her
collection of volumes of many sorts and many styles. It was there that I
read much of Landor, Browning and Mrs Browning, and all, or nearly all,
the novels of G. P. R. James, whom she called her literary godfather,
and whose influence is traceable in her novels of “A State Prisoner” and
“The Foresters.”

With my father’s children, when we were children, she was the object of
the keenest admiration and the warmest love. She joyed in our joys, and
soothed our sorrows with unfailing tact. In later years it was a source
of no little regret to us that her roving life and somewhat restless
disposition deprived us of some opportunities of returning the care she
lavished on us when we were young.

I am probably not alone in wishing that she had written more than she
did. The two novels to which I have referred have nothing to lose in
comparison with those of later writers, who have had a far wider
circulation than she. Graceful and graphic, they are marked by a purity
of plot and a delicacy of taste which make no attempt to season pleasure
with offence. She was not of those who consider it impossible to
interest or amuse without the introduction if not of that which is
unclean, at least of that which is bizarre. Later in life she produced a
short sketch of character called “Tangled Weft,” which probably would
have been more widely read had it been less refined.[1]

Footnote 1:

  She also wrote a small volume of Poems, “My Portrait Gallery and other
  Poems.” Dedicated to Walter Savage Landor. Privately printed in
  London, 1849.

A kindly critic in the _Athenæum_ of April 1890, immediately after her
death, described her conversation as having a charm that was
indescribable and perhaps unique. This was probably so. In her, judgment
and good sense were as solid as her shafts of wit were keen. She never
was the victim, happily for her, of the unreasoning adulation, which so
cruelly affected the last years of the life of the most humorous as well
as the wittiest Irishman whom it has ever been my good fortune to meet.
I knew Father Healy when his life was spent among his friends. I knew
him also when he was the idol of a flattering throng, who knew not what
they worshipped. Often have I seen him crushed into silence by the
persistence of admirers who would never let him utter three words on any
subject without beginning to laugh before he could get out with the
fourth. Mary Boyle, perhaps because she frequented the society of only
those who were friends, was not expected to drop pearls whenever she
spoke.

In her letters it is possible that an equal charm might be found. But it
would require some patience in seeking; for her handwriting had
undoubted peculiarities. “We had a committee on your letter, dear Mary,”
once wrote an intimate friend. “We placed it on a table and sat round
it, and by dint of looking at it from every point of view we really made
out a good deal.” Notwithstanding the difficulty, however, some of those
who, like Charles Dickens, Lord Tennyson, and Browning, loved to
correspond with her, kept up an exchange of letters which ended only
with death.

If my aunt had lived to finish these chapters, the title she desired to
apply to them might have been appropriate. As it is, they can scarcely
be considered an autobiography. There are lacking, too, references to
several houses[2] where she was a frequent guest, and to many circles of
friends whose gatherings she helped to make merry. I miss, especially,
allusions to Ireland, and above all to that happy shore, “washed by the
farthest” lake, where to my knowledge she spent many days of unalloyed
enjoyment. Her close friendship with Lady Marian Alford, the “your
Marian” of Lord Tennyson’s verses, is not mentioned.[3] But of the
society which Lady Marian loved to gather around her Mary Boyle was a
welcome member. It was at Ashridge that some years before the present
Bishop of Ely put on Lawn there flashed forth one of those keen answers
with which she often delighted her hearers. They were discussing some
important point of High Church—Low Church—Moderate Church. As luncheon
was announced a prudent critic of the discussion said, “Well, after all,
it is very true that _via media securum iter_.” “You don’t know what
that means, Mary?” “Oh, yes, I do! that is what Lord Alwynne says,
‘caution is the way to secure a mitre.’”

Footnote 2:

  _See_ Supplementary Chapter.

Footnote 3:

  _See_ Supplementary Chapter.

After my father’s death in 1868 Mary Boyle established herself in a
small house in South Audley Street. James Russell Lowell, one of the
many brilliant men who both got and gave pleasure by a visit to her tiny
rooms, says of it: “No knock could surprise the modest door of what she
called her _bonbonnière_, for it opened and still opens to let in as
many distinguished persons, and what is better, as many devoted friends
as any in London.” This was written in 1888, the last year of her
occupancy, and two years before her death. “Miss Mary Boyle,” he goes on
to say, “bears no discoverable relation to dates. As nobody ever knew
how old the Countess of Desmond was, so nobody can tell how young Miss
Mary Boyle is. However long she may live, hers can never be that most
dismal of fates to outlive her friends while cheerfulness, kindliness,
cleverness, and all the other good nesses have anything to do with the
making of them.” She certainly had the faculty, a somewhat rare one, of
making as well as keeping friends. I have met in the wee chamber, which
she was wont to call a drawing-room, men of three generations all coming
within the category to which Mr Lowell refers.

[Illustration:

  “THE BONBONNIÈRE”, 22 SOUTH AUDLEY STREET.
]

Nor were her guests all of one sex. Neither her cleverness nor her
kindliness alone would have sufficed to keep the friendship of the many
women who loved her till her death. Together they did. So her rooms were
filled with those who were lovely and brilliant as well as those who
were learned and clever. The friendship which Mary Boyle maintained with
men of distinction in many spheres of life lasted for a long period of
years. Mr Lowell in the passage I have quoted was preparing for
publication some letters which were written to her by Walter Savage
Landor.[4] Those who wish to read these letters in full may find them in
the _Century Magazine_ for February 1888. “They are most interesting,”
says Lowell, “and have more clearly the stamp of the writer’s character
than many of Goethe’s to the Frau von Stein. They give an amiable
picture of him without his armour and in an undress, though never a
careless or slovenly one.” They are too long to be set out at length
here, but I may cite a few brief passages. The opening sentence of the
first especially commends itself to me. Lowell thinks it was written in
1842:

“Your letter is a most delightful ramble. I believe I must come and be
your writing-master. Certainly if I did nothing else by drilling, I
should make rank and file stand closer.”... “You ask me if I have ever
seen Burleigh? Yes, nearly half a century ago. Nevertheless I have not
forgotten its magnificence. No place ever struck me so forcibly. And
then the grounds!”...

Footnote 4:

  _See_ Supplementary Chapter.

“And so, Carissima, you want to know whether I shall be _glad_ to see
you or _sorry_ to see you on the twentieth. Well then—sorry—to _have_
seen you, glad, exultingly glad, to see you. And now I am resolved not
to tell you which I love best, Melcha or Mora.[5] Melcha colpisce
fortemente—Mora piu ancora s’innamora: I have broken my word to myself
all through you.”... “You see I have learnt to write from you—only I can
sometimes get three or four words into a line—which you can never do for
the life of you. But there are several in which I find two entire ones.
I do not like to spoil the context, otherwise I would order them to be
glazed and framed in gold.”...

Footnote 5:

  Names of two characters in a poetical drama, which she wrote, called
  the _Bridal of Melcha_.

“It is only this evening that I received the _Bridal of Melcha_. I do
not like to be an echo, but I am certain that I must be one in
expressing my admiration of it. To-night is our Fancy Ball. You should
be at it crowned with myrtle and bay. If I had opened the volume, but at
the very hour of meeting my friends there, I could not have refrained
from reading it through before I set out. It is indeed already late
enough, and I suspect past the post-office hour, adieu, Musa Grazia! and
call me in future anything but Dottissimo. Remember, you have a choice
of Issimi.”...

“It would grieve me to see religion and education taken out of the hands
of gentlemen and turned altogether, as it is in part, into those of the
uneducated and vulgar. I would rather see my own house pulled down than
a Cathedral. But if Bishops are to sit in the House of Lords as Barons,
voting against no corruption, against no cruelty, not even the
slave-trade, the people ere long will knock them on the head.
Conservative I am, but no less am I an _aristocratic radical_ like
yourself. I would eradicate all that vitiates our constitution in Church
and State, making room for the gradual growth of what altering times
require, but preserving the due ranks and orders of society, and even to
a much greater degree than most of the violent Tories are doing.”

... She was associated with Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Landor in a small
miscellany which Lord Northampton encouraged and edited in aid of the
surviving family of Edward Smedley. Her contribution, “My Father’s at
the Helm,” attracted a considerable amount of attention, and achieved
some popularity. Better judges than myself encourage me to reproduce it:

                “The hurricane was at its worst,
                  The waves dashed mountains high,
                 When from a gallant ship there burst
                  A loud despairing cry.

                 The Captain’s son sat on the deck,
                   A young and lovely child,
                 And when the crew foreboded wreck,
                   He shook his head and smiled.

                ’Mid groans of care and deep despair
                   And manhood’s bitter tear,
                 That gentle boy, all hope and joy,
                   Betrayed no signs of fear.

                 A mariner, who strove in vain
                   To nerve his troubled soul,
                 Thought of his wife and babes with pain,
                   Nor could his fears control—

                 Approached the boy and with a loud
                   And rough defiant tone,
                 ‘Tell me, and art thou then endowed
                   With courage all thine own?

                 Dar’st thou defy or doubt the sky
                   Hath power to overwhelm?’
                 The gentle child looked up and smiled
                   ‘My father’s at the helm.’

                 Oh, could we think as that blest child,
                   Whilst wandering here below,
                 We should not dread the tempest wild,
                   The storm of human woe!

                 The waves of misery might dash
                   Above our little bark,
                 And human wrath like lightning flash
                   Then leave our life track dark!

                 His soul all calm, no thoughts of harm
                   The Christian overwhelm,
                 Firm in the thought with safety fraught
                   His Father’s at the helm.”

Later in life she printed, for a limited circulation only, Historical
and Biographical Catalogues of the Pictures at Longleat, Hinchingbrooke,
Panshanger and Westonbirt, to which Lowell was probably right in
attributing a serious value.

Of all her writings it may be said that their chief charm consists in
their reproduction of herself. Standing alone they would have stood
strongly. They were meant for her friends, and to her friends, who were
many, they conveyed a pleasure which was largely due to connection
easily traceable between what was written and her who wrote.

The marriage in 1884 of her niece Audrey, the only daughter of my uncle
Charles, with Hallam Tennyson, increased the already keen friendship
between her and our last great poet. How intimate it was and how much he
valued it, may be gathered even by him who runs, from the stanzas which
he sent to her with one of his latest poems. She received them in the
spring of 1888 when still mourning the death of her friend Lady Marian
Alford.


                            SPRING-FLOWERS.

        “While you still delay to take
            Your leave of town,
         Our elm tree’s ruddy-hearted blossom-flake
            Is fluttering down.

         Be truer to your promise. There! I heard
            One cuckoo call.
         Be needle to the magnet of your word,
            Nor wait, till all

         Our vernal bloom from every vale and plain
            And garden pass,
         And all the gold from each laburnum chain
            Drop to the grass.

         Is memory with your Marian gone to rest,
            Dead with the dead?
         For ere she left us, when we met, you prest
            My hand, and said

         ‘I come with your spring-flowers!’ You came not, friend;
            My birds would sing,
         You heard not. Take then this spring-flower I send,
            This song of spring.

              *      *      *

         And you that now are lonely, and with grief
            Sit face to face,
         Might find a flickering glimmer of relief
            In change of place.

         What use to brood? This mingled life of pains
            And joys to me,
         Despite of every Faith and Creed, remains
            The Mystery.

              *      *      *

         The silver year should cease to mourn and sigh—
            Not long to wait—
         So close are we, dear Mary, you and I
            To that dim gate.”

Close indeed were they both “to that dim gate.” She died in April
1890—and in 1892 the great writer, and the still more kindly man,
answered the “one clear call,” and embarked to “meet his Pilot face to
face.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Thus far Sir Courtenay Boyle had written his Introduction to the Memoirs
when to him also came the “one clear call,” and he too embarked to “meet
his Pilot face to face.”[6]

Footnote 6:

  Sir Courtenay Boyle died 19th May 1901.

The papers which now form the Supplementary Chapter arrived too late. It
was his intention to have incorporated them in the book, and they would
doubtless have necessitated some slight modification in his
Introduction. I have preferred to leave his work as he left it, and keep
the supplementary papers separate.

                                                        MURIEL S. BOYLE.

_September 1901._


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  _J. Russell & Sons, photo._
  _Courtenay Boyle_
]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                PREFACE


I hope my readers, whether gentle or simple, will do me the favour to
read this Preface, as I wish to explain a little, perhaps apologise a
little, after the usual fashion of people who write their reminiscences.
According to custom, I had better begin by stating that it was at the
instigation of many personal friends, some of them men of literary
tastes and distinction, that I overcame my cowardice to embark on what
appeared to me a most hazardous enterprise; but one in which I have
found so much pleasure and relaxation—during hours of failing health and
growing blindness—that I have often been tempted to say, “Oh that these
pages might amuse the reader half as much as they have done the writer.”
The choice of a title, which, as Mr Motley in one of his delightful
letters says, ought to be “selling and telling” occupied me for a very
short time, as far as I myself was concerned. The name of “Vanessa” was
endeared to me by old recollections, for I had gained that _sobriquet_
on one occasion, when a goodly troop of friends and relations was
assembled in the country house of a dear cousin.

These companions “who did converse and waste the time together,”
enrolled themselves into a band and gave each other fanciful, and as
they considered at the time, appropriate names, or nicknames, what the
Italians might call Ottias. For instance, a much-loved member of my
family, “who looked well to the ways of her household,” and “ate not the
bread of idleness,” was christened “Melissa,” or the working-bee;
another, whose short-sight was one of his only shortcomings, was dubbed
“Belisarius,” while I was unanimously hailed as “Vanessa,” or the
Butterfly.

This circumstance, coupled with the love I had for all that was bright,
variegated, motley, for bright colours, bright flowers, bright scenes,
bright sunshine, made me resolve on the “Autobiography of a Butterfly.”
More than one friend argued against my choice, saying it conveyed a
wrong impression of my character and ways of thinking, inasmuch as it
sounded frivolous and superficial, but I do not think so; it appears to
me that the joyous flittings of a butterfly through a summer garden give
rather a suitable notion of a wandering, chequered life, replete with
light and happiness, or to make use of another metaphor, broken up into
bits like an ancient mosaic pavement containing many particles of gold,
with an incomplete pattern, so I have stood by my original title and
chosen for my emblem a butterfly on the gnomon of that dial, “which only
counts the hours that are serene”; for although in recording the days of
a long life, the shadow of sorrow and bereavement must necessarily fall
on some of the pages, yet it has been my earnest desire to dwell on the
brighter side of things—to interest and amuse, rather than to sadden or
depress.

In this my chronicle I have striven as far as in me lies to avoid
tedium, for is not tedium, either in writing or conversing, “the
unpardonable sin”?—likewise the two faults which I have so often
detected in the autobiography of others, viz. the pride that “apes
humility,” and all the while calls out to the reader (if I may be
allowed the vulgarism) “Am I not a fine fellow?” and the more palpable
self-conceit and egotism that asserts the fact boldly. Another lesson I
have learned in the writings of some of my predecessors, is to refrain
from saying bitter things of those who can no longer take me to task for
so doing, and from wounding the feelings of survivors who loved them.

One of the chief pleas which was urged on me, and which encouraged me to
write the following pages, was the fact that I had been on terms of
close and tender friendship with many great men, any mention of whom
would be welcome to my readers. But it is one thing to appreciate and
remember the delightful companionship of such eminent friends as I may
enumerate in these pages, and another to convey to others the faintest
idea of their individuality.

During the course of writing I have hit upon what appeared to me a novel
expedient. After carrying on my narrative to a certain point, I have
inserted detached chapters, treating of people and places which are
calculated in my opinion to interest the general reader, and that
without much reference to dates; indeed, as far as those terrible
stumbling-blocks are concerned, I plead guilty in many cases to
inaccuracy, offering as my excuse that I have never kept a continuous
journal, but rather have written a few spasmodic pages at intervals. One
more excuse, and I have done. In my blindness, I have been helped by
more than one kind and patient secretary, but I have sadly missed the
power of myself looking over the manuscript and detecting fault in style
or frequent tautology. For all these shortcomings I humbly beg pardon,
and earnestly desire to be forgiven.

                                                              “VANESSA.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                CONTENTS


                                                       PAGE
            EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION                        ix

            PREFACE                                     xxi

               CHAP.

                  I. BIRTH, PARENTAGE AND FAMILY           1

                 II. LIFE IN A DOCKYARD—FRIENDS,          15
                       FAVOURITES AND RETAINERS

                III. MY FIRST PLAY—MARRIAGE OF THE        25
                       DUKE OF CLARENCE—DEPARTURE FOR
                       SHEERNESS

                 IV. EARLY DRAMATIC                       33
                       RECOLLECTIONS—RESIDENCE AT
                       HAMPTON COURT

                  V. LIFE AT HAMPTON COURT                41

                 VI. OUR EXTRA HOMES                      51

                VII. MY GRANDMOTHER’S MAID                64

               VIII. OUR HOUSEHOLD                        73

                 IX. BRIGHTON—SCHOOLDAYS                  80

                  X. VISITS IN CUMBERLAND AND             92
                       LEICESTERSHIRE—ACCESSION OF
                       WILLIAM IV.

                 XI. FIRST CONTINENTAL TRAVELS—TURIN     103
                       AND GENOA

                XII. SUMMER AT THE BATHS OF LUCCA        115

               XIII. SHORT SOJOURN IN FLORENCE           125

                XIV. SUMMER AT NAPLES                    134

                 XV. PISA AND FLORENCE                   145

                XVI. RETURN TO ENGLAND—ACCESSION OF      158
                       QUEEN VICTORIA—HER CORONATION

               XVII. MILLARD’S HILL—TENBY—CHARLES        163
                       YOUNG AND A COURT BALL

              XVIII. 1844. TRIP TO THE CHANNEL           170
                       ISLANDS

                XIX. WHITTLEBURY                         179

                 XX. MUNICH—SECOND VISIT TO ITALY        187

                XXI. ARRIVAL IN ROME, 1846—OCTOBER       194
                       FESTIVALS AND “POSSESSO”

               XXII. SUMMER OF 1847—FLORENCE, VILLA      201
                       CAREGGI

              XXIII. RESIDENCE IN FLORENCE—CHARLES       210
                       LEVER—REVOLUTION, AND THE
                       BROWNINGS

               XXIV. LAST DAYS AT FLORENCE—RETURN TO     221
                       ENGLAND—MILLARD’S HILL,
                       LONDON, 1848

                XXV. ROCKINGHAM CASTLE—CHARLES           229
                       DICKENS

               XXVI. PROTECTIONIST PARTY AT BURGHLEY     244

              XXVII. ALTHORP                             253


                         SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER

            WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR                        262

            VISCOUNT STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE             265

            CARLYLE                                     267

            THE GROVE                                   269

            HINCHINGBROOKE                              272

            OSSINGTON                                   278

            ASHRIDGE                                    279

            WREST PARK                                  281


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


            _SUB SOLE VANITAS, from a drawing by E.  _Frontispiece_
              V. B._

            “THE BONBONNIÈRE,” 22 SOUTH AUDLEY          xiv
              STREET

            SIR COURTENAY BOYLE, _from a photograph      xx
              by J. Russell & Sons_

            MARY BOYLE, _from a picture by Madame         2
              Perugini_

            VICE-ADMIRAL THE HON. SIR COURTENAY           8
              BOYLE AND THE HON. LADY BOYLE

            HON. EDMUND BOYLE, AFTERWARDS EIGHTH         52
              EARL OF CORK, BORN 1787; HON. RICHARD
              BOYLE, ELDER BROTHER OF ABOVE, DIED
              YOUNG; HON. COURTENAY BOYLE, BORN
              1770, AFTERWARDS VICE-ADMIRAL, K.C.B.

            LONGLEAT                                     54

            MILLARD’S HILL, WITH “NARCISSUS” IN THE     164
              FOREGROUND, _from a drawing by E. V.
              B._

            GAD’S HILL                                  238

            BURGHLEY                                    244

            BOWOOD                                      250

            ALTHORP                                     254

            THE GROVE                                   270

            HINCHINGBROOKE                              272

            ASHRIDGE                                    280


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                               MARY BOYLE




                               CHAPTER I

                      BIRTH, PARENTAGE AND FAMILY


The nineteenth century was still in its teens when I first saw the
light. Let me pause, lest I make an inaccurate assertion, for I was born
on the 12th November, the month of fogs, in Margaret Street, Cavendish
Square, London, the home of fogs. It was under the sign Sagittarius,
whose patronage, combined with the tastes inherited from two
grandfathers, both masters of hounds, made me a “mighty huntress.”
“Tuesday’s child,” says the old adage, “is full of grace,” hence my
vocation for, and proficiency in, dancing. The motto of my natal month
is “fidelity in friendship”; my patron plant, the ivy, which almost
invariably clings to things nobler and loftier than itself. And truly in
this respect I have been more than commonly blessed, for, through many
adverse circumstances, the coffers of my heart have overflowed with the
treasures of friendship, and good measure pressed down and running over
has been cast into my bosom. It is usual, at the commencement of a
story, to give the description of the heroine, but a few words will
suffice in the present instance. In complexion and colouring I am very
fair, and have often flippantly remarked—

               “Angels were painted fair to look like me.”

Indeed, blondes have a great responsibility placed upon them, as in the
old story-books the fair women are very good and the brunettes very bad,
though I have not always found the distinction to be carried out in real
life. The other chief characteristic of my exterior is that I am very
diminutive, a subject on which I have been “chaffed” my life long. I
have often been induced to complain that as “Greenwich is the standard
for longitude, so Mary is the standard for shortitude.” In spite of
which, it has been a cherished vanity of mine that I have very long legs
in proportion to my height, and five feet and eight heads (_Anglice_) in
drawing, was the strange description I gave of myself to a friend, whose
natural rejoinder was, “What a very remarkable animal!”

One of my chief moral attributes was light-heartedness, and, as
Autolycus says:

                   “A merry heart goes many a league,
                   Your sad one tires in a mile”—

which is perhaps the reason of my having been an indefatigable walker.
From my earliest childhood I have had a decided predilection—I might
almost say passion—for all that is bright and brilliant, in garments,
furniture, decorations. The “sick turned up with sad” which a few years
ago held such universal sway in fashion, and which I devoutly hope is
now in the wane, never had any charms for me. Firmly believing as I do
that the colouring of our native island is not sufficiently cheering of
itself to dispense with cheerful adjuncts, I have wooed external
brightness, which does not seem unnatural to the tastes of a
“Butterfly.” But let me proceed with my narrative.

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration:

  _M Boyle_
]

[Sidenote: A NATIVE OF LONDON]

Being a native of London, I am an undoubted Cockney, a circumstance
which embittered many of my childish years, and although by no means of
an envious disposition, I assuredly envied my sister the privilege of
being born in a delightful old Queen Anne’s mansion, in a pretty room,
overhanging a broad gravel terrace, the windows of which were embowered
with roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle—Balls Park, the home of my uncle,
Lord John Townshend—and I have often upbraided my mother for not having
selected so delightful a spot for my entrance into the world.[7]

Footnote 7:

  Mary Louisa Boyle, born November 1810, died April 1890.

At the time of my birth, we were in family three girls and two
boys—Courtenay, Caroline (Caddy as she was always called), Charles,
Charlotte, and myself. But one day, when I was between three and four,
my mother asked me if I should not like a live doll to play with? Oh,
rapture! Dolls were my passion, but a live doll!—the idea was ecstasy!
How well I can recall my first sight of my youngest brother, seated on
his nurse’s knee, crowned with one of those quilted contrivances of
white satin and rosy pink, that seemed a link between a baby hat of the
period and a pudding or bourlet of the olden time. Oh! how I then and
there loved my live doll, my brother Cavendish—the little Benjamin of
the family!—how I did love him with the love of more than half a
century. How I love him still, though we no longer tread the earth
together, and how fondly I cling to the hope of a reunion in that
region—

            “Where those who left us dwell in joy sublime;
            And those we leave will come in God’s good time.”

But to return to the members of our family.[8] My parents were Captain
(afterwards Admiral) Sir Courtenay Boyle, second surviving son of
Edmund, seventh Earl of Cork and Orrery, and Carolina Amelia, daughter
of William Poyntz, of Midgham House, Berkshire.

Footnote 8:

  Vice-Admiral The Hon. Sir Courtenay Boyle, born 1770; married 1799
  Carolina Amelia, daughter of William Poyntz, Esq., of Midgham, Co.
  Berks; died May 1844.

  ISSUE OF ABOVE:

  Courtenay Edmund William, Capt. R.N., born 1800; married 1836 Mary,
  daughter of W. Wallace Ogle, Esq.; died 1859.

  Charles John, born 1806, died 1885; married 1849 Zacyntha Moore,
  daughter of General Sir Lorenzo Moore.

  Cavendish Spencer, born 1814; married 1844 Rose Susan, daughter of
  Captain C. Alexander, Royal Engineers; died 1868.

  Carolina, born 1803, died 1883.

  Mary Louisa, born 1810, died 1890.


[Sidenote: “THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER”]

As this is a book of confessions as well as of reminiscences, I may as
well make a clean breast of it at once, and own that I take a pride in
ancestry, and love Heraldry and History, and many of the “ries,” even as
scientific people love the “ologies.” I am proud of my descent because
my forefathers were many of them great and good men; and I once boasted
that I could find five of them in Biographical Dictionaries, inclusive
of Robert Boyle, “the Divine Philosopher of the World,” who has been
described in one of the aforesaid books as “the Father of Chemistry and
the brother of the Earl of Cork.”

I certainly admit, “that it is better to have a glory of your own, not
borrowed of your fathers;” but surely it is better to have that than
“none at all.”

“I do not care about ancestry,” said my dear friend, Mayne Dickens, to
me one day.

“Well,” said I, “you are better off than any of us in that respect, for
your great ancestor is still alive; but will not his children’s children
glory in his name?”

On my mother’s side I claim collateral relationship with Rosamund
Clifford. Now this involves a moral question. May I be pardoned for
feeling any pride on that account? It is so romantic, so pathetic a
tale, the scandal, if there were any, dates so many centuries back! The
damsel was so fair. Besides, has not our beloved “Laureate” of late
wiped the blot from fair Rosamund’s escutcheon?

My father had served with great distinction in the Navy, into which he
had entered at the very early age of ten, and had been midshipman on
board Lord Nelson’s ship, with whom he was a great favourite. I have in
my possession two autograph letters of the Hero’s, one written with the
right, the other with the left hand, which I will insert here. The first
is addressed to Lord Cork; the second to my father.


         _Lord Nelson to Lord Cork, written by the Right Hand._


                                       PORTSMOUTH, _22nd July 1787_.

    MY LORD,—I have received your letter of the 17th wherein you
    seem to think that my advice in regard to Courtenay may be of
    service to him. I wish it may, therefore will give it. In the
    first place, it is necessary he should be made complete in his
    navigation—and if this war continues, French is absolutely
    necessary. Drawing is an accomplishment that possibly a
    sea-officer may want. You will see almost the necessity of it
    when employed in foreign countries. Indeed the honour of the
    nation is so often entrusted to sea-officers, that there is no
    accomplishment that will not shine with peculiar lustre in them.
    He must nearly have served his time, therefore he cannot be so
    well employed as gaining knowledge. If I can at any time be of
    service to him, he may always call upon me. His charming
    disposition will ever make him Friends, and he may as well join
    the ship when his brother goes to the Continent.—I have the
    honour to be, my Lord,—Your most obedient humble servant,

                                                     HORATIO NELSON,

    EARL CORK.


                      _Nelson with the Left Hand._


                                      “VICTORY,” _18th August 1803_.

    MY DEAR BOYLE,—I am very happy to have you in so fine a frigate
    under my command, for I am ever yours most faithfully,

                                                  NELSON and BRONTE.

         Honble. C. BOYLE,

              H.M.S. _Seahorse_,

                   Malta.


[Sidenote: MY FATHER SHIPWRECKED]

During the war with France in the year 1800, my father suffered
shipwreck on the coast of Egypt, and narrowly escaped with his life. He
sent all his crew ashore before he himself left the sinking vessel,
headed by an officer with a flag of truce, to make terms with a
detachment of French soldiers (the country being then in the occupation
of Napoleon’s army), and these soldiers stood on the beach, calmly
watching the dangers and struggles of the shipwrecked mariners, as they
endeavoured to gain the shore on hastily-constructed rafts, through surf
which threatened to swamp them. The sea was running very high, and many
of their provisions and possessions were floated off and lost to them
for ever. The locality was near Rosetta, and the Frenchmen, in spite of
promises of assistance and protection—which men of any chivalrous
feeling would surely have afforded to an enemy in such straits—plundered
the English sailors, ill-treated them, and threw them into prison, a
fate which also befell their commanding officer on landing.

The history of that portion of my father’s life is a long, and to me,
interesting one. Suffice it to say, that from all the officials with
whom he had to deal, both he and his men met with the harshest and most
unjust treatment. Many of his crew succumbed under the hardships to
which they were exposed in their dreary and noisome prison-houses. The
bright exception to these hard-hearted functionaries was Marshal Kléber,
one of Napoleon’s most distinguished generals, a man of high courage,
proverbial generosity, and great personal beauty. He was Governor of
Cairo at the time, and showed my father especial favour, allowing him
out of prison, “on parole,” and courting his society on every occasion.
He also presented him with a sword, which I grieve to say did not become
an heirloom in the family as my father made it an offering to the Prince
Regent.

There were many among those who surrounded the Governor, to whom my
father was an object of dislike and jealousy, and when General Kléber
was assassinated by a fanatic, my father was accused of being an
accomplice of the assassin, and condemned to death. His only companion
and comforter in those terrible hours being his favourite pointer,
“Malta,” who kept him warm by lying on his chest at night, and scaring
away the rats and scorpions which infested the cell. While awaiting the
completion of his sentence, the prisoner wrote a most pathetic and
eloquent farewell to his wife in England, then expecting her
confinement. I subjoin the letter, in order that my readers may judge if
the epithets I have bestowed on it be ill-chosen. I have read it over
and over again, at many periods of my life, and every time

                    “It did beguile me of my tears.”

[Illustration:

  VICE-ADMIRAL THE HON. SIR COURTENAY BOYLE.
]

[Illustration:

  THE HON. LADY BOYLE.
]

[Sidenote: LETTER OF CAPT. COURTENAY BOYLE]


                             FROM MY PRISON IN THE CITADEL OF CAIRO,
                                                   _19th June 1800_.

    Should this ever come to the hands of my beloved wife, I shall
    be no more. Torn from this world by a cruel enemy, I have been
    bound to answer for the safety of another captive, a French
    prisoner in the hands of the Turks, our allies. Should I,
    however, innocent of the crime imputed to me, suffer this
    unmerited death, I trust in God that I shall possess sufficient
    fortitude to die as a man, and sufficient religion to die as
    becomes a Christian.

    My last prayer will be for the happiness and comfort of my
    beloved wife, and of her child, should it have pleased God that
    she has survived her lying-in. So high an opinion have I of her
    devout mind and excellent heart, that I shall only recommend her
    to instil into this dear infant its mother’s principles and
    virtue.

    Assure our friends, my loved Carolina, and particularly our dear
    mother, that my soul—which will pray to God to receive it during
    the last moments that it lingers here—will quit this world with
    emotions of gratitude for kindness to us both, and with a
    conviction of its continuance to you and to our child.... I
    cannot write more in the wretched prison where I am confined.

    Summon, dear Carolina, your utmost fortitude, and endeavour by
    prayer to console yourself in this world of trial.

    This is the tribute I ask to be paid to the memory of a husband,
    who wished only to live to promote your happiness. Let my just
    debts be paid; and give to John Stephens, an old and trusty
    servant of my father, fifty pounds. Prove this my last
    will—leaving and bequeathing everything I possess to my beloved
    wife, Carolina Amelia Boyle.

    Wrote in prison, in the citadel of Cairo, after having had an
    audience with the French general-in-chief, Menou, who informed
    me that he had determined on my death, and that no application
    should make him move from his determination.

    Adieu, for ever! My much-loved and esteemed wife, adieu!

                                                    COURTENAY BOYLE.


The cruel sentence would assuredly have been carried into execution, but
for the timely arrival in those waters of the gallant Admiral, Sir
Sydney Smith, whose influence effected an interchange of prisoners; and
so Captain Courtenay Boyle, with his faithful dog, “Malta,” returned in
safety to his native land.

My mother was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, in form,
feature and complexion, and remained so till old age, and even after
death. My eldest brother bore the name “Courtenay,” and, following the
profession of his father, he also went to sea when quite a boy. I can
well remember our sorrow at his departure, and how, shortly after, there
was some vague dread and anxiety respecting him, which I did not quite
understand at the time, till on his sudden re-appearance the mystery was
solved. He had gone on his first cruise in the (not good) ship
_Meander_, which proved unseaworthy, and narrowly escaped foundering. My
brother was asleep in his berth at the moment of extreme peril, and one
of the officers forbade that he should be disturbed. “Leave the poor
little chap in peace,” he said, “and let him awake in Heaven.”... But
our middy came back in safety and lived to be an admiral. He brought
home with him specimens of the _Meander_’s timber, which would have made
Mr Plimsoll’s hair stand on end, for they crumbled away in our hands
like so much touchwood.

Courtenay’s first cruise I commemorated in rather a peculiar manner, by
giving the name of “Meander” to my little bay mare, the first palfrey I
ever mounted; and I am glad to say the name brought no ill-luck either
to pony or rider. Courtenay was the very moral of a sailor—frank,
light-hearted, open-handed, impulsive, of a most impressionable and
susceptible heart, which he was in the constant habit of losing to every
pretty girl he met. He was frequently engaged (perhaps I had better say
entangled) before he had attained Post rank. His promotion came to him
early. One day he arrived at Hampton Court (before the days that
railroads made the old Palace little more than a suburb of London), when
his appearance in a yellow “po chay” called forth astonishment and
upbraidings at his extravagance. “How else,” was the proud reply,
“should a Post-captain travel?” After passing through many vicissitudes
in respect of affairs of the heart, Courtenay married one whose
remarkable personal charms were her chief recommendation.

[Sidenote: CAROLINE AND CHARLES BOYLE]

Next in succession came my sister Caroline (Caddy), who was often absent
from home, going abroad with our Uncle and Aunt Poyntz, whose three
daughters[9] were nearer her age and more fitted to be her companions
than myself, her junior by several years. Wherever she went, Caddy was
much admired. Her colouring was exceptionally bright, and even in her
eightieth year, her eyes literally sparkled, and her complexion was of
that red and white, so softly blent that it might have become an infant
in the cradle. Yet the real, surpassing gift of beauty was reserved for
my brother Charles. Ah! what a store of love and memory is connected
with that dear name, and how well did the Greek epithet “Kalos” become
him, which implies in its melodious sound both moral and physical
beauty. The term beautiful does not appear, perhaps, often applicable to
a man, but it certainly was to Charles. In feature, colouring and
expression he was the counterpart of our mother, the same soft brown
hair, the same sapphire blue eyes, the same faultless outline of
profile. I have a very fine painting of him by Samuel Reynolds, the son
of the celebrated engraver. I have also a sketch of his head, a crayon
drawing of great beauty, which is doubly valuable to me, as the work and
precious gift of our dear friend and world-famed painter, George Watts.

Footnote 9:

  Frances, Lady Clinton; Elizabeth, Countess Spencer; Isabella,
  Marchioness of Exeter.

               “Blest be the hand, whose touch can give
               The looks that last, the smiles that live!
               Blest be the hand that gives us back
               The looks we miss, the smiles we lack,
               ‘Mid time and absence, distance, space,
               Recalls the one familiar face
               With us to dwell, with us abide,
               Which our own tears alone can hide!”

An earlier friend, John Hayter, brother of Sir George Hayter, some time
President of the Royal Academy, also made an equestrian sketch in
coloured crayons of Charles in a gorgeous Albanian costume, which he
brought with him from Greece, on his return from a cruise with our
sailor brother. I shall never forget the sensation caused at the fancy
ball at Brighton, when our young Albanian appeared with his sister
Caroline, also arrayed in a genuine Greek costume. They were indeed a
most beautiful pair, and looked the very embodiment of the hero and
heroine of one of Byron’s Eastern poems.

Fourth in succession came a little blue-eyed, fair-haired sister,
Charlotte by name, who died when only six years old. In what high relief
do such early records stand out on the tablet of a child’s memory. Never
shall I forget the tone of deep melancholy in which my mother would
exclaim: “No one knows what real sorrow is till they have lost a child.”

[Sidenote: EPITAPH ON CHARLOTTE BOYLE]

Charlotte’s burial-place is at Preston, in Kent, not far from Sheerness,
where we were then living, and was chosen not alone on account of
proximity. The church contains an elaborate monument erected by our
ancestor, the first Earl of Cork, after he had made his fortune, to the
memory of his parents, both natives of Kent. This monument has, I grieve
to say, been suffered to fall into decay, although I have frequently
raised my feeble voice in expostulation on the subject. My uncle, Lord
John Townshend, wrote my little sister’s epitaph, which is inscribed on
a marble tablet in Preston church. To me the lines have ever appeared
pathetic, although penned in the old-fashioned style of those days.
After recording the dates of her birth and death, they go on to say:—

           “Scarce yet had smiled thy early dawn of day,
             Youth’s roseate buds just opening into bloom,
           When wintry winds, that chilled thy lovely May,
             Shed all thy with’ring blossoms on the tomb.

           “But blest, fair child, blest far above thy years,
             With filial piety and duteous love,
           Thy sure reward restrains our selfish tears
             And lifts our hearts to Charlotte’s bliss above.”

Some years ago, when on a visit to my dear friend, Charles Dickens, I
made a pilgrimage to the tombs of my ancestors, and that of my little
sister. Knocking boldly at the door of the Rectory, I told my errand to
the clergyman, asking him at the same time for the key of the church. He
discreetly allowed me to remain alone for some time, and when he
followed me, naturally enquired to whom he was speaking. Now, I flatter
myself, that my mode of self-introduction was rather original. Pointing
to a portion of the monument in question, recording the early demise of
a certain Mary Boyle, who had died at least two hundred years before,
“That is my name,” I said, “and I am very much obliged to you for your
kindness.”

I came between Charlotte and Cavendish, and of the latter I shall make
constant mention, as being closely bound up with my life and
heartstrings.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER II

          LIFE IN A DOCKYARD—FRIENDS, FAVOURITES AND RETAINERS


Few people have had more homes than I, and few have resided in those
homes for, comparatively speaking, so short a consecutive time. I have
often said during a long life that I might lay claim in some measure to
the character of a gipsy; but then, in the language of the profession to
which I always boast that I belong by taste and inclination, I most
assuredly never “looked the part.” The first home I recollect is that of
Sheerness Dockyard, when my father was Commissioner, and where, with
occasional flittings, we remained until I had attained my eighth year.
Remote as that period appears in retrospect, Sheerness and its environs
are indelibly impressed on my memory—the frightful town, the hideous
chapel, the bustling dockyard with its numerous shipping, the
comfortable house, where I can still walk in recollection through every
room, the pleasant garden, and the pretty conservatory with a large
aviary at the end, which contained our favourite birds.

Alas! how well I remember one day as I went in to pay a visit to my
feathered friends, I found that the mousetrap which had been set for the
robber of bird-seed, had caught and beheaded one of our prettiest
bull-finches.

The life we led at Sheerness was very peculiar, and I question whether
in those bygone days the Viceroy of India, or Ireland, or any other
representative potentate, could have been held in higher consideration
than the Commissioner of a Dockyard. I am speaking, of course, of our
circumscribed official circle. As to the Commissioner’s children, they
were looked upon as little else than princes and princesses on a small
scale, and to our numerous retainers the slightest wish of the youngest
member of the family was as law. This remark held good more particularly
with the boat’s crew, who were the most devoted and loyal of our
subjects. Two of these men were told off as running grooms to Cavendish
and myself, and accompanied us in our daily rides to one of the few
green spots in the neighbourhood, called the Major’s March. Here,
slipping the reins by which they had led us for safety through the town,
they would gaze with admiration on our juvenile feats of
horsemanship—our wild careering over what then appeared to us a vast
tract of country. Cavendish’s hack was a small Welsh pony, “Black
Taffy,” the present of a clerk in my father’s office, who had imported
the little charger from his native hills of Cambria. “Meander,” my pony,
was a bright golden bay, and many were the races and wild gallops that
pretty little pair of ponies afforded us.

Besides our nautical stablemen, the coxswain, a small but most efficient
seaman, was a great favourite with us all; and once, during the absence
of the men-servants, Lowe, as he was by name and stature, did not
disdain to wait in the nursery. One day he caused us great merriment by
stopping in the act of carrying in the children’s dinner, and placing
the wooden tray on the ground with a bang, exclaiming in a stentorian
voice: “God bless my soul, I’ve forgot the beer!”—the leg of mutton
being left to cool on the carpet, while Lowe descended to the cellar to
fetch what he doubtless considered the most important item in the
repast.

[Sidenote: “LONG GEORGE”]

Another remarkable member of the crew was “Long George,” a handsome
giant, but decidedly a _mauvais sujet_, who was in constant scrapes and
periodical danger of dismissal. When so placed, he would invariably
steal up to the nursery, and with a timid knock, and in a coaxing tone,
ask if “Miss Mary would be so very good as to beg Commissioner to let
him off this once”; and downstairs would little Mary fly with a beating
heart, to knock at the door of father’s office. After being kept in
suspense for a few moments, which seemed to her as many hours, she would
scamper back to her “ne’er-do-weel” with the joyful intelligence that he
was forgiven, but it was positively for the very last time. Some last
times are of frequent recurrence.

Another class of men who came frequently under our notice were the
convicts employed in various ways in the dockyard. Our nursery windows
commanded a view of a spot where important works were carried
on—wharfage, transport, and the like. It rejoiced in the name of
Powder-Monkey Bay, a title that did not convey a very clear meaning to
our young minds, savouring as it did of a semi-zoological character. In
those days criminals convicted of the worst offences wore round the
waist an iron belt, from which were suspended heavy chains, fastened at
each ankle, such as we see in Hogarth’s painting of “Macheath,” and
other unworthies. From our windows, we often saw two boys thus accoutred
at work, and never did so without a shudder; they were brothers, about
fifteen or sixteen years of age, who had murdered their mother. A
mother!—in our sight the most sacred, the most beloved of human beings.
But there were different characters and various moral grades among these
men, and perseverance in good conduct often shortened the period of
their imprisonment. Those who had been artizans were allowed to carry on
and dispose of their work while on board the hulks; and one of the
convicts, who went by the name of “Tidy Dick,” was permitted to make
shoes for the Commissioner’s children. We were very fond of him, and
participated in his delight when he came to tell us he had obtained his
release. We even added the mite of our small allowances to the
subscription which our father and mother, the Admiral, and other
dignitaries of the dockyard, had raised to fit out “Tidy Dick” with a
new suit of clothes, in which he came to bid us good-bye. The word was
not invented in those days, but there is no doubt about it, Dick was a
regular “swell.”

Another member of the community caused much amusement to my father, who
on one occasion went into his garden and found a convict at work after
the hour that the warder and the other prisoners had left off for the
day.

[Sidenote: “OH! I AM FOR BIGAMY”]

“What are you here for?” was the question asked in tones of surprise.
The man jumped up hastily from his kneeling position, and pulling his
forelock, answered in the most cheerful and unconcerned tones: “Oh! I am
for bigamy, Commissioner.”

Another convict was a skilful tailor, and was permitted the privilege of
making costumes for our dramatic company on the occasion of our first
play—a subject of great importance, of which I shall treat hereafter.

But while writing of our friends and retainers, I should be ungrateful
to omit the mention of a warder endowed with the unusual name of Orper.
This man had in our childish eyes attained the very summit of high art,
and if in those early times we had ever heard of Michel Angelo, we
should have placed Orper on a level with that great man. It must be
confessed his genius was not as versatile, neither did he even attempt
the modelling of the human form divine; but then his birds! It must also
be allowed that his young patrons displayed much discrimination in
classing and naming the peculiar ornithological representations which he
carved in wood for our delight. These works of art were more especially
objects of our admiration and desire, when slightly coloured or tinted.
In this respect Orper had an illustrious follower in the celebrated John
Gibson, although we are fain to believe that that eminent sculptor had
never heard of his predecessor.

I have now come to a portion of my narrative which entails delicate
handling, but I have promised that these pages shall contain
confessions, and I will therefore lose no time in owning frankly that I
was ever a flirt, and will candidly enter on the subject of my juvenile
flirtations.

My first love was naturally much older than myself (being nearly
fourteen), and very tall, a very handsome black-eyed fellow, the son of
my father’s dear friend and colleague, the Port Admiral. He was by fits
and starts very good and condescending to me, and accepted my devotion
in rather a patronizing manner. In fact, he was the one _qui tendait la
joue_. I blush to acknowledge that on the Sunday of my first appearance
in church (I was then not much more than five years old) I spent nearly
the whole of the sermon weighing in my own mind the probability of
walking home with George. My wildest hope was fulfilled, little as I
deserved it. Hand-in-hand we returned from church, where I had been an
inattentive worshipper. My love often passed our nursery windows, of
which there were four—two looking round the respective corners—and I
invariably ran from one to the other, about the hour I expected his
appearance, to watch that beloved, and to me gigantic, form, and follow
it with my eyes out of sight. But my attachment though ardent, was not
of very long duration; in my juvenile, if fickle, heart, George was ere
long supplanted by no less a personage than the Commanding Officer of
the Depôt. A man of his years, a soldier, a hero, who wore a Waterloo
Medal and a brilliant uniform—a lover full of compliments—for

                       “A winning tongue had he,”

[Sidenote: CHILDISH FLIRTATIONS]

what chance had poor George the school-boy with such a rival? I used to
walk with my sweetheart on the ramparts to hear the band play, and was
often allowed to choose the air. To this very day I am not quite sure
whether gratified vanity or real affection preponderated in my childish
breast. I am inclined, at this distance of time, to decide in favour of
the first-named feeling, for I was most decidedly puffed up and elated
by my military conquest. He often assured me he could never part from
me, and would ask my father to give me to him, and that he would place
me under a glass case on the chimney-piece of his barrack-room in
whatever quarters he found himself, with divers similar compliments of
the kind, which, I doubt not, he had addressed before and since to other
ears. I listened with intense delight to his declarations, for I had a
very low opinion of my own personal appearance, as the other members of
my family surpassed me greatly in comeliness. He also presented me with
frequent gifts, two of which I yet possess, and I still remember him
after the lapse of more than half a century, with feelings of real
regard. I never saw him again, but I read of his death, which occurred
at a very advanced age, with some emotion, and rejoiced at the encomiums
which were passed on him as a man and a soldier. I had also an adorer of
quite another stamp, age, and profession. He was a contemporary of my
father’s, and a full admiral. I tolerated his attentions, and I am bound
to say accepted many gifts, which was scarcely honourable in one whose
heart was pledged to another. Sir Thomas Williams (for he was a baronet)
gave me one day a pigeon of most beautiful plumage, who was so tame as
to eat out of my hand, while I on my part, or rather my father for me,
made him the more substantial offering of a cow. The pigeon was called
“Tom,” the cow received the name of “Mary,” and the exchange was the
cause of much bantering on both sides. He was a very benevolent man, and
was the original founder or instigator of that excellent establishment
“The Naval Female School,” to which, out of regard for my friend’s
memory, I became a subscriber when shillings were even scarcer than they
are now, and I still continue to take a deep interest in the charity.

[Sidenote: EARLY LOVE OF SHAKESPEARE]

I am afraid some of these revelations are not calculated to raise me in
the estimation of my readers, yet I must make another, for I have
pledged myself to tell the truth, and the truth I will tell, I cannot
remember how it came about. I suppose I must have overheard my mother or
my governess (who, by the way, was a most beautiful young woman) reading
Shakespeare, but I took a most extraordinary (at least so it appeared to
my elders) taste—I may say passion—for the plays of our immortal poet. I
found out where these volumes were placed on the bookshelf, and, one
after another, would take them down and devour them with my eyes—the
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, with its enchanting scenes of fairyland,
being my especial favourite. So far, no harm was done; but alas! for the
unfortunate day when I overheard (with the proverbially sharp ears of a
little pitcher) my father enlarging to a friend of his on my wonderful
taste in literature. The two men agreed that such a predilection and
such a precocious power of appreciation showed undoubted promise of
future talent. Alas! for the little eavesdropper, who had hitherto
enjoyed her Shakespeare on her own account in a simple and single-minded
manner. Now, for the first (do I boast, if I say for the last?) time in
my life, I posed. When company came to dinner and I was allowed to
appear in the drawing-room for the brief and dreary period which
intervenes between the arrival of the guests and the announcement that
“they are served,” I brought in my favourite volume, and was usually
found by my father’s friends in an attitude of deep absorption, poring
over the pages, and fondly hoping that the company would think me very
clever indeed, for I knew father did. I little guessed at the time that
I should look back upon myself as I do now, and have for many, many
years past, as a revolting little prig. The poses are over, the
audiences are not needed, and I love my Shakespeare for himself, and
myself, without any ulterior consideration. On the occasion of these,
usually official, banquets, I made profound reflections on the law of
precedence, as I saw it carried out in one Commissioner’s house, and I
came to the conclusion that I did not wish to be a lady of the first
standing, as they never had a chance of going in to dinner with the
Middies.

One more incident I must recall which was the cause of the greatest
amusement and delight to us children, and was indeed planned entirely
for our delectation. Two admirals, both well-known and honoured in later
years, came to dinner rather early one evening. One was Sir James
Gordon, afterwards Governor of Greenwich Hospital, a tall and handsome
man, with only one leg, having replaced the other (which he lost, I
believe, in action) by what was then called a “Greenwich pensioner”—an
ordinary wooden substitute, such as was used by common seamen. The other
was Sir Watkin Pell, and he also had but one leg, but, being more of a
dandy in such matters, he had provided himself with a shapely cork leg
and foot, with its smart silk stocking and jaunty pump. Sir James
Gordon, on whose knee I was sitting at the moment, asked if the children
would not like to see a race between the two one-leggers. The
dining-room was divided from the drawing-room by a long and somewhat
spacious hall. This he proposed as their race-course, and, amid the
clapping of big and small hands, the cheering on and the backing of Sir
James Gordon (who was our idol) by the younger ones, the two admirals
started, and the Scotchman won in a canter, to our infinite delight.

I now come to a most important episode in my existence, namely my first
appearance on what I still fondly call the right side of the footlights,
a circumstance most deeply interesting to myself, in which I shall
endeavour to enlist the sympathy of my readers.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER III

 MY FIRST PLAY—MARRIAGE OF THE DUKE OF CLARENCE—DEPARTURE FOR SHEERNESS


A subject of such deep and vital interest, to a mind so dramatically
constituted as mine, demands a separate chapter. My brother Charles came
home for the holidays, from Charterhouse, just in time to celebrate the
fourth anniversary of Cavendish’s birthday, and this we proposed to do
on a scale of unprecedented magnificence. For we entertained the
astounding idea of writing and performing a Tragedy, in which the
company, though consisting only of three persons, were to enact seven
characters, the principal _rôle_ being undertaken by the authoress, as
well as the stage management, decorations, costumes, properties and
business.

The plot was of a most thrilling and sensational character, for the
better understanding of which I subjoin a Bill of the Play—not as it
was, but as it ought to have been.

          BY EXPRESS COMMAND AND UNDER THE ESPECIAL PATRONAGE

                                 OF THE

                      COMMISSIONER OF THE DOCKYARD

                                WILL BE

           _Performed for the first time on the 12th May 18—_

                    THE ROMANTIC AND TRAGICAL DRAMA

                                   OF

                       “THE KING AND THE USURPER”

                           _DRAMATIS PERSONÆ_

            CAVENDISH,   │_King of Little     │CAVENDISH
                         │  Britain, a        │BOYLE.
                         │  Crusader, a Hero  │
                         │  and a Lover._,    │

            OSMAN,       │_An Ex-Slave, a     │CHARLES
                         │  Rebel, and a      │BOYLE.
                         │  Usurper,_         │

            THEODORE,    │_The Brother-in-Arms│MARY BOYLE.
                         │  and Confidant of  │
                         │  the King_,        │

            SELIM        │_Confidant of       │MARY BOYLE.
                         │  Osman_,           │

            HIGH PRIEST, │                    │CHARLES
                         │                    │BOYLE.

            IRENE,       │_A Converted Slave, │MARY BOYLE.
                         │  betrothed to the  │
                         │  King_,            │

            ZAYDAH,      │_Her Countrywoman   │CHARLES
                         │  and Confidante_   │BOYLE.

               LOCALITY.—_The Capital of Little Britain._
   PERIOD.—_Any time during the Crusades and in the very Dark Ages._


The name of Little Britain was given out of compliment to the tender
years of its monarch, and had no special geographical significance. The
curtain drew up on a scene in the palace, where Zaydah announces to her
mistress that Osman, the would-be usurper of the throne, desires an
audience in the absence of the King, he being deeply smitten with the
charms of his lovely fellow-countrywoman. The idea is revolting to the
mind of the beautiful Irene. She will not listen for one moment to one
word from the lips of this monster of ingratitude, who, not content with
endeavouring to supplant his master on the throne, would now attempt to
do so in the affections of his beloved. But the rebel is not to be so
easily dismissed, and with what a burst of virtuous indignation is he
received by the Prima Donna, in whose lofty breast love for one man and
hatred for another are now waging war! The words forbidding Osman to
lift her hand to his lips—lest it should not be “worth her King’s
acceptance” when soiled by his barbarous touch—were given in manner
worthy of Mrs Siddons, and fairly brought down the house; while the
swift transitions of dress and character would have done honour to Mr
Irving’s _Lyons Mail_, had that eminent actor lived at the time. You had
scarcely lost sight of the turban, trousers, and scimitar of the rebel,
when your eyes were riveted by the charming _confidante_, Zaydah, like
her lovely mistress, a convert to the Christian faith—for the play it
may be seen had a decidedly religious as well as moral tendency.

[Sidenote: I APPEAR AS A SOLDIER]

A tender love-scene had no sooner passed between His Sacred Majesty and
his betrothed wife, than he was to be seen in earnest conversation with
his friend and brother-in-arms, the noble Theodore. In the character of
this gallant soldier, Mary was universally allowed to show a masculine
vigour and a warlike deportment scarcely to be expected from an actress,
however talented. I can well remember how the pride of wearing a hat of
unequivocally modern aspect, and flourishing a naked sword, much bigger
than myself, made the moment of my appearance as Theodore one of the
proudest of my life! In a drama of this nature, virtue was of course
triumphant, vice and ingratitude defeated. A terrible scene ensued, in
which Osman appeared on the stage flying before an unseen enemy, a
victim to remorse, disappointed love and ambition, and commenced, before
the audience, to commit that suicide which was supposed to be completed
behind the scenes, whither he had repaired to change his dress. Here was
our sister Caroline, who, not sharing to the full our dramatic
enthusiasm, had refused to appear on the stage, but nevertheless “had
kindly consented” (after the fashion of Mr Sims Reeves) to take the part
of the “Insurrection,” in which character she was much admired in her
spasmodic performance on the kettledrum.

The last scene was the Celebration of the Nuptials of King Cavendish and
the lovely Irene, their hands being joined by a religious functionary of
a most venerable aspect, a snow-white beard descending to his girdle,
but of somewhat equivocal denomination. If any fault should be found
with an inexperienced though talented author, in respect of calling the
minister who performed the marriage ceremony a high priest, and dressing
him in Judaical rather than Christian vestments, she would offer as an
excuse the observation which a lady, famous for her lisp, once made when
speaking of the late Lord Lytton: “We mutht make allowantheth for the
ecthentrithiteh of geniuth.”

So fell the curtain on three first appearances, amidst the deafening and
enthusiastic applause of an audience composed of very different
ingredients; for the Admiral was there and his family, the clergyman and
doctor with their wives, the Officer in Command of the garrison, and
many other members of the highest importance and standing in the
dockyard, as well as minor officials, warders, boat’s crew, and domestic
servants, etc.

The whole community rang with the praises of the manner in which the
great Dramatic Entertainment had been carried out. Indeed I never can
forget the pride with which we listened to the verdict of the
head-gardener, who was a man of culture (in every sense I emphasize the
word), when he assured us that the latter part of the play was the
finest thing he had ever seen in all his life. The tailor (a convict)
who made the gentlemen’s costumes, also participated in the success, and
I remember the delight with which my mother heard, on the day following
the representation, how little Cavendish had thanked the _costumier_
most graciously for making the royal robes so well. Let me pause to say
they were indeed gorgeous, being constructed out of some old scarlet
moreen curtains, bound with yellow cotton ferret, the kingly cap
surmounted by a splendid brass ornament, which had fallen off one of the
old chairs. “I wish I was really a king,” said the little four-year-old
monarch to the convict, “and then I would set you free at once.”

[Sidenote: WELCOME TO THE DUKE]

Before taking leave of our life at Sheerness, I must mention that my
father and mother were appointed to meet and welcome the Duke and
Duchess of Clarence, when the Duchess first came to England as a bride.
I am not sure where the meeting took place, but I have a vague idea that
it must have been at Gravesend, and that my parents went there in the
yacht, called the _Chatham_, which was always at the Commissioner’s
disposal, and in which we often went to London, a voyage of exquisite
delight to us children. At all events, I know that Queen Adelaide always
said that my mother was her first English friend, while the Duke of
Clarence had already shown great favour to my father, and had stood
godfather to my poor little lost sister. The last incident that I can
remember at Sheerness is being taken to the Ramparts, to see the flags
of all the ships stationed in the harbour hoisted half-mast high, in
consequence of the death of King George III. I have but a dim
recollection of the circumstances of our departure, but I know it cost
Cavendish and myself bitter tears to part from our humble friends, the
boat’s crew, the warders, and the convicts, all of whom participated in
our regret.

[Sidenote: SOMERSET HOUSE]

Thus it will be seen I have lived in the reigns of four sovereigns, and
without myself having been attached to a Court, I have seen much at
different times of a Court life, as both my father and mother, my eldest
brother and sister, were all members of royal households. Moreover, our
lines fell in royal residences. My mother in her capacity of bed-chamber
woman to Queen Charlotte, had a small set of apartments apportioned to
her in the intervals of waiting (and even after the Queen’s death) in St
James’ Palace; and she subsequently became the occupant of an excellent
suite of rooms in the Palace of Hampton Court. Again, my father who—on
leaving the dockyard of Sheerness had an appointment at the Navy
Board—came into possession of a very good house attached to that office,
in Somerset House, which, likewise, comes under the category of royal
residences, or at least did so at one time. In the days of which I am
now speaking, there were no buildings on the opposite side of Wellington
Street, or, at all events, not sufficient to obstruct the pretty view of
the river as far as Westminster Abbey from our windows. Here, as at
Sheerness, we children enjoyed great privileges. The terrace overhanging
the Thames was a pleasant and favourite resort, and there was always a
boat at the disposal of the governess and the schoolroom, and two
boatmen of our own, successors in our regard to the Sheerness crew. One
of them in particular, an intelligent little hunchback, won our esteem,
although he, shortly after our arrival, obtained the name of “Danny
Man,” from his unworthy prototype in the celebrated novel of the
“Collegians,” a book which made so much noise at the time of its
publication.

It was our great delight to go by water on Sunday afternoon to
Westminster Abbey, and there is no doubt we occasionally cut a grand
figure on the river; for when my father went out he had a splendid
barge, rowed by boatmen clad entirely in scarlet, with black jockey
caps, such as in those picturesque old days formed part of that
beautiful river procession in honour of the Lord Mayor, on the 9th of
November, over the disappearance of which pageant I have often mourned.
We occasionally had picnics, and went down to Greenwich or elsewhere in
our splendid barge; and I well remember one day when I had the honour
(for so it appeared to me) of dancing a reel with one of our scarlet
boatmen and a blue jacket, a regular salt, who was one of the family.

Whilst we are on river topics, I cannot refrain from recalling an
incident which amused every one very much including the royal personage
who figures in it. One day at Hampton Court when the City barge came
down, we went to see her as she arrived in front of the water-gallery at
the end of the terrace in the royal gardens. Here the Duchess of
Clarence was to embark for luncheon, and, when the feast was ready,
naturally walked first towards the companion, which was narrow and did
not admit of two abreast. Suddenly, quick as a flash of lightning, came
the Lady Mayoress, and, brushing past her royal guest, exclaimed: “Beg
pardon, your Royal Highness, I take precedence here.”

And no doubt she had the _pas_, for the Lady Mayoress is queen of the
river to within a certain distance of Temple Bar; but the good lady
little knew of how much merriment she was the occasion.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IV

        EARLY DRAMATIC RECOLLECTIONS—RESIDENCE AT HAMPTON COURT


Some of our more fashionable friends in London complained of Somerset
House “being a long way off,” that ambiguous term which, I suppose in
those days, meant a long way from exclusive Mayfair. So indeed it was,
but it was not far from the theatres, which, in my estimation,
represented Elysium. We had two cousins, both influential in regard to
position and fortune, but whose grandeur came home to me as being part
proprietors of Drury Lane and the Lyceum. My father was a great lover of
the drama, and would often apply for one or other of our kinsmen’s
boxes. I can still recall the thrill of joy with which I used to see, on
our return from a walk or drive, the large silver ticket, looking more
like some official badge, which the Duke of Devonshire had sent us,
lying on the hall table, promising a night of rapture—for my father
generally stipulated that little Mary should be of the party. I well
believe that if I gave myself a little trouble I could bring back to my
mind the names of almost every play, and every actor and actress I ever
saw in those schoolroom days. One piece in particular captivated my
girlish fancy: it was called _The Cornish Miners_, and it is worth my
while to remember it, for in that play I first saw those matchless
_artistes_, the Keeleys (hear it, ye gods!) before their marriage. Yes,
Mrs Keeley, I venture to hope you will honour this poor tribute with a
perusal. It was there I saw Miss Howard, as the boy hero who volunteered
to go down the shaft and rescue his comrades, from what peril, and in
what manner, I cannot say. My father predicted the future success of the
charming young actress, and I can recall even now the delightful
comedian who ere long became her husband, with his laughter-provoking
face, and lackadaisical air, carrying a lighted candle in the band of
his miner’s cap.

[Sidenote: YOUNG, POWER, AND LEVER]

Of how many years of entertainment and genial amusement to me was that
night the forerunner. I can also remember one of the first performances
of the _Freischütz_, or, as it was then popularly called, the _Der
Freischütz_, in London. Likewise some kind of musical burlesque, in
which Madame Vestris sang all the favourite airs of that charming opera,
showing how the nurse lulled her bantling to sleep, how the footman
blacked the shoes, and how the housemaid trundled the mop, to the soft
strains of the various choruses of Weber’s beautiful masterpiece. In
those far-off days there was no elaborately-painted drop to give a
cheerful termination to the end of the entertainment, but a gloomy,
dark-green baize curtain, with which my spirits fell at the same moment,
betokening a termination to that night’s joy; and who could tell when
the delight-giving cousin would be again propitious. I amused my friend
Mr Irving[10] by telling him one day that I had been brought up in the
stage-box at his theatre, which was then the property of our cousin,
Lord Exeter. Yes, it was there I first saw dear Charles Young in _The
Stranger_, and cried so bitterly that my red and swollen eyes prevented
my appearing at the ball to which I had been looking forward for weeks;
it was then that I made acquaintance with Power, one of the best
Irishmen that ever trod or tripped the stage. I say this, not excepting
the inimitable Boucicault himself, or my true friend and fellow-actor,
Charles Lever. But I must pull up, or my dramatic hobby will take the
bit in his mouth, and convert every theatre into Astley’s. Adorable
Astley’s!—what a treat you were to me, and how I loved Mazeppa and his
horse, the friends of so many years, who continued to urge on his wild
career far beyond the allotted span of an equine life; how often have I
watched the dear old beast swimming across the mighty rushing river
after the tempting bin of corn, visible to my eyes from a side-box.

Footnote 10:

  Now Sir Henry Irving.

I am perhaps a little more fastidious now, but the dramatic passion
exists in all its fervour, and will till the curtain drops and the
lights are extinguished.

But to turn once more to real life. The neighbourhood of Somerset House
had other advantages beside those of the theatres, for the Royal Academy
still existed under its roof, and almost every Monday morning during the
Exhibition, we young ones used to go with our governess to pay the
pictures a visit immediately on the opening of the doors, when the rooms
were empty, swept and garnished, before the crowd and its accompanying
dust had arrived. Then there was a walk with father in the early morning
to Covent Garden, when the alleys were all watered, the flowers all
fresh and fragrant, and the market uncrowded.

Cavendish and I had several governesses before the Miss Richardson of
whom I have spoken elsewhere, but the sad time arrived when my darling
companion was to betake himself to the Charterhouse, which our brother
Charles had lately left in the proud character of orator, a dignity
which was afterwards reached in the next generation by another
member[11] of our family. On the night ordained for Cavendish’s
departure, an upper boy came to our house, who was to be his master at
school. At that moment I half disliked good John Horner, because he
carried off my beloved brother; but the transient dislike soon changed
into a tender friendship, which lasted many years. To break the fall, as
it were, my father allowed me to accompany him and the two boys to the
old Carthusian edifice, and I proceeded thither with the heaviest of
hearts, my position rendered all the more cruel, because I had been
forbidden to shed one tear, and was desired to sit far back in the
carriage and not show myself. For the school-boy that was to be, assured
me that the fellows always chaffed a new arrival about his sister. This
was a terrible wound, but in the course of time I became a frequent
visitor at Charterhouse, was allowed to go on the green (cruel misnomer
for the black patch where they played cricket), and, if the truth be
told, made close friendships with some of the “fellows.” Alfred
Montgomery, Frank Sheridan, and John Horner often came to our house with
Cavendish from Saturday till Sunday night, to my inexpressible delight!
There are none left now to talk over old Charterhouse days with me!

Footnote 11:

  The Editor of these Memoirs, Sir Courtenay Edmund Boyle, K.C.B.

[Sidenote: CORONATION OF GEORGE IV.]

As I have said in my preface, I have not a good head for dates, and I
may as well make a clean breast of it at once, and add, for figures of
any kind. It may be from want of practice, as far as pounds, shillings,
and pence are concerned, for I have never had much experience in
counting up thousands on my own account. In respect of dates, then
(which, I hope the reader will agree with me, are not of much importance
in a narrative of this kind), I do not pretend to the strict order of
succession, but I know it was in the year 1821 that George IV. was
crowned, and I can well remember the excitement I experienced in seeing
my father, mother and sister set off for the coronation. I looked from
the window with longing eyes, deeply regretting I was not allowed to be
of the party. My father was the most punctual of men—indeed he would
have come under the category of those who overdid the virtue. The Duke
of Wellington, it will be remembered, upon the Queen saying to him: “You
see how punctual I am, Duke, I am even before my time,” replied with
blunt veracity, “That, Your Majesty, is not punctuality.” My sister did
not inherit this trait in her father’s character. She was late, and in
answer to his vociferous summons from the carriage, ran downstairs, in
her hurry, without her white satin shoes, which were thrown after her
from the window. My father’s extreme anxiety to be early on the scene
may, however, be accounted for by the fact that he was to form part of
the procession, as train-bearer, or page of the coronation robes of his
brother, Lord Cork. His dress was not picturesque, being a scarlet and
gold frock-coat, or tunic, bound round the waist with a blue silk sash,
and I am free to confess that I did not consider his age, stature, or
costume in any way calculated to fulfil my ideal of a page; but then the
page of my imagination was naturally of a dramatic sort. I do not know
that I have yet recovered from the sorrow caused by my missing that
magnificent sight. It is true that I have assisted since, at two other
coronations, but in both of these there was no banquet, and worse than
all, no Champion! The rest of the pageant was doubtless splendid in
every sense of the word, but the idea of the Champion was so historical,
so romantic, and was I not the most romantic of small human beings?
Besides the description of the challenger, who flung down his gauntlet
in Westminster Hall, and dared any one to hazard a doubt on the claim of
the Sovereign to the throne, was there not a description, I say, of this
remnant of chivalry in the pages of Walter Scott’s “Red Gauntlet?”
Walter Scott! the god of my literary idolatry, with whose heroes I had
fallen in love, in succession—whose heroines I had envied and admired
one after another, encouraged thereto by our governess, who judged
rightly that children could scarcely be too young to appreciate the
beauties of that incomparable novelist. I must confess that several
alleviations were offered to my regret at not witnessing that
coronation. I had a beautiful toy given me of a kind which is now, I
believe, obsolete—a small wooden case containing a roll of a coloured
representation of the procession, several yards long, and commencing
with the figures of Miss “Herb Strewer Fellowes”—for so the lady was
designated on her visiting-card—and her maidens, and ending, as Royal
processions do, with the most exalted Personage. This was my delight,
and I was never tired of drawing it out and gazing at it; but better
than all, I went to the theatre with my father, and saw as near a
resemblance as could be produced on the stage, to the glories of that
day. I can perfectly recall the bow with which Elliston the actor gave
the very facsimile of that of His Majesty George IV., which was
universally upheld for its surpassing grace. Then, oh joy! There was the
Champion in complete armour, on a horse richly caparisoned, whose hoofs
sounded on the wooden floor of the stage with a hollow, almost terrible,
reverberation, as he backed—backed, and piaffed and caracoled and
curvetted, according to all the strict regulations of the _haute école_.

[Sidenote: CORONATION OF GEORGE IV.]

Dear reader, it was no idle boast about royal residences, for when it
came to pass that my father left his post at Somerset House, and,
preferring to live in London, took up his abode in Upper Berkeley
Street, where we often visited him, my mother and the rest of the family
settled at Hampton Court. This proved to be the home of the longest
standing I can remember, as with occasional, I may say frequent,
flittings, we remained there till 1840. The grant of apartments in those
days was in the gift of the Lord Chamberlain, and Lord John Thynne
(afterwards Lord Carteret) had bestowed a set of rooms, some years
before, on his friend and connection, Mrs Courtenay Boyle. Things
altogether were at that time on a very different footing to what they
are now, for the palace had gained the name of the Quality Alms House,
and, as regarded the quality part of the title, it was well named,
seeing that the inhabitants counted Seymours, Montagus, Pagets,
Walpoles, Ponsonbys, and other names connected with the Upper House,
many of them far from being bedesmen and bedeswomen, and for the most
part better off than the present inmates of the palace. Then, too, such
a minor detail as a husband did not disqualify a lady from being an
occupant. Things are entirely on a different footing now. Now the grant
of rooms is solely in the hands of the sovereign, and our beloved
Queen,[12] who cares for the fatherless, and befriends the cause of the
widow, takes more into consideration the needs of the candidates, and
the services and merits of the husband or relative they survive, than
any recommendation of family or of rank.

Footnote 12:

  Her late Majesty Queen Victoria.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER V

                         LIFE AT HAMPTON COURT


Our apartments were situated in the older, or Wolseyan, portion of the
building, not in the square edifice which Sir Christopher Wren built for
Dutch William. The architect’s monogram may still be found over a small
door in Fountain Court, to mark where he lodged. Our windows looked out
on the Chapel Court on one side, and Tennis Court Lane on the other; and
under those windows I often listened of a summer’s night, with mingled
pride and rapture, to a quartette of serenaders, who sang there in
Mary’s honour. Those beautiful boyish voices which still echo in my
ears, and make sweet, sad music in my memory! Frank and Charlie
Sheridan, Cavendish Boyle and Alfred Montgomery.[13] Alas! only one of
that little band now remains to whom I can say, “Do you remember?” And
alas! once more, those dear old rooms, the scene of so many happy days;
they were totally destroyed by fire, through the wanton carelessness of
a housemaid, in 1886. The Sheridans were our dearest friends, and as
some of their windows faced some of ours, we invented a code of signals
for our own convenience. How many assignations were made, how many
fishing parties, how many boating expeditions, how many rehearsals! Yes,
I “have had playmates, I have had companions; all—all are gone, the old
familiar faces,” the forms have vanished and their voices hushed before
their time. One of that dear company passed away but a few short years
ago; she wrote to me just before her death, to say, “She felt as if the
daisy quiet were slowly stealing over her.” I am speaking now of
Georgina, Duchess of Somerset, in whose limpid blue eyes and matchless
smile I could trace, lingering to the last, the charms of the “Queen of
Love and Beauty,”[14] and wonder that her undoubted claim to that proud
title were ever questioned. Alas! of all the members of that generation
of two loving families, I alone remain!

Footnote 13:

  Alas! to say, Alfred Montgomery—most genial of critics as of
  playmates—died in 1896.

Footnote 14:

  Jane Georgina, daughter of Thomas Sheridan, married, in 1830, Edward,
  twelfth Duke of Somerset, and died in 1884. As Lady St Maur she was
  the “Queen of Beauty” at the Eglinton tournament in 1839.

It was in the cloisters, coming out of chapel, that I first saw, in a
little brown frock, the future Governor-General of Canada and Viceroy of
India, now (1888) the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava, and since that time
every day of our re-meeting has been marked with a red-letter in my
calendar.

[Sidenote: QUEEN MARY’S GARDEN]

What a difference between the Hampton Court of those and these days. In
the gardens, when I first remember them, the beds were decked with the
sickly Michaelmas Daisy, and the flaunting Golden Rod, which made
unsightly and straggling borders—a pitiable contrast to the perfumed and
variegated flora of the present day. Yet I confess to a lingering regret
for the rich clusters of the Lilac, mingling with the golden drop of the
Laburnum, which then showed from out the gloomy, fantastic yews, and
made a charming group in early Spring. Queen Mary’s, or the Private
Garden, as it used to be called, now scarcely deserves that name, when
crowds of holiday folk flock to see the celebrated vine.

Not very long ago, I was enquiring of a porter at the railway station if
those gentry were not difficult to cope with. “Well, ma’am,” said he, in
a meek voice, “last Easter Monday there were twenty thousand of them,
and to be sure I was knocked down four times” (he was a man of inches
too); “but I don’t suppose they did it a’ purpose.”

In old days the visitors used to arrive in vans; but what we were wont
to call the incursions of the Vandals bore small proportion to the
numbers that now come down, like “wolves on the sheep-fold.” The gardens
were indeed most lovely, particularly during the season when the
Lime-trees were in blossom, and their perfume perceptible as far off as
the old Clock Court. Dearly did I love to sit by my mother’s side and
watch the moon rising slowly over the lofty elms in the Home Park, which
skirts the gardens. How often have I sat there since, with another dear
relative and inhabitant of the palace! How sweet it was to rest on the
old wooden bench in the spot irreverently called “Purr Corner.” How soft
was the chime of the church bells, as it came across the river from
Thames Ditton, recalling Byron’s melodious lines of “Music o’er the
waters.”

Hampton Court, in my childish days, had its peculiar characters. There
was an old Dutchman, who had come over with the Stadtholder,[15] and had
long survived his royal master. He was a source of great amusement to us
children, from his quaint, old-fashioned appearance, but our chief
delight was to hear him speak of his wife, whom he invariably designated
as his “loaf.” There were two old women, of a most shrivelled
appearance, christened by my sister “Annie Winnie” and “Ailsie Gourley”
(after Walter Scott), who used to sit on hassocks, with a basket between
them, the while they, in lack of male gardeners, weeded the broad
terrace walk. I blush to confess that my youngest brother and I found it
a cherished pastime to dash headlong between these two guardians of the
terrace, as in an impetuous race, upsetting the basket and scattering
the contents far and wide. This proceeding entailed a severe reprimand
from the poor old ladies, whose work had all to begin again, and
terrible were the threats made use of on the occasion, that they would
write immediately and complain of us to His Majesty.

Footnote 15:

  This is evidently an error on the part of the Authoress.

Another juvenile enormity in which we indulged was to warn the tourists,
whom we saw approaching the precincts of the labyrinth or maze, _not_ to
follow the directions of the gardener, whose aim it was to mislead them,
but to listen to our advice, and take the course we prescribed for them.
Our delight was unmingled when we heard the gardener, raised aloft on a
high seat, feebly attempting to arrest their steps, while our misguided
victims steadily pursued the road which led to obstruction.

[Sidenote: MR BEER]

At that period, the office of Housekeeper was a very important one in
the palace—in fact, two privileged persons enjoyed this title. One was a
lady, almost invariably a member of the aristocracy, who occupied the
apartments, or rather house, now inhabited by H.R.H. Princess Frederica
of Hanover.[16] This lady had the appointment of the Under-Housekeeper,
a certain Mrs Beer, whose husband, indeed, was a very great official,
and, if I might be excused a vulgarism, thought anything but _small_
beer of himself; he was a dignitary, in every sense of the word, and one
of the last of the pig-tails. Between this illustrious character and
myself there existed some rivalry and a slight feeling of irritation. I
think I may assert without vain-glory, that I knew more about the
pictures, their subjects, and their painters, than the presiding spirit;
but I am prone to confess that I was one of that troublesome class, a
child of an enquiring mind, and I was very fond of “knowing all about
it.” Unlike most children, and even many uneducated people, I was a
great admirer and lover of the cartoons of Raphael. Of these, Mr Beer
never varied in his daily description. He would stand opposite the
“Death of Ananias and Sapphira,” and, pointing to the picture, exclaim
in a strident voice: “Observe—horror! remorse! fear! drapery!” as an
incentive to admiration of what he considered the salient points. When
he described the “Charge to Peter,” in tones which he did not intend to
be irreverent, but which were undoubtedly threatening, he would cry:
“Feed my sheep, feed my lambs,” the terror-inspiring voice according but
ill with the sublime calm of the speaker.

Footnote 16:

  Now Viscountess Wolseley’s apartments.

Perhaps my favourite of the collection was that of “Paul and Barnabas,”
when the people propose to offer them sacrifice as Jupiter and Mercury.
There were some figures in this group that puzzled my young wits; and
one day, going round at the same time as a very large party, I addressed
Mr Beer before them all.

“Will you please tell me,” I said, in what I hoped was a very
conciliatory voice, “who are those men behind the Apostles, in blue and
red mantles?”

Never shall I forget the tones of thunder with which Mr Beer turned upon
me. That anything so small and insignificant should arrest him in his
career of graphic description, and ask him a question which, if the
truth be spoken, he was as unable to answer as I was, was unpardonable.
With a glance which I ought never to have survived, he exclaimed:
“_Sirs, we be not gods but men_.” The reply was far from satisfactory,
but it was Gospel truth, and as such I was obliged to receive it.

Another incident connected with my early days at Hampton Court appears
to me to deserve a place here. It is a little romance, of which the hero
is a butcher boy. In those bygone times, the butcher formed a prominent
feature in the annals of the palace. There was very little competition
in trade, and the butcher in particular was usually bound to make a
rapid fortune.

One day I went with my mother (who by the way was an excellent
housewife) to speak to the butcher, who had just arrived and set up
shop. After a few preliminary arrangements as to future custom, my
mother looked at the man for some time in a scrutinising manner, and
then said to him: “It is very extraordinary, but I have an impression
that I have seen your face before, and yet I cannot recall to mind where
and when.” “I think you must be mistaken, madam,” he replied, “for I
seldom forget a face; and yet, now you mention it, I have a sort of
misty recollection that your features are familiar to me”; and so the
lady and the butcher looked at each other for some time, but without
clearing up the mystery.

[Sidenote: THE HEROIC BUTCHER’S BOY]

A day or two afterwards, my mother paid Mr Ives a second visit, and this
time she was accompanied by my sister. “I am come,” she said, “to ask
you one or two questions. Did you ever, many years ago—say ten or
twelve—stop the carriage of a lady, in Oxford Street, when her horses
ran away and the coachman was thrown off the box?” “Certainly,” answered
the butcher; “I remember it all as if it were yesterday. I was but a lad
then, and was sauntering along, with my tray on my shoulder, when I
heard a great hallooing and screaming, and people rushing about. I
turned round and saw a yellow chariot, drawn by a splendid pair of young
black roans, dashing down the street at a furious pace, and at the
window a beautiful lady with a little girl, calling distractedly for
help. Nobody seemed inclined to make any effort to assist them. I was so
sorry for the poor things, and I thought I would try my best, so I ran
forward, and thrusting my tray before the horses’ eyes, made them stop
quite suddenly.” “Quite right, quite right,” said my mother, “and here
are the two ladies whose lives you saved. I was a witness of your brave
action, and the moment I recovered myself I looked round for my
preserver, but you were gone. I enquired of some of the bystanders what
had become of you, but they could not tell me; you had disappeared, and
in spite of all my endeavours to discover you, we never met again till
the day before yesterday.”

The man smiled. “Well, ma’am,” he said, “there was no more for me to do;
there were plenty of people too ready to help you, and I should only
have been in the way.” He then finished his speech with no mean
compliment to the beautiful girl who stood before him (the little child
of that eventful day). “And what a pity it would have been, to be sure,
if she had not lived!”—which conversation and conduct go to prove, in my
opinion, that the butcher was not only a hero, but a gentleman.

My mother told the story right and left, and secured her friend, not
only the custom, but visits from many of the inmates of the palace, and
she related the incident so graphically to the Duke and Duchess of
Clarence, that the custom of Bushey House, where H.R.H. resided as
Ranger of the Park, was assured to him. So that in fact this early act
of heroism helped to make the fortune of John Ives and of his son after
him.

I naturally make frequent allusions to friends of all kinds and classes,
and am therefore tempted to insert an anecdote about a feathered
acquaintance of mine, which will not try the reader’s patience long.

[Sidenote: “JOHN ANDERSON” AND THE THRUSH]

One day during our residence in the palace, I was walking with my mother
over Molesey Bridge, when we were attracted to a small, poor-looking
cottage, in aspect like an Irish cabin, by the exquisite singing of a
thrush. The spot is now covered by houses and shops, but at that time
the cottage of which I speak was isolated. It contained but one room,
and was inhabited by an aged pair, I might well say, of lovers, for,
with the exception of their garb, they were the most complete
representatives of “John Anderson” and his wife. They were very poor,
and their richest possession was the thrush which hung outside the door
in a wicker cage, and sent forth a perfect burst of melody. In the
wilderness connected with the palace gardens there were choirs of
thrushes, blackbirds, and others, but not one of those free warblers
could be compared in fulness of song to that captive bird.

We remained listening for some moments, and then my mother entered the
cottage, made acquaintance with the old couple, and asked if they would
be willing to part with the thrush to her. At first rather a blank look
came over the old man’s countenance, but he was poor and ailing, and was
persuaded by the arguments of the “Missus,” who was doubtless thinking
the price of their favourite would enable her to get some little dainty
for her good man. So the bargain began, a sum was named, the double of
which was paid by my mother, who sent a servant the next morning to
claim her purchase. Then resulted a disappointment. The cage was placed
in a large and cheerful window in our drawing-room, but not a sound, not
a note, came from the melancholy bird, who drooped and hung its head as
if moulting; we fed, we coaxed, we whistled, but it remained silent,
motionless, and moping. My mother felt as much indignation as was
consistent with her gentle nature. She had not pressed the old people to
sell the bird, she had only asked the question, “Were they willing to do
so?” She had given them double the sum they asked, and now—it was not in
her nature to be suspicious—but it looked as if another bird had been
palmed off upon her, in place of the magnificent songster. She gave the
thrush several days’ trial, but at length her patience was exhausted,
and she sent for its late owner to expostulate.

The door opened and in he came, hat in hand, and my mother advanced to
meet him, armed with some mild rebuke. But neither of them was allowed
to speak, for no sooner did the old man make his appearance in the room
than the bird leaped down from its perch, spread its wings, and broke
out into so triumphant a song of joy, that it seemed as if the whole
room vibrated with that burst of melody.

“What, pretty Speckledy,” said the man, approaching the cage, “you know
me then, do you?” and the thrush kept flapping his wings, and moving
from side to side, one might almost say, dancing with joy.

There was no doubt about it; it was the same bird that had charmed our
ears in the lane at Molesey, but, like the Hebrew captives, it could not
sing its songs in a strange land.

“Take it back,” my mother said, “I would not part such friends for all
the world,” and off together went that loving pair, “Pretty Speckledy”
still in full song, which he continued all the way down our turret
stairs.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER VI

                            OUR EXTRA HOMES


I must now make a break in the regular line of narrative, to interpolate
a chapter, without specifying any particular dates, as the visits of
which this portion of my story treats were spread over a large space of
time, and intersected many of the different passages of the life I have
hitherto recorded.

To begin with Marston, the property of my uncle Lord Cork, and the early
home of my dear father. Marston Bigot was a pretty place and had been
purchased by our direct ancestor, Richard Boyle (surnamed the “great
Earl of Cork”) from Sir John Ippisley, the representative of an old
Somersetshire family in the neighbourhood. This ancestor of ours had a
very large family, of whom four were sons, and every one created a peer,
with the exception of the youngest, Robert, who declined the honour, and
whose name is immortalised as the “Divine Philosopher of the World.” To
Roger Boyle, his second son, Lord Cork gave an estate in Somersetshire;
this gallant soldier and loyalist was first created Baron Broghill and
afterwards Earl of Orrery. He was much attached to the royal cause, but
during the Protectorate, Oliver Cromwell, who had a great admiration for
his military genius, sent for him one day and placed two alternatives
before him, namely, the command of an expedition against the Irish
rebels, or a lodging in the Tower of London. “The choice is open to
you,” he said; “in serving in this campaign you will be acting the part
of a patriot, but if you prefer the walls of a prison, I have no more to
say.”

A long discussion ensued. Lord Broghill demurred, Cromwell insisted, and
at length the former acquiesced in the Protector’s offer, with the
proviso that he would never be called upon to lift his sword against his
sovereign master. It is a matter of history what a distinguished part
Lord Broghill played in this Irish campaign.

In the pleasure ground not far from Marston there stood a quaint little
cottage, one room of which had been fitted up by my uncle for his
favourite daughter, Louisa, a beautiful, blooming girl, and my chosen
friend, who was cut off by smallpox a few years later, at the early age
of nineteen. The little cot served as a summer, or pleasure, house; we
children were allowed to have tea in it, and to dig and delve in the
small garden before it to our heart’s content. There was an historical
interest connected with this small dwelling which enhanced its merit in
my eyes.

[Illustration:

  HONBLE. EDMUND BOYLE, AFTERWARDS EIGHTH EARL OF CORK, BORN 1787.
  HONBLE. RICHARD BOYLE, ELDER BROTHER OF ABOVE, DIED YOUNG.
  HONBLE. COURTENAY BOYLE, BORN 1770, AFTERWARDS VICE-ADMIRAL, K.C.B.
]

On quitting the service of the Parliament, Lord Orrery, as he then was,
retired to his seat at Marston Bigot, and went on Sunday, as was his
custom, to the small church adjoining the house. There he sat for some
time awaiting the arrival of the usual clergyman, and his patience being
exhausted, he rose to return home. His steward, who was in the
congregation, told him there was a minister present who offered his
services both as reader and preacher. Lord Orrery expressed his
gratitude, “and was never more edified than he was on that day by the
sense, learning and piety of the discourse.” He waylaid the clergyman,
complimented him on his sermon, and invited him to dinner at the house.
When seated at table, his lordship enquired of his new friend every
particular of his life and fortune.

[Sidenote: THE ROMANCE OF A COTTAGE]

“My lord,” was the reply, “my name is Asberry. I am a clergyman of the
Church of England, and a devoted subject to the king. I and my son have
lived for a long time within a few paces of your lordship’s house, in
fact, under the garden wall, in a poor cottage. I have a little money,
and some few books, and my boy and I dig and read by turns, submitting
ourselves cheerfully to the will of Providence.”

Lord Orrery was much pleased with the conversation and manner of this
learned and worthy man, and obtained for him a small annual income
without the obligation of taking the Covenant, and was in other ways
beneficial to him. Mr Asberry lived for some years longer at Marston,
and died, worthily lamented. It is easy to believe that this historical
incident made Asberry Cottage doubly interesting to our young
imaginations. Marston, which has been much enlarged and improved by the
present owner, did not lay claim to the title of a fine house and
property, more especially when placed in contrast with the “most august
house in England”—for Longleat[17] could be seen from the windows, and
is within a walk. The park also is but small, though, in my eyes,
remarkable for containing a Glastonbury Thorn. The legend is well
known—that Joseph of Arimathæa (how he came to England it would be
difficult to imagine) planted the staff which he held in his hand in the
soil (ever afterwards considered sacred) of Glastonbury, and the staff
blossomed. Certain it is that when every other tree in the surrounding
woods is bare at Christmas, the hawthorn at the entrance of Marston park
is oftentime in flower! I have seen it with my own eyes, and always
looked upon it as a real miracle. The house is charmingly situated on a
slope, and commands a beautiful view, with hills in the distance, and
the tower of Stourhead, where King Alfred unfurled his standard against
the Danes. Stourhead was once the property of the ancient family of the
Stourtons, who bear as their coat-of-arms six fountains, in remembrance
of the six springs which rise thereabouts in the valley of the Stour—a
fact in heraldry that I doubt not is well known to the head of that
noble house.

Footnote 17:

  Residence of the Marquis of Bath.

The house at Marston is a perfect sun-trap, and although the building
could lay no claim to architectural beauty, yet as the birthplace of my
father and of many of my ancestors, whose portraits adorn the walls, I
dearly loved the place, where so many of our Christmasses were spent
with innumerable cousins of different ages. Cousins we were indeed, for
the master and mistress of that house were cousins themselves, and my
father’s brother had married my mother’s sister.

[Illustration:

  LONGLEAT.
]

The country round Marston affords a charming type of home English
scenery, being almost entirely pasture land, embellished with very
pretty woodlands and several country seats of great beauty, especially
Longleat and Mells Park. Walks, rides, and drives are all varied in
their character, and the road to Bath (in those days there was no
short-cut by rail) was essentially picturesque, and as full of ups and
downs as life itself!

[Sidenote: LORD JOHN TOWNSHEND]

Another house[18] was in Hertfordshire, close, indeed, to the town of
Hertford itself. It is a quaint, old, red brick building with charming
rooms, and a gallery that in my early childhood I considered
interminable as to length; it was the property of my uncle by marriage,
Lord John Townshend. He was indeed a link with the past, having been the
friend of Fox and Sheridan, and having sat to Sir Joshua Reynolds. His
wife[19] was my mother’s sister (her elder by nearly twenty years), who
retained till an advanced age the traces of that beauty which was
immortalised by Hoppner in one of his most delightful portraits, still
hanging on the walls in the dear old dwelling. When very young, she had
united herself to a man whose cruelty and immorality made her life
miserable. The marriage was dissolved, and Lord John Townshend, as her
second husband, did all in his power to make her forget the sorrows
which had clouded her early years. But long before I knew of this sad
passage in her history, I had observed the shade of melancholy and
mystery which hung over my dear aunt’s aspect and manner.

Footnote 18:

  Balls Park.

Footnote 19:

  Georgiana Anne, daughter of William Poyntz, Esq.

Balls Park was a typical English house, birds, bees, butterflies,
honeysuckle, roses. Our visits there were almost always in the “sweete
season that budde and blossom brings,” and my remembrance of the place
is invariably connected with summer. Here were cousins too, and many of
them to whom I was very much attached, though they were greatly my
seniors; no one ever was so rich in cousins. I remember once meeting the
late Lord Carlisle at dinner at Charles Dickens’. “Mary Boyle is a
cousin of mine,” said Lord Carlisle. “I suppose so,” replied Dickens; “I
have never yet met any one who was _not_ her cousin.”

[Sidenote: TAMING A WOLF-DOG]

Another house was Wigan Rectory, in Lancashire, a very different
locality indeed. A frightful, black, manufacturing town, but we loved to
go there, for my uncle George Bridgeman and his wife were most indulgent
to us children.[20] Mr Bridgeman had first married my father’s, and
after her death my mother’s, sister, and both husband and wife were our
kind playfellows, taking an interest in all our little pastimes, and
rich in that quality, so dear to childish hearts, of genuine fun. My
aunt Louisa was devoted to gardening, and although her pleasure grounds
were circumscribed, she took the greatest delight therein. I fear I
wounded her horticultural nature on one occasion, when I complained that
the rose I had just picked smelt of soot, and blacked my nose when
raised thereto! In the backyard of the Rectory a magnificent wolf-dog
lived in the kennel, the object of universal terror among the servants
and gardeners. But I believed in and trusted dogs, and my firm
conviction was that Lupus was misunderstood. I bribed the servants to
let me feed him, which I did first at a respectful distance, advancing
nearer and nearer each day as I presented him with his dinner. At length
I deemed him tamed, and, not without slight trepidation, I approached,
let slip his collar, and opened the garden gate. Never shall I forget
the consternation which the apparition of girl and dog caused in my
aunt’s little sitting-room which opened on the lawn. She was talking to
my mother in this sanctum when she saw Lupus bounding over the grass,
and standing on the threshold of her boudoir. With a loud cry the
Rector’s wife jumped upon the chair, gathering her skirts around her,
and summoning her juvenile protectress to call off the dog! But Lupus
did no harm; he was only elated by his new-born freedom, and he became
from that day the constant companion of the daily walks I took with my
youngest brother and our nurse.

Footnote 20:

  Rev. George Bridgeman married, in 1792, Lady Lucy Boyle, only daughter
  of Edmund, seventh Earl of Cork. She died in 1801, and he married in
  1809, Charlotte Louisa, daughter of William Poyntz of Midgham.

But the most beautiful and the favourite of our many homes was Cowdray
Park, close to Midhurst in Sussex, which had come into possession of my
mother’s only surviving brother, William Poyntz, by his marriage with
Elizabeth Browne, sister and sole heiress of Viscount Montague of that
name. Respecting this family and property, there is a most tragical
history. To the best of my belief, it was the father of Mrs Poyntz,
_née_ Browne, who seceded from the Roman Catholic Church, and was in
consequence excommunicated. The ban included fire and water, and the
fulfilment was most terrible. My aunt’s brother—of whom I have spoken as
the last Lord Montague—was travelling on the Continent with his friend
Major Burdett, when the two travellers meditated the mad scheme of
shooting the falls of Schaffhausen. In vain did Lord Montague’s old
servant expostulate and implore; in vain did the innkeeper assure the
English gentlemen that the enterprise would be one of simple insanity;
in vain was every obstacle thrown in their way by boatmen in the
neighbourhood, none of whom cared to venture his life in so wild an
undertaking. Obstinate and persevering, they secured the services of two
boatmen, and achieved the result anticipated by all. The boat capsized,
and all the men were drowned. The catastrophe happened in 1800, and I
believe it to have been the next day, or at least within the space of a
very few days afterwards, that an express arrived from England, stating
that Lord Montague’s magnificent house of Cowdray was almost entirely
destroyed by fire. This fine structure was a splendid example of
Elizabethan architecture. Even now, partially covered as it is by ivy,
the ruins present a most picturesque aspect, and attract numbers of
visitors in the summer season from all quarters of the county.

[Sidenote: COWDRAY—THE POYNTZ FAMILY]

My uncle and aunt lived about a mile from the ruins, in a house which
had originally been the gamekeeper’s lodge, with low, small rooms in the
cottage style, but constant additions and improvements had converted it
into a pretty dwelling-house. A beautiful wood, with winding paths and
natural terraces, skirted the lodge on one side. In my eye that wood was
a primeval forest, and in the summer and autumn, when the leaves were
still on the trees, I used to snatch a fearful joy by losing myself in
its depths. In those, as it appeared to me, vast recesses, was pointed
out the “Priest’s Walk,” named after that stern ecclesiastic who,
according to tradition, had been instrumental in bringing about the
curse pronounced upon the family. There is, indeed, an earlier tradition
of a curse overhanging the fortunes of the possessors of Cowdray, on
which I never laid much stress, as the malediction never appeared to
have been carried out until after the secession from the Roman Catholic
faith of the last Lord Montague but one. On the other side of the house
the park stretched away for many miles with broken ground, swelling
uplands and large clumps of timber trees of all kinds, one of the most
beautiful parks in England. Close to the ruined house are some Spanish
chestnuts, among the loftiest I have ever seen, and I believe they were
the first that were planted in this country.

Mr and Mrs Poyntz had originally a family of five children, but in the
year 1815 the catastrophe occurred which carried out to the full the
anathema already alluded to.

The family were spending some time at Bognor, during the bathing season,
and one fatal day Mr Poyntz, accompanied by his two sons, two young lady
visitors, and three boatmen, went out in a so-called pleasure boat,
leaving the youngest daughter, Isabella Poyntz,[21] in tears because she
was not permitted to accompany them. From the windows, which gave upon
the beach, the agonised mother saw that boat capsize, and as far as I
remember what I have been told, one boatman and my uncle were the only
survivors. The latter was brought to shore in an insensible state, and
it was some time before he recovered consciousness. By these two
accidents of drowning, both families of Browne-Montague and Poyntz
became extinct in the male line.

Footnote 21:

  Afterwards wife of second Marquess of Exeter.

The tragedy occurred when I was a child, and while we were yet at
Sheerness, but I can still recall my mother’s piercing shriek when the
awful intelligence was broken to her. By this means Mr Poyntz’s
daughters became co-heiresses, and at the death of their father his
property and estates were sold, and Cowdray passed into the hands of
strangers.

I cannot refrain from mentioning a circumstance which interested me at
the time very much, having always entertained a great predilection for
“ghost stories.” I had a pretty, quaint, low-roofed room at Cowdray,
opening into the common passage on one side, and to a narrow little
winding staircase, leading to the garden, on the other. I was constantly
attracted by knocks at that door, and in the frequent practice of saying
“Come in” to some imaginary person. I had not the slightest fear, but
was, of course, laughed at for my ridiculous fancies. I therefore found
some consolation (although I was very wrong to do so) when informed that
on certain improvements being made, and the little staircase done away
with, the skeleton of a child was discovered lying at the bottom of the
steps leading from my room; but who does not love to exclaim “I told you
so!”

[Sidenote: COWDRAY—THE POYNTZ FAMILY]

Beautiful Cowdray! How many happy days rise before me as I write the
name! How many delightful walks in that enchanted wood, especially when
escorted by “Courage,” the gigantic St Bernard. Him I was allowed to
take with me in my walks abroad, on condition that I led him by a chain,
as he was a decidedly sporting character. Well do I remember one such
walk with him. I had fastened his chain round my waist, to leave my
hands free, when lo! the game was afoot, and off started Courage,
carrying me with him in a wild and impetuous course. Every moment I
expected to be dashed to pieces against a root, or to be thrown down and
dragged at his heels; but gathering up my strength, and calling up all
the presence of mind that was left me, I encircled the trunk of one of
the smaller trees in a frenzied embrace, and contrived to arrest the
headlong career of Courage, in time to avoid a catastrophe to both of
us.

I revelled in the gallops in the park with my uncle (whom I simply
adored), my sister, and our cousins, for we one and all loved horses and
rode well, and to some extent justified an answer made to me by a
farmer’s wife, when I asked her one day for the loan of her horse for a
ride.

“Certainly, Miss Mary,” she said, “with great pleasure. The farmer will
always lend you or your sister his best horse, for he well knows what
capital _horse-ladies_ you are.”

I would fain make my readers acquainted with some of the characteristics
of a beloved member of our family, who exercised a wonderful influence
on all who surrounded him. Yet when I say that my uncle Poyntz was of a
genial humour, a man of the world, a citizen of the world popular among
all classes, all ages and both sexes, ever welcome abroad and adored at
home, I am but too well aware that I fail in conveying any idea of his
especial individuality.

[Sidenote: POLITICS]

Possessed with deep feeling and deep thought, there was a constant
ripple on the surface. What in those days was called “persiflage,” and
bears but a faint resemblance to the modern “chaff,” was in him a
science, and no way like the constrained attempt at wit, from which
every _point_ is excluded, that but too often makes the “fun” of the
practised joker. How often he put the respect and reticence of his
servants to the test. I have seen them compelled to busy themselves with
the plate on the sideboard, turning their backs on the dinner-table,
while their shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. For us young
ones there was usually a challenge for some playful encounter, and we
were obliged to keep our wits sharpened in order to meet the attack and
reply to the sally. He was a Liberal in politics, as were all the men of
our family on both sides. The term Liberal was then accepted in its
literal sense, and did not mean blind devotion to a revolutionary ideal.
My father’s views, as far as I can remember them, were inclined to be
ultra, but I am grateful to record that in so burning a question as that
of Catholic Emancipation, both my uncles and my father strongly
advocated the redress of grievances which had long been a blot on our
nation. For myself, I scarcely troubled my little head about politics,
and when election time came round, I always voted in my heart for the
man who was my friend, and up to a very late period in my existence,
“men and not measures,” was my shibboleth. But, like many others, in my
late years “J’ai changé tout cela,” and the man I love best in the
world, whomsoever that might be, would carry my worst wishes with him to
the poll, if he assisted the Gladstonians in undermining the
constitution of England and imperilling the safety of the throne; for I
can never forget that in the times of the Civil Wars my great ancestor,
Lord Cork, with his four sons fought at the battle of Bandon Bridge, on
the side of the Cavaliers, and that one of the gallant brothers sealed
his loyalty with his blood and left his life upon the field.


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                              CHAPTER VII

                         MY GRANDMOTHER’S MAID


I must now devote a short chapter to a record of a faithful friend and
retainer of my mother’s family, whose sterling worth and amusing
peculiarities deserve especial mention.

When my uncle, Mr Poyntz, married, he went to live at his wife’s
beautiful estate of Cowdray Park, and his ancestral home of Midgham was
let to strangers. It had not been long in the family. Anna Maria
Mordaunt, first cousin to the “great Earl of Peterborough,” was maid of
honour to Queen Caroline, wife of George II., who is said to have made
Midgham, with the adjacent park and grounds, a wedding present to the
said Maid of Honour on her marriage with Stephen Poyntz, a distinguished
diplomatist, and minister at Stockholm and other foreign courts. There
was a whisper that Her Majesty’s kind intention was never fulfilled in a
pecuniary point of view, and that the purchase money came out of the
bridegroom’s pocket. But whether this be a fact or not, I am unable to
state. It is certain, however, that the Queen retained a great
friendship for Mrs Poyntz, whom she appointed governess (as it was
termed) to her son, William, Duke of Cumberland. A very large painting
recorded this event, and was a great object of interest to me in my
young days. I do not know the name of the artist, but well remember the
peculiar group of three personages—Queen Caroline, in regal purple and
ermine, presenting her eight-year-old son, in square cut coat, short
breeches, and dainty silk stockings, to my great-grandmother, who
figured as Minerva in full panoply.

[Sidenote: MRS POYNTZ]

Mrs Poyntz was an amiable and gentle-hearted woman, as her letters
testify, and can in no way be considered responsible for the subsequent
career of the Royal Duke. I have in my possession a most interesting and
touching letter from Lady Cromartie, whose husband was under sentence of
death, in 1715, as a Jacobite, in which she makes a most earnest appeal
to Mrs Poyntz to intercede with the Queen in behalf of the prisoner,
and, to the best of my belief, the intercession was of some avail. At
all events, Lord Cromartie’s life was spared, although his title was
attainted, and was only revived in 1861, in the person of the late
Duchess of Sutherland.[22] The Duke of Cumberland was a frequent visitor
at Midgham, and there was a suite of apartments called by his name. The
house, as I have said before, was constantly let during my uncle’s life,
but in a small, quaint cottage on the skirts of the park, lived, at the
time of which I am speaking, an old lady, who had been in the service of
my grandmother as lady’s maid, and still occupied a place of trust in
that of my uncle. We occasionally visited this dear old retainer of our
family, and one summer I accompanied my mother and my brother Charles to
Midgham Cottage.

Footnote 22:

  Anne Hay McKenzie, married to third Duke of Sutherland, died 1889.

To me that visit was a real holiday. We all loved Illidge (for that was
her name) dearly, and were much amused by her eccentricities, while the
life in a real _bonâ fide_ cottage seemed to me like a page out of some
rural novel.

Illidge was a short, rather thick-set woman, with silver hair, bushy
eyebrows, bright eyes, and a most determined expression. She wore the
dress which was in vogue in the last generation: a short plain, scanty
gown of fawn-coloured silk, low in the neck and short in the sleeves, a
white muslin fichu, and apron and black mittens. There is a picture at
Drumlanrig Castle of the Duchess of Queensberry in exactly the same
costume, which I saw years afterwards when on a visit to the Duke and
Duchess of Buccleuch.

Illidge had very aristocratic notions, and nothing ruffled her dignity
more than when we—my brother or myself—marched into the kitchen and
called to Sarah, the sole indoor domestic of the little household,
asking her for what we wanted, instead of ringing the bell in the
parlour, although the parlour and kitchen were next door to each other.

“Just as you please, my dear,” said Illidge, looking extremely angry,
“but I’ve always been accustomed to gentlepeople ringing the bell, and
not coming into the kitchen at all hours, and making so free with the
under-servants!”

She had an inveterate hatred for the occupants of Midgham House. She was
quite aware that her master was always glad when the house was let and
warmed and kept in repair by being lived in, but if the angel Gabriel
had come down from heaven to become the tenant of Midgham House, Illidge
would have hated and despised him.

On one occasion I composed a grandiloquent poem, having for its theme
the courtship and marriage of Anna Maria Mordaunt and Stephen Poyntz,
which I wrote out in my best hand, and presented to Illidge, who agreed
with me in considering it a very fine epic.

[Sidenote: VISIT TO ILLIDGE]

My mother, who loved her early home dearly, did not share Illidge’s
views respecting the tenants, or visit with her wrath those who liked
the place well enough to hire it. So one day, in spite of frowns and
angry looks from our hostess, she called on me to go with her to pay our
respects to the tenants in question.

“Will you lend me the poem,” I asked in a very conciliatory voice, “to
take with me to the house? I think Mrs —— would very much like to see
it.” “That she never shall,” said Illidge, in a tone of such defiant
exasperation that I was indeed very sorry I had spoken.

Before I go any further, I cannot refrain from telling a story I heard
from Illidge’s own lips—indeed I published it in “Notes and Queries,”
and more than once imparted it to literary friends. Very little credence
has been awarded to this anecdote, but for my own part, I cannot doubt
the authority whence it was derived.

The heroine of the little romance I am about to relate was no less a
personage than Mrs Garrick, the wife of the eminent tragedian. In the
year 1746 the play-going public were thrown into a state of great
excitement in consequence of the appearance of a young and beautiful
dancer named La Violette. She hailed from Vienna, and had been
introduced by the _Maître de Ballet_ at that court with other young
ladies, to dance with the children of the Empress Maria Theresa. Her
Majesty took a great fancy to the girl, whose family name was Veigel,
which in Austrian patois signifies violet, and the Empress gave her the
name of Mademoiselle Violette. It is not mentioned in the life of
Garrick that she ever appeared on the public stage at Vienna, but she
came over to England and made her _début_ as a dancer at Drury Lane on
the 3rd December 1746.

[Sidenote: ROMANCE OF MRS GARRICK’S LIFE]

Horace Walpole in his amusing and gossiping letters, in which he minds
everybody else’s business, tells us how the London world, especially the
fashionable portion, went mad after Mademoiselle Violette, and how, in
particular, the Countesses of Burlington and Talbot rivalled each other
in seeking her society and showing her favour; the former having her
portrait taken, and carrying her off to Chiswick, and chaperoning her on
many occasions. Lord Burlington[23] shared in his wife’s predilection
for the lovely young Austrian. Lady Burlington, indeed, often played the
part of mother to La Violette (attending her to the theatre, and
throwing a warm pelisse over her, when she came out), and at length her
noble friends invited her to take up her abode at Burlington House. One
day as Lord Burlington was passing La Violette’s open door, he was
attracted by her singing, and stopped to speak and compliment her on her
sweet voice. As he did so, his eyes fell upon a picture, whether
miniature or not, I am unable to say, and in an agitated tone he
enquired whose portrait it was. La Violette replied that it was her
mother’s. Explanations followed, dates were examined, small relics in
the girl’s possession inspected, and, if I may be excused a vulgarism,
two and two were put together, and it was proved to Lord Burlington’s
entire conviction that La Violette was no other than his own
daughter—her mother being a beautiful artiste, with whom he had had a
_liaison_ on the Continent, but after a violent quarrel, a separation
had taken place, and they never met again.

Footnote 23:

  Richard, fourth Earl of Cork and third Earl of Burlington, K.G., born
  1695, died 1753; married Dorothy Saville, daughter of William, Marquis
  of Halifax.

Of the particulars of her mother’s connection with Lord Burlington, I am
entirely ignorant; I merely give the story as it was related to me, with
the only details I can recall, by Illidge, who had it from the lips of a
niece of Lord Burlington’s housekeeper. The latter, being in his service
at the time of the incident, but having secrecy enjoined on her, kept
silence till many years after.

On La Violette’s marriage with David Garrick, in 1749, Lord Burlington
bestowed on her a dowry of £6,000, and one of the biographers of the
great actor says that this generosity on his lordship’s part gave rise
to the conjecture that she was his own child, going on, however, to
argue, by dates and diaries, that the English nobleman had not been on
the Continent at the time specified, and that the girl was the daughter
of Viennese parents of the name of Viegel.

It would be useless and tedious to enter into all the minutiæ of that
bygone history. I merely mention the facts as related to me by one who
thought it necessary to speak of it in a confidential manner, although
everybody connected with the little romance had long passed away. The
Garrick union was a very happy one, and for thirty years the husband and
wife were inseparable. The widow survived him for a long period, and it
was my good fortune to see her when I was quite a child. We encountered
her in the lobby of a theatre, as she was making her way out between two
female attendants, and my father said to me: “That is Mrs Garrick, Mary;
some day you will be glad to think that you have seen her.” She wore a
strange costume of quilted white silk, somewhat resembling a
dressing-gown, and a large mob cap, and though very aged, bore undoubted
traces of former beauty. I believe it was shortly before her death. She
died at Hampton, having nearly attained her hundredth year, at a house
which her husband bequeathed to her, and which still bears the name, if
I am not mistaken, of “Garrick’s Villa.”

To return to Illidge. The dear old soul continued to live on in her
lowly cot, with two companions, a “gal” to do the housework, and an
octogenarian, between her and whom a tender friendship existed, he
having been in old days the gardener at the Great House. She became
blind, but, old as she was, retained her activity and impetuosity of
nature.

[Sidenote: ILLIDGE AND THE ROBBER]

On one occasion she had been driven in to Newbury, to collect some
“monies” (whether for rent or not I am unable to say) belonging to her
master, and that night she went to bed as usual, with the key of the
escritoire, in which she had deposited the money, in her ample pockets
under her pillow. She was startled, although not alarmed (for nothing
could alarm her undaunted spirit) by hearing footsteps on the stairs,
and the opening of her bedroom door. A man’s gruff voice was heard at
her bedside, and the faint sound of the poor maid in hysterics above
stairs, for the burglar had locked in the two other inmates of the
cottage, though, alas! there was little help to be expected from either
of them.

“Now, then,” said the robber, “hand us over that money that you got
to-day in Newbury, every penny of it.”

She started up in bed, and turning her sightless eyes on the intruder,
exclaimed, in her most strident tones: “_No, I won’t, you villain!
What’s yer name?_”

It may easily be believed that her nocturnal visitor was not
communicative in this particular, neither did the courage of the old
lady influence his conduct. He went on to prove to her that “he would
stand no nonsense,” and when at length she had unwillingly produced the
keys in question, he insisted on her accompanying him downstairs, to
show him the spot where the treasure lay hid. So up she got, and,
guarding against the cold by putting on some of the multifarious
petticoats which she always wore, the blind old heroine groped her way
downstairs, all the time heaping imprecations on the head of her
persecutor, and foretelling for him that retribution he deserved. She
had a wonderful knack of finding her way by remembering the positions of
the pieces of furniture in her small sitting-room, and Illidge’s
prediction came true. The burglar, besides appropriating the money in
question, took a fancy to some trinkets in the drawer, and some
months—if I mistake not, a year afterwards—one of them was found in a
pawnbroker’s shop in Newbury, and identified by a person who had seen it
in Illidge’s possession. There was no doubt about it, for it was a
mourning ring, with a date and inscription, which rendered the
identification conclusive. The pawnbroker remembered the woman who had
brought it, who turned out to be an accomplice of the burglar’s, and in
this manner he was tracked and convicted.

And so ends all the adventures that I can recall of one of the most
attached and zealous retainers of which any family could boast. Illidge,
like the more celebrated personage with whom I have connected her name,
nearly attained her hundredth year, before she departed from this
sublunary scene.


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                              CHAPTER VIII

                             OUR HOUSEHOLD


After treating of the worthy member of the household of a former
generation, I am now desirous to make some mention of two or three
personages who occupied different grades in my mother’s family, and the
recollection of whom is intimately connected with different periods of
my life.

In my youth, it was the custom for servants to remain much longer in
families than it is at present; and my mother was so kind and gentle a
mistress that her domestics did not consider they would be likely to
“better themselves” (that most ambiguous expression!) by mere change of
situation.

First in love and consideration came the nurse, Brooks, or “Brookey,”
who had already spent many years under my parents’ roof before I was
born. She was the idol of the nursery, a beautiful, dignified old lady,
full of quaint sayings and original notions, rendered still more racy by
frequent lapses into “Malapropisms,” for “she was no scholard, my dear,”
and would call Albemarle Street “Foldemol Street,” and assured us all
that her “nevvy” who lived at “Brummerzer” (Bermondsey) was very clever
in “edicating” young men, and teaching them “’Mathics,” (mathematics).
When told of the marriage of one of our cousins, she inquired if there
were “no chance of any gentleman paying his ‘distresses’ to her sister”?
Brookey could never forget that she had been a beauty, and when on the
wrong side of seventy she sat for her portrait, to a friend of mine, I
found she was not well pleased with the execution, but it was some time
before I could discern the reason. At last, however, it became evident
that she objected to a stick which the artist had placed in her hand.

“Just as you please, my dear, but I should have thought a rose would
have looked nicer!”

Dear old soul! my youngest brother and I shed bitter tears at parting
from her, but we never lost sight of her until her death, as she paid us
frequent visits both in London and at Hampton Court.

Another prominent person in “Our Household” was Rachel Day, the lady’s
maid, a most consequential and important character in her own eyes, even
before she was advanced to the rank of a courtier, by leaving my
mother’s service for that of my sister, the Maid of Honour. During a
visit we paid at Longleat, Day was found on one occasion by the head
housemaid, wandering about the corridors.

“Can I be of any use?” said the housemaid, in a patronising tone; “I
daresay you feel lost in such a large house.”

“Oh dear no,” replied the Abigail, with an air of offended dignity, “we
live in a much larger one at home.”

The housemaid was bewildered and humiliated, but

Day had reason, as our French cousins would say, for that “home” was the
Palace of Hampton Court. When my sister became Maid of Honour to Queen
Adelaide, Day assumed, as in duty bound, an extra dignity and
courtliness of manner, and invariably talked of when “We go to Windsor,”
when “Our waiting begins,” and the like, and indeed to the end of her
life she considered herself one of the pillars of the throne.

[Sidenote: ETIQUETTE BELOW STAIRS]

At the same time she was a stickler for etiquette, and very strict as to
the rules of precedence in the “room,” as it is now called—in those
benighted days, the “house-keeper’s room.”

One evening she came to my mother to propound the following weighty
question: “Do I follow or precede the Honourable Mrs Spalding’s maid?
for I do not know if a Viscount’s daughter goes before the wife of the
younger son of an earl.”

Poor Day! she lost rank, but even that was preferable to proving her
ignorance. She was very apt at assuming, or perhaps I had better say
aping, the tastes of her employers, and during a prolonged sojourn at
Florence, had imbibed a great predilection for the Mediæval era, as far
as the sound went, for I do not think the epithet Middle Ages conveyed
any definite idea to her mind. She married late in life a Court official
in a small line, who occupied the post of a clerk, or what-not, attached
to the Palace of Hampton Court, and I well remember, in the gorgeous
description she gave me of her own wedding, that she mentioned with
pride, “my friend, Mrs Chapman, wore quite a Middle Age satin.”

The name of Henry Mansell frequently comes back to my memory as
intimately connected with the fortunes of our family. He served one or
another member thereof for a period of more than half a century,
emulating in his affection and loyalty to the name of Boyle, the
characteristic devotion of a Caleb Balderstone. His peculiarities made
him a prominent character in our annals, and he was so well known among
our literary friends as to figure in the pages of a novel, which was
published at the time, anonymously, by an eminent writer of the day. In
the volume, entitled “De Lunatico Inquirendo,” if still in print, may be
found the portrait of our faithful and eccentric dependent.

Henry was very fond of travelling, and took great delight in lionising
different cities which we visited; but in one respect he was a staunch
John Bull—no power on earth could persuade him that when he resided in
Florence he could possibly be called a foreigner. “No, ma’am,” he used
to say, “the Italians are foreigners, but I am an Englishman!” Yet he
liked Italy and the Italians, and during a summer we passed at Munich
busied himself, with an Italian grammar and dictionary, in preparation
for his journey to Rome. The language of Goethe and Schiller had no
charm for him, and by means of his Italian studies and his own quick
intelligence he contrived to make himself understood, although in a
somewhat unidiomatic and ungrammatical way.

[Sidenote: “HENRY’S” ITALIAN]

For instance, one morning when starting from the door of the hotel where
we had passed the night, the large Berline in which we were travelling
was surrounded by a host of beggars. My mother had caused some
“largesse” to be distributed, especially to the woman in charge of the
blind beggar, who invariably figures in the group, when, to Henry’s
indignation, she repeated her demands, and was bold enough to ask for
more. Then he turned upon her in all the eloquent indignation of his
newly-acquired language, “Volete, prendete tutto, prendete carozza e
cavalli!” Poor Henry! He knew “Volete” was right, and “prendete” was
right—how could he imagine the combination could be wrong? I well knew
that nothing pleased him more than to be trusted with messages or
directions to the Italian servants. Therefore, one day when driving in
Florence, I said to him, “Henry, pray tell the coachman that the
carriage window is broken.” “Ehe, cocchiere, il bicchiere é rotto.” But
he invariably contrived to make himself understood, and was a great
favourite with the Italians, from his easy good humour and willingness
to help on all occasions.

In addition to his other talents, Henry was an adept with his needle, an
excellent cook, and an incomparable waiter. He was slow of hearing,
which perhaps sharpened his powers of vision, and we got into a habit of
communicating with him by signs. He identified himself with our family
in rather a comical manner sometimes. “It is getting quite late in
September, Henry,” said my sister-in-law to him one day, “and we have
had no game sent us yet; it is very odd.” “Very true, Ma’am, very true,”
was the sympathetic reply; “I think it is too bad. Why, there is Lord
Cork, the nearest relation we have, to think he should not send us a
single partridge!”

Henry was in his way a moralist, and came to me once in great
indignation after reading a paragraph in some scandalous paper, with the
sapient remark that he thought “Every lady was getting as bad as one
another.”

Poor, good, faithful fellow, his death was an untimely one! After
retiring from service he had taken a small cottage at Weedon, in
Northamptonshire, and was often employed as waiter or to carry errands
for the neighbouring gentry, who knew and respected him. One day he was
missed at home, and was sought, and found near a rickety bridge where he
had slipped and fallen head foremost into a small stream. Life was
already extinct, and on the bank, watching over that prostrate form, sat
his faithful little dog, with that despairing, wistful gaze, so well
known to every true lover of the canine species.

[Sidenote: HERO-WORSHIP]

Before concluding this chapter, I must make mention of our governess,
the last, and by far the favourite, for she had two or three
predecessors. Miss Richardson, or “Lizzie Dickey,” as we children fondly
called her, was the daughter of Joseph Richardson, a literary man, who,
if I mistake not, had been a co-lessee with the celebrated Richard
Brinsley Sheridan, of one of the principal London theatres. Lizzie was,
in consequence, dramatically inclined, and fostered my early taste for
the stage, as well as that for romantic fiction. How delightful were the
afternoons that my brother Cavendish and I passed with this genial
companion beneath the shade of the spreading ilex or flowering chestnuts
in Bushey Park, sometimes armed with a small luncheon basket and a
precious volume of Walter Scott. I could easily point out the spot now
where I became convinced in my own mind that I could never be happy
again, for Lizzie had just read aloud to us the passage in “Old
Mortality” where Lord Evandale dropped lifeless from his horse. We were
expecting the return of my father and mother that same evening, an event
to which I had been looking forward for some time, yet what did it
matter now? What consolation could I possibly find since the hero of my
idolatry was “no more!”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IX

                          BRIGHTON—SCHOOLDAYS


Brighton was a favourite resort of my dear mother, both before and after
I went to school there; not only on account of its healthy and
invigorating air, but more especially because it was the home of her
elder sister, Lady John Townshend, Lord John being the proprietor of two
houses in the King’s Road, called Little and Great Bush. The smaller of
the two was often lent to my mother for the winter months: there was a
door of communication between the two houses, and the members of our
family were as often in the one as in the other, both at meal and at
other times.

We considered it great fun to be allowed to carry our dishes and plates
into Great Bush at dinner time, and to turn that usually solemn banquet
into a species of picnic, although the dinner in question could not
always be considered solemn.

My uncle Lord John, who was already advanced in years when I first
remember him, was a very peculiar person. As I have before said, he had
been the friend of Fox, and was a Whig of the whiggest, a man of talent
and education, a poet and a scholar. He was what of yore was called “a
testy old gentleman,” but the children entertained a great affection for
him, combined with a certain degree of dread. He approved of my love
(now genuine) of Shakespeare, and liked to hear me read or recite
passages, on which he would enlarge, criticising and correcting my
pronunciation of classical terms.

Lord John was a gourmet, and very particular in the matter of cuisine.
He would often call to the footman, in the middle of dinner, and say in
a querulous tone: “Tell the cook to come to me this moment,” which
occasioned rather an awkward pause. Then, on the entrance of the poor
_artiste_, with very red face from the combined effects of the kitchen
fire and mental confusion, he would address her in a voice of thunder:
“Pray have the goodness to taste that dish, and tell me if you do not
agree with me that it is beastly.”

[Sidenote: TOWNSHENDS, AND MRS FITZHERBERT]

In spite of all these eccentricities, I was very fond of my uncle, and
used to sit for hours talking to him by the side of his chair, for he
was a martyr to gout. Mrs Fitzherbert was a friend of the Townshends,
and lived at Brighton at the same time; she gave many parties, and when
charades and tableaux were the order of the day, or rather night, I was
allowed to be of the party, while still a child.

One of the most shining lights of the dramatic company was Lady Anna
Maria Elliot, daughter of Lord Minto, afterwards the wife of Sir Rufane
Donkin. She was as kind-hearted as she was witty, a great friend of my
mother’s, and the idol of us children. One evening the word acted was
“champagne.” In the first syllable, “sham,” Lady Anna Maria out-did
herself, and being a thorough artist, sacrificed all considerations of
personal vanity to the requirements of her _rôle_. Never shall I forget
her impersonation of Miss Rosina Falballa, returning from the ball—an
elderly spinster, with a flaxen wig crowned by a wreath of roses and
otherwise youthfully accoutred, calling her maid hastily, retiring into
an adjoining room, leaving the door ajar, and from her hidingplace,
handing out to the attendant abigail all those mysterious appendages of
the toilet which gave the title to the first scene of the charade, sham
of all kinds; the wig, the ratelier, the paddings, culminating in what
is now familiarly termed a “dress improver,” but in those less genteel
days, “a bustle.” It would be difficult to imagine the screams of
laughter; suffice it to say her ladyship brought down the house.

[Sidenote: TABLEAUX AT BRIGHTON]

To my great delight, my services were enlisted when the tableaux began,
and I appeared as Ishmael drinking water from the hand of Hagar (if I
remember rightly, Mrs Dawson Damer); but more delightful still, because
dramatic and historical, in the parting of Lord Russell with his wife
and children. The representative of the patriot lord was one of the
handsomest men of his time, Frederick Seymour, whose beauty proved
hereditary in the case of his daughters, Lady Clifden and Lady Spencer.
I was not a bad little historian, and had already shed early tears over
the fate of the gentle Rachel’s husband; and when I was placed in the
proper position, clinging round the knee of the parent from whom I was
about to be separated for ever, I thought to myself, William Lord
Russell must have really looked like that handsome and noble
representative, so I called up my best look of sorrow and pathos, and
threw an upward glance, such as I was sure would have been the
expression of little Katey Russell on that melancholy occasion.

How wounded was I in my histrionic feelings when Mr Seymour exclaimed:
“Oh, if you look at me in that ridiculous manner, I shall die of
laughing.”

“Ridiculous!” Was that an epithet to apply to my highly conceived and, I
believed, wonderfully carried out embodiment of filial anguish? It was
most mortifying, and so I was condemned to throw all the concentrated
expression on the calf of my father’s leg.

Only one more of that evening’s tableaux can I call to mind. It was that
of the kneeling infant Samuel, personated by Miss Morier, afterwards Mrs
Edward Grimston, then a lovely child. Mrs Fitzherbert, our hostess,
though of course at that time far advanced in years, had a fresh, fair
complexion and fine aquiline features, and had great remains of the
beauty and charm which had captivated the fancy, although it could not
ensure the constancy, of the fickle-hearted monarch, George IV.

In the course of time our favourite governess, as I have
before-mentioned, left us, and my father announced his determination not
to appoint a successor. Here was a dilemma, for my mother had pledged
her word to me that I should never go to school, a resolution which she
would not alter without my consent; but during her stay at Brighton, she
had heard of an exceptional establishment, kept by a certain Miss Poggi,
the daughter of an Italian emigrant. I was a student by nature, and
loved learning for its own sake, so I easily acquiesced in my mother’s
project, and I took up my abode at No. 10 Regency Square. But I did not
calculate on the terrible home-sickness which would ensue, or the
miserable first night I should pass under that roof; my pillow was
literally deluged with my tears, and my sobbing brought the English
teacher to my bedside, who did all in her power to comfort me, and
became from that moment my tried and trusty friend. Poor Ellen!—she was
very kind and very handsome, and long after I left school she was
permitted, at my request, to come and pass some of her holidays with me
at Hampton Court.

[Sidenote: DISLIKE OF ARITHMETIC]

I spent nearly four years under the care of Miss Poggi, with whom I
became an especial favourite, perhaps because I feared her less than all
the rest of the pupils. She was a most exemplary woman, but strict even
to severity, and I can well remember the sudden hush which invariably
announced her appearance in the schoolroom. The French teacher was also
greatly feared by her scholars, but the gentle Ellen and the dear old
lady who taught us Italian were beloved by all. In our plan of
education, different days were apportioned for different lessons, and I
still have a lingering love (the result of association) for Tuesdays and
Thursdays, when dancing, poetry and parsing (which I always liked) were
the order of the day; while Mondays and Fridays still convey a dreary
idea to my mind of detested copy-books and smudged slates. Why did those
dreadful pence, I asked myself, present a different total every time I
added them up, and why, when I tried to prove a sum, did I only prove it
was wrong? Then such groans and scrapings of the slate pencils, the
whole aspect of things rendered more confused by the occasional dropping
of a large tear. Very nearly the same was the story of my music lessons.

Pause, gentle reader!—do not accuse me hastily of having no music in my
soul, and consequently being fit for “treasons, stratagems and spoils.”
I loved music, but had no talent, and though I had sufficient ear to
detect what was wrong, I found it most difficult to _practise_ what was
right—no uncommon case in matters of morality.

In our competition for prizes, the greater number of “extremely well”
depended more on industry than proficiency, and I was diligent and
laboured at my oar; so one Prize Day the Silver Medal for Music was
awarded to me. When I look back on this startling incident, I blush to
confess that I attribute this decoration to the over-indulgence of our
little music mistress; but like many other _décorées_ I felt very proud
of the unmerited honour.

My dancing mistress, Madame Michau, had (if I may be allowed to say so)
better reason to be satisfied with me; for, with the exception of my
dear friend and namesake, Mary Broadwood, I was the best dancer in the
school, and my teacher was never tired of instructing her two model
pupils in boleros, cachucas, tambourine dances and the like, At that
time, dancing in Society was reckoned an accomplishment, and upheld as
an art, and it was not the fashion to slope and lounge through what is
termed in modern slang, “Square Dances.”

I can scarcely imagine a prettier sight than that presented by those
frequent children’s balls, given by the King and Queen at the Pavilion
at Brighton. The building, as we all know, was a ridiculous Cockney
erection of a Russo-Chinese character, still, few scenes could have been
prettier than the interior of the principal room when filled by groups
of gaily-dressed and, for the most part, lovely children; for I agree
with an R.A. of my acquaintance who said that there is nothing on earth
to compare with the beauty of a little “English Swell.”

Now, while I am treating of Monsieur and Madame Michau, I cannot omit to
insert an anecdote of the former. Some years after I had left school,
during a short stay in Brighton, I paid a visit to the dear old couple,
from whom I received an enthusiastic welcome. “Enchanté!” said Monsieur,
“de vous revoir, Mademoiselle—c’est à dire, sans doute, Madame?” I
replied in a tone of mock melancholy: “Hélas non! Monsieur Michau,
toujours Mademoiselle.” The good old man gazed at me with pity bordering
on contempt, then, shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed in a dejected,
though somewhat sarcastic, tone, “Ah! Mademoiselle, si ce n’était que
votre danse....”

[Sidenote: “HAVE THE HONOUR OF DANCING WITH ME?”]

While yet a school-girl, during the Christmas holidays there was a great
deal of juvenile dissipation in the way of balls, and so forth, the most
delightful of all, in my opinion, being those given by Dr Everard at his
celebrated establishment for young gentlemen, familiarly called the
“Young House of Lords,” from the aristocracy of the pupils. My partners
here were legion, including the late and the present Lords
Northampton,[24] Mr Frederick Leveson Gower,[25] and my cousins, the
sons of Sir Augustus Clifford. Willy Clifford, afterwards Admiral Sir
William Clifford, caused great laughter among his school-fellows, who
overheard him one night asking me to dance as follows: “Mary, will you
have the honour of dancing with me?” Many men, I doubt not—if they spake
their thoughts—might address a young lady in the same terms, but it is
decidedly not the custom: which reminds me of a quaint reply I received
once at a servants’ ball from a Somersetshire farmer, when in
consideration of the difference of our social position I asked him to
dance Sir Roger de Coverley with me. “Well, Miss Mary,” said honest
Farmer Ashby, “I can’t say as I see any objection.”

Footnote 24:

  Charles, third Marquess of Northampton, died in 1877. William, fourth
  Marquess, born in 1818, died in 1897.

Footnote 25:

  Hon. Frederick Leveson Gower, second son of first Earl Granville.

I need not enlarge here on the subject of Dr Everard’s school, for every
reader of “Dombey and Son” must be intimately acquainted with the
interior of that establishment, where, as is recorded in the delightful
book just mentioned, the whole of the afternoon preceding the ball their
house was pervaded by a strong smell of singed hair and curling-tongs.
In those days, curly locks were considered an indispensable accessory to
full dress. Yes, I did enjoy those merry dances at Dr Everard’s, and I
was proud of my popularity among my school-boy friends; yet—and this
belongs surely to confessions of which I ought to be ashamed—the
eventful night came, still at Brighton, when I was to make my _début_,
as a grown-up young lady, at a real grown-up ball. There was rapture in
the idea, and yet, after the fashion of most earthly pleasures, there
was a drawback. I never had any secrets from my mother, and to her I
carried my fears and apprehensions.

“Dearest,” I said, “you see I am very small, and, I am afraid, look
dreadfully young (a fear that does not long survive in the female mind),
and now you know, although to-night is a grown-up ball, I have no doubt
some of these horrid boys will be coming up asking me to dance” (false
and fickle ingrate!). “I shall feel so dreadfully ashamed, and shall not
know what to do.” My mother, who ought, I think, to have read me a
homily, laughed outright, and promised to tell the lady of the house
that she was not to judge from appearances, for that I was really
“_out_.” The hostess was worthy of the confidence placed in her by the
mother of the _débutante_, for the first man she introduced to me was an
officer, quartered in the town, whose height was six feet six. Then did
I feel a certain degree of doubt, mingled with a natural feeling of
elation. Could I reach up to his shoulder, or he down to my waist, in
the waltz that was just beginning? I believe it was the first time I had
ever danced with a regular soldier, but in the course of my Hampton
Court life, where the only dancing men belonged to the regiments
stationed there, and at Hounslow, I have always maintained that I have
danced with the whole of the Army List, or at least with the Cavalry
portion thereof. In some localities the female community are in the
minority, and I remember a midshipman writing home from the West Indies:
“We went ashore last night to a very pleasant dance, to which they were
obliged to ask every girl in the place without distinction, or how else
could we have _manned_ our ball?”

[Sidenote: TWO FRENCH “LADIES”]

But I am anticipating events, for I have not yet left school. If all had
gone well with the studies, the pupils were permitted to celebrate their
birthdays by some festivity, and my favourite namesake, Mary Broadwood,
and I had for the last two years kept ours together, as they were within
a few days of each other. So we set to work, she and I, and made a very
free translation from the Italian of one of Alberto Nota’s celebrated
comedies, and having cast the company in our own minds, we gained Miss
Poggi’s permission to give a dramatic representation of _The Bachelor
Philosopher_, in which the two authors were to perform the two principal
male characters. My namesake appeared in what our German neighbours call
the “title-role,” and looked very bonnie in a dainty court dress, which
showed off her beautiful leg and foot to perfection. And here I must
pause to observe that Miss Poggi withstood the request which Madame
Michau made, that her husband might accompany her on the night of the
performance. “For, you see,” said Miss Poggi, “all our actors are
ladies.” But on the evening in question, Madame Michau arrived in
company with her _belle-mère_, a lady of rather a masculine appearance,
whose chin had a suspiciously blue colouring; but no questions were
asked, and the two French _ladies_ took the places reserved for them.

The character I had selected for myself was that of an Italian nobleman,
whose whole soul was entwined around his genealogical tree. My costume
consisted of—oh! pride and rapture!—a yellow tunic and blue satin cloak,
all glittering with spangles, and a _bonâ fide_ page’s dress, borrowed
from the wardrobe of Drury Lane Theatre, by the influence of Elizabeth
Richardson; while my fair locks were duly powdered and combed and put
into a black satin bag, so that I flattered myself I presented a manly
and venerable appearance.

The prettiest girl in the school, Emily Elves by name, was our _jeune
première_, while an elderly spinster was very well impersonated by
another member of the community. When the curtain dropped, dancing
began, and, in respect of my “noble birth and ancestral tendencies,” I
was permitted to lead out the charming daughter[26] of the reigning Duke
of Bedford. I wonder if she can recall that night as vividly as I can,
but if she should ever honour these pages by reading them so far, let me
take this opportunity of assuring her that I consider her one of the
most delightful partners I ever had, and I have had many since that day.

Footnote 26:

  Lady Louisa Russell, afterwards wife of James, first Duke of Abercorn.

[Sidenote: SMUGGLERS AND COASTGUARD]

I have omitted to mention that our school, which was originally situated
in Regency Square, had been removed to the extreme end of Brunswick
Terrace. Indeed, Miss Poggi was one of the first to go so far away from
the frequented part of Brighton. I well remember once, in the dead of
night, being roused by hearing shots fired immediately under my window,
followed by shouts and cries. The next morning the mystery was solved.
There had been an encounter between smugglers and the coastguard; one
man had been severely wounded, and had only escaped death by hiding in
some miraculous manner. Then one of the officers of the coastguard
called upon Miss Poggi, and complained that to the best of his belief
the offender had been secreted in her house by one of the maidservants.
The reply to that complaint was a natural one: “I have not inquired into
the matter, but I should think it most probable that if a woman saw any
man flying for his life, she would do her best to save him, without
stopping to inquire into the cause of his flight.”

In those days, be it remembered, “smuggling” was considered but a venial
crime, and many, especially amongst the gentler sex, were found willing
to wink at it.

So wayward is human nature, that I believe I shed as many tears at
leaving school as I did on my first arrival, overjoyed though I was at
the prospect of returning home for good.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER X

              VISITS IN CUMBERLAND AND LEICESTERSHIRE[27]
                        ACCESSION OF WILLIAM IV.


Footnote 27:

  I have made some endeavours, but without success, to fix the date of
  this visit. It was after 1826, and must have been before 1829, in
  which year Isabella Howard, one of the four sisters, married Lord
  Suffolk. Lord Henry Howard had died in 1824, so his widow was living
  in the house of her son Henry, on whom Greystoke had been entailed by
  Charles, tenth Duke of Norfolk. Mr Crackenthorpe was born in either
  1788 or 1789, for he told my sister-in-law, Lady Rachel Howard, that
  his first recollection of a political event was the French Revolution,
  when he was four years old. He lived to nominate Mr Stafford Howard
  twice for Parliament, and died in 1886. Mr Howard of Corby was
  descended from a second son of Lord Carlisle. Adela, or Adeliza, was
  his youngest daughter, and, as are all her family, a Roman Catholic.

  The visit must have been after 1826, for in February of that year
  Charles, third Lord Southampton, married Harriet, daughter of the Hon.
  Fitzroy Stanhope, and my aunt, in describing her visit to his house,
  makes no reference to a recent marriage. The brother-in-law must have
  been Captain Robert Stanhope, who married, in 1830, Miss Ward.

There were few happier beings than myself, the morning I started with
my mother, my brother and sister, for Greystoke Castle in
Cumberland—Cumberland, which appeared in those days a journey of
delightful adventure, not unattended by that vague sense of peril
which enhanced the charm of so long and wild an expedition. If our
destination had been the Rocky Mountains, or even the Steppes of
Tartary, I do not think my anticipations could have been of a wilder
and more romantic nature. Was I not going to the far away and scarcely
civilised district of the Borderland, so near to Walter Scott’s own
country, along the great North road, with its recollections of Meg
Merrilies and Jeannie Deans, and the names of the different towns at
which we were to sleep, suggesting well-known events in history and
fiction? I am speaking of a journey which is now accomplished between
breakfast and dinner.

[Sidenote: GREYSTOKE CASTLE]

Our destination, as I said before, was the picturesque domain of
Greystoke, where Lady Henry Howard,[28] my mother’s fast friend, lived
with her son Henry, and her four daughters.[29] Happy family, genial
companions! Every day spent in that enchanting spot seemed to me like a
page torn out of some favourite romance; and when I look back upon those
past years, I feel my beloved friend Lady Suffolk will agree with me, in
the new-fashioned language of the day, that that time was one of the
very best of good times. We were a happy band, with the same pleasures,
the same tastes, the same pursuits. As for me, my spirit was armed and
ready for adventures of all kinds, though occasionally I was
disappointed in my Quixotic anticipations.

Footnote 28:

  Elizabeth Long married Mr, afterwards Lord, Henry Howard, brother of
  Bernard, twelfth Duke of Norfolk.

Footnote 29:

  Henrietta Anna married Henry, third Earl of Carnarvon; Isabella
  Catharine married Charles, seventeenth Earl of Suffolk; Charlotte
  married James Buller, father of Sir Redvers Buller; Juliene married
  Sir John Ogilvay.

[Sidenote: NAME OF CRACKENTHORPE]

Soon after my arrival, I had gone out alone into the wild park of
Gobarrow, on a small mountain pony rejoicing in the classic name of
“Pacolet,” and very diminutive. Like Mazeppa, I “urged on my wild
career,” and naturally, the ground being quite new to me, lost my way:
so far so good, just what a heroine of romance ought to do; so on I
went, snatching a fearful joy, until I came to a large grip, which
Pacolet prudently refused. I was trying to persuade him to clear the
obstacle, when I perceived a man approaching, who promptly came to my
rescue, a gentleman, not remarkable for youth or beauty, but at least
chivalrous in his offer of assistance. I told him I was anxious to find
my way back to Greystoke Castle. My new acquaintance offered to escort
me, being bound for the same hospitable dwelling; this offer I
gratefully declined, as it would have entailed a foot’s pace, and I
preferred a hand-gallop. Pacolet was comforted when he found the grip
might be dispensed with, for I was turning my back on home; so following
the directions given me, and with the help of a few landmarks, I reached
Greystoke in safety, and on coming down to dinner, after a hurried
toilette, encountered my friend. Our recognition occasioned much
chaffing and bantering, and no small curiosity was manifested as to how
I could have possibly made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged,
respectable-looking man, but for all that, the incident of our meeting
seemed invested with interest, and when dinner was over, I enquired the
name of the stranger, with the secret hope that he might be something in
the belted Will Howard line. I hope I shall be forgiven for having been
disappointed when I learned that he bore the time-honoured name of
Crackenthorpe.

“Oh those merry days when we were young”—those happy days at Greystoke!
What rides, what stag hunts by beautiful Ulleswater, on foot, on
horseback, in boat, up the fells, and on the lake. Untiring, strong, in
all the pride of youth and joyous spirits, with those beloved friends,
what wonder that I described myself to a distant correspondent on one
occasion as having “the courage of a lion, the strength of an elephant,
and the appetite of a wolf.” Our feats of horsemanship would have done
no discredit to a circus, and our palfreys were so well trained, that we
used to dance quadrilles, or waltz in the most approved fashion, and I
stoutly maintained that my chestnut, named Montilla, after the Cid’s
renowned steed, bore away the palm.

The castle contained, among many delights, a nice little theatre, and
our performances were frequent. The dramas were for the most part
home-made, but we thought them very fine, and, at all events, the
comedies were “genteel.” The Howards were all good actresses, and
enjoyed acting, and I was in my element. I have a small sketch, done by
one of the guests, of myself in the character of “Daffodil the Dandy,”
in a pea-green surtout, with a grand Brutus wig and waxed moustaches, a
youth who was much taken up with his own charms and accomplishments.

One of the Howards as a stiff-starched old maid, and another as a
bachelor of the same sort, renewing a bygone flirtation, were deservedly
admired. Sometimes our performances took a tragic turn, and one evening
when I was kneeling before a cruel tyrant, who menaced my life with
up-lifted sword, a growl of thunder was heard, and our Scotch terrier,
“Boch Dhu,” who was in the audience, darted over the footlights, and
flew at the murderer’s throat, gaining for herself the honours of the
evening.

I quitted Greystoke with a heavy heart, but before leaving Cumberland we
paid a visit to Corby Castle, a beautiful spot, the house situated on an
eminence overhanging the rushing river Eden, which was owned by another
member of the noble family of Howard. The house had an especial interest
for me (possessed as I have always been with a passion for ghost
stories) on account of being haunted. To sleep in the celebrated chamber
was the object of my ardent desire, and I gained rather an unwilling
consent from Mrs Howard and my mother; the latter indeed insisted that
my sister should be my bedfellow, lest I might become alarmed in the
lone watches of the night. I laughed this idea to scorn, as the
apparition, if it were visible, was that of the “radiant boy,” the
murdered Lord Thomas Howard, a lovely child in glistening white
garments, his golden hair crowned with flowers and surmounted by a
brilliant light.

[Sidenote: GHOST OF LORD THOMAS HOWARD]

No sooner were Caddy and I in the haunted chamber, than a knock came at
the door. Who could it be? We thought every body else had retired for
the night. The door opened—lo! it was Adela, the daughter of the house,
who came to confess that for long she had been devoured by the wish to
sleep in that room, and the bed was of such enormous dimensions, that
she should not inconvenience us, if we would admit her. I, for my part
did not like the idea. I felt I was too much acquainted with the
exclusive and retiring nature of the brotherhood of ghosts to entertain
the faintest hope of a successful apparition to a trio of friends. We
conversed, I think, most of the night, which was out of character with
the whole proceedings; but as the clock struck the witching hour of
midnight, there was a dead silence for a few moments, only broken by
Adela’s prayer, which her Church enjoins at the striking of each hour:
“Lord, make me to love Thee in time and eternity!” an ejaculation that
so took my fancy, that ever since that long, long ago I have always
repeated those words in the watches of the night, and thereby often
scared away many a sad and gloomy thought.

Alas, for the failure, which I had anticipated! Little Lord Thomas
Howard disdained to make his appearance, and no one else, on practical
joke intent, disturbed the sleepers, or rather watchers. (To be sure we
had announced beforehand that the sword of Fergus M’Ivor, which was a
relic in the family, was to lie unsheathed by the bedside). This was a
great disappointment, and I had to wait for many years afterwards, in
another country, and under other circumstances, to behold a ghost.

On leaving Cumberland, we paid a visit of quite another character,
namely, to the Master of the Quorn Hounds, whose wife had been a
school-fellow and contemporary of my sister. Here, too, we enjoyed
ourselves much, being splendidly mounted, a beautiful little snow-white
pony falling to my share. “Billy” was very fast and well trained, and
would answer like a dog to his name. It was a great delight to Lord
Southampton to gallop on in front for some distance as hard as he could,
and then to turn round and call, “Billy, Billy,” and off would set the
little snowball at furious speed until he rejoined his beloved master. I
must here recall an incident which impressed itself deeply on my memory.

There was a large party in the house, chiefly composed of hunting men,
and one evening we were playing a round game, and making merry over it,
when the conversation turned on Fanny Kemble, who had lately made her
_début_ in London, and was at the moment the centre of attraction and
the theme of conversation.

“What a pity we are not nearer London” (we were in Leicester at the
time, and no railroads then, be it remembered), said the lady of the
house; “I would give anything in the world to see her. I hear she is
perfectly wonderful!” Her sentiments were echoed by many, especially my
brother and sister; I listened in breathless awe.

“Well, why should you not go?” said the brother-in-law; “I see no reason
against it. There will be no hunting for some days, not a chance—the
frost is a great deal too hard; we might go up for a couple of days,
sleep at a hotel, writing beforehand for a box.”

[Sidenote: MIDNIGHT CONSPIRACY]

The idea smiled on our adventurous hostess, some of the company thought
the scheme a mad one, and my dear mother tried to argue that it would
never do, for if the master of the house, who was absent, came back the
next day, and found his wife and guests flown without a word, he would
be much displeased. But imprudence had the upper hand. The
brother-in-law rang the bell, ordered a post-chaise and four, went to
put on his warm travelling garments, and proceeded then and there on his
road to London. The rest of the party were to start early next morning,
and they would find relays of posters ordered at all the different
stages, so as to avoid delay.

Then came the burning question, Was I to go? No!—for once my mother was
inflexible, and I prayed and supplicated in vain. My brother and sister,
happy beings! were to be of the party, and poor Mary left crying at
home. I really do consider that of all the tributes paid to the talent
of my dear friend Fanny Kemble, or rather I should say the combined
talents of her and her incomparable father, few could be greater than
that midnight conspiracy, and the manner in which it was carried out.
Fortune favoured the travellers, for their return preceded that of the
master of the house, and my mother was saved the task of mediation,
which had been imposed upon her. Indeed I think, on the whole, Lord
Southampton rather admired the spirit of adventure which had animated
his wife and her guests, for he listened laughingly, and I
disconsolately, to the rapturous praises and enthusiastic encomiums
bestowed on the young _débutante_ by the playgoers.

Although I have already complained of a bad memory for dates, yet there
are some which are of sufficient importance to be remembered, such as
the accession of William IV. in 1830. The news caused great excitement
in our little household, and was indeed calculated in a great measure to
change the tenor of our lives. My sister had for a long time been the
chosen friend and associate of the Duke of Clarence’s beautiful
daughters—I mean by Mrs Jordan the celebrated actress—and I must pause
in my narrative to give some description of them.

The eldest, Lady de Lisle, had undoubted claims to good looks, but much
less so than her sisters. Eliza, Countess of Erroll, was remarkable for
her unusual colouring; she had auburn hair, with eyes of hazel brown to
match. Augusta Kennedy Erskine, afterwards Lady Frederick Gordon, was a
blonde, very graceful in demeanour, and playful in manner. On one
occasion when, as a young girl, Augusta came into the room hastily, and
made a little curtsey (for curtsies were not then obsolete), my
governess, Miss Richardson, told me that she was a perfect likeness of
her mother. Lady Mary Fox was more comely than strictly beautiful, but
she had a captivating smile, and a voice whose tones were sufficiently
musical, I should conjecture, to rival those of Mrs Jordan herself. The
youngest was my sister’s greatest friend, Amelia, afterwards Lady
Falkland, who might have passed for a Spaniard, for her hair was indeed
raven black, an epithet so often misapplied; but Amelia’s dancing
ringlets had a shade over them like the bloom on the feathers of that
bird, and her eyes were soft liquid black. I remember seeing her in her
wedding-dress (my sister was her bridesmaid), crowned with flowering
myrtle, placed there by Queen Adelaide’s own hand—the bridal chaplet in
Germany. But I have made a long digression, and must return to the first
days of the reign of King William IV.

[Sidenote: “CADDY” MAID OF HONOUR]

Amelia Fitzclarence went to the Queen and asked her as a favour to
appoint Caroline, or as she was always called, “Caddy” Boyle to be one
of her maids of honour, upon which her Majesty replied, with a kiss,
that she had already determined on that appointment, and that she had
caused Caddy to be informed that she was the first chosen on the list.

It may easily be believed that this appointment occasioned great
excitement in our family, and the salary of the maid of honour appeared
in my eyes as a sum of fabulous riches, and my sister to have become
suddenly a personage of great importance, for she had now a limited
“Household” of her own.

About this time my mother hired a small house in Curzon Street, and I
began to go out into society in good earnest, which I enjoyed very much,
especially the Court balls, which lasted longer, and were, if I may be
allowed to say so, in many respects less formal than those of a later
period. I was an inveterate dancer, and the interval which elapsed
between my stepping out of the carriage, getting off my cloak, and
reaching the ball-room, appeared to me interminable.

Respecting the latter part of this year, 1830, the year 1831, and the
early portion of 1832, I have nothing very remarkable to record; our
time was chiefly spent between Hampton Court and London, with occasional
visits to friends and relations in the country. We suffered great alarm
indeed at one time, on account of the serious illness of my dear father,
an incident which I should not mention, seeing his life was mercifully
spared, but for one circumstance which made a great impression on my
mind. The invalid was attended by two eminent physicians, who left the
house, saying it was not in their power to do any more for him, and that
there was not the faintest hope of his recovery; yet, by the devoted and
affectionate skill of a naval surgeon, Dr Mitchell, who was much
attached to him, my father’s life was saved, and of the two other
doctors, he survived the one eleven, and the other fourteen years. My
sister was in constant attendance at Court, yet in the autumn of 1832
she gained leave of absence, and was allowed to accompany her mother on
a foreign tour.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XI

               FIRST CONTINENTAL TRAVELS—TURIN AND GENOA


It was on the 11th September, 1832, that, in company with my mother, my
sister Caddy, and eldest brother Courtenay, I started for Turin, where
Charles had preceded us. It would be difficult to imagine the delightful
anticipations I had formed of that journey to the South, and yet, like
all earthly pleasures, they had a drawback; for, on that blissful
morning, I shed many tears at parting from my youngest brother
Cavendish, as he stood with a great friend of ours at the door of our
apartments in Hampton Court Palace to wish us God-speed.

Arrangements had been made that we were to be met at Boulogne by a
_voiturier_ with a team of horses, which he would attach to our heavy
berline, and therein convey us to Turin, _via_ the Jura and Switzerland.
We found him a rough and ready individual, with a strong will of his
own, and a great inclination to overrule the opinions of others, but
never forgetting an especial deference _pour cette bonne Miladi_. We was
a worthy man, but headstrong by nature, and the only name we ever knew
him by was Henri Hutin, which I always believe to have been a _nom de
guerre_, or rather _de route_. We had fitted up our carriage very
comfortably with a small table in the middle, forming a cupboard, which
contained materials for tea-making, a luncheon basket, and other
luxuries. We had each of us layers of brown holland packets for our own
especial books, writing, and drawing materials.

The front box, on which we took it by turns to take an airing and see
the country, had also receptacles for different treasures of travel,
while the rumble behind was occupied by the faithful Henry. In this
manner we proceeded leisurely, but comfortably, on our roads, pausing in
the middle of the day to bait our horses and to feed ourselves, and
sleeping at little wayside inns of most unpromising exterior, where we
were always sure, in passing through France at least, of an appetising
supper and snow-white beds. I often wonder if any other girl in the
world ever enjoyed herself so much, or revelled so completely in the
beauty of the scenery, the novelty of every incident of travel or the
delights of the gay and brilliant society with which we mixed in all the
principal Italian towns.

[Sidenote: SOCIETY IN GENOA]

We found Charles happily established in the post of _attaché_ at the
English Legation, with his friends Sir Augustus and Lady Albinia Foster,
who treated him with all the kindness and consideration which they
bestowed on their own sons. After spending what our American friends
call “a good time,” at Turin, we went to Genoa, that proud and beautiful
city, where we remained until the following summer. We became acquainted
with all the leading members of society, the names of most of whom
recall many an interesting page in the annals of Genoese history, such
as Pallavicini, Durazzo, Balbi, Doria, and the like; but the family with
whom we were most intimate, and on whose memory I dwell with most
affection, was that of the Marchesa Brignole, her sister and her two
daughters, with the latter of whom I had constant intercourse. The
eldest was married, and at the house of Madame Ferrai (the late Marchesa
Galliera) we used to spend the most delightful evenings; it was here
also I became acquainted with Lord and Lady Holland,[30] then newly
married, both of whom were most agreeable companions.

Footnote 30:

  Henry Edward, fourth Baron Holland; married, 9th May 1833, Lady Mary
  Coventry.

Genoa does not afford much scope or variety for those who love riding,
but where there was a horse, and a side-saddle to put on it, my sister
and I could not be kept from mounting, and by degrees most of the
Genoese gentlemen whom we met in society joined our riding parties,
until our cavalcade lengthened out to enormous proportions, and many
were the pleasant gallops we had along the coast. Alas! that most of
those gay cavaliers have long since been numbered with the dead. One in
particular I recall with sincere affection. He was the Chevalier Pietro
de Boyl, brother of the Marchese of the same name. He was a Sardinian by
birth, and at this time a Captain in the Engineers. He was remarkable
for his extreme beauty and high courage, which he proved afterwards by
distinguishing himself greatly as A.D.C. to King Charles Albert in
several battles. He was subsequently Governor of his native island of
Sardinia, but, at the time of which I am speaking, he was merely a young
officer, one of my favourite partners, and a constant visitor at our
house. He sang well to the guitar, and his other charms were enhanced in
my eyes by his devotion to _cara miladi_, as he alway called my dear
mother.

It was during our sojourn at Genoa that King William IV. bestowed on my
father the Guelphic and Hanoverian Order, which his Majesty was very
fond of dispensing. When the news of the decoration reached Genoa, we
received visits of congratulation from all our friends, and at the same
time letters and notes offering sympathy to my mother upon what was
considered a very questionable elevation.

How grieved I was when the time came to leave beautiful Genoa! The
Carnival had been so enjoyable, the fun so “fast and furious,” and the
opera season so delightful. We had been almost every night to the
theatre, having a box placed at our disposal by one or other of our
Genoese friends. Visits were paid from one box to another by all the
gentlemen of our acquaintance, and the society thus enjoyed was on an
easy and agreeable footing. The _prima donna_ at the time I am speaking
of was, strange as it may appear, a German by birth, and Madame Ungher
was, in my opinion, the finest actress I have ever seen, scarcely
excepting Rachel or Ristori. She was not remarkable for beauty, but had
a noble presence, was graceful in her movements, and her singing was
replete with expression, dignity and pathos. In the opera of the
_Pirata_, I shall never forget the scene in which she implores her child
to intercede with his father in her behalf. I was forcibly reminded of
this incident the other day, in witnessing Miss Mary Anderson’s
beautiful impersonation of Hermione in the _Winter’s Tale_, and the
touching dialogue between her and the little Prince, when she showed the
same tenderness, the same winning grace, but enhanced by an extreme
loveliness with which Madame Ungher was not endowed.

[Sidenote: “BALLETS D’ACTION”]

At that period _ballets d’action_ were in great repute. They generally
occurred between the middle acts of the opera and were, as I considered,
an unreasonable interruption, in every sense of the word. Besides, I
wearied of the constant repetition of the same insipid pantomime; and
the invariable story of the “Two Rivals” was commonplace in the highest
degree.

One evening I turned to a gentleman who sat beside me, and expressed my
impatience, finding fault in rather an irritable tone with the _prima
ballerina_ for killing herself, and, “Why does she not rather kill her
rival?” I asked of him.

My companion was a matter-of-fact personage, and after gazing at me for
some time with an expression of disapprobation: “Comment, Mademoiselle,”
he exclaimed, “sous une chevelure ainsi blonde vous cachez des passions
ainsi violentes?” I have often thought that we blondes labour under a
great responsibility, as we are generally supposed (in fiction at least)
to be mild and virtuous, calm and placable.

I can recall most vividly an amusing evening spent at the Veglione. My
eldest brother tried to persuade us to go to the masquerade that night,
but we (my mother, my sister and myself) were very deceitful, complained
of sleepiness and disinclination for the task to which he was looking
forward. In the meantime we had surreptitiously made assignations with
three of our friends to meet us at the door of the theatre and be our
escort for the night. Our hotel was situated on the port, and we had,
therefore, to pass through several of the narrow streets _en route_ for
San Carlo, which could only be traversed by sedan chairs.

During the many years I have passed in Italy, I have never seen above
three instances of drunkenness in the streets, but this evening I was
unfortunate. My chair swayed about from side to side, as if I were in a
steamboat, and at last came to a dead stop, and our faithful servant
Henry, who was walking by my side, lifting up the top and opening the
door, informed me of the reason, while turning to the chairmen he heaped
upon them in his very best Italian a storm of indignant invectives, at
the same time sending back the more sober of the two to the hotel, to
summon another pair of bearers. Issuing from the sedan, in all the
splendour and magnificence of a Turkish Sultana with an entire mask, I
began to add my indignant rebukes to those of Henry, when the
ludicrousness of the position came home so forcibly to me that I stopped
in my harangue. Glittering with gold and silver and false jewels, and of
the commanding stature of five foot nothing, I must have greatly
impressed those guilty men. Remembering, however, that my “paper face,”
as the Italians call an entire mask, was expressive of inane good humour
and the blandest of smiles, I came down from my pinnacle of sublime
virtue, and retreated into my chair until the appearance of my new
bearers. Arrived at the theatre, and joined by our cavaliers, we mixed
in the motley throng on mischief bent.

[Sidenote: A MASQUERADE]

My companion, being one of the leaders of society, who knew all about
everybody and everything in that society, was of the greatest use in
prompting my sallies and in enlightening me when I was at a loss.

“Do you see,” I said, “that officer who is following us, and who looks
at me every now and then in the most threatening manner? I do not know
him, and he evidently takes me for somebody else.”

“Yes,” replied Count Camille, “I think I can explain it? He is very much
attached to a French lady, who is about your size, and I think he has
mistaken you for her. She is a clever little women and writes poetry.”

On this hint, I spake. With a rashness which perhaps I should have
feared to exercise after a longer acquaintance with Italy and the
Italians, I determined to tease my follower. I had resolved from the
beginning to speak only Italian, or very broken English, so as not to be
found out as a foreigner in too many languages, so I began to
expostulate with my officer on his dogging my steps. I made Camille, who
was very tall, bend down earnestly and talk to me in a whisper, about
nothing or anything. I told my pursuer that I had been too busy to think
of him lately, as I had been occupied writing sonnets to the moon, with
other wise speeches of an exasperating quality. I then told him I was
going to valse, and should not be able to do so if he stuck so close to
me. I think I was rather courageous to bear the brunt of the furious
looks he cast upon me. He still followed, and after two rounds I came
back to the place where he was standing, upbraided him for his jealousy,
and raising my mask for a moment, relieved him from all his suspicions
by showing the face of an utter stranger. He was not what would be
called a handsome man, but it required a southern face and a southern
nature to express the delight and relief that he experienced at that
moment. His bad quarter of an hour was over, and he was good-humoured
enough to enter into the fun and mischief of the mask who had deceived
him; his eyes literally beamed with pleasure, and with an arch smile and
a low bow he hoped, in the charming Italian form of speech, that we
should soon meet again.

I next attacked a Marchese of our acquaintance, who was very ill of
Anglomania, and extremely proud of speaking the language, which he did
very well for a Genoese, for they are not remarkable for being good
linguists. To him I spoke in English, and excited as much jealousy in
his breast, though of a different nature, as I had already done in that
of my officer. I was careful to break my English and to translate from
Italian idioms. When asked where I lived and whence I came, I told him
that I resided somewhere between the Acqua Sola (the promenade on the
north side of the city) and the Lantern, meaning the Lanterna or
lighthouse. He then asked me if I had ever been in England, and I told
him that I had spent six months in that country. Beckoning to a member
of the American Legation, he whispered to him that he should engage in
conversation with me, and I had the satisfaction of hearing the referee
inform him that I certainly was no Englishwoman.

[Sidenote: A BUNCH OF VIOLETS]

So far my efforts had been successful at puzzling and misleading, but a
higher triumph was in store for me. I sought out my brother, chaffed him
mercilessly about his flirtations, his favourite partners and the like,
paid especial court to him, flattered him in the way I knew would most
please him, and made a resistless attack on his vanity! I asked him to
take one _tour de valse_ with me, and finally ended by presenting him
with a large bunch of violets. It is always said that the best way to
detect a mask is to examine the hands and feet, but here I was a match
for my brother. With an entire disregard of vanity I had encased my
hands in ill-fitting gloves, and over my usual evening shoes had drawn a
pair of Turkish slippers. I joined my mother and my sister, and we all
three went home to the hotel, and were sound asleep before the return of
my brother. The next morning I went into his room before he was up, and
in the most innocent manner asked him to tell me all about the _bal
masqué_, whether it was amusing, whether he advised us to go next time,
whom he had seen and recognised, etc. Then, turning round and seeing my
violets carefully placed in water by his bedside, I pounced upon them,
saying, “How deliciously sweet! where did you get them?”

“Pray leave my violets alone,” he said in a sharper tone than usual;
“I’ve a particular reason for not wishing to part with them”; and this
was uttered mysteriously, mingled with a certain degree of
self-complacency which made me quite dread the inevitable moment when I
must confess to poor Courtenay that those violets were the gift of his
sister! What a terrible anti-climax to the romantic episode of the
foregoing evening, as he had evidently believed the donor to be one of
the beautiful Genoese ladies who were the brilliant ornaments of that
brilliant society.

There is a proverb connected with the proud city, that “Its sea has no
fish and its fair citizens no souls.” To this I demur, and at all events
there were few towns, even in Italy, where the women of the three
different classes were more beautiful. In Rome, for instance, the
aristocracy, with some splendid exceptions, were not famous for their
personal charms, but the lower orders, especially the Trasteverini (or
the inhabitants from the other side of the Tiber), were for the most
part magnificent specimens of womanhood, tall, fully developed, majestic
in their bearing, with not infrequently a defiant expression. My
sweeping description of the Romans of the lower orders used to be, that
all the women looked as if they would stab you if they could, and all
the men did.

The fashion of veils and chintz head-dresses in Genoa was going out as
early as 1833, but a few years before, the noble ladies were
distinguished by wearing lace veils, similar to the mantilla of the
Spaniards, but chiefly white; the burghers’ wives, white muslin; while
the lower classes, whether country or townswomen, wore on their heads
the chintz covering, which is now almost obsolete, even in Genoa, but
has of late years been copied in the Manchester manufactories, and sold
for bed-quilts in many of our London shops.

[Sidenote: MAZZINI AND CAMILLE DE CAVOUR]

The year of which I am speaking was very eventful, and great political
excitement was felt throughout all Italy, especially in the north.
Mazzini was at work, and had made his influence widely felt, while that
true patriot, Camille de Cavour, preached the doctrines of real reform,
and was preparing the way for better days in the land he loved so well.
Intrigues of all kinds were being carried on, of a complicated
character; frequent arrests were made, and spies were in every house,
reporting the conversations that took place at private dinner-tables. I
believe there is little doubt that our head-waiter, old Pietro, was one
of the most officious of these eavesdroppers. I heard it afterwards with
regret, for he was a favourite of mine, and often joined in an easy and
pleasant manner in our conversation. On one occasion I was quoting a
short poem of Metastasio’s that I admired greatly, and I had got as far
as

          “Cosi non torna fido, Quell’ angioletto al nido ...”

and there I stuck fast, when Pietro, stepping lightly forward, came to
my rescue, and, in a sonorous and theatrical voice, exclaimed:

               “La pargoletta prole, al cibo a ravvivai.”

Picture to yourself a waiter at a London hotel volunteering to finish
for you the last lines of a sonnet by Milton, or of a speech by
Shakespeare!

The history of that time will be found recorded in the story called
“Lorenzo Benoni,” by Ruffini,[31] the author of that most charming
little book “Doctor Antonio,” a wonderful literary triumph, when you
remember that the two volumes were written in English by an Italian.

Footnote 31:

  Giovanni Ruffini, an Anglo-Italian writer of novels and sketches, who
  lived from 1807 to 1881.

But now the time came for our departure, and how deeply grieved I was to
bid adieu to Genoa and the Genoese. My brother and sister went to
England to attend their duties at Court, as they were both in the
Household, and my mother and I set out for the baths of Lucca, where we
had been advised to spend the summer. We took up our abode in a nice
little house at the Bagni della Villa, being shortly after rejoined by
my brother Courtenay.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XII

                      SUMMER AT THE BATHS OF LUCCA


We were all delighted with the Baths at Lucca, and the picturesque
environs. The surrounding hills were covered with Spanish chestnut
trees, which retained their fresh spring green during the whole of the
summer, and the cool, refreshing river Lima, which runs through the
valley, tempered and mitigated the heat of those months, that to some of
our compatriots appeared excessive. My brother and I hired ponies, and
in the company of two Englishmen, his friends, we rode every day, making
excursions into all the beautiful little towns which crowned the
neighbouring mountains, a pleasure which was heightened by the fact that
our dear mother was sometimes able to join us in these pilgrimages,
being carried in a chair by the sure-footed peasants of the country, who
made no difficulty in ascending the hill-sides, however steep.

As the spring came on, the wild-flowers were a constant source of
delight to us, although our botany was of no scientific nature. There is
a thistle there which grew by the roadside and in the fields, that I
have never seen elsewhere, though perhaps I prove my ignorance in
thinking it to be a rare specimen; in shape it resembles a small
sunflower, but the centre is violet, and the small and numerous petals
shine like mother-of-pearl or glistening opal. I was very fond of
wearing it in my hair, in those days when it was the fashion to dress
the head with natural flowers, in a country where even men, especially
fishermen, were frequently seen with a rose, a carnation, or some sweet
flower fixed behind one ear.

One day as we were riding along, about five miles from the Baths, my
brother and I were surprised at being accosted by a peasant in very good
English. We slackened our pace and entered into conversation with him,
enquiring how it was that he spoke our language so well. He told us that
he had been many years in England, carrying about a tray of
plaster-casts on his head through the streets. This is a custom which
has become less frequent, but when I was a child, nothing tempted my
scanty store of pocket-money more than one of what I called those “white
images,” and I well remember the delight I felt in the possession of a
young Apollo. When I saw the original in after years I hailed it as an
old acquaintance. The man told us that most of the people in that line
of trade came from the village through which we were at that moment
riding, and that those who were successful in their business usually
returned to end their days, small blame to them, in their beautiful
country.

[Sidenote: THE BODDINGTONS]

We occupied the ground floor in our house at the Villa, while the _primo
piano_ was inhabited by an English family, consisting of a middle-aged
lady, a gentleman, and two daughters. My mother, as a rule, kept aloof
from the companionship of her compatriots while on the continent, unless
they were old friends, and preferred the society of the natives; but I
had a secret hankering after the acquaintance of the English girls above
us. The eldest in particular took my fancy; she was tall and well
formed, with a profusion of dark brown hair, and although her face could
not be called beautiful, it was wonderfully expressive. I had heard of
her proficiency in drawing, and had often passed her as she sat
sketching under her large umbrella, and I knew she was a charming
musician, for I could hear her beautiful touch on the pianoforte, and
her melodious singing in many languages, as clearly as if we had been in
the same room; but time wore on, and we did not become acquainted.

One day I was busy reading in our little sitting-room when I heard the
most piercing shrieks, accompanied with a stamping of feet and other
signs of distress. Without a moment’s hesitation, I flung down my book
and, heedless of _les convenances_, rushed upstairs, and dashed into the
room, where I found the two girls ministering to their mother’s maid,
who for some unreasonable reason or other had gone off into violent
hysterics. That was the strange fashion in which we made the
acquaintance of the excellent Boddingtons, whose companionship and
friendship cheered many years of the lives of both generations. From
that moment the two mothers became inseparable, and both the girls
endeared themselves to my heart, so much so that the elder and I were
subsequently known amongst our friends at Rome and Florence as “Rosalind
and Celia.”

While we were at the baths of Lucca, a ball was given by the couriers
and upper servants of the families passing the summer there, which was
to take place in the little theatre where dramatic performances were
occasionally given. To this ball the “quality” were bidden, and places
assigned to them in the boxes, while the pit and stage were boarded over
for the dancers.

We spent a most amusing evening in watching the arrival of the guests,
who were received at the entrance by the stewards, according to the rank
of their masters and mistresses. Thus the lady’s maid to the Duchess of
Lucca was received with royal honours, everybody curtseying and bowing
as she passed along, and great clapping of hands as she made her way to
the principal seat. I cannot say her temporary Highness looked very
royal, or her toilette very well chosen, but she was determined, as it
appeared to me, to do honour to her high position by putting on a small
portion of every “chiffon” she possessed. Her gown was of as many
colours as Joseph’s coat. Filigree trinkets from Genoa, and, I should
imagine, from several _bijoutiers en faux_ in the Palais Royal adorned
her neck, ears, and hands, while on her head she wore flowers, feathers,
and more false hair than was then consistent with the fashion even of
that day. Her airs and graces were in keeping with her attire, and I
could not help contrasting her whole appearance with that of her Royal
mistress.

[Sidenote: HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS]

It was easy to detect the nationality of the different households: the
severe simplicity of the English, the light and airy ball-dresses of the
French, and the different modes of dancing which characterised the
different countries. The little flirtations that passed, the extreme
_galanterie_ of the men, especially the couriers, the awkward “footing
it” of some, and the very graceful dancing of others, were all most
amusing to witness. It was _High Life Below Stairs_ acted on a real
stage by real characters, and far less exaggerated than the famous droll
old farce.

During our sojourn at the Baths we made a delightful excursion to the
town of Lucca, and here we became acquainted with the reigning Duke and
Duchess. They were reckoned the handsomest couple in Europe. The Duchess
was a daughter of the King of Sardinia, and as good as she was
beautiful; the description of her would pass for that of many an Italian
beauty, but I have seldom seen her equal. She was tall and majestic,
with a noble presence and lustrous eyes, but she had the saddest
expression I almost ever beheld, and so I observed to one of her ladies,
who became a great friend of mine, and she told me that it was not
without cause. Almost the same description might be given of the Duke’s
personal appearance, with the exception of the sad expression, for there
was no melancholy in the beaming, smiling countenance of Charles de
Bourbon. He had a sweet voice and a winning tongue, was a graceful
dancer, and the admired of all who saw him; but he was unworthy the love
of so noble a woman, and was vain and inconstant by nature. It was told
of him that one day a friend presumed to ask him how it was possible he
could treat his beautiful wife with so little consideration.

“Tiens, tiens,” he said, “elle est très bonne, elle est très belle, mais
elle ne me contrarie jamais. C’est si fade.”

I mention this circumstance as a warning to wives who are too forgiving
and forbearing.

About this time there took place a great religious festival in Lucca.
According to a legend, one day in far distant times a ship came to—I
forget what part of the coast, or what harbour—bearing a sacred image of
our Lord, which was at once appropriated by the Luccees.[32] As far as I
can remember, it was a rough, ill-modelled effigy, with a black face,
but it was held in high veneration by the citizens, and on one night in
every year it was carried through the town in a long procession,
consisting of the Court, the nobles, the Guilds, and principal burghers
of the place. I can recall the scene as the moonlight streamed down on
the Duke and Duchess and their attendants, the Duke in full uniform, the
Duchess a perfect dream of beauty in soft pale blue, crowned with a
heavy tiara of diamonds, and with diamonds studding her whole dress, and
glittering and sparkling in the moonlight with a softer brilliancy than
can ever be seen in the interior of a room. The ladies and gentlemen of
the retinue alike in full dress, and the priests bearing candles and
chanting as they went, made a sight never to be forgotten.

Footnote 32:

  According to the tradition, the Volto Santo was carried by Nicodemus,
  who, after the Crucifixion, was bidden by an angel to make an image of
  our Lord; but leaving it unfinished, he found the Face had been
  miraculously completed. It is said to have found its way to the coast
  of Italy in an open boat, and to have been brought to Lucca in 782.

[Sidenote: DUKE AND DUCHESS DE BOURBON]

One morning, after a ball at the ducal palace, the lady in waiting, to
whom I have already referred, told me that the Duchess was suffering
from a violent headache, arising from the weight of the diadem, which
she had not worn for some time. This struck me as a symbol, and the next
morning I wrote the following lines, which I gave to the Marchesa:—

                “Once more, oh joy! once more alone,
                  The pageant’s at an end
                And all the crowded train are gone,
                  The courtier, flatterer, friend.
                All, all is hushed and silent now,
                I tear the diadem from my brow,
                  Each glittering fillet rend.
                Oh would I thus my heart could free,
                And lift its load of misery!

                “I am alone, oh joy untold!
                  My splendid task is o’er,
                My heart of griefs I may unfold,
                  And swell the grievous store.
                I need not face the hollow smile,
                With a weeping bosom all the while,
                  My tears may freely pour.
                I need not speak of trivial things,
                When every word fresh torture brings.

                “Oh, well can I recall the day
                  I left my mother’s care,
                When, decked in royal bride array,
                  Each voice proclaimed me fair.
                That morn I drank in hope’s bright dream,
                The fount of joy and nectar’s stream,
                  And breathed a magic air.
                The sun, the sky, the earth, the sea,
                That day had new-born charms for me.

                “A ducal crown was not the thought
                  That fired my soul with pride,
                Sardinia’s daughter might be sought
                  For many a throne beside.


                But rapture’s cup was flowing o’er,
                The morn I left Liguria’s shore,
                  As Charles de Bourbon’s bride.
                Sole Empress of his heart of bliss—
                What were my sister’s realms to this?

                “They call me haughty, proud, and cold,
                  But little do they know——
                Who can through Hecla’s snows behold
                  The flames that lurk below?
                O Charles, my sovereign, husband, guide,
                My heart’s best, earliest, dearest pride,
                  Yet source of all my pain,
                Give me the love of bygone years,
                To turn the current of my tears
                  In smiles of hope again.”

The Marchesa read the lines with tears, and said how much she wished she
could show them to her royal mistress; but, alas! in some cases,
sympathy is an insult.

Before taking leave of the Baths of Lucca altogether, I think I may as
well allude here to a second visit which we paid some years later to
this charming spot, when we found the only son of the Duke and Duchess
established at the Royal Villa, and were invited, shortly after our
arrival, to a ball which they gave.

[Sidenote: “FILTHY LUCRE”]

The Prince had married the only sister of the Comte de Chambord. She was
a pretty blonde, fair of complexion, and short of stature, with golden
hair and blue eyes _à fleur de tête_. Her manners were winning and
gracious, and she altogether formed a striking contrast to her husband,
who was vulgar and unrefined. Indeed, in a subsequent visit to England,
he gained for himself the name of “Filthy Lucre.” One of his gentlemen
told me that the greatest ambition of His Highness was to be taken for
an English groom, upon which I retorted that in that case, he must
contrive to have a better seat on horseback. But to return to the ball.

I remember both my mother and myself being extremely scandalised by the
fact of His Highness holding, what some of the gentlemen called, _un
estaminet_, next door to the ball-room, where, during the greater part
of the evening, he and his chosen friends smoked very bad tobacco. This
incident will not surprise the readers of the present day; the only
difference lies in the better quality of the tobacco, for what was then
considered an innovation in the manners and customs of society, is now
sanctioned by the highest authority.

The career of this ill-fated Prince was a miserable one. On the death of
Maria Louisa, the Duchy of Lucca became annexed to that of Tuscany,
while that of Parma fell to the share of Charles de Bourbon, Duke of
Lucca. He disliked the change, retired into private life, and abdicated
in favour of his son, who assumed the title of Charles III.

Now began a reign of misrule and anarchy; the new sovereign was hated by
his subjects, as was his Prime Minister, Baron Ward. This man, who was a
Yorkshire jockey, first entered the Duke’s service as groom, and by
degrees became his political adviser, confidant, and companion. After a
short and disastrous reign, Charles III. was assassinated in the open
street, and as some say, in a common tavern, by the hand of a man of the
lower orders, prompted, it was supposed, by hatred and jealousy.

The incidents connected with this event were kept as secret as possible.
It took place in the year 1854, when the Duchess became regent for her
infant son, and these chronicles belong to the time when Italy was not
united.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIII

                       SHORT SOJOURN IN FLORENCE


From the baths of Lucca we went by _vetturino_, a charming drive, to
Florence. The chief part of the way I travelled with my eldest brother
on the box of our large berline, enjoying thus a perfect view of the
country through which we passed.

A trifling incident occasioned us much merriment the day we passed the
frontier of the little Duchy and entered that of Tuscany. Underneath the
carriage was slung a hamper, in which nestled our favourite Scotch
terrier, “Boch-Dhu,” so named on account of her black muzzle, together
with a small family with which she had lately increased our caravan. My
brother had walked on for a stretch, as he often did, and left me in
possession of some money to be delicately handed to the custom-house
officer, bidding me at the same time to address the official with great
civility. Accordingly, when we arrived at the Dogana, out came a little
bustling man, whose chief characteristic was a pair of enormous
moustaches. I acted up to my orders, and slid the _buona mano_ in his
hand. He did not disdain the bribe, but thought to hedge with his
conscience by asking in rather a peremptory tone of voice what that
curious-looking basket contained, implying that it was his painful duty
to be informed on so important a matter. I could not resist the
temptation of playing him a little practical joke, so in a meek and
obsequious manner I replied that I was not quite sure if the contents
were contraband, and requested him to satisfy his scruples by lifting
the lid. As he did so my expectations were realised, for the infuriated
mother made a dart at his nose, and he incontinently dropped the lid
with all haste. I must do the functionary the justice of saying that he
was good-humoured enough to bear me no malice. He laughed outright, and
the carriage drove on while he was shaking his fist at me in mock anger.

On our arrival in Florence we took up our abode on what I have since
called the wrong side of the Arno, although the autumn was not
sufficiently advanced for us to find our quarters too cold. The house
was situated near the south end of one of the bridges, and we had for
fellow-lodgers a French family, consisting of a mother, two daughters
and a son, who became ere long our cherished friends and companions.

The youngest daughter was a most remarkable person, and one who was well
known in Florence for many years. She had lived a life of romantic
adventure, and it was my hope and intention, at one time, to have
written a slight sketch of her life, as she described it to me.

The mother, Madame de Fauveau, was a typical Frenchwoman of the _ancien
régime_, whose family had suffered during the Reign of Terror. Her own
mother had been a prisoner for some time in the “_Conciergerie_,” and I
was much interested by an incident which my friend related to me of
those terrible days.

[Sidenote: “ROBESPIERRE EST MORT!”]

It seems that the room which Madame de Fauveau’s mother shared with
several other lady prisoners had but one window, heavily barred, through
which you could see, only by climbing up on a ledge, and straining your
neck to look out; but here so slight a communication with the outer
world was eagerly sought after by the poor captives, who would daily
take it in turn to mount the window-seat. One day it was the turn of
Madame de Fauveau’s mother, and her attention was attracted by seeing an
old woman in the street make her all sorts of mysterious signs; it was
evident she had something of importance to impart. She first made
manifold gestures and gesticulations, then taking up her own gown in her
hands, and shaking it and pointing to it several times, she proceeded to
pick up a stone from the ground, deliberately drew her hand across her
throat, and bowed her head, as if to designate the guillotine. Can you
not believe with what alacrity the happy prisoner jumped down from the
window, and communicated the joyful news to her fellow-captives, in a
cautious whisper, however, “Robespierre est mort!” which meant for all
in that room life and freedom?

Madame de Fauveau was a witty, kind-hearted woman, and a
hero-worshipper, and the hero, or rather heroine, she worshipped was her
own daughter, Félicie, who was well worthy of all the incense offered
her.

Félicie, some years before I knew her, had attached herself to the
fortunes of the Duchesse de Berri, and had been the fast friend and
comrade-in-arms of the brave and noble Madame de la Roche-Jacquelin,
Princesse de Talmont. This lady had emulated the example of her
ancestor, in the first rising of la Vendée, by animating her retainers,
and raising, as far as I remember, a regiment, which she herself
commanded, to uphold the fortunes of their legitimate King, Henri V., in
the same locality, so much so that, with a similarity of name and
country, the heroines of the two risings have frequently been
confounded, and the dates and heroines confused.

As I only heard the account of this short campaign from Félicie herself,
my allusion to it is naturally vague, but I know that those two friends
endured great hardships and dangers in each other’s company, and when
the little band of loyalists was dispersed, and the cause lost, they
wandered about, suffering from hunger and fatigue, often hiding
themselves in dry ditches by day, and continuing their flight by night,
till at length they were compelled to separate for a better chance of
safety. Félicie was taken, and the tattered colours of the Vendéens
found under her uniform. She was imprisoned, her captors believing that
they had arrested Madame de la Roche-Jacquelin, an error which the
faithful friend did not contradict.

On coming out from captivity, Félicie was banished from France, together
with her mother and the whole family. The little fortune they possessed
was confiscated, and thus it came about that they settled in Florence.

[Sidenote: FELICIE DE FAUVEAU]

What was to be done to gain a livelihood, for the de Fauveaus were too
proud to accept pecuniary aid from people whose political sentiments
they did not share? Félicie was energetic. She became a sculptress, she
worked in marble, in alabaster, and in silver, in many branches,
brooches, clasps, and wings, which would have done no discredit to
Benvenuto Cellini. All her tastes, all her talent turned to the
expounding of the genius of the Middle Ages, and all her works breathed
the spirit of mediæval art. One of her chief productions was a group of
Francesca di Rimini, chosen at the moment when Paolo falls at her feet,
and the fatal book lies on her lap—

                “Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”

Another very beautiful statuette she executed for the Duchesse de Berri;
it represented St Elizabeth, at the moment when, upbraided by her
husband for carrying provisions to the poor in time of scarcity, she
draws aside the cloth which covers her basket, and lo! a miracle, the
contents were turned to flowers. I saw this beautiful little statue in
the Duchesse de Berri’s palace at Venice, holding fresh white roses, the
emblem at once of the Royal Saint and the badge of the Royal owner.

Félicie de Fauveau was an excellent scholar as far as reading went,
being well acquainted with our literature, but she never could master
the language sufficiently to talk in society, and it was amusing to hear
the dialogues between her and my mother, each in her native tongue.

Our stay at Florence was not long. We made a preliminary acquaintance
with all the treasures of painting and sculpture contained in that
beautiful city, and went on our road to Rome, sleeping one night in the
Pontine Marshes, when we had for supper a _fricassée_ of frogs such as I
had heard of all my life and never beheld before or since.

We had had apartments taken for us in the Via della Croce leading out of
the Via Babuino, where on our arrival my mother found a letter from her
old friend Madame de Bunsen, begging her to come to tea that very
evening at the Prussian Legation, situated on the Campidoglio or
Capitoline Hill. Accordingly, having divested ourselves of our dusty
garments, we proceeded thither in all haste. That was a red-letter day
in my calendar, and one that while my life lasts can never be forgotten.

Our repast over, Madame de Bunsen said: “It is a most beautiful night,
and I think you and your girl would like to take your first impression
of Rome from the window of our balcony.”

So saying she led us out, and lo! in all the silver radiance of a
southern moonlight, Rome lay sleeping before us—Rome with its classical
ruins, the Coliseum, the Forums of Campo Vaccino and that of Trajan, the
Tarpeian Rock, with gorgeous palaces of the Middle Ages, and the towers
of manifold periods, while St Peter’s and the Vatican, with the Castle
of St Angelo, were visible on the further bank of the yellow Tiber, now,
glittering in the moonlight, transmuted into silver; and that was our
first sight of Rome the eternal, Rome the beautiful, Rome the
sublime—the pilgrims to whose shrine never failed to drink of the magic
waters of the fountain of Trevi, in the fond hope that this charm will
insure their return.

[Sidenote: FIRST IMPRESSION OF ROME]

I shall say very little about my Roman experiences on this occasion, as,
making allowances for the different degrees of enthusiasm, the same
story would be more or less told by every traveller; suffice it to say,
that my cup of happiness seemed overflowing, when I drove with my
mother, and walked or rode in the Campagna with my brother and numerous
friends, when each day our eyes were gladdened, and our intellects
brightened, by some new revelation of beauty in art or nature.

Very shortly after our arrival we went with a large party to see the
principal statues in the Vatican by torchlight, an expensive amusement
which is generally accomplished by collecting many friends together,
each of whom pays a torch-bearer. The effect is most wonderful, for the
men who carry the torches are instructed to make the light travel over
the marble features until they assume a living aspect, with all the
change and expression of breathing humanity.

We mixed frequently this winter in artistic circles, visiting both at
the homes and studios of the principal painters and sculptors of the
day. To Horace Vernet, in particular, we often paid our respects; at his
house one of the most prominent and interesting figures was the
venerable Thorwaldsen, whose magnificent work of our Lord and the Twelve
Apostles was then on exhibition in his studio, the same which now forms
one of the glories of his native city of Copenhagen. He himself was of a
commanding presence, with long locks of silver lying on his shoulders,
and of the gentlest and most genial countenance I ever beheld.

One evening the French painter invited his guests to come in costume,
and I remember the characteristic appearance which he made as a Bedouin,
and very like one of his own equestrian pictures, while his lovely
daughter, in a splendid dress of gold and coloured brocade, looked as if
she had walked out of a Paul Veronese frame. I thought then of the verse
in the Psalms of the description of the King’s daughter—“All glorious
within, her clothing of wrought gold, brought unto the King in raiment
of needlework.” She was indeed, on that evening especially, a vision of
delight. No wonder she drove poor Leopold Robert to madness, and
captivated the heart of her noble countryman, Paul de la Roche.

With Overbeck we also made acquaintance, and the fine work on which he
was then engaged, the “Life of Our Lord,” with regard to which he told
us that he had changed the Protestant religion for that of Rome, as he
believed none but a Catholic could paint sacred subjects.

Pinelli was also still alive, and we found him at work on one of those
terra-cotta groups of Roman peasantry, which were even more admirable
than his drawings. He was very handsome, a typical Roman, with gold
earrings in his ears, and his hair in small ringlets, such as in old
days might commonly be seen among our English sailors. I think he
admired himself as much as we did, and it was easy to see that he had
taken himself as the model for most of the principal figures in his
charming groups.

Another interesting personage was the German painter Reinhardt, a man of
very advanced age, who was called at that time the father of the
artists.

But this book is not intended as a mere catalogue.

Through the kindness of a friend whose acquaintance we made at Lucca, we
had ingress afforded us to many of the religious ceremonies in the
Sistine and elsewhere, from which the generality of travellers were
usually excluded, and letters of introduction also formed passports to
the palaces of the chief Roman nobility, so that the Carnival that year
was one continued round of gaiety and festivity for me and mine.

[Sidenote: LEAVE ROME FOR NAPLES]

After some delightful Spring days passed in the neighbourhood with the
Boddingtons, at Tivoli and Albano, we travelled to Naples, where those
dear friends soon rejoined us. Here we took up our abode, in a very
pretty apartment on the ground floor of the Palazzo Calabritti, just
opposite the entrance to the delightful gardens of the Villa Reale.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIV

                            SUMMER AT NAPLES


We made rather a sad entrance into our new abode, for we had not been
settled above two days when the portress appeared to me with a very
troubled face, and asked me to come and see her Giulia, who, she feared,
was dying. The poor woman was in dreadful grief, having lost another
daughter not many months before. I accompanied her to the sick room,
where I found a very pretty girl, by whose bedside I took my place. With
that trustfulness which is a leading characteristic in young Italians,
she took my hand, and addressed me as if I had been an old friend. I
tried to speak cheerfully to her, but there was something so spiritual
and far away in the look of her pleading eyes that it failed me to hold
out to her any hope of recovery.

She had only lately fallen ill, she told me, but knew that she was
dying, for her sister’s last words to her were “Tornero per te.”[33] She
scarcely knew at the time what was meant by these ominous words.

Footnote 33:

  “I will return for thee.”

“But two nights ago, signorina,” she said, “I looked up and saw Anna by
my bedside; she had fulfilled her promise and came back for me.”

Poor Giulia! I only saw her once again, and that was on the morrow, when
she was carried past our windows on the way to the Campo Santo.
According to the custom of those days (I do not know if it still
continues), she lay with her face exposed on a bier of magnificent
crimson velvet, embroidered with gold, attended by a long procession of
priests and mourners for the dead. Her beautiful long hair crowned with
fresh roses, her gala dress thrown loosely over her, to be removed when
the funeral reached the cemetery, and the fair young creature to be
thrown headlong into one of those noisome holes which were opened daily
for the interment of the dead.

[Sidenote: RIDING PARTIES AT NIGHT]

With the exception of two attacks of illness which befell me and my
sister, and which were productive of a good result in the friendship we
formed with the chief physician of the place, our summer at Naples was
most enjoyable. As usual, we had our cavalcades, in which we were always
joined by the two Boddington sisters and a compatriot of ours, Hugh
Cholmondeley, afterwards Lord Delamere; so that with my two brothers, my
sister and myself we formed no insignificant troop of horses. But summer
was at its height, and our rides were nocturnal. The horses were ordered
at 10 P.M., and we rode till one and two in the morning, for, as I heard
a passer-by once say under my window:—

                       “A Napoli non e mai notte.”

How beautiful were those moonlight rides along the coast towards
Posillippo, with the Mediterranean glittering and sparkling, and
occasionally dotted by fishing-boats, with their flickering lights,
while Vesuvius at intervals threw up volleys of flame and columns of
smoke.

What a happy band we were!—alas! there are but two survivors! What
delightful excursions we had (the pleasure enhanced by the presence of
our respective parents) to Pompeii, to Sorrento and Amalfi and Paestum,
and what delicious evenings we spent in the little garden of Villa
Craven which overhung the sea! What a trip to the island of Ischia,
where the Boddingtons and I danced tarantellas on the terrace of the
pretty inn under the tuition of a dark-eyed young Ischiate. How
enchanting was the scenery of that sweet little island, the pleasure
only marred to our friends’ English maid by the fact that we had to
cross the sea to get there.

Harvey (for that was her name), the hysterical friend of Lucca days,
expostulated with her mistress on the inconvenience of coming in an open
boat—

“Lord and Lady Sydney, ma’m,” she said, “preferred coming by land, and
found it much more comfortable.”

Poor Harvey! she was one of those people who remain faithful to their
first idea. It was in vain her young ladies explained to her that it was
very difficult, they might say impossible, to reach an island by land!
Harvey maintained stoutly that Lord and Lady Sydney had achieved this
feat, for she had it from the best authority, that of the lady’s maid;
and in that belief Harvey went down to her grave.

Vesuvius vouchsafed three separate eruptions to us during our sojourn at
Naples, and we made a pilgrimage up the mountain while the fire-stones
were falling and the lava flowing in all directions, much to the
consternation and disgust of our guides.

[Sidenote: OUR DOCTOR RECITES DANTE]

But to return from Nature to human nature, and to speak first of our
beloved physician.

Michael Giardano was the son of an Italian by an English woman, and
combined in his own person the best characteristics of both nations. He
was eminently handsome, well skilled in his profession, a scholar, a
sportsman, and an artist. He nursed me and my sister, and our faithful
Henry, through bad attacks of fever, and as far as I was concerned,
assisted in my recovery by the opiates he administered in the form of
long recitals from favourite passages in Dante as he sat by my bedside.

Poetry is a medicine which I have always found efficacious in my own
case, either to a body or mind diseased, and I was reminded of my
Neapolitan friend not long ago, when another distinguished member of the
same profession, and another valued friend of my own, administered the
same remedy, only then the tonic was Goethe instead of Dante.

Giardano was a favourite with man, woman, child, and dog, for he set the
paw of our Scotch terrier when run over by the carriage. “Boch-Dhu” was
very much pleased with the care he bestowed on her, and, I grieve to
say, showed some dissimulation in order to attract his notice. Long
after she had become sound, the instant the door opened, and the Doctor
appeared, this deceitful individual would limp to the chair and, sitting
beside her medical attendant, offer him her paw!

Poor Michael Giardano! Many years afterwards I picked some violets from
his grave in the Protestant cemetery at Rome, where an elaborate tomb
had been erected to his memory by an English lady, who became his wife,
not long after we had bidden him adieu at Naples. There could be no
doubt of the admiration and affection in which she held this gifted man,
whose epitaph she wrote, detailing his many virtues and talents, while
the sculptured sides of the monument symbolised the many pursuits in
which he was proficient.

One evening, riding with my eldest brother, we resolved to go up to the
castle of Sant’ Elmo (then the Chelsea Hospital of Naples) in order to
view the sunset from the summit of the hill. When we arrived at the
gates of the fortress, we found that we were too late to be admitted,
but I looked so disappointed, and pleaded so piteously to be allowed to
pass, that a soldier who was standing by offered to go in and ask the
Commandant for his permission. The request was readily granted. We
dismounted from our horses, and made our way on to the terrace, where we
were welcomed by the good old general, who was enjoying his coffee, and
kindly asked us to join him. He was already long past middle age, with a
military bearing, for he had seen much good service, and with a kind,
genial manner, which warmed into enthusiasm when he found we spoke his
language with fluency. He did the honours of the place and of the pretty
garden which embellished the grim old castle, and the magnificent view
it commanded; for Naples lay beneath us, the blue Mediterranean dotted
with islands, the country towards Baiæ on one side, Pompeii on the
other, stretching out into the distance, the Villa Reale, enlivened by
numerous groups of gay pedestrians, and the fire and smoke of Vesuvius
in the back-ground.

[Sidenote: CASTLE OF SANT’ ELMO]

We lingered on the terrace a long time, until the moon rose over the
bay, and then, bidding our new friend good-night, gratefully accepted
his invitation to return there again, and, above all, to bring my sister
and my brother Charles, who were shortly expected from England, to enjoy
that beautiful prospect.

Dear old General Ruberti! May I be forgiven if I boast of so decided a
conquest. From that time till we left Naples, he would send me constant
presents of sweet nosegays, of delicious fruits, and of different kinds
of dried fish, and any other especial Neapolitan delicacy, the packets
usually tied up with coloured ribbons, and invariably accompanied by a
large square letter directed:

                          “_Aa sua eccellenza,
                          La nobil donzella,
                          Donna Marietta Boyle,
                          Palazzo Calabritti_,”

which bore very little resemblance to a _billet-doux_, either outside or
in. Yet the contents were usually of a tender and complimentary nature,
and surely never were love-letters more peculiar in their character.
They were written by proxy in the large, full round hand of a secretary,
very eloquent and very flowery, with a most affectionate yet respectful
heading and ending, while at the bottom of the paper, in a little
cramped and rather trembling hand, came the signature of my devoted
admirer,

            “_Ruberti, Generale Commandante di Sant’ Elmo_.”

Natural as was the pride I felt in the conquest of so elevated an
adorer, it was nothing to the glory which awaited me. One evening I was
bidden with my mother and the whole of the family to dinner, and a most
excellent repast was served to us on the beautiful terrace, and when the
purple shades of night deepened in the sky, the grim old Castle of Sant’
Elmo burst forth into brilliant illuminations—and all this in honour of
Donna Marietta. I have never since gazed on a picture or drawing of
Naples the beautiful, crowned with the old castle, without remembering
that proud night in my life. Dear, noble old general!

When King Bomba issued his commands that the Commandante should fire
upon his countrymen from the heights above the town, the patriot
refused, and, in spite of his previous services and advanced age, was
cast into prison. A tribute is paid to this noble rebel in Ruffini’s
pathetic tale of “Dr Antonio.”

He outlived his captivity, and shortly before his death (which, I think,
took place at Turin) sent me a letter with a string of coral beads, to
entwine, as he expressed himself, in my golden hair, by that lover of
Italian freedom, the Countess Belgiojoto, a connection, by the way, of
our Poet-Laureate.[34]

Footnote 34:

  Alfred Lord Tennyson.

[Sidenote: FEAST OF MADONNA DELL’ ARCO]

Naples, justly called the beautiful, appeared to us on another occasion
under what might well be termed a miraculous aspect. It was the feast of
the Madonna dell’ Arco, When the Neapolitans leave the city to purchase
in some neighbouring district rural utensils of husbandry, such as
rakes, pitchforks, baskets of various shapes, etc.,

they return at evening into the city with these implements crowned with
flowers and decked with coloured ribbons a species of triumphal
procession, which formed the subject many years ago for a charming
little picture by the Italian painter, “Urvins,” which decorates one of
the small rooms in Lord Lansdowne’s splendid collection at Bowood.

But let it not be supposed that the mirthful Neapolitans marched
stiffly, or walked sedately into the city at the close of the festival.
Oh, no! the whole procession danced into the town with all the varying
steps of the tarantella, the men wheeling and circling round the women,
and shaking and striking the tambourines above their heads; and on the
glorious afternoon in question, the Madonna was propitious, and across
the whole city was thrown a rainbow of immense magnitude and brilliant
colours, framing with its prismatic arch one of the most glorious
pictures that can be imagined, and promising to the happy citizens a
fertile and beautiful season.

The arrangement of the hours of the day at Naples during the summer was
a source of great amusement to us. The belfry of a neighbouring church
tolled the hours, but only as far as six, so that when, according to our
English reckoning, it was 7 P.M., the clock struck one, and the hour was
called twenty-four.

One more curious experience befell me at Naples—Naples the delight of
her citizens, as the old carbonari song says, which strangers are
enjoined to see before they die. I slept in a corner room opening into
those of my mother and my sister, the two doors being in an angle close
to each other, and, of course, always open during the summer months
(they were all passage rooms). I had not slept there very long, before I
came to the conclusion that my apartment was haunted. Every night there
passed through from one door to the other the figure of a woman, so
hastily, so softly, that I was only aware of the movement and the
scarcely perceptible flutter of a garment. At first I supposed it was my
sister, and called out, but received no answer. I said very little—I am
not sure, but I believe I kept silence altogether on the subject; the
servants would have been terrified, the rest of the family sceptical, so
I and my ghost kept our own counsel. I had not the slightest fear, or
feeling even bordering on excitement, but I was curious, and determined
to test myself whether the vision was a fancy of my own; so I used to
look up and think, “Now I shall see it,” but that did not succeed, and
afterwards when I was thinking of something else there she was, or
rather there she went, her movements being visible to me by the glimmer
of outside _cafés_, etc., which were never extinguished till dawn, and
my curtains were closed.

[Sidenote: THE PALAZZO CALABRITTI GHOST]

My visitor was very faithful, but was not regular in her hours. She
never made her presence known by any audible sound, unless the piercing
shriek that I heard one night, some hours after I had gone to bed, had
any connection with my ghostly friend. I was roused from my slumber by a
scream which appeared to me to come from our drawing-room, which was
three rooms off from mine. I dashed out of bed and found my sister, who
had sat up late, calmly writing letters to England, and she naturally
took me for a ghost, as I made my sudden appearance in my night attire.

I sometimes also heard my name called when no one was by, but that was
all I ever saw or knew of the ghost of the Palazzo Calabritti. Neither
could I in any way account for the apparition, unless the question could
be solved by our Neapolitan housemaid saying to me one day:

“Ah! a poor young lady from your country died in that bed, for the love
of the Prince of Capua.”

I think the poor girl must have had the most susceptible heart, for that
royal prince had little to recommend him, either in looks or in
character, although he shortly afterwards married an English wife. We
heard sad stories of him while we were at Naples, and how he persecuted
a beautiful young Englishwoman by his attentions, and in revenge for the
slight she put upon him, endeavoured to compromise her by causing his
empty carriage to stand almost every night at her door. In order to
defeat his wicked design, this fair creature would walk up and down the
pavement before her own house, sometimes for hours together, until
fatigue drove her in. Yet I must confess we were indebted to this
reprobate prince for a delightful sail to the island of Capri, he having
lent my sailor brother the small yacht in which he made frequent
cruises.

It was a glaring hot July day, and going below, to escape the heat of
the sun, I was most unpleasantly impressed by the gaudy colouring of the
cabin and its fittings. Why on earth, thought I, should a Neapolitan
prince sport the Royal Stuart tartan, which, however dear to loyal eyes,
looked tawdry and incongruous in such a position. It was some time
before I discovered the meaning of the sentiments or the allusions to
“Prince Charlie,” as the Prince of Capua bore that name.

Now while we are on the subject of the Bay of Naples, and the yacht is
in the harbour, I must mention that the skipper of Lord Anglesey’s
charming craft, the _Pearl_, was an Irishman, but of so refined and
educated a class that, avoiding all temptations to brogue, he invariably
called the crater of Mount Vesuvius “the creature.”

Bidding adieu to beautiful Naples, we embarked on a French steamer for
Leghorn, and had so fine a passage that we were able to sleep both
nights on deck, “under the roof of blue _Italian_ weather,” and make our
way to Pisa, _en route_ for Florence.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XV

                           PISA AND FLORENCE


These two cities have always appeared to me to bear a strong family
likeness to each other, the same river running through the principal
streets, although the buildings on the quays are very different. They
are like two sisters: Pisa, the elder, the more sedate, the graver of
the two, while Florence, the younger, is all smiles and gladness. But in
one respect we were very fortunate, for we saw Pisa under a most
cheerful aspect. There is, or was (for I do not know if it continues), a
triennial festival in honour of her patron saint, St Ranieri, on which
occasion the whole town is illuminated, not, after the fashion of an
English illumination, with crowns and stars and badges and devices, but
by the marking out of the architecture of palaces, churches, and bridges
with lines of light, so that the city bears the appearance of being
built in fire. Beautiful as this effect would be in almost all cities,
it is doubly so in Pisa, more especially on account of that noble group
of buildings, the Cathedral, the Baptistery, and the Leaning Tower. The
last edifice, in particular, presents a most singular and beautiful
aspect with the spiral lines of light, which define so vividly the
peculiar and fantastic form of the erection.

We walked about the streets during the greater part of the night, amid
the most amiable and good-humoured crowd with which it was ever my lot
to mingle.

I cannot help recording here a curious story which was told me by an
English lady at Pisa. A countrywoman of hers, a young girl, said to her
one day when they were standing together in the Baptistery, admiring the
celebrated pulpit, which is supported on the backs of four lions:

“That reminds me of such a curious dream I had last night. I thought I
was standing here where we are now, and that I put my hand into the
lion’s open mouth, when he bit it off.” Suiting the action to the word,
the girl thrust her hand into the marble creature’s jaws, uttered a cry
of agony, and pulled it out hurriedly. The lion’s mouth contained a nest
of scorpions, one of which had stung her so severely as to necessitate
immediate measures to ensure the safety of her injured hand.

[Sidenote: ACTORS AND ACTRESSES]

Our winter season[35] at Florence was as brilliant as that at Rome, and,
to me, more delightful in one respect, as I obtained a theatrical
engagement. On the walls of Florence stood a large and commodious house
(I know not if it still exists). It then belonged to Mr Rowland
Standish, and was called by his name; it had a large garden and a very
pretty theatre. The mistress—the lessee, the manageress, the friend of
all who came near her, whether professionally or socially—was Lady Lucy
Standish,[36] beneath whose auspices the little theatre became the
resort of a happy company, both before and behind the curtain.

Footnote 35:

  The winter season of the early months of 1834; see subsequent notes.

Footnote 36:

  Lady Lucy Perry, third daughter of Edmund Henry, first Earl of
  Limerick; married 1816 to Rowland Stephenson, who took the name of
  Standish in 1834.

How excellent were some of our actors and actresses! Ah! I fear very few
survive to read this feeble tribute. Among other performances, we gave
an ambitious representation of the old comedy, _A Cure for the
Heartache_, in which the Secretary of our Legation, Mr George
Edgcumbe,[37] especially distinguished himself as the “yokel” of the
piece. He had lately become engaged to Miss Shelley, a fair friend and
countrywoman of mine, but however preoccupied his heart may have been,
it did not interfere with the rare skill with which he played a
difficult, and some would have considered ungrateful, _rôle_. The
villain of the play, who had designs on the sister of the ploughman,
lays a scheme by which to get the latter into his power. He places a
purse full of money (one of those large elongated purses with which in
old melodramas the wicked peer always tempted the virtuous peasant)
within the grasp of the poverty-stricken brother, when summoned on some
pretext to the great house. After a short soliloquy, lamenting his
penury and the like, the ploughman looks round, sees the golden bait,
and chinks the guineas. Then follows a silent pause. The temptation at
first appears irresistible; you see the struggles which are passing in
the poor fellow’s mind, the difficulty of resistance, the final victory
over himself, and the well-expressed air of reproach and indignation
with which he hands the purse to his tempter on his entering the room.

Footnote 37:

  The Honourable George Edgcumbe, second son of Richard, second Earl of
  Mount Edgcumbe; married 19th May 1834 Fanny Lucy, eldest daughter of
  Sir John Shelley, sixth Baronet.

May I be forgiven for adding a little incident concerning my own
performance? I played the rich heiress whose betrothed lover throws her
over at the end of the piece, in favour of her penniless rival. I
thought it would be neat and appropriate at such a juncture to make my
exit in violent hysterics, and in that state I repaired to my
dressing-room, where I was calmly employed in changing my dress for the
after piece, when the door burst open and my sister rushed in,
terror-stricken.

“O Mary,” she said, “you will kill yourself; this dreadful excitement is
too much for you!”

I looked up and she looked down. I was certainly the calmer of the two,
but my vanity had received a most flattering compliment.

How well I remember the night of our first rehearsal. At its
termination, the gentleman who had kindly undertaken the onerous office
of prompter thus addressed us from his hooded seat on the stage:-“Ladies
and gentlemen, I am most anxious to give you all satisfaction, and in
order to do so, I have taken down every separate direction given me by
each member of the company, as to the especial manner in which he or she
wishes me to prompt, such as, When I look at you, not before. Will you
run on in a low voice the whole time?” “Never mind if I substitute one
small word for another,” etc.

He then read each order, with the name of the giver, and summed up the
total. There were twenty-two entirely different, most specific orders!

[Sidenote: OFFICE OF PROMPTER]

“May I enquire,” he continued, “what I am to do to content you all?”

His harangue was received with a burst of laughter, and the resolution
was carried _nem. con._ that we must all be “letter perfect.” We very
often beat for recruits when we heard of any new English arrival in
Florence, and as we were about to cast a play of which one of the
characters was a decided plunger, I was deputed to ask a certain gallant
hussar, when I next danced with him, if he would help us. I did so, he
gladly accepted, and I made an appointment with him to come to Casa
Standish the next evening at rehearsal hour, when his part would be read
for him. When he arrived, I repeated mine, which contained many tender
passages with my Plunger; but each time I approached him he gazed at me
in a more and more threatening manner, till at last I fancied that he
was more likely to strike than to caress me. The effect was peculiar—the
prompter reading declarations in the most affectionate and insinuating
terms, while the lover looked daggers, not to say swords and pistols, at
the unoffending _jeune première_. At length the crisis came. I had to
recline gracefully on his shoulder (he was six feet two), and to confess
how entirely I reciprocated his ardent love.

He bent over me, and in a stage whisper, with a look of thunder that
might have shattered nerves less strong than mine, said:—

“If you keep me to my promise, I leave Florence to-night.”

This was the second time I had been thrown over, but this time if I had
become hysterical, it would have been through laughter. The Inamorato
did not explain why he broke his engagement, but he had never trod the
stage till then, and I suppose the prompter’s box, the footlights and
the whole dramatic apparatus produced an unmitigated stage fright.

Neither will I omit to make mention of a favourite member of our troupe,
who distinguished himself in more ways than one: this was the clever
pony belonging to the son of the house, whose stable was in the garden.
Often in the intervals of our day rehearsal it was the delight of the
then schoolboys to mount me on “Hotspur’s” back, and slipping the rein,
he would dash off at the word of command, taking the bit in his mouth,
and making the circuit of the garden at the fullest of all speeds. I
well knew that those boys fondly hoped that the day would come when they
would see their playfellow (myself) dismounted from her exalted
position, but I am proud to think I disappointed them.

On one occasion a magnificent _ballet d’action_ was in preparation. The
daughter of General de Courcy, a leading member of the Anglo-Florentine
society, was to represent “Fatima” in a gorgeous Eastern costume, which
became her beauty well, while I took the scarcely less responsible
_rôle_ of “Sister Anne.”

[Sidenote: PONY ON THE STAGE]

Standishes of all ages and both sexes took part in this brilliant
spectacle, while the part of “Selim,”,the rescuer of the lovely Fatima,
was acted by the young Marquis Talleyrand de Perigord, eldest son of the
Duc de Dinon, who had lately become a resident in Florence. We were very
glad to secure the services of the young Marquis, who was handsome,
accomplished and agreeable, and who, moreover, was not likely to be
unwilling to enact the part of rescuer to the fair Fatima, seeing he
appeared in no way insensible to the charms of our _prima ballerina_. I
was the originator of the noble idea of introducing an equestrian
element into the _ballet_, and mounting the gallant soldier on young
Standish’s favourite pony. The effect was thrilling. The clattering of
the hoofs on the stage recalled visions of international circuses. The
final _tableau_, with the equine element in the back-ground, could not
be surpassed for grandeur or originality; but—alas for the vanity of
earthly ambition!—no power on earth could induce the pony to leave the
stage—him to whom the slightest wish of his master was usually law.
Threats, blows, caresses, all were in vain—he stood perfectly
still—stock still, though, as grooms say, a little “handy with his
heels.” Here was a _contretemps_. I had to answer for the proposition,
everybody was cross, supper waiting—that delightful banquet which we had
honestly gained. I felt my honour was at stake. I entreated to be left
alone with the rebellious charger, and my patience was put to no small
test. I bandaged Hotspur’s eyes, I led him round and round, and
backwards and forwards, patting and coaxing him all the time, till my
efforts were crowned with success, and I backed him off the stage. The
horse had evidently had an attack of stage fright, as severe as that of
the hussar. A long discussion ensued between all the members of the
company, as to the advisability of repeating the experiment on the next
evening, when the public were to be admitted; but I pleaded so hard,
taking for my text, “nothing hazard, nothing have,” that the pony made
“his first appearance on any stage,” and despite the thunders of
applause which rewarded his efforts, walked off when required to do so,
as quietly as a lamb!

Ah! those were merry days at Casa Standish, and the boys and girls of
that bygone time are still affectionately remembered by me, and that
dear mother, Lady Lucy Standish, who presided over all our revels. I
trust that any members of the family who may chance to read these lines,
will not be displeased by this slight allusion to those happy days.

It was about this time, at Florence, that I first made the acquaintance
and formed the friendship of the celebrated novelist of the day, G. P.
R. James, whose historical romances were then in the highest favour with
the reading public. I was one of his great admirers, and was delighted
to be made known to him, but it was reserved for me in future days to
fathom the depths of that high and generous nature, and that warm and
noble heart. He had hired a beautiful villa in the environs of the city,
which afterwards became the property of the Countess of Crawford, Villa
Palmieri, and which has been occupied by our beloved Queen Victoria. It
was on one of Florence’s golden afternoons that my mother and I drove
out to dine with Mr and Mrs James, and I pressed for the first time
those hands which were ever afterwards stretched out to me in kindness
and hospitality.

[Sidenote: CAROLINE BONAPARTE]

Amongst the residents at this season in Tuscany’s fair capital was
Caroline Bonaparte, the widow of Joachim Murat, the favourite sister of
the Emperor Napoleon I., whom he described as having the head of a great
man on the shoulders of a pretty woman. Ex-Queen of Naples, she was
living at that time on the Lung’arno, under the anagrammatic title of
Countess Lipona (Napoli), and supposed, with little doubt, to be the
wife of Marshal Macdonald. I think the epithet “captivating” might well
be applied to her; she was small and fair, and, although advanced in
years, bore the traces of great comeliness. I found in her a strange
resemblance to our dear Princess Mary of England, Duchess of Gloucester,
and she was in no wise displeased when I told her so.

Countess Lipona was much beloved and respected at Florence, and had a
great liking and admiration for Félicie de Fauveau, in spite of their
political antagonism, and it was owing to the last-mentioned friend that
I had the privilege and delight of making her acquaintance. I always
approached her as a royal personage, remembering what she had been, and
made what I considered a conscientious compromise by using the title of
_altesse_. On one occasion, at a masquerade, where I personated a
“Marchande de Cœurs,” and carried a basket full of hearts, dramatic,
poetical, diplomatic, and the like, I constructed a gigantic golden
heart inscribed “Cœur de Caroline,” on which I paid an honest tribute to
the extraordinary courage and equanimity with which she had borne the
vicissitudes of a cruel destiny. This golden heart had no price; it was
to be given up to the august Caroline for the value of a single smile,
and kneeling at the feet of the Princess I so much admired, I presented
her there and then with the greatest treasure in my basket. I can
remember her appearance well; she was dressed in a domino of light green
silk, trimmed with costly lace, green and white, the colours of the
Legitimist party, and she laughingly called on Félicie de Fauveau to
account for her selection of that combination. Now, Félicie was a
genuine woman, and was never at a loss for an answer, and this was her
gracious and loyal reply:

“Madame,” she said, “c’est pour nous les faire aimer de toutes les
manières.”

How well I recall that night. Some of the English and Scotch guests
arranged to dance a reel, and I had the good fortune to perform my part
immediately before the spot where Countess Lipona was sitting. At the
termination of the dance, she beckoned to me, and, with a kind kiss,
presented me with her fan, “as a reward,” she said, “for the manner in
which I had danced the _écossaise_.”

It may well be imagined how dearly I cherish this relic of bygone days,
and even more so the small bracelet of hair which she sent me the
ensuing year by my cousin, Lady Clinton, who was travelling in Italy
shortly after her second marriage with Sir Horace Seymour. By the way,
the coupling of these two names, I was assured, caused some
animadversions among the society of a city where you would not have
expected the inhabitants to be extra strait-laced. But our peculiar
English custom of widows retaining the rank of the first husband, if
superior to that of the second, is very perplexing to the mind of a
foreigner, as in other European countries the wife is naturally expected
to bear the name of the suitor whom she accepts.

The last visit I paid to Caroline Bonaparte was deeply interesting to
me. She showed me the portrait of her brother Napoleon, when quite
young, a calm and gentle countenance, with fair complexion and golden
hair. How different from the well-known picture painted in later days by
David, of the dark, menacing warrior of the passage of the Alps. Then
Madame Lipona pointed out to me another portrait, that of her husband
Joachim Murat, answering to the description that I had heard and read of
him—what we should call in England a “fine specimen,” with a perfect
mane of dark hair and flashing eyes, broad-shouldered, with an imperious
aspect, in full and gorgeous uniform, grand in his way, but lacking
refinement. His wife spoke of him with tenderness, and then said to me:

[Sidenote: MURAT’S MILITARY WEAPONS]

“I have a treat in store for you. Go into the next room, and there,
scattered all around, you will find arms of all sorts and kinds, which
were once the property of the King of Naples.”

I obeyed her, and gazed with delight and interest on the accumulated
treasures which met my eye. I had often heard that Murat had an especial
taste for military weapons of all kinds, and that in the days of his
prosperity those potentates or authorities who thought it advisable to
win his favour, usually selected some ornamental implement of warfare as
a stepping-stone thereto. Here were pistols richly set with precious
stones, which sparkled as I held them in my hand, muskets with the butts
inlaid in particoloured wood, and swords and sabres, the gorgeous
mountings of their scabbards out-done by the delicate flexibility of
their Damascus blades. But what riveted my attention most, was a sword
lying on the ground beside the Marshal’s _bâton_ of black velvet _sémé_
with golden eagles, for the sword in question, hilt and scabbord, bore
small and well-painted miniatures of the wife and children Murat loved
so dearly. As I held the weapon reverently in my hand, I recalled the
last pathetic scene of the ex-king’s life, how, when about to receive
his death wound, he bade his executioners pause for one instant, while
he drew a locket from his bosom, and, raising the image of his beloved
Caroline to his lips, gave the order to fire, in as steady a voice as he
would have bade his cavalry charge.

That was the last time I saw that kind and gracious princess—now upwards
of half a century ago—but still, in the secret recesses of an old box, I
have a faded rose which one day bloomed on her table, and was given to
me by a devoted admirer of us both.

Another friend, of a widely opposed class and calling, was Geppina, the
flower-girl of Florence, a well-known character for many succeeding
years in the beautiful city. When I first knew her, she too, was young,
and from a peculiar waywardness and eccentricity in her manner, had
obtained the nickname of _pazzina_, which would answer to the Scotch
appellation of “daft.” There were also some strange stories afloat
respecting her being a Court spy, a rumour to which I disdained to give
credit, for Geppina and I became great friends, and the origin of that
friendship I will describe, as I did at the time, in verse:—

[Sidenote: THE FLOWER-GIRL OF FLORENCE]

           “It was a bright, gay morning; in the square
           Of Holy Trinity, there passed a pair
           On horseback; gloomily they went—
           Their wit, or sympathy, perhaps was spent.
           Sudden, above the woman’s head there flew
           A flower, a lily-bell of spotless hue,
           Too pure, too modest—if the truth I tell—
           Too spotless for the hand on which it fell.
           Disdaining to look round, she reared her head,
           And with the bold, proud look of those ill-bred
           And nurtured, did she cast the flower
           Down on the ground—beneath her horse’s feet,
           Down on the muddy pavement of the street;
           While poor Geppina there, aghast, amazed,
           Upon her scouted offering sadly gazed—
           When one stood by her. With an eager bound,
           Which indignation in itself expressed,
           She raised the sullied lily from the ground,
           And placed it, soiled and drooping, on her breast.
           And from that day the mad girl’s choicest flowers
           Fell round the English maiden’s path in showers;
           At home, abroad, at morning, eve and night,
           Fresh fragrant garlands blossomed in her sight:
           And sweet indeed are those fair Florence weaves
           In early spring—the Tyrian violet,
           Snowy camellia with the burnished leaves,
           Cassia, whose perfume wakes a fond regret,
           Myrtle, carnation, and the first young rose,
           With almond-scented jessamine that throws
           A sweet, faint perfume as the buds unclose.”

Of Geppina, I shall have more to say in future pages. Our connection and
friendship were by no means confined to my first visit to Florence.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XVI

      RETURN TO ENGLAND—ACCESSION OF QUEEN VICTORIA—HER CORONATION


In the year 1836 my eldest brother was married to Miss Ogle, in my
opinion the most beautiful bride I have ever seen, before or since. They
came to reside with us for a time, but the arrangement did not last
long, and they went abroad and settled in Paris. The year 1837 was one
of great sorrow for my sister, and indeed for all of us, as the health
of her dear kind master, William the Fourth, began to fail.

In the month of May I went with my mother to pay a visit of a few days
to Princess Mary, Duchess of Gloucester, at her house in Park Lane. We
had been more than once the guests of this dear and kind Princess, at
her delightful residence at Bagshot Park, but this was the first time I
had slept under her hospitable roof in London. She was a most gracious
lady, and full of delightful old-world anecdotes of her father’s court,
and ever ready to appreciate and to promulgate a joke or a good story.

[Sidenote: MRS JORDAN]

I would sit and listen with gratitude to all she had to tell me of old
days. I had a great admiration (what in the modern vernacular is called
a “cult”) for the talent of Mrs Jordan, although it was only inspired by
hearsay, as she was before my time. My mother had often told me that she
would have considered it worth her while to go to the theatre, merely to
hear the silvery ringing laugh of that actress behind the scenes, even
if she had not waited for the performance of the play. I spoke of Mrs
Jordan to the Duchess, and she told me she quite concurred in my
mother’s opinion. She also gave me a very interesting account of
accompanying her royal parents to the play one night, when the actress
in question was to perform one of her favourite characters. “I was much
excited, my dear Mary,” said the Duchess, “at the prospect of seeing the
woman in whom I knew my brother William was deeply interested; but that
evening was destined to be one of terrible excitement.”

It was the occasion on which the king’s life was attempted in the
theatre. His escape was miraculous, and as he was most popular with his
subjects, the alarm and consternation, with the subsequent enthusiasm
and rejoicing of the audience, baffled all description. The performance
was interrupted, the National Anthem loudly demanded, and the king
vociferously called for, having to bow his thanks from the front of the
Royal Box. When Mrs Jordan made her appearance her reception was warmer
than usual, and, connected as she was with the interests of the Royal
family, her excitement and agitation were such that she fairly broke
down, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing, which did not help to
calm down the general ferment of the evening. It was during our visit at
Gloucester House that William the Fourth’s health failed, and, his days
being numbered, all eyes were fixed on his young successor, Princess
Victoria.

“To-night,” said the Duchess to my mother, “I am dining with the Duke of
Cambridge, and you and little Mary can either dine at home, or I will
order my carriage earlier, and send you to dine with a friend.”

The latter alternative was chosen, and we entered the Royal carriage in
state, with the coachman and foot-men resplendent in scarlet and gold.
It was Derby Day, and as we proceeded down Grosvenor Place, what wonder
that the lowly occupants of that coach should be mistaken for the
highest personages in the land. As we moved along, all heads were bowed,
all hats raised. I took advantage of the occasion. I was about the same
size, and of the same fair complexion and the same coloured hair as
Princess Victoria, and I knew in a moment for whom I had the honour to
be mistaken; so I imitated the courtesy which I felt sure Her Royal
Highness would have evinced in the same circumstances, and I bowed
repeatedly, first from one and then the other window, but that with such
deceitful haste that the imposture could not be detected. My mother
expostulated with me on my effrontery, but to no purpose; I was so much
pleased with my own joke that I continued it the whole length of
Grosvenor Place. How well I remember how entirely I sympathised, even
while I deplored the death of our good kind king, in the love and
enthusiasm which that young, blue-eyed, golden-haired, girlish Sovereign
excited. There was something so picturesque, so romantic, to me, so like
some fairy-tale of old, in the fair creature who reigned over this
mighty Empire! I saw her one night at the Opera House, where she went in
state, and a brilliant reception awaited her. I do not think I had ever
seen her since two or three years before, when at the opening of
Parliament she mounted the steps of the throne, and kissed the hand of
her uncle, William the Fourth, while the dear old king, in his sailor’s
uniform, surrounded by royal robes, stooped down and embraced the little
princess, who was so soon to succeed him.

[Sidenote: CORONATION OF QUEEN VICTORIA]

In recalling that night at the Opera, I remember how, later in the
evening, the door of the Royal Box opened to admit the Duke of
Wellington, who naturally shared in the honours of the evening. It was
to me a touching, beautiful sight, to see the young Queen give her hand
to the old warrior and lead him forward to the front to obtain a
reception from the audience, scarcely second in enthusiasm to her own.

Another time I saw her, in circumstances indelibly impressed on my
memory. It was on her Coronation day, and the splendour and brilliancy
of that scene, the gorgeous dresses, the magnificent solemnity of the
whole ceremony, do not recur so often to my recollection as the time
when, seated on her Regal chair, she received the homage of the Peers of
England. One of the eldest among them, Lord Rolle, who had passed the
allotted span of life, in approaching to do her honour, tottered, and
nearly fell to the ground, while she, with a gracious and merciful
impulse, rose with outstretched arms to save him from what might have
been a painful fall. I was just above the spot in question, and well
remember the sort of buzz or whisper that spread far and near among
those who witnessed this touching incident.

I have nothing of interest to record in the events of the next two or
three years.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XVII

          MILLARD’S HILL—TENBY—CHARLES YOUNG AND A COURT BALL


In the year 1840, my mother gave up the apartments she had so long
occupied at Hampton Court Palace—the place having become intolerable to
her since the death of her beloved and only brother, Mr Poyntz, who had
died suddenly at his house on the Green. This bereavement determined her
to accept the offer of her brother-in-law, Lord Cork, to take possession
of a small house on his property in Somersetshire, called Millard’s
Hill, an unostentatious building, in a very picturesque part of the
county. We took great delight in furnishing and decorating the empty
rooms with our pictures and china and “treasures from many lands”—in
fact, in storing our household gods, without which, no house can ever be
a home. Uncomely as was the exterior of the building, the situation and
surroundings were very pretty—a perfect specimen of English field and
woodland, and the neighbouring walks, rides and drives were delightful.
Added to these, there was another charm in my eyes, the possibility
(which was very difficult for us at Hampton Court) of having domestic
pets—ponies, dogs—of many different kinds, and last, though not least, a
beautiful peacock of gorgeous plumage, the present of my dear friend and
close neighbour, the Duchess of Somerset. “Narcissus” was as proud and
jealous as he was beautiful, but very tame, and would come in at the
open window, of a summer’s morning, while we were at breakfast, and eat
out of my hand. On one occasion, finding my Scotch terrier sitting
beside me, he flew spitefully at the interloper, and pecked him so
furiously as to drive him from the field. “Chaillach,” my trusty
Skye,—whom I once described as something between Lord Rochester’s wig
and a door-mat; who was never out of temper, and never out of
mischief—the dauntless Chaillach, whose spirit never quailed before a
mastiff or a blood-hound—to be put to confusion by a mere bird!

[Illustration:

  MILLARD’S HILL WITH “NARCISSUS” IN THE FOREGROUND.
  _From a Drawing by E. V. B._
]

Of Millard’s Hill and the days we passed there, I shall have to say more
in a future page.[38] In 1842 I accompanied my mother, my two younger
brothers, and my sister to the prettiest sea-side town I know—Tenby, in
South Wales, rich in beetling cliffs, venerable old castles, picturesque
manor houses, the fields and woods of which boasted of a flora of such
varied character as to attract the notice and admiration of botanists as
unscientific as ourselves. Here we were joined, to the enhancement of
every pleasure, by a beautiful girl and fast friend, who shared in all
our pursuits inside the house and all our excursions abroad, whom I will
designate here by the name of Fanny. I used to call her my damask-rose,
on account of her brilliant colouring; she was at that time in the full
bloom of early youth, and endowed with a high spirit, but scarcely seven
years had passed from that time, ere I was called to shed bitter tears
over her tragical and untimely end.

Footnote 38:

  See Chapter XXV.

In one of our excursions from Tenby, we visited Stackpole, a charming
residence of the Earl of Cawdor, where many years later I became a
guest, to assist at the marriage of a dear nephew with one of the fair
daughters of that noble house, and to contract a real friendship with
the kind and genial representative of Shakespeare’s Thane.

[Sidenote: “BAL COSTUMÉ”]

Much as we all enjoyed our seaside walks and hair-breadth “‘scapes” from
the sudden influx of the tide, a temptation to absent ourselves for a
while came, at least to the two youngest members of the family, in the
shape of an invitation (rather should I say a command) to a Court Ball.
It certainly appeared a long way to go to a ball, even for me, with my
dancing propensities, but, this was a _bal costumé_, and therefore
doubly attractive in my eyes.

I must confess I never regretted the effort my brother Cavendish and I
made on that occasion, for the memory of that night’s scene is one from
which I should be loth to part.

I was to be escorted to the palace by two gentlemen of the time of
William III., dressed in the garb which is so well-known in the pictures
of the Prince of Orange’s landing in England. Their long square-cut
coats, their costly lace cravats, and their long flowing wigs, made the
two cousins (who bore a near resemblance to each other) look like twins,
while I had selected the character, in nowise analogous, of “Sweet Anne
Page.” The amusement found in arranging our costumes was greatly
heightened by the assistance we derived from Charles Young, and the
constant visits he paid us in consequence.

This eminent tragedian and delightful man, with winning voice, beautiful
smile, and captivating manner, was ever most kind to me, whom he called
his “wild child,” and did he not on that very night lend me his own
magnificent pair of diamond shoe-buckles (the present of some great
potentate) to “glitter and sparkle,” as he said, “on my little feet”?

The ball was given at St James’s,[39] and caused great excitement in
London, festivities of that kind having long fallen into disuse. It was
a beautiful and deeply interesting scene, and, in my eyes, the most
beautiful personage in the whole pageant was the Prince Consort! He had
chosen the character of Edward III., wearing a surcoat richly
embroidered with the arms of France and England, over a complete suit of
armour, his open vizor and perfect profile surmounted by a kingly crown;
he looked, indeed, as Tennyson has it, “A very perfect knight.”

Footnote 39:

  (?) Buckingham Palace.

By his side stood his faithful and loving wife, Philippa, in queenly
robes, also rich in heraldic blazonry, displaying in her whole costume
that adherence to historical correctness which did my dramatic heart
good. The dress was rather a heavy one for our fair young Sovereign, but
she bore it bravely, and her dignified and graceful dancing was the
theme of universal praise.

I can vividly recall many of the different characters which were assumed
for that night only. How well my dear cousin, Lady Exeter,[40] looked as
Queen Elizabeth of York; how Lord Cardigan, in a magnificent suit of
elaborate armour, presented a very grand representation of the brave
Bayard, the chevalier (who was at least, _sans peur_), and my eccentric
friend, Lord Houghton, showed his poetical taste by appearing as the
great Chaucer. But why enumerate a list of names, the greater part of
which, alas! belong no more to the living.

Footnote 40:

  Isabella Poyntz married to Brownlow, second Marquis of Exeter.

[Sidenote: CHARLES YOUNG]

Having connected Charles Young with the commencement of this chapter, I
wish to make mention of some further circumstances which recur to my
memory regarding him. It was during my stay in London at this period
that the celebrated German actor, Emil Devrient, whose beauty rivalled
his talent, was acting in London. I was anxious to study the manner in
which Devrient would render some of the principal scenes, and I
accordingly carried with me my well-thumbed and dog’s-eared volume of
Goethe’s “Faust.” I did not intend, as many of my compatriots do, to
concentrate my attention the whole evening on my book, but merely to
observe the manner in which he gave some favourite passages; but my dear
old friend would not allow of my doing so, in patience. He seized the
volume, and in a tone of irritation unusual to him, exclaimed: “My dear
child, do put down that dead book and look at that blessed man!” Charles
Young was already old when I first knew him, but singularly handsome,
looking like a hero of romance. Indeed his early life had a decidedly
romantic colouring.

The heroine of his story was a beautiful Italian girl, of a noble
family, which had given more than one Doge to Venice. She had come with
her father at a time of political trouble to England, and, like many
other Italian emigrants, they had supported themselves by teaching their
beautiful language.

[Sidenote: GIULIA YOUNG]

The daughter, indeed, had become a resident governess in the family of
an English nobleman, where she was deservedly a favourite—so much so,
indeed, as to make a deep impression on the susceptible heart of the
young heir-apparent of the title. Amiable and accomplished as was the
fair Venetian, the union was not calculated to obtain the parents’
approbation; and Giulia was not one to repay kindness by causing strife
in the family. The young Englishman would have braved his father’s
displeasure on this point, but the noble girl withstood the temptation
which presented itself, and with a sad heart left the house where she
had spent many happy days. Pondering how best to make use of her
talents, which were considerable, and to gain a subsistence for herself,
Giulia determined to go upon the stage, and it was in her capacity as an
actress that she became acquainted with Charles Young, who was at that
time playing the part of first lover (if I mistake not) in some
provincial theatre. It was love at first sight, with the lover in
question, and a beautiful young couple they must have been in those
far-off days; but alas! within the year she died in giving birth to a
son, named Julian, after his mother. During the time that I lived at
Hampton Court, Julian Young was appointed Chaplain to the Palace, and he
became the husband of my friend, Annie Willis. This favourite companion
was a distinguished member of our dramatic corps, and shared in the
laurels which the Sheridans, my two brothers and self, acquired in our
amateur theatricals. She was deservedly admired, and I well remember
Lord Normanby (the ambassador) whispering to me the night her engagement
was announced: “What a pretty little edition of Young’s ‘Night
Thoughts.’”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                   1844. TRIP TO THE CHANNEL ISLANDS


It was during the summer of 1844 that my dear father, who had been in
failing health for some time, breathed his last at the small wayside
hotel at Salt-Hill, near Slough. It has since been burned down, but was
well known in former years as the resort of the Eton scholars, at the
time of Montem. My father had gone thither for change of air, in company
with his life-long friend and favourite messmate, Sir Willoughby Lake,
who did not long survive him.

[Sidenote: SIR WILLIAM NAPIER]

In the first days of that beautiful autumn I embarked at Southampton
with my cousin, Richard Boyle,[41] and my brothers Charles and
Cavendish, to pay visits to the Governors of Guernsey and Alderney.
After a prosperous but rather rough voyage towards those “iron-bound”
coasts, we arrived at Havilland Hall, the Government House of Guernsey,
then inhabited by Sir William Napier (one of the chief heroes of the
Peninsular War, and also the historian of it) with his delightful wife
and beautiful daughters. Cavendish, indeed, did not remain with us long,
for, much as he esteemed the Napier family, his regiment, the 48th,
being quartered in Guernsey, yet at that moment the less fertile and
picturesque island of Alderney possessed greater attractions for him.

Footnote 41:

  The Reverend the Honourable Richard Boyle, youngest son of Edmund,
  eighth Earl of Cork and Orrery; married, 1845, Eleanor Vere, daughter
  of Alexander Gordon, Esq., of Ellon, N.B.

It was, indeed, a very good time that we passed under the roof of
Havilland Hall. We were a happy band of friends, and our daily rides,
pleasant excursions, and joyous evenings will long be remembered.

It was a fair group that clustered round the magnificent old
“warrior”—that was the name he bore among us—to whose remarkable beauty
a portrait in my possession, painted expressly for me by Sir William
Boxall, R.A., bears undoubted testimony, as does a painting by that
eminent artist, George Watts, taken during the General’s last illness,
of which I have a splendid engraving. Sir William Napier was tall and
commanding of stature, a soldier every inch of him, with black eyebrows
and snowy hair, which grew as hair used to grow in Classic times, with
eyes all alive and full of fire, with an eager, penetrating look, and
though, alas! for some time before his death he could not move quickly,
yet it was easy to perceive that in youth quickness of all kinds must
have been his especial characteristic. You felt sure that in earlier
days his movements must have kept pace with the eager flashing of his
eye and the varied intonations of his powerful but melodious voice. To
his proficiency in military tactics, and his splendid style in
literature (I used to tell him that his descriptions of battles read as
if cut into the pages with a naked sword) Sir William added the gentler
arts of painting and poesie; neither did he disdain the science of
Nonsense in its higher branches. Without this common link, could we have
sympathised, so profoundly? Had he not descended from his high estate,
to tread this neutral ground, how could he have found time or
inclination to sport with his “tamed fairy”?—the name by which he ever
called me.

On the occasion of my visit to Guernsey, I made a slight attempt to
describe the hero’s leading characteristics in verse.


                           SIR WILLIAM NAPIER

                  “O’er the forehead’s high expanse,
                    Waves the silver crown of hair,
                  And the keen eyes’ eagle glance,
                    Eyes to love and eyes to dare—
                  Beaming now in playful wit,
                  Flashing now in scornful fit.
                  From their jet-black brows in turn,
                  Fierce or tender, gentle, stern,
                  See the nostrils’ eager line,
                  Nose of purest aquiline,
                  And the mouth that scarce concealed—
                    Though the beard be dark and long
                  (Forms so marked must be revealed)—
                    High resolve and purpose strong,
                  With a spirit bold and free
                  To impetuosity!
                  Aye, without that corselet bright,
                    Or the good sword by his side,
                  You would read him for a knight,
                    For a soldier brave and tried;
                  You would know that form to be
                  A lingering light of chivalry.”

[Sidenote: MR AND MRS KEAN]

During our visit at Guernsey, the Charles Keans came over with a
Dramatic Company, and gave several performances at the theatre, at each
of which the Governor, his family and suite, regularly attended.

The plays selected were for the most part genteel comedies, in which
branch of the Drama I, for one, considered that these two clever
_artistes_ shone most conspicuously. They were our constant guests at
dinner, the hour of which our courteous host always arranged with a view
to the convenience of Mr and Mrs Kean.

They were cheerful and delightful companions, and from that day we
contracted habits of friendship which ended only with their lives. I had
an especial admiration for Mrs Kean, and took a deep interest in her
love story—of how she and her husband had trodden the same stage in her
early youth, when, as he himself informed me, she was the most beautiful
girl he had ever seen; of how he flirted, and she loved; of how they
parted, and did not meet again for many years; of how destiny once more
brought them together in the respective characters of the hero and
heroine of _The Honeymoon_. Was not that a prophetic title? The joy, the
uncertainty, the excitement, the brilliant acting on both sides, in
which nature was so closely entwined with art, all combined to throw
Ellen Tree into a state of nervous agitation, and brought on an attack
of brain-fever, so that her life was despaired of. But she recovered,
and while still in the first stage of convalescence, the one most deeply
interested in her restoration to health came to assist in that work.

During the course of their conversation he told her playfully that she
was one of the best friends he had ever had, and as such he had come to
ask her advice, with regard to a subject whereon his whole future
happiness depended. “Do you consider,” he said, “that if I could gain
her consent, Ellen Tree would make me a good wife?” “I know,” was the
reply, “that she has long loved you better than any one else in the
world, and I do not believe that any one else could love you better.”
And so it was settled, and a happier or more suitable union could
scarcely be imagined. They were helpmeets for each other, in
professional, in domestic, and in social life, and this is the verdict
of one, who never lost any opportunity she had of enjoying their
society, whether at their pleasant little home in Hampshire, or in any
part of the world where it was possible to meet them.

But I must return from a long digression to report our further
movements. In a flying visit to the queer little island of Sark, we
explored its curious caves, and were shown the churchyard, “where the
women and children were all buried.” “And the men?” I enquired. “Ah!
mademoiselle, they are always drowned.” Added to this encouraging
intelligence, I was assured that the “Seigneur of Sark” (the chief man
in the island bears this title) would consider it a degradation to die
in his bed, as it was looked upon as a hereditary privilege to find a
grave in the ocean; and certainly on those terrible coasts, with their
perpendicular cliffs, shoals and quicksands, such a contingency was not
to be wondered at.

We then proceeded to Alderney, where we were received, on disembarking,
by the Lieutenant-Governor, Captain Alexander, and his daughter Rose,
the betrothed of my brother Cavendish. He placed my hand in hers, and
since that day, now so many years ago, she and I have walked
hand-in-hand through many a chequered path of life, through gloom and
sunshine, and, blessed be God, at this present time of which I am
writing, are still spared to speak together of the days that are no
more. The projected marriage was one that could give nothing but
satisfaction to the members of both families, with the single drawback
of slender means. In circumstances of this nature, there arises usually
much discussion as to _pros_ and _cons_, even among outsiders, and we
often hear the question asked “What will they make up?” On this point
Cavendish was beforehand with the world, when he said to me one day: “If
any one asks you what _we_ make up, be so good as to say, we have made
up—our minds,” and I can safely affirm that, from the day of their
marriage, no one who loved either had ever cause to regret the step.

Moreover, between Cavendish and his father-in-law there existed a great
similarity of tastes, pursuits, and moral qualities—both soldiers in
heart, as well as calling, both men of cultivated and refined taste,
with a keen appreciation of all that was good, beautiful, and humorous
in life.

[Sidenote: COLONEL ALEXANDER]

Captain, afterwards Colonel, Alexander amused me one day with an
anecdote he told me of himself. He was in Paris with his wife and
children at the time of the Revolution in 1830, when the English were
very unpopular among the lower classes. Captain Alexander had occasion
one day to pass a guard-house, round which some ill-conditioned soldiers
were lounging and idling; the passer-by attracted their attention. One
of the men said to the others in an irritable and irritating tone:
“Voilà Monsieur Goddam.” “Qui s’en va,” retorted our Englishman, “Au
diable,” says another soldier. Captain Alexander turned round, and
taking off his hat with a sweeping bow, said “Donc, Monsieur, au plaisir
de vous revoir!”

The Channel Islands appeared to me to be peopled with lovers. One of Sir
William Napier’s beautiful daughters had just married that gallant
soldier, Colonel MacDougall. At Guernsey, I had left the General’s only
son engaging himself to pretty Bessie Alexander, whom we called the
“white-heart cherry,” on account of her pink and white, rarely-blent
complexion, and here, at Alderney, I found her sister preparing to
become mine. We spent a short but pleasant time with Captain Alexander
and his wife. Before leaving Alderney, let me say a complimentary word
in favour of the garden which surrounded the house, and confess that,
even at the interval of forty years, the recollection of its peaches,
apricots, and, above all, its pears, makes the “mouth of my memory”
water.

[Sidenote: ELEANOR’S WELL]

Rose became an inmate of Millard’s Hill, paying occasional visits to the
pretty Rectory of our cousin, Richard Boyle, the Incumbent of Marston,
whose unbounded hospitality became a proverb with all who knew him. The
year after Cavendish’s marriage this favourite cousin of ours followed
the example thus set him, and gave a charming mistress to his charming
home. Eleanor Gordon, known in the literary and artistic world as E. V.
B., was young, lovely, and loveable. Her great talent for drawing had
already attracted much admiration whilst she was still a girl, and,
after her marriage, the beautiful illustrations which she designed of
“Nursery Rhymes,” “A Children’s Summer,” “The Story Without an End,” and
many others too numerous to mention, acquired for her the fame she
deserved. She put out her talents, indeed, to interest in a good cause,
realising by the sale of her works sufficient sums to enable her to do
good work in the parish. “Eleanor’s Well,” for that was the grateful
name bestowed on it, supplied the “water,” of which the villagers had
long stood in need; while two beautiful windows—designed by
herself—embellished her husband’s lately-restored church, without
mentioning the complete new roofing and a new set of Sacramental
Plate—all were the proceeds of her labour. It is not often that talents
are turned to so good and so unselfish account.

The erection of the little “Well” was commemorated by a friend and
neighbour in the following graceful lines:—


                             ELEANOR’S WELL

          “Fair fields were ours, touched with a mellow glow
          From gorgeous clouds at rise, at set of sun,
          And shadowing trees, but no glad spring had run
          Beside our homes, to bless the day and night.
          But see! the water flows with gentle might,
          In metal highway thro’ green pastures led;
          And o’er the sculptured basin see it shed
          A silver stream, a fall of sparkling light!
          Thus with wise heart a gentle fancy wed,
          Long summer morns, hath for our solace wrought;
          So noble work succeeds to noble thought,
          So the hand justifies the heart and head,
          So the child’s play to earnest close is brought
          So piety to poetry is wed.”
                                              By W. M. W. CALL.

Eleanor is now the inmate of another home in a distant county, but her
name is still cherished and remembered, in connection with that of the
husband she mourns, among the survivors of the rural population of
Marston Bigot.

The poet in question was a near neighbour, and became a constant visitor
both at the Rectory and Millard’s Hill. On the marriage of my brother
Charles, and the prolonged absence of Cavendish and his wife in the West
Indies, this friend, whom we named “Alastor,” on account of his
predilection for solitude, became the almost daily companion in my long
walks. In the summer time we would usually take a volume of some
favourite author with us, Shelley, Goethe, or Jean Paul being often
selected; of the latter we were both ardent admirers. Then, choosing
some grassy knoll in one of the pretty fields which surrounded us, or
some tempting shade in one of our numerous wayside woods, we would rest
and read awhile. We had tastes and thoughts in common, and many were the
pleasant hours thus beguiled, which are, I am well assured, forgotten by
neither of us.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIX

                              WHITTLEBURY


In passing in review before my mind the different country houses which I
have frequented at different periods of my life, I am forcibly struck by
the difference in the characteristics of each. I will devote this
chapter to Whittlebury Lodge in Northamptonshire, situated on the skirts
of the beautiful forest of the same name, where, for many months at a
time, I was the guest of kind friends to whom I have alluded in an
earlier chapter.

Lord Southampton[42] was the Master of the Hounds, in which capacity he
had succeeded his aged kinsman, the Duke of Grafton. Sport, therefore,
was the chief characteristic and the ruling passion at Whittlebury, and
I, in my small way, was one of its most zealous votaries.

Footnote 42:

  Charles, third Lord Southampton; born 1804; married, 1826, Harriet,
  daughter of Hon. Henry Fitzroy Stanhope.

During the whole of the winter our noble master kept open house, and
although, as I have said before, sport and sporting men formed the chief
components of that society, yet there was scarcely a leading member of
the London World who was not represented at the hunting-lodge. There I
met and became acquainted with the well-known Count D’Orsay, the witty
Lord Alvanley, and the eccentric Colonel Leigh, brother-in-law to Lord
Byron, and many others. I was an especial favourite of the last-named,
and he on his side was a source of great amusement to me. I used
sometimes to say to him: “So-and-So have invited me to their house in
the country,” and his retort courteous was, “Did they name the day?” If
I remarked that such a person had a most agreeable house, he would ask:
“What sort of a cook?” If I complained that the Whittlebury servants had
made an enormous fire, he would rejoin: “May I ask, do you pay for the
coals?” One day he insisted on my walking round the garden with him, and
begged me to tell him the name of every flower as we passed. I am no
botanist, and my only knowledge of flowers consists in knowing when they
are sweet and beautiful; but that morning I was bent on mischief, and,
one after another, I invented in succession what appeared to me the most
plausible names with Latinised terminations. So far my deceit prospered,
but a trial was in store for me.

The next day I was sitting at my little open window, which looked out on
a picturesque portion of forest scenery, with a magnificent oak in the
foreground, when my old friend came under the window and called out to
me to come downstairs, a summons which I immediately obeyed. When I
stepped out on the lawn, he presented his friend, Mr Elwes, to me, who
had a splendid garden of his own on the other side of the county.

[Sidenote: “YOU SCORED”]

“We will show you over the grounds,” said Colonel Leigh, “together. As
you well know, I am a perfect ignoramus where flowers are concerned, but
Miss Boyle will tell you the names of every one in the whole garden.”

Here was a dilemma, but I was not unequal to the occasion.

“My dear Colonel,” I said, “it is all very well when I pronounce the
names in your hearing, but I am not going to show off my bad Latin
before so great a connoisseur as your friend.”

The next day I confessed my crime, and received absolution because the
trick had been successful; failure of any kind was unpardonable in the
eyes of Colonel Leigh. “You scored,” he said, “so I forgive you.”

Poor Colonel Leigh! I was very sorry when I heard of his death, and very
grateful to him for the present he made me of the last riding-whip which
Byron had used at Missolonghi.

A fellow-guest of mine was Lady S——, a woman nobly born, and of
exceeding beauty, hair, complexion, eyes, features, in every way
remarkable, and although not unusually tall, of stature naturally far
exceeding mine. She went up to Colonel Leigh one day and reproached him
for never paying her a single compliment (which she might well have felt
her due), “yet you are always saying flattering things to Miss Boyle!”

Colonel Leigh was not in a very good humour that morning. Looking at the
beautiful speaker with a supercilious expression, he hit the only blot
he could find in that fair apparition: “No, no,” he said, “it won’t do;
you sit too high and stand too low.”

Lord Southampton, the M.F.H., was most kind and generous to me in
respect to “mounts,” and would apportion to me a fast hack or an easy
jumper, frequently giving me a place in his phaeton, or letting me ride
beside him to the place of meeting. Dear old friend! For how many days
of intense enjoyment, of healthful exercise, of genial companionship,
have I not been indebted to you!

He laughed when I told him that I considered it one of the proudest
moments of my life when, riding quietly with him and another young lady,
who complained that her horse was too fresh, he came up to me and asked
the question, “How does Blanco carry you?”

“Like a lamb,” I replied.

“Then jump off directly, and I will change the saddles,” a compliment
very flattering to my powers of horsemanship.

My ambition was always to be in the first flight, and the means I took
to attain this end was as follows—

[Sidenote: A SPORTING ECCLESIASTIC]

At the first whimper of the first hound breaking the covert, I looked to
see who rode beside me. I knew which were the best men, and one of those
I chose as my guide, following as near as I could on his horse’s
steps—most frequently Lord Charles Fitzroy, or the Reverend William
Smith, rector of the parish—a sporting parson indeed, but one who never
allowed his love for the chase to interfere with the fulfilment of more
serious duties, or the constant care he bestowed on the poor and
suffering. A very different personage was the Reverend Mr D—— E—— who
had a living on the other side of the county, but who hunted with us one
day. Both he and his curate were in the field, and coming to a blind
bullfinch, at which several horsemen came to a dead stop, the curate in
question gallantly offered to go and make a gap in the fence. His Rector
called after him in his usual loud voice, “Hallo, I say, if you break
your neck, who is to preach my second sermon next Sunday?”

Another sporting ecclesiastic who frequented our meets was the Reverend
Loraine Smith. He hunted in a purple coat, alleging as his reason that
it was an episcopal colour—but I cannot tell what authority he could
adduce for wearing bright yellow gloves embroidered in every tint. His
Reverence was always well mounted, and was a keen sportsman. He had a
pretty living and a good church in the neighbourhood, but he surprised
his parishioners very much by altering the whole disposition of the
tombstones; he thought they looked awkward and untidy in their actual
position, so he had them all taken up and re-arranged according to his
fancy in lines, crosses, squares, etc. One Sunday morning, a very cold
winter’s day, he had performed the service to a scanty congregation, and
on going up into the pulpit, instead of opening his sermon book, he
pronounced the following address:

“My dear friends, if you require it, I will preach you the sermon which
I have brought with me, but if you are as cold and hungry as I am, I
think you will prefer going with me to the Rectory, where you will find
some cold beef and some good ale.”

I leave the result of his hearers’ decision to the imagination of the
reader.

One of our favourite places of meeting, although one of the most
distant, was Cowper’s Oak, on the confines of Salcey Forest. There, one
proud day, I proceeded on a small hack, which I exchanged for a splendid
black hunter glorying in the name of “Midnight,” and thence, after a
quick find, we had a magnificent run extending almost to the town of
Higham Ferrers.

How many years have passed since that eventful day, eventful at least in
my annals, when Lord Alford, beside whom I rode, invited me to luncheon
at Castle Ashby, and offered himself as my guide across country.

I gladly accepted with my two companions, Lord Charles Fitzroy and Mr
Smith, and then for the first time I saw that beautiful house whose
golden gates have so often since that day been opened to afford me a
hearty welcome. My beloved friend, Lady Marian Alford, was then doing
the honours of her father’s home, and many and many a laugh have we had
in later days, respecting the wild and dishevelled appearance which a
very high wind and very strong exercise had wrought in my person. Nay, I
remember well that she made on the spot a slight sketch of the scanty
portion of my habit which I had been able to rescue from the
encroachments of numerous fences. We were twenty-two miles from home,
and my kind hosts pressed the loan of their brougham upon me, an offer
which I indignantly and ungratefully refused, scorning to abandon my two
fellow-sportsmen on their homeward journey. The next day we three traced
our long ride on the ordnance maps, and some amusement was excited in
the household when it was announced that the groom, whom Lord
Southampton had lent me for the occasion, sent word to enquire, the next
morning, after the small lady who had ridden sixty-seven miles between
breakfast and dinner.

[Sidenote: MUSICAL EVENINGS]

Before concluding this slight sketch of the happy days I passed at
Whittlebury Lodge, which extended over many years, I am tempted to
insert a short anecdote, proving how easily fame may be established in
some cases. My maid told me that the housekeeper had informed her that
Mr Jones, the valet, was so excellent a musician that he was constantly
sent for into the drawing-room to perform before the company. His
proficiency consisted in pumping the organ for the lady of the house,
who was a very good performer on that instrument. We had indeed some
excellent musicians and superior vocalists in our society, and the
following is a slight record of the way we passed our time—


                                  SONG

               “Call back the days that fled too fast
                 In mellow autumn’s prime,
                Like our own light skiff they glided past
                 Upon the waves of time.

               “Call back the hours, those gladsome hours,
                 The song, the jest, the glee,
                The perfume of the lingering flowers,
                 Sweet summer’s legacy.

               “The hunter’s horn at early morn,
                 Proclaimed its welcome sound,
                And each forest glade an answer made,
                 With joyous echo round.

               “And when the shades of evening fell,
                 And day’s glad toil was o’er,
                Then music with its genial spell,
                 The senses captive bore.

               “While every breast the charm confessed,
                 That bound the willing ear,
                And eyes now bright in beauty’s light
                 Were glistening with a tear.

               “Call back those hours, thou hast the art,
                 Thy melody can raise,
                And for a time beguile the heart
                 With thoughts of other days.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XX

                      MUNICH—SECOND VISIT TO ITALY


We passed the summer of 1846 at Munich, we—that is my mother, my brother
Charles, and my sister—having taken a clean and comfortable lodging kept
by a Frenchman in the Promenade Gasse. Our life here was most enjoyable;
the inseparable companionship of my brother Charles was to me a source
of untold delight. Our pursuits and pleasures were all in common; we
studied the German language together under the tuition of a well-read
and accomplished master, and gained great proficiency by our almost
daily visits to the theatre. I say daily, because the performance began
at an early hour, and often ended before the daylight had waned, leaving
us at liberty to accompany my mother in her evening drive, or to spend
some hours at a friend’s house before retiring to rest. The dramatic
performances—which comprised many of the masterpieces of Schiller,
Kotzebue and Iffland, and other eminent writers—were very well given,
and the principal actor and actress of the day were a very handsome and
talented couple of the name of Dahl. He took the leading part in such
characters as Karl von Moor, in _The Robbers_, and the like, while his
pretty wife showed to great advantage in the heroines of the same
pieces, and was very much admired, especially by the king, Ludwig of
Bavaria, on whom the charms of female beauty were never thrown away.

The tragedies and comedies at the theatres were alternated with opera by
both German and Italian composers, and Charles and I seldom missed an
evening in the box which was kindly placed at our disposal by the
Sardinian Minister.

We became also zealous students of art in our daily visits to the
painting and sculpture galleries of that city of treasures, known by the
names of Pinacothek and Glyptothek. We passed most of our mornings in
these two museums, where the paintings are well arranged to mark the
progress of the art, and where every facility is afforded for the study
of the different schools and different periods. I think, before I left
Munich I knew every statue and picture by heart.

Whatever King Louis’ failings may have been, he was certainly a
benefactor to his capital, encouraging art and artists of all degrees,
painters, architects, musicians—a builder of palaces, of churches, a
patron of the coloured glass for which Munich was so distinguished in
his day, and to which was due a revived taste for painted windows in
every part of Europe.

[Sidenote: LOUIS OF BAVARIA]

The king’s own palace was decorated by frescoes representing scenes from
the “Niebelungen Lied,” and other subjects both of history and fiction
by such well-known artists as Cornelius and Kaulbach, while two rooms
were set apart for the portraits of contemporary beauties. Not a few of
these were rather of a shady reputation, but then there was a sprinkling
of homely-featured Royalties and other exemplary members of society,
designed to lend a respectable colouring to the whole.

An amusing story was told of His Majesty, with respect to this gallery.
King Louis was partial to the society of foreigners, and invariably
included the English in all invitations to his receptions. A lady was
presented to him one evening, and being very much struck with her
personal appearance, he requested her to be so good as to give the Court
portrait painter a sitting a few days hence, as he was desirous of
having her portrait in his collection. The lady smiled and hesitated,
but we all know what comes of hesitation. Half flattered, half alarmed,
not quite convinced of the prudence of the acquiescence, she demurred
for a few moments, when vanity prevailed, and our countrywoman gave her
consent. The next day the king—walking as was his wont unattended
through the streets of his capital—encountered the lady, who was bent on
a sight-seeing expedition. He paused, took off his hat, and made some
casual remark, which gave him time to examine the beauty of the
preceding evening. After an earnest scrutiny of her countenance, His
Majesty stammered out a species of apology to the effect that he would
not trouble her to give a sitting to his painter in ordinary. Alas! for
the disillusion which daylight had brought about with regard to the
candle-light beauty!

There were no end of stories extant about Louis of Bavaria. I was
assured that on the morning of his silver wedding, after presenting his
wife with the usual offerings of flowers, jewels, and what not, after
joining in the religious ceremony, which is very touching and impressive
in the German Church, the devoted husband gave the wife so black an eye
that it was a question if she could possibly appear at the evening
reception.

During the summer most of the society are absent from the capital, and
reside at their country estates, so that there were not many houses
which “received,” as the phrase was, during the hot season, but the one
which we constantly frequented made up to us for the absence of any
other. It was that of the Sardinian Minister, whose acquaintance we had
already made at Genoa. The Marchese Fabio Pallavicini and his wife
Marinetta, with their two sons, formed in themselves a most attractive
foundation for the agreeable reunions which were at this time swelled by
the officers of the neighbouring camp at Augsburg, and a frequent
contingent of travellers passing through on their way to the South.

Andri and Cesari, the two sons, had been my frequent partners and
members of our Genoese cavalcade, and it was a source of great pleasure
to meet them again, and to make an expedition, as we did one day, in
their company to see the review which the king was to hold at Augsberg.

The street of that town, which has so often been described as one of the
most picturesque in Europe, was beautifully decorated on that occasion,
for the houses actually looked as if they had been built in flowers. We
lingered on till late in the night, and escorted by some military
friends—one of whom, the noble and handsome Count Karl von Oetting,
still lives in my memory—we visited the whole camp and listened to the
beautiful part-singing of the troops as they sat at the doors of their
tents beneath the glorious moonlight of a July evening.

I, for one, was very sorry when that peaceful summer came to an end—and
yet how could I say so when our next destination was Rome! And what a
journey that was! never to be forgotten, in its beauty, its brilliancy.

Pope Gregory XVI. had just died, and was succeeded by the popular and
liberal Pontiff, Pius the Ninth, on whose accession all prison doors
flew open, all political offenders were released, and a festival of
three days was announced through every town in the Papal dominions.

Our journey from Munich lay by the twin lakes of Tegern and Aachen,
small but beautiful, their banks studded with a profusion of
wild-flowers, and the waters of the last-mentioned of a very peculiar
hue—what in old days was called mazarine blue or green—and the light
caught by the water gave the lake the appearance of a gem—a chrysolite
for instance.

[Sidenote: VINTAGE TIME]

When we reached the Italian frontier, our progress assumed an aspect of
triumph, for it was vintage time, and we were constantly encountering
peasants in the gayest dresses, driving wine-carts with casks and skins
full of ruddy liquor, the drivers carrying branches of vine and ivy, as
if Bacchus held high revelry. On our arrival at Ravenna, besides the
magnificence of the churches and basilica, with their wealth of mosaic
and their pride of tradition, there was the interest of a pilgrimage to
the tomb of Dante, and it would have been impossible to see Ravenna
under a more bewitching aspect, for it was the three-days’ festival.
Every house in the principal street had its balcony adorned with rich
silks, tapestry, and velvet, not unfrequently embroidered with gold,
while all the citizens were in gala dress, and the women, remarkable for
personal beauty and dignity of bearing, had donned their richest garb
and displayed their choicest ornaments of gold and silver, their
magnificent hair transfixed by bodkins, or spadini (of the sword and
target shape), many of them wearing innumerable rows of pearls round
their stately throats. Even in those days the national costume had been
much tampered with, but nothing was too good to do honour to their
beloved Pontiff, and the jewel-boxes of every household had been
ransacked for the occasion. All along our road the same scene presented
itself, making allowance, of course, for the difference of locality.

[Sidenote: RAVENNA]

We spent a morning of exquisite delight in the pine-forest in the
neighbourhood of Ravenna. Alas! I hear with deep concern that the chief
part of those magnificent trees is mouldering to decay. I remember
sitting at my mother’s feet for several hours, drinking in the calm and
beauty of the scene, while Shelley’s lines rose to my lips in his
description of another Pineta, the one at Pisa—

                   “How calm it was! The silence there
                    By such a chain was bound,
                    That even the busy Woodpecker
                    Made stiller by her sound
                    The unviolable quietness;
                    The breath of peace we drew,
                    With its soft motion made not less
                    The calm that round us grew.”

There was a distant sound of the Adriatic, which mingled with the
whisper of the wind among the stone pines, and produced a weird music,
forming a species of scale, caused by the trees being all of the same
form, though of different altitudes. Numbers of wild-flowers studded the
ground, and moths and butterflies of variegated colours skimmed and
floated around us. How often did my mother and myself talk over that
delicious morning, when

                 “Banished from those Southern climes,
                  We thought and spake of other times.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXI

         ARRIVAL IN ROME, 1846—OCTOBER FESTIVALS AND “POSSESSO”


But let me hasten on to Rome, where, on our arrival, we took up our
abode in a charming apartment in Palazzetto Torlonia, at the corner of
the Piazza di Venezia, than which a more excellent situation could
scarcely be found, with the full prospect of enjoyment of every kind,
social and intellectual. Our hopes brought no disappointment in their
train. October in Rome is a season of great beauty, especially when the
citizens look forward to the Festivals.

[Sidenote: SALTARELLO]

We crossed the Tiber on a glorious day in October, and arrived at the
iron gates of the Queen of Villas, over the entrance of which the Eagle
of the Dorias surmounted the Lily of the Pamfili. What a gay, smiling
scene was before us in that garden, enlightened by fountains, rich in
shady woods and plantations, and crowned by the Palace with its spacious
terraces! What sounds of joy, what shouts of laughter on all sides!
Groups of young girls, dressed chiefly in white, with coloured ribbons
flaunting gaily, their dark hair plaited and braided in a manner purely
classical, and crowned with fantastic wreaths of natural ivy and
wild-flowers, sang in chorus as they walked hand-in-hand, or tripped
backwards and forwards, with one arm thrown round the waist of a
companion, and the other flourishing the jingling tambourine high above
their heads. Occasionally when two groups met they challenged each
other, and then, with many expressions of civility, a circle would be
formed, and, after much pressing, and many modest refusals, the two best
performers would begin dancing, and setting and wheeling round each
other with that occasional bound in the air which gives the name of
_saltarello_ to their dance.

There were few men in proportion, and those chiefly kept aloof, although
a gayer jacket than usual, or even a feather in the hat, showed that all
the _minenti_ had not arrived without an escort. Staid matrons might be
seen looking on—women, not unfrequently, of majestic beauty (beauties of
a proud, stern character)—their luxuriant hair confined by nets of rich
and variegated colour, or broad loose ribbons, forming a most
picturesque kind of coronet.

There seems little doubt that the origin of these Festivals can be
traced to the Bacchanalia of Classical Rome, and the Trasteverini girls
(for most of the dancers came from the further side of the Tiber) bore
no little resemblance to the Mænads of old, with their dishevelled hair
crowned by the emblematic ivy and vine leaf. With their proverbial pride
they considered no title high enough to content them but _eminente_ (or
_minente_.)

It would be difficult to describe the excitement which prevailed in the
Eternal City pending the eventful moment when Rome’s beloved Pontiff was
to take possession of the Church of S. John Lateran, a function which
answers to the Sacre of the French monarch, or the Coronation of the
English. Pio Nono was at that moment the most popular sovereign in
Europe, and he commenced his reign in a most auspicious manner. Liberal
in his views, patriotic in aspirations for his beloved country,
practically religious as became a priest, he had brought golden opinions
with him from the See of Imola, where he had been Bishop. Of courteous
and winning manners, witty and agreeable in conversation, a delightful
companion, a charitable patron, His Holiness seemed calculated to
become, as was indeed the case, a favourite with all sorts and
conditions of men. Every morning brought some fresh story of wisdom or
of kindness, and as we had a friend at the Papal Court, we were kept _au
courant_ of what, to us, were interesting details. Once when a certain
man on his death-bed had disinherited his wife and children, with whom
he was on bad terms, and had left a large sum to the priest who should
celebrate his black Mass, the Pope elected to officiate himself. He
carried out his plan, and, supplementing the legacy by an addition from
his own treasury, he caused an assignment of it to be made to the poor
widow, who stood in great need of assistance.

[Sidenote: PIO NONO]

His witty sayings were often quoted, and it was universally believed
that many of the answers to the frequent pasquinades which were
promulgated at that time were actually prompted by the Pope. Alas! for
the bright prospects of those early days and the short-lived popularity
which could not be expected to outlast the influence of evil
counsellors, who baffled and thwarted him on every occasion! Faltering
and vacillating in the noble path on which he had entered, he
disappointed the hopes of those who had hailed his accession with joy.
Not only in the grand procession, but on several occasions, and under
important and interesting circumstances, had I the joy of seeing him.
Once it was on his name-day of San Giovanni, when the Court of the
Quirinal was entirely thronged with his subjects, calling out his name,
and pleading that he should appear before them. When he did so, and
bowed and waved his hands in benediction over the heads of the assembled
multitude, how imposing and beautiful the spectacle! Again, at a
midnight festival in Santa Maria Maggiore, when he was carried on high,
in his crimson chair of state, between the two traditional fans of
peacocks’ feathers, the sight nearly cost me my life, so dense was the
crowd and so imminent the danger to myself and my sister. A third time
on the night of Easter Sunday, when the illumination of the whole
building of St Peter’s, bursting forth into light at one moment, seemed
a miracle, for gas was still unfamiliar, and electric light unknown. How
well I can recall the scene under the roof of “blue Italian weather”
deepening into purple, and studded with stars that glistened and
sparkled in the fountains. The magnificent court-yard, encircled with
colonnades, peopled by an innumerable concourse who dropped
simultaneously on their knees, with an indescribable surging sound, as
to the sound of cannon the Pope appeared on the balcony.

But I am anticipating events, and must return to the taking possession
of the Lateran, or the “Possesso,” as it was called, to which I have
before alluded, and the procession which we saw to perfection from the
_secondo piano_ of our quarters at Palazzetto Torlonia, happily situated
for the purpose. Pio Nono, who had a great taste for all that was
picturesque and historical, had conceived the idea of restoring all the
splendour of a pageant of the Middle Ages, and being himself a skilful
horseman, proposed that carriages should be banished from the
procession, which should be entirely composed of horse and foot-men.
This unconventional whim, as it was considered, created a great turmoil
in the minds of the ecclesiastical dignitaries. The idea of a Pope on
horseback shocked the critics of the age, and as many of the Cardinals
were well stricken in years, and had probably even in their youth been
unaccustomed to mount a horse, the obstacles to the design of His
Holiness appeared insurmountable. After manifold _pourparlers_, a
compromise was arrived at. The Pope relinquishing his cherished notion
of appearing on horseback, was firm in his resolve that his state
carriage should be the only one to be found in the procession. Much to
their disgust, the whole conclave of Cardinals was appointed to meet the
Holy Father, in their respective carriages, at the gates of S. John
Lateran.

Never did I see a more orderly, a more picturesque, or a more
enthusiastic crowd, than that which lined the Corso, and filled the
Piazza di Venezia on the day in question. Although the national costume
was even then becoming scarce in the South of Italy, yet on that great
day all the citizens on both sides of the Tiber and all the country
people from the neighbouring districts, appeared in their holiday
clothes of bright and variegated colours. The red bodice, the floating
ribbons, the blue petticoat and white _panno_, well became the majestic
beauty of noble-looking women, while the conical hat and coloured sashes
of the men recalled the early drawings of Pinelli. One striking
personage in the crowd I well remember—a peasant from the district of
Nettuno, whose costume had something essentially Oriental in its
character. She was a woman of extreme beauty, and of a tall and
commanding presence. She wore a garment of crimson silk, in the form of
a Turkish pelisse, over a bright gold-coloured robe of the same
material; she was evidently the beauty of her native town, and was sent
to Rome as its representative.

[Sidenote: THE “POSSESSO”]

Soon that mingled murmuring sound which is so well expressed in the
Italian language as _bisbiglio_ is heard down the length of the Corso,
and heralds the approach of the procession. On it comes in all the
correct costumes of the Middle Ages, of the exact period which His
Holiness has chosen; horsemen in rich doublets of cut velvet and mantles
clasped with jewels, the bridle-rein of each held by an attendant, the
costliness of whose dress is scarcely inferior to that of the rider. And
now, as the crucifer who immediately precedes the carriage of the Holy
Father appears in sight, the whole populace fall on their knees. To my
mind, the most imposing personage in the whole pageant is the crucifer,
a tall and magnificent-looking man, with a long silken beard, carrying a
ponderous cross, of such gigantic dimensions that few arms could have
been found capable of bearing it, mounted on a splendid white mule, to
find which the whole of Italy had been searched. A magnificent spectacle
which I shall never forget.

The delights of our winter in Rome were greatly enhanced to my brother
Charles and myself by the presence of our dear friend, Adelaide
Sartoris, at whose house in the Via Gregoriana we met all that was
agreeable and intellectual in the society of Rome. With her and her
sister, Fanny Kemble, we took almost daily rides in the Campagna. What
enchanting hours of companionship, what exhilarating hours of exercise
over that beautiful tract of country, does the mere allusion to those
bygone days recall! How swiftly the days passed in the Eternal City! The
constant contemplation of the treasures of painting, sculpture and
architecture seemed to enrich while it gladdened our minds. All around
us beauty—beauty of art, beauty of nature, beauty of sound, of music
both sacred and secular! Then the Carnival with its fun and frolic, and
the Moccoli, whose twinkling stars still live in the twilight of memory.
Rome the beautiful—Rome the eternal—’twas sad to say farewell!


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXII

                 SUMMER OF 1847—FLORENCE, VILLA CAREGGI


On our arrival in Florence, we took up our abode on the north side of
the Arno, in the same house with our friends the de Fauveaus, and many a
delightful hour did I pass in Félicie’s studio, watching her beautiful
work with deep interest, and sometimes reading aloud to her the works of
our best authors, for she was as good an English scholar as I was,
although she could not often be tempted to converse in our language. But
we did not stay long under the same roof, for it had been arranged that
our summer should be spent in Villeggiatura.

Lord Holland, who then possessed the beautiful villa of Careggi de
Medici, in the immediate neighbourhood of Florence, kindly placed it at
my mother’s disposition for the summer months of the year 1847, and when
I look back upon the time we passed there, a dream of beauty, peace and
happiness rises up before me, surrounded by the golden haze of memory
and regret. The villa, which is in itself a palace, is situated in a
charming garden, and the interior contains spacious and lofty
apartments, and, at the time of which I am speaking, had just been
embellished by frescoes from the master hand of our countryman George
Watts, the illustrious Academician. One in particular, at the entrance
of the villa, attracted especial notice. It represented the attack made
by the servants of Lorenzo the Magnificent on the physician who attended
their beloved master in his last hours, and whom they suspected of
wilful neglect, or culpable designs on the life of the august prince.
The moment chosen by the painter was that in which the retainers seized
upon the medical attendant and ruthlessly cast him into the well, which
then still existed in the court of the villa. The artist in question, a
friend of Lord Holland, was a resident of Careggi when we arrived and
most unwillingly drove him away. Assuredly there was room for us all,
and many more, in that large and spacious house, but our painter had
that love for solitude and that distaste for the society of strangers so
frequently to be found in the artistic nature. He had betaken himself to
a pavilion in the garden, and courteously but firmly withstood for a
time all our advances at nearer companionship. I well remember writing
what I considered a coaxing note, asking him to dine with us on Ash
Wednesday, as I knew it was more to his taste to fast than to feast.
Slowly and gradually we won our way towards his friendship, and, as I
once afterwards told him laughingly, how proud I felt when by degrees he
grew tame and would eat out of my hand. From that time we have been
friends, and I watched with pride and pleasure his rising fame, and
gazed with increasing admiration of years on his splendid creations. Our
household was a curious medley. Our family consisted of my mother, my
sister, my brother Charles and myself, with our three English
servants—the faithful Henry and the two lady’s-maids. The domestics we
found in the villa were as follows: the porter (an old soldier) and the
gardener and his family, the _babbo_, the _mama_, the son and two
daughters good, excellent people—the eldest girl Amalia a little
hump-back, or _gobbina_, with a tender heart and loving eyes, her sister
Violante—always selected on the occasion of any _festa_ or procession to
take the principal part therein, on account of her extreme beauty.

[Sidenote: LIFE AT VILLA CAREGGI]

The two mothers became great friends, notwithstanding their respective
ignorance of each other’s language, but it was touching to see them
sitting side by side in the garden, teaching each other Italian and
English names for the different flowers, which the _mama_ brought in
handfuls and deposited on the lap of the “cara e buona miladi.”

The old gardener, with gentle manners and calm exterior, who rented the
garden, but would never let us pay a _soldo_ for the beautiful nosegays
he showered on us, was a real Italian at heart. On one occasion, the
gardener of a neighbouring villa, Salviati, had brought a large present
of choice flowers to my mother, from our friend Mrs Vansittart. This
circumstance so raised the ire of the rival functionary at Careggi, that
it was with great difficulty that our English servant interposed to
appease the _babbo_, for, as he told me afterwards, he saw the moment
when knives were likely to be drawn. The porter, old Pietro, had been,
as I said before, a soldier, and was a great character in his way. He
would sometimes pace the terrace with me, and not only discuss, but
quote long extracts from Dante. Like many other scholars and students of
the divine poet, he found the greatest delight in the story of Francesca
di Rimini, and he delivered it as his emphatic opinion that her
punishment was immeasurably too severe for her fault. I think I should
have to wait some time before an English hall-porter, or domestic
servant of any class, would be likely to discuss with me the
characteristics of one of Shakespeare’s heroines.

This reminds me of an incident related by my dear friend, Lady Marian
Alford. She was coming out of the Cathedral at Siena, and talking of the
lines in Dante which commemorate the sad fate of “La Pia.” She had got
as far as “Siena mi fè,” when she paused and hesitated, being unable to
remember the rest of the line, when a little street Arab, or _gamin_,
came to her assistance and completed the sentence, “disfeci mi Maremma,”
to the satisfaction of both. But we must not wander from Careggi and the
golden summer we passed there.

The windows were scrupulously closed during the intense heat of the day,
but between the hours of four and five they were flung wide open to
admit the refreshing air, and then we would sit in the garden, or walk,
or drive, interchanging visits, and offering or accepting invitations
from the neighbouring villas, or sometimes from dwellers in the city.

From the _loggia_ at Careggi, where we used to spend a great part of our
evenings, watching the lights which starred the city, inhaling the
perfumes of the orange flowers, and delighting in the erratic flights of
those embodied stars, the fire-flies, we commanded the windows of the
Villa Quarto, inhabited by our Swedish friend, the Comtesse Pipa and her
nephew, Eric Baker, with whom we had invented a code of signals, and by
displaying some scarlet or yellow drapery, understood at once if an
invitation to dinner was refused or accepted.

[Sidenote: “BALLET D’ACTION”]

On the opposite side, but at a greater distance, stood the Villa
Salviati, inhabited by a beautiful countrywoman of ours, Mrs Vansittart
before-mentioned, the tall and stately chatelaine of that magnificent
house afterwards purchased by Mario and Grisi, and which, I believe,
still bears the name of the former. Many delightful evenings were spent
beneath Mrs Vansittart’s roof, where Charles and I were frequent guests.
I remember once when he and I had done our best to amuse our hosts with
a _ballet d’action_ on a small scale, at the conclusion of which I was
nearly smothered by the profusion of flowers which were lavished upon me
from that fertile garden. Oh yes, and I remember only too vividly the
homeward walk with that beloved companion, across a short cut, all
hedged and fringed with cypress and ilex, glistening and sparkling in
the silver radiance of a Tuscan moonlight.

That was an eventful period in the lives of both, for, during that
summer Charles’s destiny became entwined with that of a young English
lady whose acquaintance he had made the previous winter at Rome, and who
with her widowed mother was a constant visitor at the Villa Careggi.
Indeed, before the end of the summer, my dear brother was engaged to be
married to Miss Moore, the daughter of General Sir Lorenzo Moore, late
Governor of the Ionian Islands, in commemoration of which office he had
bestowed on his daughter the somewhat strange though musical name of
Zacyntha. The lovers were separated for the winter, but on their return
to England, in the year 1849, they were united, and my brother gained a
devoted and faithful wife, even to his life’s end, and she became the
mother of a large family of noble and beautiful children.

During our stay at Careggi we kept open house. Numerous friends and
acquaintances, _en route_ for Florence or Rome, flocked from all parts
to find a hearty welcome from the English occupants of that historical
palace, so intimately bound up with memories of the palmy days of
Florence and her merchant princes; while the neighbours from the villas
before-mentioned often frequented our charming gardens of an evening.
Amongst our visitors was Prince Anatole Demidoff (so well known in
Florence as one of the chief leaders of society), afterwards the husband
of Princess Mathilde, the sister of Prince Napoleon, who gave splendid
receptions at his own villa of San Donato.

I was much amused by an anecdote which was related to me as having
happened some years before the time of which I am speaking. Prince
Demidoff was very hospitable to foreigners, and an English lady having
received an invitation to a _soirée_ at this villa, arrayed herself in
the best ornaments contained in her jewel-box, which were not of a very
costly description. It was at a time when, in England at least,
malachite was very much used, not only for table ornaments, such as
ink-stands and paper-weights, but also occasionally for brooches,
earrings, and the like, or what then were called _sevignés_. Thus
decorated, our countrywoman took her way to Prince Demidoff’s reception,
but her consternation was great when, on entering the noble suite of
apartments, she found that the chimney-pieces, the consoles, and the
very doors themselves were constructed of the identical material which
formed her _parure_.

During our stay at Careggi, I had provided myself with an independent
little vehicle in which I drove occasionally into Florence, to pay a
visit to Félicie de Fauveau. I was invariably stopped at the gate of the
city, and interrogated by a pompous official as to whether I had
anything contraband to declare. “Oh dear yes,” said I one day, impatient
at being delayed, “two apricots and a book,” which reply made my driver
laugh aloud. My coachman was a bright young fellow who rejoiced in the
classical name of Œdipus. He had been educated at a Jesuit school, and
spoke his native language with great purity, and even eloquence. It is
certainly remarkable to listen to the choice selection of words used by
the lower classes in Tuscany. The common saying of “lingua Toscana in
bocca Romana,” is strikingly true, for the guttural pronunciation of the
Florentines—inherited doubtless from the Spaniards—contrasts
disadvantageously with the soft, so to speak, languishing, cadence of
the Roman dialect.

[Sidenote: BATHS OF CASCIANO]

I made a delightful little expedition in my own _carretella_ to the
Baths of Casciano, near Pisa, to pay a visit of two days to Félicie de
Fauveau and her mother. It was a whole day’s journey, and we halted
half-way, if I remember right, at the picturesque, fortified old town,
to bait our little stout Calabrian pony. I found Œdipus a delightful
travelling companion, for he knew the history and the legends of the
country through which we passed, and I was quite sorry to bid him
good-bye, for it was settled I should return with my friends.

Casciano is a picturesque spot, whose baths were at one time in great
repute, and the legend connected with the discovery of its boiling
springs interested me not a little. The Empress Matilda, it would
appear, who was devoted to the sport of hawking, possessed a falcon of
uncommon skill and beauty, whose constant perch was on the Imperial
wrist. Suddenly the favourite began to droop and shed its feathers, and
to show signs of some malady more severe than the usual moulting of
birds. Unable to carry on its vocation or to join in its beloved
mistress’s cherished sport, the poor falcon hung its head, disfigured
and ashamed. One morning the bird was missing, and could not be traced,
and much surprise was expressed that the diminished pinions should have
had sufficient strength to ensure its flight. Time passed, and the
“tasset gentle” was supplanted but not replaced in the heart of the
royal sportswoman. But one day, when on a grand hawking expedition, the
Empress had just let fly her falcon in search of its quarry—lo! a
miracle: perching on her wrist, pluming itself, and nodding and bowing,
with all the grace of which a bird can be capable, and all the loyalty
of a devoted subject, was the long lost one. A recurrence of the
falcon’s indisposition, and a restlessness which seemed to foretell an
inclination to absent itself once more, caused the Empress to issue her
commands that the bird should be watched. It seems difficult to imagine
how her wishes were carried out, but we must suppose that the will of
that Imperial lady was omnipotent. At all events, the story goes (and
who would question so romantic a legend) that the winged invalid was
found bathing in the warm springs of Casciano, and after this voluntary
cure, found its way back in renovated health and plumage to the Court of
its noble mistress, thereby laying claim to being the founder and patron
of the baths in question.

[Sidenote: LEGEND OF THE FALCON]

Oh! it is hard, even in retrospective thought, to tear one’s self away
from those blissful days which were prolonged late into the autumn, when
the Apennines so often assume that rich colouring of Imperial purple,
illumined by golden sunlight, which adds fresh lustre to the environs of
Florence. To that city we made our next move, and took up our abode in a
house in the Santa Croce quarter, between which and the Casa Fenzi, in
Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where Lady Moore and her daughter were now
located, there was constant intercourse, until the _sposa_ and her
mother left for Rome, and my brother Charles took his departure for
England.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXIII

   RESIDENCE IN FLORENCE—CHARLES LEVER—REVOLUTION, AND THE BROWNINGS


Our new residence in Florence consisted of a very pretty apartment on
the ground floor of the Casa Lagerschwerd, opening on a bright little
garden, which was a perfect sun-trap, and where, even on cold days, my
dear mother could bask in safety. We had not been there very long ere I
received a letter from our friend G. P. R. James, recommending his
friend, the bearer, Charles Lever, to our especial notice.

Him he thus describes:-“One of the most genial spirits I ever met; his
conversation is like summer lightning—brilliant, sparkling, but
harmless. In his wildest sallies I never heard him give utterance to an
unkind thought.”

The old advice, “If you like his works, do not make acquaintance with
the author,” would have been misplaced as regards him. He essentially
resembled his works, and whichever you preferred, that one was most like
Charles Lever. He was the complete type and model of an
Irishman—warm-hearted, witty, rollicking, of many metres in his pen, but
never unrefined, imprudent and often blind to his own interests—adored
by his friends, the play-fellow of his children and of the gigantic
boar-hound he had brought from Tyrol.

[Sidenote: LEVER’S ENTRY INTO FLORENCE]

I well remember his first visit, his chivalrous, deferential manner to
my mother, and the hearty, cordial way in which he claimed my
friendship. He gave me a most amusing description of his entry into
Florence, with his three children, two girls and a boy, with whom he had
performed the journey from the Tyrol on horseback. They had spent the
summer among hardy mountaineers, and had imbibed many of the tastes, and
had adopted the greater part of the costume of the Tyrolese—such as the
conical-shaped hat with its golden cord and peacocks’ feathers.
Altogether, his appearance, with that of his young companions, followed
by their brindled boar-hound, attracted great attention as they passed
slowly through the Porto San Gallo. The crowd which gathered round them
were impressed by the belief that they formed part of a company of a
circus or hippodrome, and Charles Lever, in great glee, even assured me
that he had been accosted on his road with a view to an engagement. Our
first interview, on the whole, was most satisfactory, and all the more
so when my new friend informed me that he had rented Casa Standish for
the winter, and that he counted upon me to resume the post of _prima
donna_, which he had heard, so ran his courteous words, “I had already
filled with so much honour.”

It did not take Charles Lever long to be installed as tenant of Casa
Standish, manager and lessee of the little theatre; and then began a
series of rehearsals and dramatic representations, the frequent reunion
of kindred spirits, the merry suppers and joyous dances in which my soul
delighted. Our company was excellent, and foremost in the troupe, and in
my recollection, since we generally played the two leading characters of
the “Juvenile Caste,” was Captain Elliott, who, with his charming wife,
was located for the time in an apartment in Piazzi Pitti. Good-looking,
graceful in deportment, courteous in manner, with great flexibility of
countenance, Captain Elliott was well qualified to play first lover,
although he occasionally condescended to take a part in low comedy. We
shared some bright laurels on several occasions, especially in two or
three detached scenes from the _School for Scandal_, particularly in the
famous Screen scene; Captain Elliott distinguished himself as “Joseph
Surface,” while our host and lessee gave a decided and Irish colouring
to the reckless humour of his namesake “Charles.” But the latter was
still more in his element in the then favourite farce of _The Irish
Tutor_, a part lately rendered famous by the impersonation of Tyrone
Power, the best “Irishman” that ever walked, or rather tripped, the
stage—he whose untimely fate made so deep an impression on the lovers of
the drama, when all hope was relinquished of the safety of that vessel
in which he had been a joyous passenger. Charles Lever was no unworthy
rival in the character of “Doctor O’Toole,” and the jig which we danced
together laid good claim to be called an “Everlasting,” its duration
being so prolonged by repeated plaudits of the audience.

Dear old friend! We met twice again after a separation of many years,
once, as a glad surprise, when arriving rather late for dinner, I turned
round and found him as my neighbour at one of those delightful banquets
at Charles Dickens’ table, where all that was eminent in Literature and
Art, or endowed with social and intellectual gifts, was sure to find a
place and a welcome.

[Sidenote: I ENTERTAIN LEVER IN 1870]

In the year 1870, during the first Viceroyalty of Earl Spencer in
Ireland, Lever paid a visit to Dublin,[43] where he made friends with my
nephew Courtenay Boyle, and was a frequent and welcome visitor at the
Castle and Viceregal Lodge. From Ireland he came to London, and I had
the pleasure of entertaining him at my little house in South Audley
Street, where Lady Spencer gladly agreed to meet him. On the table lay a
volume of Bret Harte’s parodies[44] of popular novelists, and I,
volunteering to read a passage aloud, asked if he could recognise the
authorship. It was the narrative of a cavalry officer who, in the heat
of an engagement, took a flying, but unwilling, leap over a horseman in
a dark cloak, cocked hat and white feathers. As far as I can remember
the words-“My horse cleared the obstacle well, I lifted my eyes, and
found myself for the first time in the presence of Field-Marshal The
Duke of Wellington!”

Footnote 43:

  I well remember this visit and the many chats we had about his novel,
  “Lord Kilgobbin,” then on the stocks.

Footnote 44:

  The parody was “Terence Deuville”-“Putting spurs to my horse I rode at
  him boldly, and with one bound cleared him, horse and all. A shout of
  indignation arose from the assembled staff. I wheeled suddenly, with
  the intention of apologising, but my mare misunderstood me, and again
  dashing forward, once more vaulted over the head of the officer, this
  time, unfortunately, uncovering him by a vicious kick of her hoof.
  ‘Seize him!’ roared the entire army. I was seized. As the soldiers led
  me away, I asked the name of the gray-haired officer. ‘That?—why
  that’s the Duke of Wellington!’ I fainted.”

  A somewhat similar episode is recorded in another parody, the fighting
  “Onet y Oneth,” by W. M. Thackeray, written many years before Bret
  Harte (who, I am sure, was no plagiarist) wrote “Terence Deuville.”

Never shall I forget Lever’s burst of laughter, which seemed to flood
the whole room with sunshine. “Upon me soul, I believe it’s meself; it’s
uncommonly like me.” That was the last time we ever met. The wife to
whom he was deeply attached died shortly afterwards, and Charles Lever
did not long survive her.

That was an eventful time for Florence, for Italy, for the whole of
Europe. The spirit of revolution was abroad, and France had set a
startling example to other nations. In the month of February, 1848, the
Carnival was at its height, and the youth, beauty and fashion of
Florence were assembled in a splendid ball-room in one of her principal
palaces. I was sitting beside my dear friend Félicie de Fauveau, who had
been rebuking me for dancing with _cette canaille_—for so she designated
Baron Ward, Prime Minister and ex-groom of the Duke of Parma—and I had
excused myself on the ground that it amused me to become acquainted with
celebrities—perhaps, in this case, I had better have said
notorieties—when we were all startled by the rapid entrance of a
stranger. There was a pause, a hush, and then he became the centre of a
little crowd that gathered round him, evidently the bearer of some
strange intelligence. Félicie and I rose together to inquire the cause.
It was soon told—a Revolution in France, and Louis Philippe and his
whole family driven from the capital. To my companion, the news was of
deep interest, for was she not devoted heart and soul to the cause of
Henri Cinq? In that assembly, which contained many nationalities among
the company, the intelligence was listened to with varying degrees of
excitement, pleasure or indifference, while to the younger portion of
the community, who cared little for the destiny of kings and
governments, the paramount thought was that the _bal masqué_ at the
French Embassy would not take place.

[Sidenote: I PLAY THE PART OF CONSPIRATOR]

The downfall of the Orleans dynasty naturally led to a renewal of hope
among the more devoted and sanguine of the Legitimists, which proved,
however, but short-lived. One morning, soon after the ball already
alluded to, Félicie de Fauveau called upon me and asked if I could
undertake a commission for her. Any messenger she could send, she
explained to me—indeed, any Frenchman or Frenchwoman who was the bearer
of a letter to the Duchesse de Berri—would be an object of suspicion.
“Have you any fellow-countryman whom you could safely trust to carry a
communication from me to that Princess?” Most fortunately, a friend of
ours, an Englishman, had the day previously expatiated to me on his
delight at the prospect of seeing Venice for the first time. I summoned
him to our assistance, entrusted Félicie’s packet to his care, enjoined
prudence and secrecy, and thus, for the first and last time in my life,
played the part of conspirator, though, sooth to say, with no important
or successful result.

In Florence, where people did not take life _au grand sérieux_, there
was no end of chaffing and jesting on the subject, which could not be
said to be a jest to Paris and the Parisians. All the princes and
princesses, all the counts and countesses, sometimes good-humouredly,
sometimes spitefully, were addressed as _Citoyens_ and _Citoyennes_. I
heard of an incident at the club, which only just escaped having an
unpleasant termination.

A Russian nobleman, who, for some reason or another, was not on good
terms with a Frenchman of decided Legitimist tendencies, approached him
and, in rather a provocative tone, said, “Bon jour, Citoyen.” The
Frenchman looked at him with some disdain, and turning on his heel,
exclaimed, “Adieu, esclave,” which retort elected a laugh from the
bystanders.

Meanwhile, as we jested and acted and danced, the Tuscan Revolution was
proceeding slowly on its course. The Grand Duke[45] whose reign had been
marked by a mild paternal sway, and who was as popular as an Austrian
well could be in those anti-Austrian days, endeavoured at first to make
a compromise with the Tuscans by granting them a charter for the Civic
Guards. This was made an occasion of great rejoicing in the city, and
the Italians, who always turn a festivity into a pageant, organised a
procession, which defiled for the space of three hours beneath the
windows of the Palazzo Pitti, where, on the balcony, Leopold II.
appeared, surrounded by his family. It was not to be expected that he
should wear a very cheerful aspect, for although the air rang with
_vivas_, in recognition of his Civic grant, and although he affected to
advocate the cause of United Italy, yet it was easy to know that the
compact between the Prince and the people was hollow and fragile, and
that “Leopoldo essendo straniero,” must sooner or later come under the
cry for the expulsion of the foreigner.

Footnote 45:

  Leopold II., died at Rome, 1870.

[Sidenote: CASA GUIDI]

On the morning appointed for the procession in question, I went,
accompanied by my sister and my future sister-in-law, to a house in the
Piazza Pitti, the name of which has now become classical; for the walls
of Casa Guidi bear a tributary inscription to the memory of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, who, with the “heart of a woman, the knowledge of a
professor, and the spirit of a poet, formed a link between Italy and
England.” These are Florence’s grateful words to our English poetess,
and well did she deserve the tribute, for no one ever participated more
cordially in the aspirations of Italy’s future, or gave utterance to
those aspirations in so musical a form.

I would gladly transcribe _verbatim_ the lines in which that noble
spirit described the scene I witnessed, in her dear company, and that of
her husband, from Casa Guidi windows; for how cold and colourless must
my words appear compared with her surpassing eloquence. But space will
not allow of the whole transcript, and I therefore unwillingly confine
myself to fragments—

                             “The day was such a day
             As Florence owes the sun. The sky above,
             Its weight upon the mountains seemed to lay,
             And palpitate in glory, like a dove
             Who has flown too fast, full-hearted—take away
             The image! for the heart of man beat higher
             That day in Florence, flooding all her streets
             And piazzas with a tumult and desire.
                                       How we gazed
             From Casa Guidi windows while, in trains
             Of orderly procession, banners raised,
             And intermittent bursts of martial strains
                                 ... they passed on!
             The Magistracy, with insignia, passed, ...
             And all the people shouted in the sun,
             And all the thousand windows which had cast
             A ripple of silks in blue and scarlet down
             (As if the houses overflowed at last),
             Seemed growing larger with fair heads and eyes.
                                     The Lawyers passed ...
             The Priesthood passed.... Next were viewed
             The Artists; next, the Trades; and after came
                                     The People....
             And very loud the shout was for that same
             Motto, ‘Il popolo’—‘IL POPOLO.’
             And next, with banners, each in his degree,
             Deputed representatives a-row,
             Of every separate State of Tuscany:
             Siena’s she-wolf, bristling on the fold
             Of the first flag, preceded Pisa’s hare,
             And Massa’s lion floated calm in gold,
             Pienza’s following with his silver stare,
             Arezzo’s steed pranced clear from bridle-hold?”

Then followed a concourse of foreigners of all nations, lovers of Italy—

               “Oh heaven, I think that day had noble use
                       Among God’s days!”

And so it had, for that day was a forerunner of better days to come,
though many a reverse was in store for the House of Savoie, and many a
check was to be given to the brave Sardinians in the battle-field.
Still, that day, commemorated by our English poetess, shadowed forth the
time when the King of Sardinia became the King of Italy, and Imperial
Rome the capital of his kingdom.

And now that I have had occasion to speak of that poet pair, the
Brownings, let me recall the hours of enchantment which I passed beneath
their roof. I was the bearer of a letter from a common friend, and well
do I remember knocking at the door, which was opened to me by the poet
in person. How kindly they received me! how truly they welcomed me,
stranger as I was, whose very name was unknown to them. How one-sided
seemed the advantages of that acquaintance; for I had known and loved
them long, and when I went up to the sofa where the poetess lay, half
bird, half spirit, as a loving hand described her, I felt inclined to
address her by the name of “Bar,” the pet name of her own sweet poem,
which her brother gave her

                    “When we were children ’twain,
                     When names acquired baptismally
                     Were hard to utter as to see
                     That life had any pain.”

[Sidenote: “FLUSH”]

And there on her lap was her dog “Flush,” with whom I was so well
acquainted in verse. The pale, thin hand of his mistress resting on the
glossy head of that “gentle fellow-creature” like a benediction.

All seemed familiar to me from the first moment, and all became truly
familiar to me soon, and now remains a sacred memory. I have never in
the course of my life seen a more spiritual face, or one in which the
soul looked more clearly from the windows; clusters of long curls, in a
fashion now obsolete, framed in her small delicate face, and even
shrouded its outline, and her form was so fragile as to appear but an
ethereal covering.

I had looked forward eagerly to the moment when I should lay these pages
of affectionate remembrance before my friend Robert Browning, when,
alas! the news came from Venice of his unexpected death, and baulked me
of the pleasure of doing so—a disappointment which added to the
poignancy of my regret at his loss.

My visits to Casa Guidi were daily, or rather nightly, for my mother’s
health at this time compelled her to retire early to rest; and the
moment I had bidden her good-night, I would fly to Casa Guidi and spend
the early evening, or _prima sera_, as the Italians call it, with my
poets. How delightful were those moments—how swiftly did they pass! how
rich was the wit, the wisdom, the knowledge, the fancy, in which I
revelled with those dear companions! And then a ring would come at the
bell just at the proper moment to save my sweet hostess from fatigue,
and I would go downstairs to greet another friend who had kindly allowed
me to go into society under her wing. Madame de Manny, to all the
vivacity and charm of a Frenchwoman, added some of the dignity and
steadiness of the English nature—a rare and valuable combination amid
the frivolity and laxity of manners then prevalent in the Florentine
capital. The name of de Manny also had a charm for me in the historical
associations connected with Froissart and the Carthusian Monastery, for
my friend’s husband was a lineal descendant of Sir Walter de Manny, or
Many, in those famous chronicles.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXIV

  LAST DAYS AT FLORENCE—RETURN TO ENGLAND—MILLARD’S HILL, LONDON 1848.


While we were at Florence the popular mind had become so excited by
passing events, by the Revolution in France, and by the outbreaks in the
north of Italy, that disturbances on a modified scale were of almost
daily occurrence in the streets or on the walls of the city. I was
amused one day at a comic manifestation of the Florentine horror of the
Austrian by overhearing a peasant who was beating his donkey, cry out to
him in a tone of objurgation: “Oh, Maiter Nick-ee—oh, Maiter Nick-ee.” I
could not but intercede for the poor beast, and represent to his master
that he could not well be called a foreigner.

Another time, as I was returning from a drive to a neighbouring villa
with my mother, our carriage was stopped and surrounded by some men, who
desired us to alight and proceed on foot, as we had no more right to go
in a carriage than they had. Their words were menacing, but their looks
were by no means threatening, and trusting to the Italian’s love of a
jest, I told them that it was out of the question for my mother to walk,
for she was not strong, and that for myself I did not care how many
miles I walked, but I had on a pair of beautiful new thin boots (in
those days we wore a dainty _chaussure_ called _brodequins_), and it
would break my heart to spoil them in the muddy road. Oh those
good-humoured Tuscans! They laughed, shook their heads, bade the
coachman drive on, and showed no ill-will to the little foreigner who
had turned aside their wrath with a joke.

But on a future day the populace showed itself more violent. I was
unwell, and had not left the house, when my brother came back with the
news that there had been a riot in the streets, and that on the
appearance of my friend Beppa, the florist, the old cry had been raised
of “A spy!—a Court spy!” and the poor woman had been hunted down several
streets, and was flying in terror for her very life; then came to her
rescue, rising as they ever did, as if by magic, in the hour of need,
the noble band of the “Misericordia,” bound to succour and to protect
the sick and the sorrowful. Clad in their black robes, their faces
shrouded by their black hoods, they interposed between the pursuers and
their victim, and claimed the right, which none durst question, of
taking possession of the fugitive. Beppa was sick, she was near her
confinement, therefore she came within the jurisdiction of the
“Misericordia,” who, placing her on the litter they always carry with
them, bore her off, not to the hospital, as is usual in such cases, but
to a place of safety and secrecy.

[Sidenote: “BEPPA” THE FLORIST]

I was very much distressed when I heard of the danger my favourite had
run, and longed to hear some news of her, which I did a few days later,
in rather dramatic manner. I was walking on the Lung’arno when a little
boy approached me. He attracted my attention in a mysterious manner,
“’St, ’st, Signorina,” he said; “listen to me, but take no notice of me.
Beppa salutes you tenderly. She has a beautiful boy; she sends you these
flowers,” which he smuggled into my hand, “and hopes to see you soon.”

Accordingly, in the course of time, our faithful Henry ushered a muffled
figure, whose face was completely hidden by the hood of a long cloak,
into the drawing-room of Casa Lagerschward. It was Beppa, my Beppa! She
flung off her disguise as she clasped me in her arms; she wept, she
laughed, she went into rapture over her baby, over her husband-“Che mi
vuole un ben di paradiso.”[46] It was a spectacle to astonish an
undemonstrative Northerner. When the time came for us to leave Florence,
Beppa was one of the humble friends whom I regretted most; but oh! how I
grieved to say farewell to that beautiful city!

Footnote 46:

  “Who loves me with the love of heaven,” is the only translation I can
  render of these untranslatable words.

              “Oh! rightly, justly named the fair,
               There is a magic in thine air,
               A gladness in thine atmosphere,
               Where floating particles of joy,
               With hidden hope the spirits buoy,
               And every feeling cheer.

              “Fair city of the myriad towers,
               How oft my heart will yearn
               Towards thee and thine and those dear hours
               Which never can return.
               No more for me thy suns shall shine,
               No more, no more thy flowerets twine
               A garland for my brow!”

The gardener’s family from Careggi came to bid us farewell, and it was
only by a violent effort I could wrench myself away from the two weeping
sisters, who loaded me with caresses. The separation between the two
mothers was more affecting still, for they were both well stricken in
years, and knew they could not meet again on this side of the grave. I
shall never forget the faithful Italian’s tender look as she pressed my
mother’s hand for the last time to her lips, and exclaimed: “A rivederla
in Paradiso.” Then there was dear Félicie de Fauveau, of whom to take a
sad, and, as it turned out, a lasting farewell, and the good Levers, our
friend Charles and his excellent little wife.

Although in the early part of 1848 the whole of Europe was in a state of
political turmoil, our travel homeward was unattended by any excitement
or adventure. We fell in with no fighting, although we followed closely
on its track, and in Milan and many other towns through which we passed
we found all inscriptions and insignia in any way connected with
Austria, effaced and defaced, while in several streets and thoroughfares
were collected groups of citizens, for the most part in fantastic
dresses (for Italians generally love to throw a Carnival colouring over
all their doings), singing the Italian hymn of _Viva Italia!_ and _Viva
Pio Nono!_ for the name of the Pontiff was still beloved, as he had not
repudiated his first principles, or taken his flight to Gaeta yet,
neither had his name been superseded in the popular cries by _Viva
Garibaldi!_

For myself I was in constant correspondence with one of Charles Albert’s
most distinguished and confidential officers, the Cavaliere Pietro de
Boÿl, of whom I have already spoken in my chapter on Genoa. He well knew
how my brother Charles and I sympathised with his patriotic views for
Italy’s future, and he would write to me from Turin, or the camp,
according to where he was stationed, to enquire news of what was passing
in Tuscany, or farther south.

[Sidenote: DOWN THE RHINE]

In our passage down the Rhine our steamers carried troops, and I shall
never forget the intense delight with which I listened to the beautiful
part-singing of those good soldiers. I had just received a treasure from
England—it was the novel of “Jane Eyre,” at that moment making a great
noise in the literary world, and my recollections of that book have been
invariably intertwined with the strains of the excellent music to which
I listened during its perusal.

When we arrived in London we found it in a ferment of Chartists and
special constables; but in spite of the turmoil, we took our quiet way
to our little woodland house in Somersetshire, suffering, at least I
speak for myself, from the _mal du pays_, for I had got to love and
consider Italy as my home.

In the year 1849, my brother Charles and his wife, after a short sojourn
with us, embarked for the Cape of Good Hope, where he had obtained an
appointment; but there were still “good times in store for me,” for,
when the season was at its height, I went to London to pay a most
delightful visit to my friend Adelaide Sartoris.[47] Her comparatively
small drawing-rooms in Park Place were the resort of all that was
remarkable and superior in Society, whether as to talent or position.
The best _artistes_ in music, painting, sculpture, or histrionic
celebrity, were her frequent and welcome guests, enlivened, as the
Society papers would say, by a “sprinkling of beauty, rank and fashion.”
Here, for the first time, I heard the noble voice of Charles Santley,
which I always likened to three-piled crimson velvet, and from that
moment I have never met him without pleasure, or listened to him without
delight.

Footnote 47:

  Younger daughter of Charles Kemble, and sister of Frances Anne Butler.

[Sidenote: VISIT TO MRS SARTORIS]

Charles Hallé, too, was there, with his exquisite rendering of
Mendelssohn, Beethoven, etc., whom I have often told that his playing
made me feel good and happy for at least a week; and his kindly,
friendly wife, and occasionally, though not at that time out in the
world, their eldest daughter, with whom it is still a pleasure to talk
of those old days, and who, never forgetting my admiration for her
father’s talent, includes me in many a kind invitation to profit by it.
Here, too, I often met Lord Dufferin, Lord Fordwich,[48] and Frederick
Leighton, the tried and trusty friend of the Sartorises, who sang duets
with Adelaide in songs of many nations, and whose fame as a painter,
although still young, was so firmly established, that his future honours
as P.R.A. caused no wonder to his friends or to the public. Here also
was an Italian singer, whose simple-minded remark on one occasion caused
us great merriment. Ciabatti was a man of great personal beauty, and I
overheard him one evening complaining to Mrs Sartoris that this “dowry,”
like unto Italia’s, had been fatal to him. “I seldom get an engagement,”
he said, “for the moment the mammas see me, they will not run the risk
of the daughters falling in love with me, for, you know, _cara_, I am so
very, very handsome!” No idle boast, but the plain unvarnished truth.

Footnote 48:

  Francis, sixth Earl Cowper; born 1834; married, 1870, Lady Katrine
  Compton, daughter of William, fourth Marquess of Northampton.

During that visit I was in my element—concerts at home and abroad,
operas, theatres and dramatic entertainments, in which my hostess and I
took part. The Alfred Wigans were our common friends, and it was
arranged on one occasion that a representation should be given in the
little theatre at Store Street, for the benefit of the above-named
distinguished actor. The piece chosen was _The Merry Monarch_, and the
caste was as follows:—

               CHARLES II.          MR HENRY GREVILLE

               EARL of ROCHESTER    MR ALFRED WIGAN

               CAPTAIN COPP         MR EDWARD SARTORIS

                                    HONBLE. GEORGE
                                    BYNG[49]

               LADY CLARA           MRS SARTORIS

               MARY COPP            MISS MARY BOYLE

the evening concluding with Alfred Wigan’s _chef-d’œuvre_ of _The First
Night_. How well I recall the happy meetings which the rehearsals
entailed.

Footnote 49:

  Afterwards third Earl of Strafford.

It was a brilliant success financially and socially. The Sartorises at
that time had no country house of their own, but it was their habit to
hire one, during the summer and autumn months, in different parts of
England, where I often visited them, and spent hours of happy
intercourse with dear Adelaide and her sister Fanny, enjoying the
delight of intellectual conversation and genial sympathy.

At Henry Greville’s house in Queen Street, where his small and select
reunions had all the characteristics of a French _salon_, all the best
musicians of the day lent their talents to make the evening attractive
in the highest degree; while it was a standing jest among the female
friends of our dear host, that their newest toilettes and brightest
diamonds were to be worn in his honour.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXV

                   ROCKINGHAM CASTLE—CHARLES DICKENS.


The autumn of 1850 marks, indeed, a memorable era in my heart’s
calendar, for it was then I spoke for the first time with Charles
Dickens. He had been my familiar friend, as a writer, for years—since
his publication of “Sketches by Boz”—but the day that my conquest was
complete was while on a visit to Burghley. My brother Cavendish had
secured an odd number of “Pickwick,” and coming up to my favourite
little room (“Queen Elizabeth’s China Closet”), he told me he had a
treat in store for me, and then and there read aloud to my enraptured
ears a scene where the runaway couple were tracked through the medium of
“Sam Weller,” who, in his capacity of “Boots” at the hotel, had blacked
Mr Jingle’s Wellingtons and Miss Wardle’s shoes in No. 17. How we
laughed! How many interruptions were caused by our frequent shouts!
Suffice it to say that from that day forward no page of our beloved
author was left unread by either brother or sister, though the time was
far distant ere he became the fast friend of both.

Mrs Watson,[50] one of my dear, though not very near, cousins, had
married the possessor of the grand old castle of Rockingham, situated on
one of the few eminences which are to be found in Northamptonshire, the
Midlandest of England’s counties. That stately old building had
originally been a Royal hunting-lodge, and a surrounding domain, still
diversified and picturesque in the extreme, had once been forest-land.
Some portion of the house itself was of very early date, and the grand
entrance, or gate-house, consisting of two massive circular towers,
dated as far back as the reign of Stephen.

Footnote 50:

  Lavinia, daughter of Lord George Quin by Lady Georgiana Spencer;
  married Hon. Richard Watson, fourth son of second Lord Sondes.

The interior of Rockingham, the large entrance hall, the gallery and the
dining-room, in particular, were especially remarkable for their
old-world appearance. In the first of these apartments I loved to read
the inscription on the beams of the ceiling—

        “Thys House shall be preserved and never shall decaye
        While Almighty God is honoured and served daye by daye”—

while the dining-room, with its oak-panelled walls, decorated with
innumerable shields of relations and neighbours, blazoned in proper
heraldic colours, has a lasting claim on my memory as the scene of our
dramatic performances.

The “Chatelaine,” to whom I have already alluded, was a daughter of Lord
George Quin, with whom I claim cousinship, as her mother was a Spencer.
The master of Rockingham was the brother of Lord Sondes, who changed his
patronymic of Milles for the name of Watson, on succeeding to the
Northamptonshire estate. At Lausanne they had made the acquaintance of
the Charles Dickens’ family, and, knowing how devout a hero-worshipper I
was, had promised to include me among their invitations the next time
that “Boz” became their guest. So one day, to my great delight, I
received a letter from Mrs Watson, begging me to come down by rail on a
certain day, and to look out at Euston for the Dickens family, who would
be my fellow-travellers. Either they were too early, or I was late, and
to my great disappointment I missed the pleasure of their company for
many stations.

[Sidenote: FIRST MEETING WITH DICKENS]

I believe I had proceeded as far as Wolverton, when the guard (who, by
the way, was a friend of mine) threw open the door, with the air of a
Master of the Ceremonies, and said to me: “This is Mr Charles Dickens,
who is enquiring for Miss Boyle!” A hand was held out to help me from
the carriage, a hand that for twenty successive years was ever held out
to help me in joy or sorrow, that was ever ready to grasp mine in tender
friendship or cordial companionship, and whose pressure still thrills my
memory. I got into the carriage whence he had descended, where I found
his wife and her sister, Georgina Hogarth—alas! the only one of the
three who will read this record of our first meeting, and of those
delightful days which I passed at Rockingham, in London, and at Gad’s
Hill, in the company of one whose loss we still devoutly mourn—having
the chief part of the whole civilised world to share our grief.

It was difficult for two such lovers of the Drama as Charles Dickens and
myself to meet under the same roof, without some dramatic plotting; and
so, during that visit, we trod for the first time the same boards
together in a hastily-concocted scene from “Nicholas Nickleby”—that in
which the mad neighbour, from the top of the garden wall, makes a
passionate declaration to Mrs Nickleby. My shabby-genteel costume, with
the widow’s cap of the period, attracted universal admiration from its
appropriate fitness, while the amorous outbursts of my adorer were given
in a manner worthy of the actor-author.

How well I remember going into a cheap shop in Oxford Street to buy that
identical widow’s cap, of the close, stiff form then in vogue, and
purposely selecting one of the commonest, I enquired the price.
“Tenpence,” said the man, with a tinge of indignation in his tone, which
conveyed an undoubted reproach. “I think, ma’am,” he said, “that if you
are going to make a present of the cap, we have some at eighteenpence
that will be more suitable.” I so entirely sympathised with his view of
the case, or should have done so in ordinary circumstances, that I
condescended to explain my professional reasons for selecting so common
an article.

This short and impromptu entertainment was only the prelude to
theatrical performances on a larger and grander scale.

I may truly say, and I think be forgiven for so saying that the 20th of
September, 1850, was a very proud day in my small annals. The morning’s
post brought me the subjoined letter from the great novelist of the
day:—


    “Sir E. Bulwer Lytton presents his compliments to Miss Boyle,
    and hears with great delight from Mr Dickens, that she is kind
    enough to take a part in the Theatricals at Knebworth, which it
    is at present proposed should take place October 30th.

    “Sir Edward therefore requests to know on what previous day he
    may calculate on the honour of receiving Miss Boyle’s obliging
    visit.

      “KNEBWORTH, STEVENAGE,

        “HERTS, _16th September 1850_.”


[Sidenote: A FLATTERING PROPOSAL]

It was not till after the death of my beloved friend Charles Dickens
that I became aware, through the publication of his letters, that it was
at his suggestion Sir Edward had made this flattering proposal. In a
letter from Broadstairs to Knebworth, he speaks of me in these terms:


    “Do you know Mary Boyle, daughter of the old Admiral?—because
    she is the very best actress I ever saw off the stage, and
    immeasurably better than a great many I have seen on it. I have
    acted with her in a country house in Northamptonshire, and am
    going to do so again next November. If you know her, I think she
    would be more than pleased to play, and by giving her something
    good in a farce, we could get her to do “Mrs Kitely.” In that
    case, my little sister-in-law would ‘go on’ for the second lady,
    and you could do without actresses, besides giving the thing a
    particular grace and interest. If we could get Mary Boyle, we
    would do _Used Up_, which is a delightful piece, as the farce.
    But maybe you know nothing about the said Mary, and in that
    case, I should like to know what you would think of doing.”


These negotiations resulted in the engagement, which I gladly accepted,
to go down to Knebworth and tread the same stage with such distinguished
writers as “Boz” himself, John Forster, Mark Lemon (the editor of
_Punch_), Douglas Jerrold, and such well-known artists as Frank Stone,
John Leech, and Augustus Egg; while for my _confidante_ and companion I
was promised the society of dear Georgina Hogarth. I was in the seventh
heaven, for, as I have always said, theatrical business was the only
business I liked, theatrical properties the only property I possessed.
Then the interesting correspondence with the manager, the only despot I
ever tolerated, the meetings for rehearsal, the conferences on the
costume. I found myself indeed in my real element, but—when are there no
buts to any bright prospects?—all of a sudden the conviction forced
itself upon me that so great a delight was not in store, that some
sorrow or mishap, or unforeseen obstacle, was hanging over my head, to
prevent the consummation of this cherished scheme.

I have often had presentiments, and they have usually been realised; but
this was more than a presentiment: it was a certainty that interfered
with all my preparations, surrounding them with a feeling of
apprehension. I gave orders for the making of the costume, which I was
convinced I should never wear; I set myself drearily to learn the part
of “Dame Kitely,” which I _knew_ I was never destined to recite. My
foreboding was but too sadly fulfilled. My sister-in-law came into the
room one day and broke to me as tenderly as possible the death, in
circumstances of a most distressing nature, of that dear and beautiful
friend to whom I have alluded by the name of Fanny. If any words could
have afforded me consolation at so terrible a moment, they would have
been such tender and sympathetic lines as those which I received from
the kind manager of our company, when he said:

[Sidenote: LETTER FROM CHARLES DICKENS]


    “We are all extremely concerned and distressed to lose you, but
    we feel that it cannot be otherwise, and we do not in our own
    expectation of amusement, forget the sad cause of your absence.
    Bulwer was here yesterday, and if I were to tell you how
    earnestly he and all the other friends whom you don’t know have
    looked forward to the projected association with you, and in
    what a friendly spirit they all express their disappointment,
    you would be quite moved by it, I think.”


In November, 1851, Charles Dickens and his family went to live in
Tavistock House, Tavistock Square, where they remained until the year
1857. The very sound of the name is replete to me with memories of
innumerable evenings passed in the most congenial and delightful
intercourse; dinners, where the guests vied with each other in brilliant
conversation, whether intellectual, witty, or sparkling—evenings devoted
to music or theatricals. First and foremost of that magic circle was the
host himself, always “one of us,” who invariably drew out what was best
and most characteristic in others, who used the monosyllable “we” much
more frequently than that of “I,” and who made use of his superiority to
charm and quicken the society around him, but never to crush or
overpower it with a sense of their inferiority. The most diffident girl
was encouraged to express her modest opinion to the great man, and in
him the youngest child ever found a ready play-fellow.

I can never forget one evening, shortly after the arrival at Tavistock
House, when we danced in the New Year. It seemed like a page cut out of
the “Christmas Carol,” as far, at least, as fun and frolic went:
authors, actors, friends from near and far, formed the avenues of two
long English country dances, in one of which I had the honour of going
up and down the middle, almost “interminably” as it seemed, with Charles
Dickens for my partner.

The Keeleys were there, husband and wife, the former declining to dance;
but when Sir Roger de Coverley struck up, he was loudly called upon to
do so, and a vehement dispute began between the two sets, which should
secure him in their ranks. That inimitable comedian showed so much fun
in the apparent hesitation of his choice as to elicit roars of laughter,
which were followed by thunders of applause, when the winning side
claimed Keeley as their own.

In those days, before the guests went into dinner at Tavistock House,
the children of the family were admitted into the drawing-room, and
seldom have I seen more lovely boys, or sweeter or more graceful little
girls; and it is still a pleasure to me to talk over that happy past
with Kate Perugini and her sister, with Harry Dickens and his pretty
wife, who venerates the memory of the father-in-law she never knew, and
brings up her beautiful children to do the same.

In 1853, the Dickens family were settled at Boulogne-sur-Mer, having
rented a charming house on the hill just outside the town, called Villa
des Moulineaux, which name it derived from some neighbouring
water-mills. It was well situated, and the house, which you approached
through (I might almost say) an avenue of splendid hollyhocks, was built
against the side of the hill, so that you reached the _rez-de-chaussée_
by a flight of steps, and stepped out of the top floor into a
garden-path. It commanded an extensive view of Boulogne, old and new,
and its picturesque harbour, while on the heights the Napoleon Column
was visible, which commemmorated Napoleon the First’s intended invasion
of England.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS JERROLD]

Charles Dickens in his invitation that I should come and visit him for
some weeks, provided me with an escort, in the person of the late Mr
Peter Cunningham, the agreeable editor of Horace Walpole’s
correspondence, and in his company I performed the voyage. Many and
pleasant were my fellow-guests in that happy summer. Douglas Jerrold,
with his flow of conversation, which elicited so rich a return in that
of his host; if I might make use of a homely simile, I would say, that
brace of talkers reminded me of Bryant & May’s matches “on a superior
scale.” It was here also I learned to know and value Wilkie Collins, the
popular writer of fiction.

Charles Dickens was an indefatigable pedestrian, and took most extensive
walks in the neighbourhood, and it was amusing to find that the friends
who on the first days after their arrival gladly agreed to accompany
him, mostly slackened by degrees in their readiness to do so, and had
such urgent demands for correspondence or literary work as to detain
them at home. He was thus often reduced to the society of his
sister-in-law and myself, who, from so constantly sharing in his walks,
had got into excellent condition.

During the time I was at Boulogne there was a fair, and a camp, and a
theatre, and many minor excitements, but these halycon days were
suddenly clouded over by the outbreak of that dreadful epidemic,
diphtheria, which was at first called the “Boulogne sore-throat.” It
caused a panic in our little household; mother and children were shipped
off at a moment’s notice, and the rest quickly followed, with no small
regret at the breaking up of so good a time.

It was in the year 1857 that Charles Dickens took possession of the
little house of Gad’s Hill, within a walk of Rochester. I thought the
dwelling characteristic of the man, for it was situated on the high
road, frequented by all sorts and conditions of men—the tramp and
vagrant in their tatters, the well-dressed and joyous holiday-makers,
emigrants travelling to the sea-coast, military men changing quarters,
pedestrians, equestrians. From the opposite garden of the wayside inn,
which bore the traditional sign of the “Falstaff,” came the sound of the
bowling of skittles, with an old-fashioned ring in its merriment. The
smooth lawn with its flower-beds, the hay-fields beyond, and the
beautiful woods of Cobham Park in the distance, represented to my fancy
the tenderness of Charles Dickens’ sentiment, and the freshness and the
delicacy of his imagination.

[Illustration:

  GAD’S HILL.
]

[Sidenote: GAD’S HILL]

Many were the summer days I passed under the roof of that little
dwelling, many the hours I sat with Georgina Hogarth in the garden, or
in one of the glades of a small wood which, in the sweet season, formed
a charming resting-place, all hung with garlands of eglantine, with long
strings of blue convolvulus, and the sweet-scented honeysuckle. These
were the hours during which “Boz” was left to his work, in what I called
his “lair,” for few of us would have risked disturbing him, when he had
taken up his position for the morning’s labour, in the _châlet_, which
his friend Fechter, the tragedian, had brought him from Paris. In the
setting-up of the said _châlet_, after the manner of a child’s
architectural toy, Charles had found the greatest amusement, for he was
indeed one of those who find

               “A child’s keen delight in little things,”

and the hanging of his pictures, the arranging his furniture, the
annexation of a tiny conservatory, and the construction of an
underground tunnel, which connected the area round the house with a
small plantation of lofty cedars, under the shade of which he had
erected his _châlet_, were all sources to him of intense interest.

In the afternoon he sought relaxation, and then the other inmates of the
house came in for their share of his enviable society, and the
basket-carriage was brought to the door, drawn by the “sober Newman
Noggs,” the harness adorned with musical bells, which his friend Mr
Lehmann had brought him from Norway, and we would take long drives all
around this picturesque neighbourhood. Sometimes we would alight at a
distant point, to return home on foot; sometimes we would wend our way
through green hop-gardens on one side, and golden cornfields on the
other for a distance of many miles; yet we were never wearied. I
remember once Georgina Hogarth and I had accompanied him to a new spot
of interest which he had lately discovered. He walked at his usual
swinging rate, and we had proudly kept up with him. Only five minutes
had been allowed for refreshment, as he called it, otherwise rest,
between reaching the goal and arriving at home. How pleased his
fellow-pedestrians were to receive the following tribute: “Well
done!—ten miles in two hours and a half!” I sit in my armchair now, and
look back on that feat as almost miraculous.

Charles Dickens, himself a hero, was a hero-worshipper, and in all of my
experience I never knew a man so utterly exempt from the slightest tinge
of professional jealousy.

One day I went with his two daughters, Mary and Katie (Mrs Charles
Collins, who, with her husband, spent most of the summer under the
paternal roof) and their aunt to meet him at the station. Lifting up the
hand-bag which he always carried, he exclaimed: “Here, girls, I have a
treat for you—Tennyson’s magnificent poem of ‘The Idylls of the King.’
Is it not glorious to think, that after having written for so many
years, a man should now bring forth, perhaps, the noblest of his works.”
What enchanting hours of summer sunshine were passed in reading for the
first time those magical pages, which since that moment have been pored
over and conned to my heart’s content.

Among our visitors at Gad’s Hill were Fechter, the distinguished actor,
Edmund Yates, Marcus Stone, and many others. I mention these three names
in conjunction, for a special reason. Fechter, for whose talent I had an
unbounded admiration, rather disappointed me as a companion. He had a
limited scope in conversation, but as a mimic, he was unrivalled. It was
not only that with the exact tone and inflexion of voice he assumed the
gait and gesture, but he actually brought his features into so close a
resemblance with the original he intended to copy, that when he walked
into the room and advanced to greet me, I never failed to say, “How do
you do, Mr Yates?” “I am glad to see you, Marcus,” and so on to others
of my acquaintance.

[Sidenote: “MICKETTY” AND “VENERABLE”]

Charles Dickens, junior, had married early in life, what one might well
call a juvenile bride, and their two eldest children, Charles the third,
and his sister, who went by the pet name of “Micketty” in the family,
often came down for fresh air to their grandfather’s country house.
“Micketty” always called him “Venerable,” and one day she made me laugh
heartily, when, coming into the little study, she found me busy at the
book-shelves.

“Oh, Miss Boyle,” she said confidentially, “you take care; if
‘Venerable’ sees you at his books, you’ll catch it”—and verily, if that
had been true, I should often have “caught it,” for I was “always at his
books.”

Another time she was talking to her aunt and myself about what she
intended to do when she grew up, “For then you know, of course, poor
mamma will be dead.” Now her hearers did not see any reason to fear such
a contingency, for she was one of the youngest mothers we knew, and we
told her daughter so, but she would not be convinced, saying, “Oh, no!
she’s very old indeed; do remember how long I have had her.”

But I must pause in recalling these trifling anecdotes, which naturally
recur to my mind as I indite these family records.

In November, 1868, a terrible blow awaited me in the death of my beloved
brother, Cavendish, after two days’ illness. Between him and Charles
Dickens there existed a close and tender friendship, and the letter of
condolence I received from Gad’s Hill on that occasion touched me
deeply, and all the more that it spoke in high terms of him whose loss
had plunged me into such poignant grief. But all Charles Dickens’
letters which he addressed to mourners were remarkable for the delicate
manner in which he expressed his sympathy, being free from the usually
conventional and matter-of-fact manner of offering consolation. The two
friends were shortly to be re-united.

The year following my brother’s death, I went to Rome for the winter,
and on my return to England I visited Charles Dickens in London. It was
in the evening, and he was just going out to dinner at Lord Houghton’s.
He said he did not feel very well and would gladly have sent an excuse,
but his old friend Milnes had made him promise to meet the Prince of
Wales. “Have you seen Lord Clarendon,” he said, “since you came back to
England? I never saw any one look so ill, he is quite changed.”

I had not seen him, but told him I was engaged to luncheon with Lord and
Lady Clarendon the next day. He bade me good-night, assured me he
counted on seeing me very soon at “Gads,” and the door closed behind
him. The following afternoon I realised the truth of what he had said of
Lord Clarendon’s ill-looks—and that day fortnight both those great and
good men, and dear friends of mine, had passed away, leaving me, as well
as the world, impoverished by their loss.

[Sidenote: DEATH OF CHARLES DICKENS]

On the 9th June, 1870, I had been attending the marriage of my little
favourite, Florence, Lady Hastings, with Sir George Chetwynd. It was a
pretty wedding and gay scene, and the bride, who always “looks lovely”
in the newspapers, on this occasion truly merited the epithet. I came
home, and on my table lay the fatal letter, announcing that Charles
Dickens had had a stroke of paralysis, and little hopes were entertained
of his recovery. I lost no time in changing my wedding garment, and
dashing off for Charing Cross, took the rail for Gravesend, and drove in
a fly to the scene of so many past delights, my heart beating with fear
all the way I went.

I had for my companion, my trusty and attached maid, Louisa Simons, who
loved Gad’s Hill and its owners almost as much as I did, and her society
and sympathy upheld me in my suspense.

I got down at the door of the stable-yard, and crawling rather than
walking across the yard, where the two faithful dogs knew and greeted
me, and passing through a little well-known side gate, gained the
entrance, and flung myself down, half-fainting, on a seat, in that spot
hallowed by the remembrance of so many happy summer evenings. The door
was open, but I did not dare enter, or ring, or move, lest I should
break the silence which was profound, save, indeed, for the voices of
the choirs of birds, who were singing his requiem in the garden he
loved.

A short time passed, when his eldest son Charles came into the porch to
breathe the fresh air for a few moments, and I think he was touched with
my deep distress, and my participation in his own grief. He led me into
the little study and brought his aunt to speak to me. It was a comfort
to be clasped for an instant in her arms, but my place was no longer
there, and I left the little house for ever.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXVI

                  PROTECTIONIST PARTY AT BURGHLEY[51].


Footnote 51:

  My Aunt’s visits to Burghley extended over many years. Lord and Lady
  Exeter were extremely hospitable, and continued their hospitality
  until his death in January 1867. As an Oxford undergraduate, I was
  more than once invited to one of the younger parties, and the stately
  but courteous manners of the house impressed my mind indelibly. It was
  one of the last great houses in which ceremonial at breakfast was
  maintained. We were always expected to appear in frock-coats and
  faultless garb for the morning meal, to which we went in pairs as
  strictly arranged as for dinner. Smoking was absolutely taboo, and I
  was never sure whether the action of a younger son of the house in
  luring a few adventurous spirits after midnight to the depths of the
  servants’ hall was quite approved by his sire. We used to don our
  shooting things after having formally conducted the ladies from
  breakfast, and we were taken to the _rendez-vous_ on ponies with
  impossible mouths. I was always a bad rider, and was invariably run
  away with, but generally arrived at the meet somehow. But I well
  remember how a gallant guardsman, owner of a historic name, was taken
  by his incontrollable steed right through Stamford town, and with
  difficulty parried, on a not very triumphant return, a charge of
  furious riding. Our mishaps were the source of no little kindly chaff
  from the Lord Burghley of those days; but he, like his father and
  mother, seemed to have no other object whatever than to make the
  hospitality of the grand old place a source of unalloyed pleasure and
  enjoyment to the guests.

[Illustration:

  BURGHLEY.
]

[Sidenote: ISABELLA, LADY EXETER]

One of the most interesting places which I frequented after my return to
England was “Burghley[52] house by Stamford town.” Here lived one of the
best and kindest of women, the daughter of that beloved uncle, Mr
Poyntz[53] to whom I have so often alluded. Lady Exeter had been before
her marriage one of the most admired and courted of London beauties, and
the suitors for her hand were as numerous as those usually attributed to
a princess of fairyland. Indeed it was a family jest at the morning
meal, when the letters were laid on the breakfast table, “Where is
Isabella’s proposal?” Rather a laughable tribute was once paid her in
later times by a retainer of Burghley, which was called forth by my
mother’s remark to the bailiff: “How noble and good is Lady Exeter!”
“Yes,” returned the man with enthusiasm, “I never look at her ladyship
without saying to myself, ‘that is a fallen angel!’”

Footnote 52:

  Lord Tennyson writes of “Burleigh House by Stamford town,” but the
  spelling given in the text has been adopted by many generations.

Footnote 53:

  Brownlow, second Marquess of Exeter; married, 1824, Isabella, daughter
  of William Stephen Poyntz, of Cowdray, and was consequently my aunt’s
  first cousin.

It was at Burghley that I first made acquaintance with Mr Stafford
O’Brien, who afterwards became my colleague and fellow-actor in many a
joyous revel and dramatic entertainment at Rockingham, Drayton and
Farming Woods, names, each of which recall many a fond memory and tender
regret. A housekeeper whom I knew at Burghley, and who was what is
ambiguously termed a retired gentlewoman, and was constantly referring
to better days, told me once, that she found a real consolation for all
her troubles when gazing on that magnificent building “especially, Miss
Boyle, the quadrangle by moonlight”; and certainly it was a “sight for
sair e’en,” as it recurs most frequently to my mind one brilliant
winter’s day, rising out of a plain of snow, with its golden gates
resplendent in the sunshine.

I usually occupied the very small apartment called “Queen Elizabeth’s
China Closet,” in which was a portrait by Domenichino far more lovely in
my sight than that of the renowned Cenci, which in some measure it
resembled. To my mother was allotted a room close at hand, and I used to
laugh at her nightly search in manifold hidingplaces, behind the
tapestry, in the turret, etc., lest some one should lie there concealed.

A picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence—one of his earliest, while still imbued
with admiration for the works of Sir Joshua—represents the heroine of
the Laureate’s beautiful ballad,[54] with her husband and “three fair
children,”-“the village maiden” who, in her unexpected transition from
obscurity to splendour—

                 “Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness
                 To all duties of her rank—”

was such—

                     “That she grew a noble lady
                     And the people loved her much.”

Footnote 54:

  Henry, tenth Earl and first Marquess of Exeter, married, _en secondes
  noces_, Sarah, daughter of Mr Thomas Hoggins of Bolas, in Shropshire.
  He was raised to the Marquisate in 1801, and married, as third wife,
  Elizabeth, Dowager Duchess of Hamilton. The phrase

                       “Not a lord in all the county
                       Is so great a lord as he,”

  is open to comment, save as a poetic licence. The fair children were
  1, Brownlow, second Marquess, the husband of my cousin; 2, Lord
  Thomas, who married, in 1838, Lady Sophia Lennox; and 3, Lady Sophia,
  who married, in 1818, Right Honourable Henry Pierrepont. Lady Sophia
  Pierrepont was grandmother of the present Duke of Wellington.

[Sidenote: LORD DERBY—THE CORN LAWS]

Amongst my frequent visits to my cousins Lord and Lady Exeter, at this
magnificent old dwelling, to which I have alluded in a former chapter,
the one most worthy of being remembered was that paid in the year 1850,
when the strife of parties respecting the Corn Laws was still raging. In
fact it immediately preceded the short period of Lord Derby’s
administration, and the house party included the greater part of those
who were destined to become the principal members of his Government. It
was in this manner that I became acquainted with that great
Protectionist leader, and the man who eventually succeeded him as the
head of the Conservative Party, Benjamin Disraeli. Lord Derby was then
in the vigour of physical and intellectual strength, and in the mornings
which he passed with his supporters and colleagues in private Cabinet
councils, his whole time and thoughts were naturally absorbed in the
great question of the day, and in the formation of a system of policy to
be carried out, when, as appeared probable, he would become Prime
Minister. From such important discussions the ladies of the house were
excluded, as a matter of course; for the day had not arrived when women
loudly clamoured for entrance into public life, neither had the gentler
sex the ambition or the spirit of their sisters of the present day, who
demand a right to sit at the official board with the lords of creation,
and share their titles, after a somewhat Hibernian fashion, of
“Alder-_men_ and Council-_men_.”

How delightful, how captivating, was Lord Derby when work gave place to
leisure, how enviable was the position of her who sat beside him at
luncheon or dinner, how ringing his laugh, how brilliant his nonsense,
how irresistible the good-humoured chaff in which he engaged with his
worshipper, Mr Disraeli, who offered an ever-contented front to many a
keen, though not envenomed dart; what a playfellow he was in
conversation, full of mischief and sparkle! In my own mind I always
considered him a perennial school-boy. It appeared to me that the wand
of some enchanter had arrested the beats of his heart and the flow of
his spirits at boyhood point. No wonder he died before old age crept on
him; the very idea appeared incongruous in connection with him.

[Sidenote: DISRAELI]

One evening we had a large ball, to which the town of Stamford and the
surrounding neighbourhood had been invited, and I was much amused by
overhearing a conversation between two Stamfordians: “Do you know which
is Dizzy?” “Well, naturally, because I see _Punch_ every week.” For even
at that remote period, the peculiar features and singular appearance of
the future Lord Beaconsfield had already become familiar to the world
through the cartoons of our London _Figaro_. There was scarcely ever a
man who changed so little in aspect; his face grew thinner, his youthful
locks became sparse and tinged with grey in later years, but he was the
same man grown older, and a portrait of him between the ages of twenty
and thirty might easily be recognised at fifty or sixty. He was, indeed,
a godsend to the portrait-painter, or caricaturist, and I think it
speaks much to his credit that he always gazed on his own effigy in
_Punch_ or elsewhere, however comic it might be, with intense and
unalloyed amusement. In those days, and in the presence of his Chief, as
we used to call Lord Derby, Dizzy did not take so prominent a part in
social conversation as he naturally did in after years; but there was
something which bespoke concentrated power and resolute ambition, at
least to the readers of physiognomy. His demeanour towards his wife was
through life a theme of commendation amongst those who knew him little
or well. The delicate tact with which he warded off the occasional
sallies that her eccentricities provoked, and the manner in which he, so
to speak, shielded her from ridicule, were conspicuous by their
affectionate diplomacy.

Mrs Disraeli, the farmer’s pretty daughter and the widow of a
millionaire, was a hero-worshipper by profession, and laid herself and
her dowry at the feet of the handsome and talented Benjamin. She was a
happy woman, a happy wife, and a happy member of Society, which she
enjoyed to the full. To few people could the epithet _naïve_ be better
applied. She rather lent herself to than resented the laugh which her
unexpected observations would often raise. To me she was especially
amiable, and I confess to having found untold amusement in her
conversation.

At the time of which I am speaking, the interior of Burghley presented
an appearance of more than usual brilliancy. The spacious rooms, whose
walls were decorated by the paintings of old Italian masters, profusely
lighted, the groups of gaily-dressed and richly-jewelled ladies,
enlivened by a sprinkling of Knights of the Bath and Garter, and last,
but not least, as far as the pageant went, the numbers of male
attendants in the traditional garb of the retainers of the house of
Cecil, in their sky-blue livery, resplendent with frogs and aiguillettes
of silver. The whole scene was calculated to impress the spectator as
one of no common splendour.

Mrs Disraeli had been describing to me the distinguished manner in which
she and her husband had been received at the Court of Louis Philippe,
and at that of the President, when she paused, and looking round
complacently, exclaimed: “But I do assure you, dear Miss Boyle, I like
this sort of thing a great deal better.” The speech reminded me in some
measure of that of Caractacus of Rome, yet I could scarcely say that
Burghley House reminded me of a humble cottage in Britain.

[Illustration:

  BOWOOD.
]

[Sidenote: BOWOOD]

Entirely unconnected with the preceding pages, either as to dates,
locality, or personages, is the slight sketch, which I cannot refrain
from subjoining, of the constant visits I paid to Bowood. My first
acquaintance with Lord Lansdowne[55] was made while I was staying with
Mrs Sartoris, of whom he was a warm and zealous admirer, and our
friendship ripened so quickly, that I could scarcely imagine that I had
not known that dear, kind old man all my life. He was a frequent visitor
at my little house in London, and a frequent inviter when anything
especially agreeable presented itself in the way of a party at Lansdowne
House or Bowood. Agreeable indeed must the intercourse with those two
houses have ever been to me, for his daughter-in-law who did the honours
of both, rivalled my host in kindness, and I rejoice to think that we
still meet to talk over those happy days of long ago. All that were
remarkable in Politics, Art, and Literature, were constantly grouped
round the hospitable board of the Master of Bowood, in that spacious
dining-room, illuminated in every sense of the word by the shaded lights
round the walls cast on the beautiful _chef-d’œuvres_ of Clarkson
Stanfield. It is the only instance I have ever seen of an apartment thus
lighted, and the effect is as charming as it is singular. The house is
full of Art treasures, of painting and sculpture, all collected by the
Lord Lansdowne of whom I am writing,[56] who told me himself that when
he first succeeded to the estate, and went to inspect the house at
Bowood, the principal furniture consisted of two or three chairs and a
looking-glass or so in the bedrooms. Now what luxury, what beauty at
every step. As one descends the stairs from the drawing-room leading to
the dining-room a magnificent caste of Michel Angelo’s Pensiero[57]
arrests attention in a lofty niche, while priceless paintings of
Murillo, Rembrandt, Salvator Rosa, etc., decorate the walls; and the
lovely features of Mrs Sheridan, as Saint Cecilia, smile upon one from
Sir Joshua’s canvas.

Footnote 55:

  Third Marquess of Lansdowne, first known in the political world as
  Lord Henry Petty.

Footnote 56:

  1889.

Footnote 57:

  The statue of Lorenzo de Medici.

Our host was a great patron and connoisseur of the drama, and encouraged
private theatricals; and I remember a successful evening in which Tom
Taylor, and my friend Gowran Vernon[58] assisted me. Lord Shelburne[59]
had lately brought with him from Paris a collection of those monster
heads which are so often introduced into pantomimes, and we were bent on
utilising these valuable properties.

Footnote 58:

  Hon. Gowran Vernon, second son of Robert, first Lord Lyveden.

Footnote 59:

  The late and fourth Lord Lansdowne.

It chanced that evening that among the guests, both gentlemen and
ladies, there were three or four more than commonly tall, and we
therefore imagined the representation of a scene in the land of
Brobdingnag, each performer wearing one of the pantomime heads. To me
the smallest was allotted, wearing as it did a simpering expression of
innocence, bordering on imbecility, as in a juvenile costume I assumed
the character of the youthful Glumdalclitch.

The eldest hope of the house, then a lovely little boy, dressed in a
sailor’s suit, was supposed (by a stretch of imagination) to have been
washed on shore, as the diminutive Gulliver. He was presented to me by
my gigantic parent as a plaything. Does His Excellency, the
Governor-General of India,[60] remember that evening when he cast upon
me the most captivating glances of anger and indignation, while I knelt
down to caress and admire my newly-acquired flotsam? His anger has long
passed away, but not my admiration, for in the little Gulliver of those
days I honour the independent Politician, and the high-minded statesman
of these.

Footnote 60:

  Henry, present Marquess of Lansdowne, was Governor-General of India
  from 1888 to 1894.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                                ALTHORP


In speaking of Althorp, the home of my dear cousin, Lord Spencer, I
place no dates at head of the chapter, as my constant visits there
embraced the period of many years, and I am grateful to say that, even
at this present writing, I am still welcome in that resort of former
happy days. It is a place of so much interest as to claim some
description from my pen. Althorp has been the home of the Spencer family
since the reign of Henry VIII. The Library consisted of seven rooms, the
very walls composed of books, 50,000 in number, one room containing the
rarest editions—Block books, the first book ever printed in movable
type, the largest collection of Caxton and his pupils, and the early
Venetian printers, the famous Boccaccio, which produced at the sale of
the Duke of Roxburgh, in 1812, the largest sum which had ever been paid
for a single book up to that date. The competitors for this prize were
the Marquess of Blandford, and George John, second Earl Spencer; it was
knocked down to the former for £2,260, but being in difficulties some
time afterwards, he was fain to sell it to the owner of the Althorp
Library for the comparative small sum of £750. The mention of this
volume reminds me of an incident which occurred to me at Ferrara while
travelling with my dear mother, when we paid a visit to the Public
Library in that town. The _custode_ showed me a rare edition of
Ariosto’s “Orlando Furioso,” telling me at the same time that there was
a duplicate in the possession of an English Count; and I can well recall
the pride with which I informed him that that Count was my cousin.
During the remainder of my visit, which lasted another ten minutes, I
was treated with increased respect as the kinswoman of the Count in
question.

But to return to Althorp. The staircase occupying the centre of the
house, originally an open court, is supposed to have been enclosed by
the first Countess of Sunderland (Sacharissa). The avenues were planted
by Le Notre, who laid out Versailles for Louis XIV. The heronry was
planted in the year of the Spanish Armada, as is shown by the date
carved on the memorial stone. From the heronry Whyte Melville, in his
charming novel of “Holmby House” (Holdenby), describes the hawking party
galloping across the park, past the Hawking Tower, a small lodge with
open galleries, in which the ladies sat to observe the sport. This
lodge, now modernised in aspect and inhabited by the keeper, was built
to commemorate the visit of Queen Anne of Denmark and her son on their
road from Scotland, when Ben Jonson’s masque was played, the poet being
an intimate friend of the Lord Spencer of the time.

[Illustration:

  ALTHORP.
]

[Sidenote: SARAH, DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH]

The Portrait Gallery is very remarkable, running nearly the whole length
of the house, and honourable mention is made of the contents by Evelyn
in his Diary, while the later treasures contributed by Sir Joshua
Reynolds and Gainsborough have been frequently eulogised by more modern
chroniclers. John Spencer, the second son of the third Earl of
Sunderland, inherited the estate of Althorp on the succession of his
elder brother to the Dukedom of Marlborough. John, or Jack, as he was
familiarly called, was the scapegrace of the family, in spite, or
perhaps on account of which, he was the favourite of his maternal
grandmother, Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough. He was always in debt, or in
some scrape or another, and many were the lovers’ quarrels which passed
between them. On one occasion “Jack” was in such disgrace with Her Grace
that she ordered him out of the room, and desired him never to darken
her doors again. The first part of her command was obeyed, but the room
being on the ground floor, and the window open at the time, scarcely
five minutes had elapsed before the culprit had jumped in again and,
kneeling humbly at his grandmother’s feet, easily obtained the pardon
which he had so often forfeited. After the death of the third Earl
Spencer, better known under his ministerial appellation of Viscount
Althorp, the title and estates devolved on his brother, the Honourable
Frederic Spencer, my second cousin by birth, my first cousin by
marriage, his wife being Elizabeth Poyntz. From that time my family and
I became frequent guests at this Northamptonshire home.

Lord Spencer, who was known to his contemporaries as “Fritz,” was in the
Navy, and distinguished himself at the Battle of Navarino. He was a
sailor every inch of him, with a downright and almost abrupt manner,
contrasting with his kind and sympathetic nature, after a fashion by no
means displeasing to those who knew him intimately. “There he goes,” was
the description given of him one day, “with his rough bear’s coat
buttoned lightly over his tender heart.” The speaker was my brother
Cavendish, whose appointment as Governor of the Military Prison at
Weedon (only six miles from Althorp) brought him into the neighbourhood,
and, what was better, into constant contact with a man whom he admired
and loved, and of whom he became the frequent and confidential
companion. Thus it came about that we were intimately connected with the
joys and sorrows of the Spencer household. How many hours of
intellectual and social delight have I passed under Althorp’s hospitable
roof! During the course of the visits here alluded to, which spread over
several years, many were the festivities and pleasant gatherings we
enjoyed at the time-honoured old house.

[Sidenote: TABLEAUX VIVANTS]

One evening we gave a theatrical performance consisting of the pretty
little comedietta of “The Rough Diamond,” in which Frederic
Ponsonby,[61] Cavendish, and I took the principal parts, and another
time we arranged some _tableaux vivants_, which were among the best I
have ever seen. We took two or three of the Sir Joshua’s which
embellished the walls; one, a picture of his grandfather, was
impersonated by the present lord, whose likeness to the original
painting was most striking. Another most beautiful _tableau_ was that of
Lady Waldegrave and her two sisters, from the famous group at Strawberry
Hill. Lady Spencer and her two sisters[62] represented the three ladies
in this exquisite portrait; and once more the family likeness they bore
to the picture in question made it appear rather a replica than a living
representation. The magnificent Vandyke of the two brothers-in-law,
Lords Bristol and Bedford, which have been the glory of many later
exhibitions, formed another successful specimen of our skill, and was
entered in the programme as a miniature copy. The two noblemen above
mentioned were personated by Horace Seymour[63] and Courtenay Boyle, the
one dark, the other fair, but both comely youths at the time of which I
am speaking. In this slight record of the annals of Althorp during my
time, I cannot resist making some allusions to more than one member of
the household whose doings and sayings caused us no slight amusement.

Footnote 61:

  Brother to Sir Henry Ponsonby, afterwards in Holy Orders.

Footnote 62:

  The late Lady Clifden and the late Lady Charles Bruce.

Footnote 63:

  Brother to Charlotte, Countess Spencer.

Prominent among these was the house-steward, Thorpe, a man of great
importance in his own estimation, as well as in that of others. His
tastes were ultra-aristocratic, his manners in accordance with his
tastes, and his language choice, very flowery, and sometimes quite
original. One day, soon after his return from Cambridge, Lord Althorp
thus addressed the worthy major-domo: “I think you understand that I
wish my servant, Lennard, to go out of livery and become an upper
servant.” “My lord,” was the pompous reply, “I have already given him
his _statu quo_.”

One afternoon when the reception-rooms were being decorated for a ball,
to which the whole neighbourhood was invited, Lady Spencer (the present)
asked Thorpe if the gardener had finished arranging the ornamental
monogram over the door. “Well, my Lady,” was the reply, in a hesitating
tone of voice, “I believe he has done so, but I wish your Ladyship would
cast an eye over it.” Lady Spencer saw by the speaker’s manner that
there was something he found fault with. “I am very busy,” she said; “is
it not all right?” “I am sorry to say, my Lady,” the words pronounced in
a tone of deep regret, “they have placed over your Ladyship’s monogram a
paltry baron’s coronet.”

[Sidenote: THE CHOULERS]

Another remarkable member of the community was Mrs Chouler, the wife of
the aged gamekeeper, whose conjugal indignation was aroused one evening
by the following incident. The order of the day, or rather night, had
been charades, and finding that the hour was not late, we determined to
eke out our performance with a word which had a local and limited
interest. The day had been memorable to the family circle, on account of
our young lord having made his first appearance in full and regular
costume of the Pytchley Hunt. To commemorate so auspicious an event, we
chose the word “Althorp.” First scene—the whole of the Dramatic Company
assembled on the stage. Second scene—the great “Thorpe,” the stately
house-steward before mentioned in solitary splendour. Third
scene—Viscount Althorp in full hunting garb. The curtain fell amid
deafening plaudits. Next day we called on Mrs Chouler, in her pretty
house at the end of the avenue, and inquired her opinion of last night’s
performance. “Well, Miss Mary,” she said, “of course if my lord thought
proper, it was all right, but I think it struck most people as very odd
that Thorpe should be bowing and scraping on the stage, when Chouler has
lived in the family years and years before him.” Our expostulations were
useless, it was in vain we tried to point out that “_all Chouler_” would
not have answered, and I feel that to her dying day the memory of that
evening’s festivity rankled in the mind of that faithful retainer.

Another time I paid Mrs Chouler a visit in company with what she used to
call “The two Captains,” my brother Cavendish, and Captain Quin, R.N.,
Lord Spencer’s nephew. Says the latter: “You have a very good memory—can
you tell me the name of the vessel my uncle Bob[64] had, in such and
such a year? Neither Lord Spencer nor I can remember?” After a little
discussion on the subject, Captain Quin suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, yes,
by-the-by, I know now; it was the _Owen Glendower_.” “To be sure, sir,
to be sure, that is it; I knew it was something of a sea-nymph.”

Footnote 64:

  The Honourable Robert Spencer R.N.

The Choulers were an estimable couple, the old husband survived his wife
many years, and when I last saw him, shortly before his death, still
wearing his velveteen shooting-coat, with his long white hair falling on
his shoulders, he looked like a figure out of one of Rembrandt’s
beautiful pictures which had stepped out of its frame. He lived to the
age of ninety-six.

Lord Spencer was very fond of frequenting his well-filled stables and
conversing with his stud-groom as to the names and qualifications of
their inmates. One day he remarked to him: “I have been thinking over
the selection of a name for the new mare, but I cannot please myself
yet.” “Well, my lord,” was the answer, “you bought her on the 29th of
May; why not call her the ‘Merry Monarch?’” “Well,” said his master,
striving to conceal a smile, “I think that will scarcely do; perhaps we
had better call her ‘Empress,’ in honour of the Empress Eugénie.” “Very
good, my lord, then I shall have nothing to do but to change the tablet
over Emperor’s stall by adding an ‘s’ to it!” What an easy solution to a
difficulty.

The library was also rich in characters. One of its keepers, Mr Jakeman,
knew the position of every single book in its seven rooms. He was an
excellent and eccentric-looking man, whom we named “Dominie Sampson.”
His predecessor was a short, thick-set little man, who complained once
to my brother that the then Lord Spencer did not keep up the honour of
the library sufficiently, as he had discontinued some of the principal
works. “Well, now, Captain,” he would say, “for instance, my lord has
never taken in the last numbers of the ‘Newgate Calendar.’” Read was his
name, but not his nature; he was very deaf, and even I, who flattered
myself I knew how to make the deaf hear, found a difficulty in his case.
He told us that some years before, he had had a heavy cold and it had
fallen on his hearing; it must indeed have been very heavy.

[Sidenote: DEATH OF FREDERIC, EARL SPENCER]

It was in the Christmas of the year 1857 that a large party was
assembled at Althorp, including my brother Cavendish, his wife, their
eldest boy and myself; but alas! the chief part of the guests were
obliged to disperse, and the happy season was turned into mourning by
the sudden death of our noble host, Frederic, Lord Spencer, leaving a
whole household, a large tenantry, and a wide circle of friends to mourn
his premature death. We remained on for some days to share in the common
grief of his widow and children. But his successor never slackened in
kindness and hospitality to the inmates of the Weedon prison, and the
“Gaoler,” as he was familiarly called, was still welcome in the old
home, and still continued the charge he had undertaken of the precious
Library, finding in Sarah Spencer[65] an invaluable colleague in this
labour of love.

Footnote 65:

  Sister of the present Earl Spencer.

I trust I have not been led into too long a digression in this record of
the days which are no more, bound up as they are with fond memories of
beloved companions, concerning whom it is a sad delight to converse with
the dear cousin to whom I have dedicated these pages.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER

                                -------


                          WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

It was at the house of G. P. R. James that we first became
acquainted—that mutual friend of whom Landor thus speaks in one of his
earliest letters to me:—


    “You cannot overvalue James. There is not on God’s earth (I like
    this expression, vulgar or not) any better creature of His hand,
    any one more devoted to His high service—the office of improving
    us through our passions.”


The close friendship between these two men was to me inexpressively
touching, inasmuch as it would be almost impossible to conceive a more
striking contrast than they presented in every respect. Mr James,
although a man of romance and sentiment, and by nature of an ardent
temperament, had a quiet and staid demeanour, self-disciplined and
self-contained; whereas all those who peruse any records of Landor must
be well aware that none of the above epithets can in any way be
applicable to him—such records, for instance, as Forster’s Life, the
admirable sketch given by Mr Lowell of his first and only visit to that
remarkable man at Bath, or the almost miraculous likeness of his moral
portraiture by Mr Sidney Colvin, which caused me to ask the biographer
if Landor had ever visited him in dreams. The pet name which I and my
sister had for him was the “gentle savage.” Gentle and loving he was to
those he loved, especially to women, both young and old; so much so
indeed, as sometimes to be blinded in his discrimination of their worth,
and which was unfortunately proved in his declining years when he became
the dupe for a time of two designing women. The story is a well-known
and most distressing one, for, when his eyes were opened, he did indeed
become “savage,” and poured out the vials of his wrath in such violent
and uncompromising language as legally to entitle his persecutors to
heavy damages.

Gentle and pitiful he was to animals of all kinds, but dogs were his
constant companions, and a large greyhound belonging to my sister was
one of his special favourites. He told me once, quite in confidence, his
discovery that dogs, whatever their nationality, understood Italian
better than any other language; and in that soft tongue he always
addressed a new canine acquaintance. In some letters written to me,
which have been published in the _Century Magazine_, he thus speaks of
“Pomero,” a dear little Pomeranian Spitz, and a great chum of my own
when I used to go and pass a couple of days or so at Bath in a room hung
with doubtful paintings of angels by Beato or Granacci, as he used
laughingly to say, “an angel among angels”:[66]—

Footnote 66:

  “Un Anguletto fra Anguli.”


    “Alas, I have lost my poor dear Pomero! He died after a long
    illness, apparently from a kick he received during my absence.
    The whole house grieved for him. I buried him in a coffin in the
    garden. I would rather have lost everything else I possessed in
    the world. Seven years we lived together in more than amity. He
    loved me with all his heart; and what a heart it was! mine beats
    audibly while I write about him. Pray for me and Pomero; some
    people are so wicked as to believe we shall never meet again.”


Charles Dickens was one of Landor’s warmest admirers; he loved him
dearly, and, as the saying goes, “all round.” He understood, and was
even amused, by his outbursts of eloquent vituperation, and the
character he has drawn of Boythorn in “Bleak House” is true to the very
life.

A school-fellow thus describes him: “In those days he was the most
impetuous of schoolboys, _now_ he is the most impetuous of men; _then_
the loudest boy in the world, _now_ the loudest of men; _then_ the
sturdiest boy in the world, _now_ the sturdiest man; _then_ the
heartiest boy in the world, _now_ the heartiest man. Talking or laughing
he makes the very house shake. But it is the inside of the man, the warm
heart of the man, the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man.
His language is as astounding as his voice. He is always in extremes,
frequently in the superlative degree. He talks sometimes like an ogre,
which some people believe him to be. No one could be more aware of his
irascibility than Landor himself, who told me, amid shouts of laughter,
how he had overheard a peasant at his own Florentine villa describing
him in these terms: ‘Oh, he’s a capital good fellow, but—— he’s a real
devil when the fit’s upon him.’”[67]

Footnote 67:

  “Il signor è un vero Galant uomo, ma è un vero diavolo quando la
  piglia.”

Dear “gentle savage,” our whole household loved him—mother, son,
daughters, and every dog in the house and yard. He would often come over
to see us from Bath at our little woodland home at Millard’s Hill, and
he erected at his own expense a large stone cross on the banks of
Marston lake (the estate of my uncle, Lord Cork). The pedestal bore the
inscription: “This symbol of safety was intended to mark the spot where
Carolina Boyle[68] fell into the water, whence her sister’s courage
rescued her.” Sooth to say, my exertions were rather a sign of strength
than courage, for, walking by the side of the lake, I heard the terrible
cry, “Help!” and coming up to the place, I leaped into the boat, and
succeeded with much difficulty in lifting “Caddy”[69] into the same. I
say with difficulty, as she was much bigger and taller than myself, and
her clothes were entirely full of water, hanging for more than half an
hour by the frail support of a willow branch, by which she was enabled
to keep her head above water; the time was marked by the chimes of the
clock at Marston House, which were distinctly audible on the lake. I
have learned since, to my surprise and regret, that this interesting
relic, namely the cross, has been removed.

Footnote 68:

  The Honourable Carolina Boyle, daughter of Admiral the Honourable Sir
  Courtenay Boyle, K.C.B.

Footnote 69:

  _Ibid._

Dear “gentle savage!” It is true that his voice was powerful enough to
shake the house, but how tender, how musical, when he chose to modulate
it! There is nothing I love more than to hear a poet read his own poems
aloud, a favour in which the dear Laureate[70] has often indulged me.
One day I brought two books to Landor, accompanied by a petition for the
same boon. Two precious volumes, inasmuch as they were the respective
gifts of our friend, G. P. R. James, and himself. In “Pericles and
Aspasia” I requested him to read me the touching letter beginning “There
is a gloom in deep love as in deep water,” which has ever struck me as
one of the most exquisite passages in English prose, and in the
“Pentameron” the book opened of itself at “Boccaccio’s Dream,” when he
is blessed by the lovely vision of his lost “Fiammietta.”

Footnote 70:

  Alfred, first Lord Tennyson.

More than half a century has passed away since that lecture under the
shade of the sycamore in our little garden, but the tones of that voice
that is gone still vibrate in my memory.

                                -------


                  VISCOUNT STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE[71]

Footnote 71:

  Stratford Canning, Viscount Stratford de Redcliffe; born 1786; died
  1880.

My first acquaintance with this eminent man, who was known to his
contemporaries as the great “Elchee,” was during his residence at
Westbrook Hayes, within a few miles’ distance of Ashridge where I was
then staying, and while there, and on his return to his house in
Grosvenor Square, I always met with great kindness, and was encouraged
to be a constant visitor; that, not only by the great “Elchee” himself,
but by the gentle and courteous Lady Stratford,[72] whose rare fate it
had been to be a wife and an ambassadress at twenty. Between their
second daughter and myself there sprung up a close intimacy, and our
meetings were frequent beneath the roof of dear Lady Marian Alford,
where both in London and at Ashridge we were often fellow-guests, and
earnestly did I share the grief of her two surviving sisters, when dear
“Catty”[73] passed away.

Footnote 72:

  Elizabeth Charlotte, daughter of James Alexander, Esq. She died in
  1882.

Footnote 73:

  Honourable Catharine Canning, daughter of above; born 1835; died 1884.

Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, even in his advanced years, was a man of
magnificent presence, extreme personal beauty, with features which would
kindle at a moment’s notice from deep calm to an expression of varied
excitement. I have seldom seen a face that answered more faithfully to
the feelings within, and although in his conversations with me he was
ever kind and gentle, I could well imagine that it would be in no way
difficult to rouse that British lion.

I was much amused by an anecdote I heard respecting him, at a time when
the Eastern question was the universal theme of conversation.

One day a visitor, calling at his door, met Gladstone coming out. “How
did you find Lord Stratford?” was the question addressed to the G.O.M.
“Wonderfully well,” was the reply, “but quite cracked on the subject of
Turkey.” The visitor entered. “I have just met Gladstone on the
doorstep,” he said. “Yes,” answered Lord Stratford, “he is in great
force and most agreeable, but, between ourselves, the Eastern question
has sent him off his head.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

I hope I may be excused in concluding this short sketch, if I insert the
following lines which he one day addressed to me, on my asking him for
his autograph.

                “To meet your wish I fain would write,
                  But doubtful how to please,
                 My words are flat, my notions trite,
                  In short, I’m ill at ease.

                “What may be done in such a fix
                  Your wit alone can tell;
                 Do you find straw to make the bricks,
                  Be sure I’ll not rebel.

                “I ask not wheat, I won’t take chaff,
                  Between them lies an art
                 Whereby to make the gravest laugh,
                  Yet somehow touch the heart.

                “If one there be who has the skill,
                  To hit so nice a law,
                 ’Tis she who prompts the tuneful quill,
                  And gives the golden straw.”

                STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE.

                _23rd September 1865._

                                -------


                                CARLYLE

It was on the death of his wife that Carlyle’s attached friend, Louisa,
Lady Ashburton,[74] knowing the state of grief into which he was plunged
by the sudden blow, persuaded him to come out to Mentone to pass some
weeks with her in a charming villa not far from the hotel, La Grande
Bretagne, where I was staying with Lady Marian Alford, and her son, the
late Lord Brownlow. During the early part of the winter there had been
daily intercourse between the Villa and the Hotel, and Lady Ashburton,
anxious to distract the mourner’s mind, and give a new turn to his
thoughts, induced him with herself to become a constant associate in our
walks and drives, and to dine and pass the evening very frequently at
the Hotel, and while away the hours in delightful conversation with the
mother and son to whom I have before alluded. It was thus I learned to
know and love Carlyle, of whose genius I had so long been an ardent
admirer, that it was an easy transition from mere acquaintance to
intimate friendship.

Footnote 74:

  Louisa Caroline, daughter of the Right Honourable James A.
  Stewart-Mackenzie; married William, second Lord Ashburton.

Our visit to Mentone came to a sad and abrupt close through the sudden
death of Lord Brownlow, one of the most gifted, single-minded, unselfish
beings it was ever my privilege to meet. On the day previous to his
death he rode, as was his wont, his favourite cob through the pretty
woods of Cap St Martin, accompanied by myself, two other lady friends,
and Carlyle, on foot. It was a beautiful scene, and a beautiful calm
evening, and Carlyle wrote a most touching account of that last ride,
which he said was a beautiful close to a beautiful life.

I met him afterwards in more than one country house in England, and when
we were together in London I was in the constant habit of knocking at
the door in Cheyne Row at the hour when I knew I should have the chance
of enjoying the society which I prized so highly.

In one respect, and one alone, he reminded me of Walter Savage Landor,
and that was the violent invectives in which he not infrequently
indulged against persons, places, and opinions—a habit with which the
readers of his life have become alas! too familiar. I say alas! because
I think the injudicious publication of such exaggerated expressions
through the cold medium of printed words, conveys a most erroneous
impression of the man himself. It is true that, even while talking with
me, Carlyle would launch forth into the most unwarrantable philippics,
but then he would break off suddenly, and all the venom and bitterness
be drowned in a burst of ringing laughter, and his handsome, though
naturally grim, face would ripple all over with good-humoured smiles, so
that no one who saw or heard him could doubt for a moment the kindly
nature and the tender heart.

In the printed pages no friendly look is there, no tones of genial
laughter, to counteract and soften down the words that look hard and
uncompromising in black and white; and as I read the interesting record
of his life, I earnestly desired that many passages might have been
omitted.

                                -------


                             THE GROVE[75]

Footnote 75:

  The seat of the Earl of Clarendon.

At this charming Hertfordshire home I was a constant guest, and I look
back with gratitude and pleasure to the “many good times” and varied
social enjoyments which the very name of The Grove awakens in my mind.

It seems almost presumptuous in me to speak of the late Lord
Clarendon,[76] whose fame was European, yet it is impossible for me to
refrain from paying a tribute, however humble, to a man I have had every
reason to love and honour.

Footnote 76:

  George William Frederick, fourth Earl, K.G.; born 1800; died 1870.

As a statesman and a diplomatist his character belongs to the annals of
his country; but I can speak of him as I knew him at home, where he
reigned supreme in the hearts of his wife and children, his friends, his
guests, and his household. As a host he was perhaps the most genial I
ever knew. In conversation I have never found any one to surpass him in
brilliancy and playfulness of wit, and all without effort, without
self-consciousness, and withal skilled in the profound art of nonsense.
Neither did he reserve his bright sallies or his more serious views for
the learned and superior, or for such men as the erudite Sir George
Cornwall Lewis,[77] his brother-in-law, or his own brother, Charles
Villiers,[78] although they met him on more equal grounds than the
majority of his companions. Lord Clarendon, in fact, did not demand to
be tried by his social peers, for in the society of the women who
surrounded him—his own wife, his own daughters, and nieces, and, I may
add, of myself—he shone as brightly, and took as great a delight in
captivating his listeners as he could possibly have done had his
audience been one of the largest and most distinguished, as it certainly
was the most loving, in the world. How sociable (to use a common but
expressive epithet), how snug were those domestic evenings, when one of
his daughters, making herself the mouthpiece of the little circle,
entreated him to read aloud to us! and how appreciative were the
listeners who clustered round him as he read some scenes of Molière or
some pages by Macaulay! And what a laugh he had!—what a ringing, silvery
laugh, which we all, the actresses of the Grove Theatre, considered our
highest guerdon, to whosesoever share it fell on the night of a dramatic
performance.

Footnote 77:

  Sir George Cornwall Lewis married Lady Theresa Lister, daughter of
  third Earl of Clarendon, and widow of Thomas Henry Lister, Esq.

Footnote 78:

  The Right Hon. Charles Pelham Villiers; born 1802; died 1898;
  represented Wolverhampton from 1825 till his death.

His sister, Lady Theresa Lewis, resembled Lord Clarendon in many points;
in intellectual gifts, in character and disposition, they were as nearly
allied as in blood, and no two human beings surely ever understood each
other better. Lady Theresa had been very beautiful in her youth, and in
more advanced years still retained a charming smile and an expression in
her blue eyes which in her earlier days might have been called “playful
mischief.” By nature she had the most joyous spirits, a perfectly sunny
temperament such, as was once remarked to me, “God generally gave to
those for whom great sorrows were in store:” and assuredly such a fate
was hers in the premature death of the husband and brother she adored. I
remember that dear friend once saying to me, “happiness is so natural to
me, I cannot live without it, and if grief comes, either I shall kill it
or it will kill me.” Alas! that brave spirit was in the end forced to
yield.

[Illustration:

  THE GROVE.
]

Before the marriage of Lord Clarendon’s daughters[79] and nieces,[80]
who were more like sisters than cousins, we had frequent theatrical
performances, and were very rich in _jeunes premières_ and _ingénues_,
while I generally took the part of the _soubrette_, “maid-of-all-work,”
or lower comedian. Lord Skelmersdale[81] was stage manager as well as
actor, Sir Spencer Ponsonby Fane[82] the leading comedian, and Sir
Villiers Lister[83] most versatile in the parts of first lover,
principal juvenile and special artist, whether as scene-painter,
drop-painter, or the more delicate _metier_ of make-up-artist to the
_corps dramatique_. He and Lord Sefton[84] distinguished themselves one
night in a splendid _pas-de-deux_, a tarantella in Neapolitan costume,
Lord Sefton figuring as the _ballerina_ on the occasion, with very short
petticoats. One of the _costumiers_ who had come down on duty suggested
to his lordship the advisability of having a “female turned leg,”
offering him the tempting option of models of the calves and ankles of
those two world-renowned dancers, Cerito and Elsler.

Footnote 79:

  The daughters—afterwards the Countess of Lathom, the Countess of
  Derby, and Lady Ampthill.

Footnote 80:

  The nieces—twin sisters, Lady Loch, wife of the late Lord Loch, and
  the Countess of Lytton, Mrs Earle and the late Lady Glenesk.

Footnote 81:

  The late Earl of Lathom.

Footnote 82:

  The Hon. Sir Spencer Ponsonby Fane, G.C.B., late Comptroller of
  Accounts in the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, son of the fourth Earl of
  Bessborough.

Footnote 83:

  Sir Villiers Lister, K.C.M.G., son of Lady Theresa Villiers by her
  first husband, Mr Lister.

Footnote 84:

  The late Earl Sefton.

The present Lord Clarendon and his two brothers[85] had also their names
almost nightly in our bills.

Footnote 85:

  Lieut.-Col. the Hon. George Villiers, Grenadier Guards; born 1847;
  died 1892. Hon. Francis Villiers, Under-Secretary to the Foreign
  Office; born 1852.

In these theatrical sports we often had by-days, when the drama assumed
a most illegitimate form, and one night the late Mr Bidwell,[86] so well
known as an eminent amateur, appeared in an acrobatic costume as the
manager of a strolling company, whose varied talents he utilised as “the
strong man,” “the dancer on the tight rope” (a rather broad but very
elastic deal plank), “a rapid act on a hobby-horse,” with clown and
riding-master in the true circus fashion, etc., all of which fantastic
tricks appeared to amuse the audience as much as they did the actors,
which was all that could be expected.

Footnote 86:

  Mr George Bidwell of the Foreign Office.

From the walls of the principal apartments, which served us in our
festive hours for ball- or supper-rooms, looked down upon us many a
cavalier immortalised by Vandyck, and at the upper end of the
dining-room one of that great Fleming’s _chef-d’œuvres_. This was the
splendid portrait of the famous Earl of Derby and his heroic Countess,
Charlotte de-la-Tremouille. It was strange and interesting to think that
of two of Lord Clarendon’s daughters, who feasted and danced beneath
that picture, one[87] was destined to bear the title and inhabit the
house which the lady above their heads had so gallantly defended, and
the other[88] to become the wife of that noble pair’s lineal descendant.

Footnote 87:

  Alice, Countess of Lathom.

Footnote 88:

  Constance, wife of the fifteenth Earl of Derby.

And thus ends the record of those happy days, which I hope will not
prove distasteful to any of the dear companions whose eyes may fall on
these pages. Happy days they were, and varied in enjoyment. For in
winter there were torch dances and skating on the water; in summer
paper-chases all over the beautiful woods, with rides and walks in sweet
Cassiobury Park and its environs, with joyous balls and merry suppers,
with young, blooming life and cheerful companionship.

[Illustration:

  HINCHINGBROOKE.
]

                                -------


                             HINCHINGBROOKE

The name had been familiar to me from my earliest childhood as the home
of my mother’s uncle and that of her contemporaries and favourite
companions, George[89] and Mary[90]; but it was not till after my dear
mother’s death that I became a frequent guest at the house she loved so
well. For in the days of which I am speaking, the master[91] and
mistress[92] were both friends of my own, and I had known them both
before their marriage, and the cordial welcome they jointly gave me was
gladly accepted and appreciated, particularly when the schoolboys came
home for the holidays, for of schoolboys, I am proud to say, I have ever
been a chum and crony.

Footnote 89:

  George, afterwards sixth Earl of Sandwich.

Footnote 90:

  Mary, afterwards Viscountess Templeton.

Footnote 91:

  Seventh Earl of Sandwich.

Footnote 92:

  Lady Mary Paget, second daughter of the Earl of Anglesey by his second
  marriage with Lady Charlotte Cadogan.

Hinchingbrooke is an interesting old house, and was originally a
nunnery; some parts of the religious building are still standing. It was
at one time the property of the Cromwell family, and was purchased by
Sir Sydney Montagu, grandfather of the first Earl of Sandwich, from the
uncle of the Protector.

There is a tradition of Oliver having met King Charles I., when they
were both boys, in the garden of Hinchingbrooke, when the two who were
destined to be future foes engaged in a juvenile encounter, but the
story requires proof.

The present structure is irregular and picturesque, having been altered
and added to at intervals during the last two hundred years by
succeeding owners. The entrance is through the archway of a fine
gate-house, where it is said the third Earl of Sandwich, a man of feeble
intellect, was confined for some time by his unscrupulous wife, the
daughter of the witty but unprincipled Earl of Rochester. It is
surrounded by pretty grounds rich in evergreens, situated in a small
park, and presents a very imposing aspect to the railway traveller as he
passes the town of Huntingdon.

The ancestors of few families however noble appear to me to have more
interest for outsiders than the house of Montagu. Edward, the first Earl
of Sandwich, who was so instrumental in the restoration of Charles II.,
is familiar to all readers of Pepys’s Diary, being the god of that
amusing gossip’s idolatry. Samuel prided himself on his relationship and
intimacy with Lord and Lady Hinchingbrooke, of whom he was certainly the
confidant and adviser. Indeed, he lived hard by in a little cottage at
Brampton, within a stone’s throw of his patron’s house, where he would
often go and confer with him or “with my Lady Countess” in her husband’s
absence. That noble housewife was often “put to it” to make two ends
meet, in consequence of her lord’s open-handedness and the too frequent
card-playing with His Majesty and the Castle men. Brave, generous,
noble-hearted and affectionate, we cannot but share in his kinsman
Pepys’s partiality for a man whose faults and shortcomings may in some
measure be condoned by the times he lived in and the society he
frequented. As an Admiral his sailors adored him; as a courtier he was
reckoned good—perhaps too good—company, and at home he was tenderly
loved by his wife and children and dependants. We know that his lordship
was comely in feature and of a commanding presence, and there is little
doubt that he himself agreed in the universal opinion, as we have
innumerable portraits of him at all ages. He died a hero’s death at the
engagement at Southwolds Bay in 1672, a Dutch fire-ship having set his
own vessel in a blaze. The gallant Admiral, after sending off his
surviving officers and crew in the boats, remained on his own
quarter-deck until his good ship, _The Royal James_, burned to the
water’s edge. There is a splendid painting of this desperate fight by
Vanderweldt in what is fondly called the “ship room” at Hinchingbrooke,
and on the opposite wall hangs a frame containing two fine miniatures by
Cooper of the first Earl and Countess, together with a small pocket
compass and a piece of the blue ribbon of the garter, discoloured by
sea-water, which were found on the Admiral’s body when it floated into
Harwich Harbour.

Another prominent figure in the annals of the house and its portrait
gallery is John, fourth Earl, a contrast in every way to the ancestor of
whom we have been treating, yet a celebrity whose name is very
conspicuous in the records of George III.’s reign. He was a man of
eccentric habits but undoubted talent. An amusing anecdote is told of
him when acting as plenipotentiary at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1746. It was at
this time, during an international dinner when toasts were passing, that
the different envoys became poetical as well as loyal in their
phraseology. For instance, the Frenchman gave “His Royal master, the
Sun, who illuminates the whole world;” the Spaniard “His master, the
Moon, scarcely inferior in brilliancy or influence,” when Lord Sandwich
rose, doubtless with the twinkle in his eye and the laughing curl round
the corners of his mouth we see in most of his portraits, and toasted
with all the honours “His master Joshua, who made both the sun and moon
to stand still.”

This remarkable man was known in social circles by the nickname of
“Jemmy Twitcher,” from the following incident. He had at one time been
intimate with the notorious Wilkes, the so-called champion of liberty,
but disgusted by a scurrilous and disloyal poem which his quondam friend
had written, Sandwich read it aloud in the House of Lords, thus gaining
for it deserved obloquy. A few nights afterwards, at the representation
of _The Beggar’s Opera_, then much in vogue, Macheath exclaimed: “But
that Jemmy Twitcher should preach I own surprises me.” The greater part
of the audience, who were partisans of “Wilkes and Liberty,” burst into
a round of applause, applying the passage to Lord Sandwich, who never
afterwards lost the _sobriquet_.

There is a charming picture by Gainsborough[93] of the unfortunate Miss
Ray, whose romantic story tempts me into a further digression. She was
serving in a haberdasher’s shop in Covent Garden when she first
attracted the notice of Lord Sandwich, who was so smitten by her charms,
that he took her under his protection, and she resided with him for many
years both in London and the country, where her gentle, unassuming
manners and remarkable talent for singing made her a great favourite.
One evening Lord Sandwich brought home with him to dinner a Captain
Hackman, who was on a recruiting party at the time at Huntingdon; he
fell in love with Miss Ray, and proposed to her several times, until
Lord Sandwich with judicious kindness secured him an appointment in
Ireland, thinking it safest to place St George’s channel between him and
the object of his admiration. But Hackman’s passion was strong and
lasting; he left the army, entered holy orders, repaired to London where
Lord Sandwich and Miss Ray then were, frequently waylaid the latter,
renewed his offers of marriage, and even promised to adopt the children
she had by Lord Sandwich. The refusal he received to this proposition
was so decided and uncompromising as to drive him to the verge of
madness. He watched Margaret Ray enter Covent Garden with some musical
friends, rushed out, bought a brace of loaded pistols, and returned to
the door of the theatre to await the appearance of his victim. Her coach
was called in the name of Lady Sandwich, and while proceeding to it on
the arm of a gentleman Hackman aimed one pistol at her and the other at
himself; she fell dead, he fell wounded, and they were both conveyed to
the Shakespeare Tavern. Lord Sandwich was deeply distressed at the
tragic end of his fair friend; yet he wrote a letter to the murderer in
Newgate, offering to intercede on his behalf, signing himself, “the man
you have most injured.” But Hackman’s reply, couched in grateful terms,
assured his “lordship that his only wish was to die,” and he met his
death with firmness and courage.

Footnote 93:

  Bought for a comparatively small sum by the late Earl.

But to return to more modern times. Many were the delightful social
gatherings, many the gay dances, _tableaux vivants_, private
theatricals, and other festive doings in which I took a willing part.
How well I remember the night of the 8th of September, 1855! We had had
an unusually merry evening; our theatricals had gone off brilliantly,
and we had danced ourselves in to the next morning, when Lord Sandwich
proposed that all his guests staying in the house should adjourn to the
smoking-room to finish up what we had already made “a night of.” We
presented a most motley appearance, most of the actors, male and female,
having retained their dramatic costumes, some of which were especially
grotesque. The ladies were laughing and talking, the gentlemen smoking
and sipping, when we were all alike startled by the sound of the
door-bell at that unearthly hour. Lord Sandwich rose, and said he would
answer the summons himself, and a moment of suspense, not unmingled with
fear, ensued. The door re-opened, our host re-entered, his handsome face
illuminated with joy and triumph. Glorious news! Sevastopol was taken!
the war was at an end! How we all shouted, while some clapped their
hands, and leaped on chairs, and one and all drank to the health of our
brave soldiers, and to their safe return.

It was in January 1859 that a very large party was assembled at
Hinchingbrooke in honour of the visit of H.R.H. the Duchess of
Cambridge[94] and Princess Mary Adelaide.[95] One evening, in hopes of
amusing the company, I imagined to array myself in the costume of a
hundred years before, and stepping from a frame which had been set up
for that purpose, I spoke an address in the character of the Countess of
Sandwich of 1759, which concluded with the following tribute to our
much-loved Royal guests:

Footnote 94:

  The late Duchess of Cambridge.

Footnote 95:

  The late Duchess of Teck.

           “It does rejoice my heart the time was mine
            To come among you all in Fifty-nine,
            To see with living eyes the fair array
            Of noble, gentle company to-day;
            It proves you keep the spirit of your race,
            When guests like these our ancient dwelling grace.
            Those who esteem the will beyond the deed,
            Who no stiff forms or rigid customs need,
            Who claim respect, yet kindle love the while,
            Reward the smallest service with a smile,
            Meet all half-way, accept each proffered part,
            And draw the court we pay them from the heart.”

This was a feeble but honest expression of the affection we all bore to
that noble lady whose loss we are mourning in this present year of 1889,
and who, although she had outlived by far the generally allotted span,
was so much beloved that England was unwilling to spare her.

Often after this time I saw a great deal of the Duchess of Cambridge in
different country houses, and on different occasions, and the unceasing
kindness I have met with for years from Princess Mary is repaid by all I
have to offer, “the grateful homage of a loving heart.” I took the
deepest interest in her marriage with the Duke of Teck, to whom at that
period we gave the name of “Prince Charming.” But I am once more
wandering from my subject and indulging in the flittings of a butterfly.

The party to which I have alluded, as I said before, was in the opening
of the New Year of 1859, but alas! the good wishes and happy auguries
which that merry company had interchanged were not destined to be
fulfilled. Before the month of March was over Hinchingbrooke was hung
with black, and the sudden death of Lady Sandwich plunged us all in the
deepest mourning. Her bright blue eyes were closed, the tones of her
bird-like voice were hushed, and in her I lost one of the truest and
most indulgent of friends. But my visits to that dear old house were not
discontinued, for, on Lord Sandwich’s second marriage to Lady Blanche
Egerton[96] I found one willing to keep up the old traditions and retain
the old friendships of the family, and ever ready to reinstate me in the
place I had so long looked upon as a home. Nor is my case altered with
passing years and changed circumstances, for the present owner,[97] whom
I have known and loved since he was an Eton boy, is continually
reminding me that the doors of Hinchingbrooke are ever open to his own
and his mother’s friend.

Footnote 96:

  Daughter of the first Earl of Ellesmere.

Footnote 97:

  Edward, eighth Earl of Sandwich.

                                -------


                               OSSINGTON

It had been a long promise that I should pay a summer visit to Ossington
in Nottinghamshire, the residence of my good friends, Evelyn Denison,
Speaker of the House of Commons, and his wife, Lady Charlotte, _née_
Bentinck.[98] Shortly after my return from Madeira, I proceeded on my
way thither with the delightful prospect of meeting Lady Waterford,[99]
the Duc and Duchesse d’Aumale, their son,[100] and my old friend
Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford.

Footnote 98:

  Daughter of the fourth Duke of Portland.

Footnote 99:

  Louisa, daughter of Lord Stuart de Rothesay, widow of the third
  Marquis of Waterford.

Footnote 100:

  Prince de Condé.

It was proposed that this should essentially be a riding party, and the
chief aim and object of our excursions was devoted to showing their
Royal Highnesses the sylvan beauties of Sherwood. Accordingly, one
morning after breakfast, we repaired, in a carriage and four, equipped
for riding, to a wayside inn, on the precincts of the forest, and
mounting our horses, took our way through the beautiful glades, where
Robin Hood disported himself of old. My especial cavalier on that
occasion was the Prince de Condé, a youth of rare promise, of
intellectual gifts and gentle courtesy, whom I dubbed my _preux
chevalier_, and whose untimely death we were all ere long called upon to
mourn. The Duke and Duchess rode chiefly with our host, while Lord
Stanley[101] and the Bishop joined first one and then the other group of
our cavalcade. We halted at the door of Earl Manvers, and did ample
justice to the mid-day banquet, which he and his amiable Countess had
prepared for the visitors from Ossington. Then remounting, we prosecuted
our pilgrimage through the forest to all the haunts (according to
legendary law) of the noble outlaw; during the whole of our ride, having
galloped over a wide expanse of turf, we had scarcely heard the sound of
our horses hoofs, as the dear Speaker proudly remarked to us, till we
once more reached the inn and re-entered our carriage.

Footnote 101:

  The fifteenth Earl of Derby.

Will the Duc d’Aumale, if ever he honours these pages with a perusal,
accept this lowly acknowledgment of one, on whose memory the delights of
his conversation and the graciousness of his manner are indelibly
impressed; and who recalls with gratitude the time of waiting at that
wayside inn, which was whiled away by pleasant narratives from the lips
of the good Duchess.

                                -------


                                ASHRIDGE

Ashridge is one of the finest parks in England, rich in magnificent
timber trees, more especially tall and stately beech, which are the
glory of the surrounding country. The estate originally belonged to the
Duke of Bridgwater, and was brought into the possession of the Cust
family by the paternal grandmother of the present owner, the daughter
and heiress of Sir Abraham Home. It was nearly passing out of the family
some years ago, when a complicated lawsuit took place, and would almost
inevitably have done so, had it not been for the untiring zeal, clear
head and sound judgment of the young Earl’s mother,[102] who supplied
all the leading lawyers of the day with the requisite information in a
most puzzling and entangled case.

Footnote 102:

  Lady Marian Alford, eldest daughter of the second Marquis of
  Northampton.

It was on the occasion of her brother’s[103] marriage with the beautiful
Theodosia Vyner,[104] that Lady Marian, who presided as hostess during
her son’s minority, threw open the gardens, pleasure-grounds and park to
a large and numerous assemblage of friends and acquaintance, consisting
for the most part of the _élite_ of London society. It was a beautiful
summer’s day, and at the two then equi-distant stations of Berkhampstead
and Tring innumerable conveyances were in waiting to convey the guests
to the scene of festivity. My brother Cavendish[105] and I chose Tring
as our halting-place, and were fortunate in so doing, as the entrance
from that side is perhaps the more picturesque of the two.

Footnote 103:

  Charles, third Marquis of Northampton; born 1816; died 1859.

Footnote 104:

  He married Theodosia Vyner, daughter of Henry Vyner, Esq., and Lady
  Mary de Gray. She died in 1864.

Footnote 105:

  Cavendish Spencer Boyle; born 1814; died 1868.

[Illustration:

  ASHRIDGE.
]

The description of most garden parties is likely to bear much
similarity, but certainly this was a most brilliant scene, for London
was in the height of the season, though not sufficiently advanced to
interfere with the freshness and fashion of the ladies’ toilettes. There
was a great preponderance of beauty, amongst whom little Florence
Paget[106] looked especially lovely, flitting in and out among the
flower-beds, whose brightness she seemed to have borrowed in the hues of
her costume and the brilliancy of her whole aspect. That was my first
introduction to stately Ashridge, which was henceforth destined to
become a real home to me.

Footnote 106:

  Lady Florence Paget, daughter of Henry, second Marquess of Anglesey;
  married first the fourth Marquis of Hastings, and secondly Sir George
  Chetwynd, Bart.

I know not how, at this moment, when my loss is so recent, to attempt
the slightest record of the friend[107]—the word is an old-fashioned
one, but is there another to supersede it?—the benefactress, the
_confidante_, of so long a period. She was undoubtedly one of the most
gifted beings I ever encountered. “What she did still bettered what was
done....”

Footnote 107:

  Lady Marian Alford, died 1888.

                                -------


                               WREST PARK

This magnificent dwelling, now in possession of Earl Cowper, K.G., but
at the time of which I am writing, was the residence of his mother,[108]
who inherited it from Earl de Grey,[109] her father. The estate of
Wrest, together with the fine mansion in St James’s Square, London,
devolved on the above-mentioned nobleman on the death of his aunt,
Countess de Grey. This house of Wrest in Bedfordshire he pulled down and
rebuilt according to his own designs in the style of a French chateau.
The pictures which adorn the walls were painted expressly for him; the
tapestry which lends so rich a colouring to the interior of Wrest was
woven under Lord de Grey’s immediate direction in the _atéliers_ of the
Gobelins; while the rich gilding, cornices, and ceilings were all
executed under his supervision, and do the greatest credit to his taste
and ingenuity. He also supplemented the plans and enlarged the
ornamentation of the already beautiful gardens and pleasure-grounds
which surround the house. It was also from the ingenious design of Lord
de Grey that the charming little theatre was constructed, the stage of
which rolled backwards and forwards at will, while two splendid
portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds ornamented the proscenium.

Footnote 108:

  Anne Florence, daughter of Thomas, second Earl de Grey; born 1806;
  died 1880.

Footnote 109:

  Thomas Philip, second Earl de Grey, who inherited Wrest from his aunt,
  Amabel, Countess de Grey.

It was my good fortune on several occasions at Wrest to form one of a
pleasant company, both dramatic and social. Our hostess was one of the
most agreeable and distinguished members of society, and I scarcely
think I can do better than transcribe her moral portraiture, traced by
the hand of one who knew her and loved her well.

“I think I can sum up Lady Cowper’s leading attributes in three
words—wit, wisdom, and goodness. In the relationship of daughter, wife,
and mother, she left nothing to be desired; as a hostess she was
pre-eminently agreeable, being a most delightful companion; she had
lived with all that was politically and socially distinguished in her
day, and had read all that was worth reading in modern literature. She
derived keen enjoyment from the ‘give and take’ of discussion; her
opinions were decided, and their expression fresh and spontaneous; into
whatever well it was lowered the bucket invariably came up full.” In her
later days, even under the pressure of failing health, her
conversational powers never flagged; she was most brilliant in the
freshness of morning, and shone conspicuously at the breakfast table,
thereby rendering that repast far more animated than is usually the
case. Her sallies, though never ill-natured, were often unexpected and
startling, which added a zest to her conversation.

For two or three years running we had theatrical performances, our
_dramatis personæ_ including Mr Henry Greville,[110] Mr and Mrs
Sartoris,[111] Lady Alice Egerton,[112] Mrs Leslie,[113] Lord
Hamilton[114] and others.

Footnote 110:

  Henry Greville, son of Mr Charles and Lady Charlotte Greville.

Footnote 111:

  Adelaide Kemble and her husband.

Footnote 112:

  Now Alice, Countess of Strafford, widow of the third Earl of
  Strafford.

Footnote 113:

  Now Lady Constance Leslie, wife of Sir John Leslie, and sister of the
  fourth Earl of Portarlington.

Footnote 114:

  Present Duke of Abercorn.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                 INDEX


 Aachen, lake of, 191

 Abercorn, Duke of, 90_n_, 282_n_

 Adelaide, Queen, 29;
   appoints Caroline Boyle maid of honour, 101

 Albano, 133

 Alderney, island of, 171, 174

 Alexander, Captain, Lieutenant-Governor of Alderney, 4_n_, 174;
 —— his anecdote, 175
 —— Elizabeth Charlotte, 176, 265_n_
 —— James, 265_n_
 —— Rose, 4_n_, 174;
   her marriage, 175

 Alford, Lady Marian, 184, 204, 266, 267, 280
 —— Lord, 184

 Althorp, 253;
   library, 253;
   staircase, 254;
   heronry, 254;
   Portrait Gallery, 254

 Alvanley, Lord, 180

 Amalfi, 136

 Ampthill, Lady, 270_n_

 Anderson, Miss Mary, 106

 Anglesey, Earl of, 272_n_;
   skipper of his craft, 144

 “Annie Winnie,” 44

 Asberry, Mr, 53

 Ashburton, Louisa, Lady, 267

 Ashby, Castle, 184
 —— Farmer, 87

 Ashridge, 279

 Astley’s theatre, 35

 Ausberg, review at, 190

 Aumale, Duc and Duchesse d’, at Ossington, 278

 Autolycus, lines from, 2


 _Bachelor Philosopher, The_ 89

 Baiæ, 138

 Baker, Eric, 205

 _Bal Costumé_, 165-167

 Balbi, 104

 _Ballets d’action_, 107

 Balls, Park, 3, 55

 Bath, Marquis of, 53_n_

 Bavaria, King Louis of, 188;
   stories of, 189

 Bedford, Duke of, 90

 Beer, Mr 45
 —— Mrs, Under-Housekeeper at Hampton Court, 45

 Belgiojoto, Countess, 140

 Bentinck, Lady Charlotte, 278

 Beppa, the florist, 222

 Berri, Duchesse de, 127

 Bessborough, Earl of, 271_n_

 Bidwell, Mr George, 271

 “Billy,” 98

 “Black Taffy,” 16

 “Boch Dhu,” 96, 125, 137

 Boddingtons, the, 117

 Bognor, bathing fatality at, 59

 Bomba, King, 140

 Bonaparte, Caroline, 152;
   her appearance, 153

 Boucicault, 35

 Boulogne-sur-Mer, 236;
   outbreak of diphtheria, 237

 Bourbon, Charles de, 119

 Bowood, 250

 Boxall, Sir William, his portrait of Sir William Napier, 171

 Boyl, Cavaliere Pietro de, 105, 225;
   Governor of Sardinia, 105

 Boyle, Mrs Carolina Amelia, her appearance, 10;
   appointed bed-chamber woman to Queen Charlotte, 30
 —— Caroline, 3, 4_n_;
   her appearance, 11;
   appointed maid of honour to Queen Adelaide, 101
 —— Cavendish Spencer, his birth, 4;
   at Charterhouse, 36;
   his engagement, 175;
   in the West Indies, 178;
   death, 241;
   appointed Governor of the Militia Prison at Weedon, 256;
   at Ashridge, 280
 —— Charles John, 3, 4_n_;
   his appearance, 11;
   sketches of him, 12;
   _attaché_ at the English Legation, Turin, 104;
   at Munich, 187;
   engagement, 205;
   marriage, 206;
   appointment at the Cape of Good Hope, 225
 —— Charlotte, 3;
   her death, 12;
   burial-place, 13;
   epitaph, 13
 —— Vice-Admiral The Hon. Sir Courtenay, 4;
   enters the Navy, 5;
   letter from Lord Nelson, 6;
   shipwrecked in Egypt, 7;
   taken prisoner by the French, 7;
   letter to his wife, 8;
   return, 9;
   Commissioner at Sheerness Dockyard, 15;
   appointment at the Navy Board, 30;
   punctuality, 37;
   illness, 101;
   decorated with the Guelphic and Hanoverian Order, 106;
   death, 170
 —— Sir Courtenay Edmund, 36_n_
 —— Courtenay Edmund William, 3, 4_n_;
   his first cruise, 10;
   character, 10;
   marriage, 11, 158
 —— Courtenay, 213, 257
 —— Lady Lucy, 56_n_
 —— Mary Louisa, her birth, 1, 3, 4_n_;
   appearance and height, 2;
   light-heartedness, 2;
   brothers and sisters, 3, 10-13;
   parents, 4;
   love of heraldry, 4;
   ancestry, 5;
   life at Sheerness, 15-30;
   feats of horsemanship, 16, 61, 95, 182;
   retainers, 16-19;
   juvenile flirtations, 19-22;
   fondness for Shakespeare’s plays, 22;
   on the one-legged race, 23;
   her first Play, 25-28;
   at Somerset House, 30-39;
   early dramatic recollections, 33-35;
   visits to the Royal Academy, 35;
   to the Charterhouse, 36;
   on the coronation of George IV., 37-39;
   fondness for Sir W. Scott’s books, 38, 78;
   life at Hampton Court, 39-50;
   on the officials, 44-46;
   heroic butcher boy, 46-48;
   the thrush, 48-50;
   at Marston Bigot, 51;
   Balls Park, 55;
   number of cousins, 56;
   Wigan Rectory, 56;
   taming a wolf-dog, 56;
   Cowdray Park, 57;
   the bathing fatality, 59;
   “ghost story,” 60;
   walk with “Courage,” 61;
   political views, 62;
   Midgham House, 64;
   Cottage, 65;
   on the eccentricities of Illidge, 66, 70-72;
   on Mrs Garrick 67-70;
   members of the household, 73-79;
   at Brighton, 80;
   _tableaux_, 82, 256;
   at school, 84;
   music and dancing lessons, 85;
   dances at Dr Everard’s school, 87;
   début, 88;
   dramatic representation, 89;
   leaves school, 91;
   at Greystoke Castle, 92-96;
   theatricals, 95, 147-152, 212, 227, 232, 251, 256, 271;
   at Corby Castle, 96;
   the haunted chamber, 96;
   visit to Lord Southampton, 97;
   on the conspiracy to see Fanny Kemble, 98;
   accession of William IV., 99;
   illness of her father, 101;
   arrangements for travelling, 103;
   at Turin, 104;
   Genoa, 104-114;
   riding parties, 105;
   the Masquerade, 107-112;
   at the Baths of Lucca, 114-124;
   the Boddingtons, 117;
   the servants’ ball, 118;
   the Duke and Duchess of Lucca, 119;
   on the religious festival at Lucca, 120;
   lines on the Duchess, 121;
   at Florence, 125-129, 146, 201, 209-224;
   on the de Fauveaus, 126;
   first impression of Rome, 130;
   painters and sculptors, 131;
   at Naples, 133;
   Moonlight rides, 135;
   excursions, 136;
   at the castle of Sant’ Elmo, 138;
   the feast of the Madonna dell’ Arco, 140;
   haunted apartments, 141-143;
   at Pisa, 145;
   her acting, 148;
   on the office of prompter, 148;
   friendship for G. P. R. James, 152;
   on Caroline Bonaparte, 153-156;
   Geppina, the flower-girl, 156;
   lines on, 156;
   visit to the Duchess of Gloucester, 158;
   mistaken for Princess Victoria, 160;
   on her coronation, 161;
   at Millard’s Hill, 163;
   Tenby, 164;
   _bal costumé_, 165;
   on Charles Young, 166-169;
   death of her father, 170;
   at Havilland Hall, 170;
   lines on Sir William Napier, 172;
   on Mr and Mrs Kean, 173;
   at the Island of Sark, 174;
   Alderney, 174;
   Whittlebury Lodge, 179-186;
   on Colonel Leigh, 180;
   sporting ecclesiastics, 182, 183;
   musical evenings, 185;
   at Munich, 187-191;
   on the dramatic performances, 187;
   King Louis of Bavaria, 188-190;
   at Ravenna, 191-193;
   Rome, 194-200, 242;
   on Pope Pius IX., 195;
   the “Possesso,” 197-199;
   life at Villa Careggi, 201-207;
   at the Baths of Casciano, 207;
   legend of the falcon, 208;
   on Charles Lever, 210-214;
   the French Revolution, 214;
   the Tuscan Revolution, 216;
   on the Brownings, 217-220;
   the disturbances in Italy, 221;
   Beppa, the florist, 222;
   farewells at Florence, 224;
   in London, 225;
   visit to Adelaide Sartoris, 225-227;
   fondness for Charles Dickens’ books, 229;
   first meeting with him, 231;
   letter from Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, 232;
   from Charles Dickens, 234;
   death of her friend Fanny, 234;
   at Boulogne, 237;
   Gad’s Hill, 238-241;
   death of her brother Cavendish, 241;
   of Charles Dickens and Lord Clarendon, 242;
   at Burghley House, 244;
   on Lord Derby, 247;
   Disraeli, 248;
   at Bowood, 250;
   Althorp, 253;
   members of the household, 257-260;
   death of Frederic, Lord Spencer, 261;
   on Landor, 262-265;
   Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, 265-267;
   Carlyle, 267;
   The Grove, 269;
   on Lord Clarendon, 269-272;
   Hinchingbrooke, 272;
   Earls of Sandwich, 273-278;
   Duchess of Cambridge, 277;
   Ossington, 278;
   Ashridge, 279-281;
   Wrest Park, 281;
   on Lady Cowper, 282
 —— Richard, 51
 —— The Rev. the Hon. Richard, 170;
   his marriage, 176
 —— Robert, “Divine Philosopher of the World,” 5, 51
 —— Roger, 51

 Bridgeman, Rev. George, 56

 Bridgwater, Duke of, 279

 Brighton, 80

 Brignole, Marchesa, 105

 Broadwood, Mary, 85, 89

 Broghill, Baron, 51

 Brooks, 73

 Browne, Elizabeth, 57

 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, lines on a procession, 217;
   appearance, 219
 —— Robert, 219;
   his death, 220

 Brownlow, Lord, 267;
   his death, 268

 Bruce, Lady Charles, 256_n_

 Buller, James, 93_n_
 —— Sir Redvers, 93_n_

 Bunsen, Madame de, 130

 Burdett, Major, 58

 Burghley House, 244

 Burlington, Countess of, her predilection for Mdlle. Violette, 68
 —— Lord, his connection with Mdlle. Violette, 68;
   dowry on her marriage, 69

 Butler, Frances Anne, 225_n_

 Byng, Hon. George, 227


 Cadogan, Lady Charlotte, 272_n_

 Calabritti, Palazzo, 133;
   the ghost of, 141-143

 Call, W. M. W., lines on “Eleanor’s Well,” 177

 Cambridge, Duchess of, at Hinchingbrooke, 276

 Camille, Count de, 109, 113

 Canning, Hon. Catharine, 266_n_

 Capri, island of, 143

 Capua, Prince of, 143

 Cardigan, Lord, at the _bal costumé_, 167

 Careggi, Villa, 201;
   frescoes, 201;
   servants, 203

 Carlisle, Lord, 56

 Carlyle, 267;
   at Mentone, 267;
   character, 268

 Carnarvon, Henry, Earl of, 93_n_

 Caroline, Queen, 64

 Carteret, Lord, 40

 Casciano, Baths of, 207;
   legend of the discovery, 208

 Cassiobury Park, 272

 Cawdor, Earl of, 165

 “Chaillach,” 164

 Chambord, Comte de, 122

 Channel Islands, trip to the, 170-176

 Charles III. of Parma, assumes the title, 123;
   assassinated, 123

 Charlotte, Queen, 30

 Charterhouse, 36

 _Chatham_, 29

 Chetwynd, Sir George, 280_n_;
   his marriage, 242

 Cholmondeley, Hugh, 135

 Chouler, Mr, 259
 —— Mrs, 258

 Ciabatti, 226

 Clarence, Duchess of, 29, 31

 Clarence, Duke of, 29;
   his daughters, 100

 Clarendon, Lord, 269;
   his death, 242;
   character and gifts, 269;
   laugh, 270

 Clifden, Lady, 82, 256_n_

 Clifford, Sir Augustus, 87
 —— Rosamund, 5
 —— Admiral Sir William, 87

 Clinton, Frances, Lady, 11_n_, 154

 Collins, Mrs Charles, 240
 —— Wilkie, 237

 Compton, Lady Katrine, 226_n_

 Condé, Prince de, at Ossington, 279

 Consort, Prince, 166;
   at the _bal costumé_, 166

 Convicts, 17

 Corby Castle, haunted chamber, 96

 Cork and Orrery, Earl of, 4, 51, 163;
   letter from Lord Nelson, 6

 Corn Laws, 247

 Cornelius, 188

 _Cornish Miners_, 34

 “Courage,” the St Bernard, 61

 Courcy, General de, 150

 Covent Garden, 36

 Coventry, Lady Mary, 105_n_

 Cowdray Park, 57;
   destroyed by fire, 58

 Cowper, Francis, Earl, 226_n_, 281
 —— Lady, her leading attributes, 282

 Cowper’s Oak, 183

 Crackenthorpe, Mr, 92_n_

 Crawford, Countess of, 152

 Cromartie, Lord, under sentence of death, 65

 Cromwell, Oliver, 51

 Cumberland, William, Duke of, 65;
   at Midgham, 65

 Cunningham, Mr Peter, 237

 _Cure for the Heartache_, 147


 Damer, Mrs Dawson, 82

 “Danny Man,” 31

 Dante, tomb of, 191

 Day, Rachel, 74

 Delamere, Lord, 135

 Demidoff, Prince Anatole, 206;
   anecdote of, 206

 Denison, Evelyn, 278

 Denmark, Queen Anne of, her visit to Althorp, 254

 Derby, Countess of, 270_n_, 272
 —— Lord, 247

 Devonshire, Duke of, 33

 Devrient, Emil, his acting, 167

 Dickens, Charles, 13, 56, 229;
   first meeting with Mary Boyle, 231;
   on her acting, 233;
   letter from, 234;
   his social evenings, 235;
   children, 236;
   at Boulogne, 236;
   extensive walks, 237;
   at Gad’s Hill, 238;
   his _châlet_, 239;
   drives and walks, 239;
   visitors, 240;
   letters of sympathy, 242;
   stroke of paralysis, 243;
   death, 243
 —— Charles, his children, 241
 —— Harry, 236
 —— Katie, 240
 —— Mary, 240
 —— Mayne, 5
 —— “Micketty,” 241

 Dinon, Duc de, 150

 Diphtheria, outbreak of, 237

 Disraeli, Benjamin, 248
 —— Mrs, 249

 Donkin, Sir Rufane, 81

 Doria, 104

 D’Orsay, Count, 180

 Drumlanrig Castle, 66

 Dufferin and Ava, Marquis of, 42, 226

 Durazzo, 104


 Earle, Mrs, 270_n_

 Edgcumbe, Hon. George, 147;
   his acting, 147

 Egerton, Lady Alice, 282

 Egerton, Lady Blanche, 278

 Egg, Augustus, 233

 Ellesmere, Earl of, 278_n_

 Elliot, Lady Anna Maria, 81;
   her acting, 82
 —— Captain, 212

 Elmo, Sant’, Castle of, 138

 Elves, Emily, 90

 Elwes, Mr, 180

 Erroll, Eliza, Countess of, 100

 Erskine, Augusta Kennedy, 100

 Everard, Dr, his school, 86;
   dances at, 87

 Exeter, Isabella, Lady, 11_n_, 244_n_;
   at the _bal costumé_, 167;
   appearance and number of suitors, 245
 —— Lord, 35;
   his hospitality, 244_n_;
   marriages, 246_n_;
   children, 246_n_


 Falcon, legend of the, 208

 Falkland, Lady, 100

 Fane, Hon. Sir Spencer Ponsonby, 271

 Fauveau, Madame, de, 126
 —— Félicie, de, 127, 153, 201, 207, 215;
   banished from France, 128;
   her works, 129

 Fechter, 239, 240

 Ferrai, Madame, 105

 _First Night, The_, 227

 Fitzclarence, Amelia, 100

 Fitzherbert, Mrs, her parties, 81;
   appearance, 83

 Fitzroy, Lord Charles, 182

 Florence, 125, 201

 “Flush,” 219

 Fordwich, Lord, 226

 Forster, John, 233

 Foster, Sir Augustus and Lady Albinia, 104

 Fox, Lady Mary, 100

 France, revolution in, 214

 _Freischütz, Der_, 34


 Gad’s Hill, 238

 Galliera, Marchesa, 105

 Garrick, David, his marriage, 69
 —— Mrs, her début, 68;
   connection with Lord Burlington, 69;
   marriage, 69;
   death, 70

 Genoa, 104;
   masquerade in, 107-112;
   fashion of head-dresses, 112

 George III., his death, 30

 George IV., his coronation, 37

 Geppina, the flower-girl of Florence, 156;
   lines on, 156

 Giardano, Michael, 137

 Glastonbury Thorn, 54

 Glenesk, Lady, 270_n_

 Gloucester, Princess Mary, Duchess of, 153, 158

 Gobarrow, wild park of, 94

 Gordon, Alexander, 170_n_
 —— Eleanor Vere, 170_n_, her marriage, 176;
   talent for drawing, 176;
   result of her works, 177
 —— Lady Frederick, 100
 —— Sir James, 23

 “Gourley Ailsie,” 44

 Gower, Hon. Frederick Leveson, 87

 Grafton, Duke of, 179

 Gray, Lady Mary de, 280_n_

 Gregory XVI., Pope, his death, 191

 Greville, Mr Charles and Lady Charlotte, 282_n_
 —— Mr Henry, 227, 282;
   his reunions, 228

 Grey, Countess de, 281
 —— Earl de, 281

 Greystoke Castle, Cumberland, 92

 Grimston, Mrs Edward, 83

 Grove, The, 269

 Guernsey, island of, 170

 Guidi, Casa, 217


 Hackman, Captain, 275

 Halifax, William, Marquis of, 68_n_

 Hallé, Charles, 226

 Hamilton, Elizabeth, Dow.-Duchess of, 246_n_
 —— Lord, 282

 Hampton Court, 31, 39;
   gardens, 42;
   number of visitors, 43;
   maze, 44;
   pictures, 45

 Hanover, H.R.H. Princess Frederica of, 45

 Harte, Bret, extract from his parodies, 213

 Hastings, Florence, Lady, her marriage, 242
 —— Marq. of, 280_n_

 Havilland Hall, 170

 Hayter, Sir George, 12
 —— John, his sketch of Charles Boyle, 12

 Higham Ferrers, 184

 Hinchingbrooke, 272

 Hogarth, Georgina, 231, 234

 Hoggins, Sarah, 246_n_
 —— Mr Thomas, 246_n_

 Holland, Lady, 105
 —— Henry Edward, Lord, 105, 201

 Home, Sir Abraham, 280

 Horner, John, 36

 “Hotspur,” 150;
   his appearance on the stage, 151

 Houghton, Lord, 242;
   at the _bal costumé_, 167

 Howard, Charlotte, 93_n_
 —— Henrietta Anna, 93_n_
 —— Lady Henry, 93
 —— Lord Henry, 92_n_
 —— Isabella Catharine, 92_n_, 93_n_
 —— Juliene, 93_n_
 —— Miss, 34
 —— Lady Rachel, 92_n_
 —— Mr Stafford, 92_n_
 —— Lord Thomas, the ghost of, 96

 Hutin, Henri, 103


 Illidge, her eccentricities, 66;
   appearance and dress, 66;
   story of Mrs Garrick, 67-70;
   adventure with a burglar, 70-72

 Ippisley, Sir John, 51

 Irving, Sir Henry, 35


 Ischia, island of, 136

 Italy, disturbances in, 221

 Ives, John, his act of heroism, 46-48


 Jakeman, Mr, 260

 James, G. P. R., friendship for Mary Boyle, 152;
   for Landor, 262;
   character, 262

 Jerrold, Douglas, 233, 237

 Jones, Mr, 185

 Jordan, Mrs, 100, 159

 Joseph, of Arimathæa, legend of, 54


 Kaulbach, 188

 Kean, Mr and Mrs, their love story, 173

 Keeley, Mr and Mrs, 34, 236

 Kemble, Adelaide, 282_n_
 —— Charles, 225_n_
 —— Fanny, 98, 200

 Kléber, Marshal, Governor of Cairo, 7;
   his treatment of Captain C. Boyle, 7;
   assassinated, 8


 Lagerschwerd, Casa, 210

 Lake, Sir Willoughby, 170

 Landor, Walter Savage, 262;
   friendship with G. P. R. James, 262;
   his character, 262, 264;
   fondness for dogs, 263;
   inscription on the rescue of Caroline Boyle, 264;
   tone of his voice, 265

 Lansdowne, Lord, 250;
   his collection of art treasures, 251
 —— Henry, Marq. of, 252

 Lathom, Countess of, 270_n_, 272_n_
 —— Earl of, 270_n_

 Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 246

 Leech, John, 233

 Lehmann, Mr, 239

 Leigh, Colonel, 180

 Leighton, Frederick, 226

 Lemon, Mark, 233

 Lennox, Lady Sophia, 246_n_

 Leopold II., Grand Duke of Tuscany, his Civic grant, 216

 Leslie, Lady Constance, 282_n_
 —— Sir John, 282_n_

 Lever, Charles, 35, 210;
   his entry into Florence, 211;
   tenant of Casa Standish, 211;
   his acting, 212

 Lewis, Sir George Cornwall, 269
 —— Lady Theresa, 270

 Lima, River, 115

 Limerick, Edmund Henry, Earl of, 146_n_

 Lipona, Countess, 153

 Lisle, Lady de, 100

 Lister, Lady Theresa, 269_n_
 —— Thomas Henry, 269_n_
 —— Sir Villiers, 271

 Loch, Lord, 270_n_
 —— Lady, 270_n_

 Long, Elizabeth, 93_n_

 “Long George,” 17

 Longleat, 53, 55

 Lowe, 17

 Lucca, baths of, 114;
   ball at, 118;
   religious festival, 120
 —— Duchy of, 123
 —— Duchess of, 119;
   lines on, 121
 —— Duke of, 119

 Lupus, taming of, 57

 Lytton, Countess of, 270_n_
 —— Sir E. Bulwer, letter to Mary Boyle, 232

 Lyveden, Lord, 251_n_


 Macdonald, Marshal, 153

 MacDougall, Colonel, 176

 Manny, Madame de, 220

 Mansell, Henry, 76;
   peculiarities, 76;
   fondness for travelling, 76;
   talents, 77;
   death, 78

 Manvers, Earl, 279

 Maria Theresa, Empress, 68

 Marlborough, Sarah, Duchess of, 255

 Marston Bigot, 51

 Masquerade, 107-112

 Mayoress, Lady, anecdote of, 32

 Mazzini, 112

 McKenzie, Anne Hay, 65_n_

 _Meander_, 10

 Mells Park, 55

 Melville, Whyte, 254

 _Merry Monarch, The_, 227

 Metastasio, lines from, 113

 Michau, Madame, 85
 —— M., anecdote of, 86

 Midgham Cottage, 66;
   burglary at, 70-72
 —— House, Berkshire, 4, 64

 Milan, 224

 Millard’s Hill, 163

 Minto, Lord, 81

 Mitchell, Dr, 102

 Montagu, Sir Sydney, 273

 Montague, Viscount, 57;
   drowned, 58

 Montgomery, Alfred, 37, 41

 Moore, General Sir Lorenzo, 4_n_, 205
 —— Miss Zacyntha, 4_n_, 205;
   her marriage, 206

 Mordaunt, Anna Maria, maid of honour to Queen Caroline, 64;
   her marriage, 64;
   appointed Governess to the Duke of Cumberland, 65

 Morier, Miss, 83

 Moulineaux, Villa des, 236

 Mount Edgcumbe, Richard, Earl of, 147_n_

 Munich, 187;
   dramatic performances at, 187

 Murat, Joachim, 152;
   his portrait, 155;
   military weapons, 155


 Napier, Sir William, 170;
   appearance and characteristics, 171;
   lines on, 172

 Naples, 133;
   feast of Madonna dell’ Arco, 140

 Napoleon I., 152;
   his portrait, 155

 “Narcissus,” 164

 Nelson, Lord, his letters, 6

 Norfolk, Bernard, Duke of, 93_n_
 —— Charles, Duke of, 92_n_

 Normanby, Lord, 169

 Northampton, Charles, 3rd Marq. of, 87;
   his marriage, 280
 —— William, Marq. of, 87, 226_n_


 O’Brien, Mr Stafford, 245

 Oetting, Count Karl von, 191

 Ogilvay, Sir John, 93_n_

 Ogle, Miss Mary, 4_n_;
   her marriage, 158

 Ogle, W. Wallace, 4_n_

 Orleans dynasty, downfall, 214

 Orper, 19

 Orrery, Earl of, 51

 Ossington, 278

 Overbeck, 132

 Oxford, Wilberforce, Bishop of, 278

 “Pacolet,” 94

 Paestum, 136

 Paget, Lady Florence, 280
 —— Lady Mary, 272_n_

 Pallavicini, Marchese Fabio, 104, 190

 Parma, Duchy of, 123

 _Pearl_, The, 144

 Pell, Sir Watkin, 23

 Perry, Lady Lucy, 146_n_

 Perugini, Kate, 236

 Peterborough, Earl of, 64

 Petty, Lord Henry, 250

 Pierrepont, Rt. Hon. Henry, 246_n_

 Pinelli, 132

 Pipa, Comtesse, 204

 Pisa, 145;
   festival of St Ranieri, 145

 Pius IX., Pope, his accession, 191
   popularity, 196;
   witty sayings, 196;
   the “Possesso,” 197-199

 Play, the first, 25-29

 Poggi, Miss, 84

 Pompeii, 136

 Ponsonby, Frederic, 256
 —— Sir Henry, 256_n_

 Portarlington, Earl of, 282_n_

 Portland, Duke of, 278_n_

 Posillippo, 135

 Powder-Monkey Bay, 17

 Power, 35

 Poyntz, Carolina Amelia, 4
 —— Charlotte Louisa, 56_n_
 —— Elizabeth, 255
 —— Georgiana Anne, 55
 —— Isabella, 59
 —— Stephen, 64
 —— Mrs Stephen, appointed governess to the Duke of Cumberland, 65;
   intercedes for Lord Cromartie’s life, 65
 —— William, 4, 55_n_, 56_n_, 245;
   loss of his sons, 59;
   character, 61;
   political views, 62;
   death, 163


 Quarto, Villa, 204

 Queensberry, Duchess of, 66

 Quin, Captain, 259
 —— Lord George, 229_n_, 230

 Quorn Hounds, Master of the, 97


 Race, one-legged, 23

 Ravenna, 191;
   pine-forest, 192

 Ray, Miss, her romantic story, 275;
   tragic death, 276

 Reinhardt, 132

 Reynolds, Samuel, his painting of Charles Boyle, 12

 Richardson, Joseph, 78
 —— Miss, 36, 78, 90

 Roche-Jacquelin, Madame de la, 128

 Rochester, Earl of, 273

 Rockingham Castle, 230

 Rolle, Lord, at the coronation of Queen Victoria, 161

 Rome, 129, 194;
   first impression of, 130

 Rosetta, 7

 Rothesay, Lord Stuart de, 278_n_

 _Rough Diamond, The_, 256

 Royal Academy, 35

 Ruberti, General, Commandant of Sant’ Elmo, 138

 Ruffini, Giovanni, “Lorenzo Benoni,” 113

 Russell, Lady Louisa, 90


 Salcey Forest, 184

 Salt-Hill, 170

 _Saltarello_, dance, 195

 Salviati, Villa, 205

 Sandwich, Edward, 1st Earl of, 273;
   his character, 274
 —— 3rd Earl of, 273
 —— John, 4th Earl of, 274;
   anecdote of, 274;
   nickname, 275
 —— George, 6th Earl of, 272
 —— 7th Earl of, 272_n_;
   his second marriage, 278
 —— Edward, 8th Earl of, 278_n_
 —— Lady, her death, 278

 Santley, Charles, 226

 Sark, Island of, 174

 Sartoris, Adelaide, 200, 225, 282

 Sartoris, Mr Edward, 227, 282

 Saville, Dorothy, 68_n_

 Schaffhausen, Falls of, 58

 Sefton, Lord, 271

 Sevastopol, news of the taking, 276

 Seymour, Frederick, 82
 —— Sir Horace, 154

 Seymour, Horace, 257

 Sheerness, Dockyard, 15;
   members of the boats’ crew, 16;
   convicts, 17-19

 Shelburne, Lord, 251

 Shelley, Miss Fanny Lucy, 147
 —— Sir John, 147_n_
 —— lines from, 192

 Sheridan, Charlie, 41
 —— Frank, 37, 41
 —— Thomas, 42_n_

 Sherwood Forest, 278

 Simons, Louisa, 243

 Skelmersdale, Lord, 270

 Smith, Rev. Loraine, 183
 —— Admiral Sir Sidney, 9
 —— Rev. William, 182

 Smugglers, encounter with, 91

 Somerset, Edward, Duke of, 42_n_
 —— Georgina, Duchess of, 42
 —— House, 30

 Sondes, Lord, 229_n_, 230

 Sorrento, 136

 Southampton, Charles, Lord, 92_n_, 98, 179

 Spencer, Earl, 213
 —— Elizabeth, Countess, 11_n_
 —— Hon. Frederic, 255;
   character, 255;
   death, 261
 —— Lady Georgiana, 229_n_
 —— John, 255
 —— Lady, 82, 256, 257
 —— Hon. Robert, 259
 —— Sarah, 261

 Stackpole, 165

 Standish, Lady Lucy, 146;
   her theatre, 146;
   actors and actresses, 147-151
 —— Mr Rowland, 146

 Stanfield, Clarkson, his _chef-d’œuvres_, 251

 Stanhope, Hon. Fitzroy, 92_n_
 —— Harriet, 92_n_, 179_n_
 —— Hon. Henry Fitzroy, 179_n_
 —— Captain Robert, 92_n_

 Stanley, Lord, 279

 Stephenson, Rowland, 146_n_

 Stewart-Mackenzie, Rt. Hon. James A 267_n_

 Stone, Frank, 233
 —— Marcus, 240

 Stourhead, 54

 Strafford, Alice, Countess of, 282_n_
 —— Earl of, 227_n_

 _Stranger, The_, 35

 Stratford, Lady, 266

 Stratford de Redcliffe, Lord, 265;
   appearance, 266;
   anecdote of, 266;
   lines on Mary Boyle, 266

 Suffolk, Lady, 93
 —— Lord, 92_n_, 93_n_

 Sunderland, 3rd Earl of, 255

 Sutherland, Duchess of, 65


 _Tableaux Vivants_, 82, 256

 Talbot, Countess of, 68

 Talleyrand de Perigord, Marq., 150

 Talmont, Princesse de, 128

 Tavistock House, 235

 Taylor, Tom, 251

 Teck, Princess Mary Adelaide, Duchess of, at Hinchingbrooke, 276

 Tegern, lake of, 191

 Templeton, Viscountess of, 272

 Tenby, 164

 Tennyson, Lord, 140

 Thackeray, W. M., “Onet y Oneth,” 213_n_

 Thistle, 115

 Thorpe, house-steward at Althorp, 257

 Thorwaldsen, 131

 Thrush, anecdote of a, 48-50

 Thynne, Lord John, 40

 “Tidy Dick,” 18

 Tivoli, 133

 Townshend, Lady John, 80
 —— Lord John, 3, 55;
   his epitaph on Charlotte Boyle, 13;
   eccentricities, 80

 Tree, Ellen, 173

 Turin, 104

 Tuscan revolution, 216


 Ungher, Madame, 106

 Urvins, his picture, 141


 Vansittart, Mrs, 203, 205

 Vernet, Horace, 131

 Vernon, Hon. Gowran, 251

 Vestris, Madame, 34

 Vesuvius, eruptions of, 136

 Victoria, Queen, 40, 160;
   reception at the Opera House, 161;
   coronation, 161;
   at the _bal costumé_, 166

 Villiers, Rt. Hon. Charles Pelham, 269
 —— Hon. Francis, 271_n_
 —— Lieut.-Col. the Hon. George, 271_n_
 —— Lady Theresa, 271_n_

 Violette, Mdlle., her début at Drury Lane, 68

 Vyner, Henry, 280_n_
 —— Theodosia, her marriage, 280


 Walpole, Horace, on Mdlle. Violette, 68

 Ward, Baron, 123, 214
 —— Miss, 92_n_

 Waterford, Lady, 278

 Watson, Mrs, 229, 231
 —— Hon. Richard, 229_n_

 Watts, George, his drawing of Charles Boyle, 12;
   painting of Sir William


 Napier, 171;
   at the Villa Careggi, 202

 Weedon, 78

 Wellington, Duke of, 37, 161, 246_n_

 Westbrook Hayes, 265

 Westminster Abbey, 31

 Whittlebury Lodge, 179

 Wigan, Alfred, 227

 Wigan Rectory, 56

 William IV., his accession, 99;
   failing health, 158;
   attempt on his life, 159

 Williams, Sir Thomas, 21

 Willis, Annie, 168

 Wolf-dog, taming a, 56

 Wrest Park, 281


 Yates, Edmund, 240

 Young, Charles, 35, 166;
   his romantic story, 167
 —— Giulia, 168
 —— Julian, Chaplain to Hampton Court Palace, 168


         PRINTED AT THE EDINBURGH PRESS, 9 AND 11 YOUNG STREET


------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).







End of Project Gutenberg's Mary Boyle--Her Book, by Mary Louisa Boyle