Leaves from the Note-Books of Lady Dorothy Nevill

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Title: Leaves from the Note-Books of Lady Dorothy Nevill
Author: Nevill, Dorothy, Lady
Language: English
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[Illustration: _Emery Walker Ph.Sc._
_Lady Dorothy Nevill_
_painted by G.F. Watts R.A. in 1844_ ]

Leaves from the Note-Books

Lady Dorothy Nevill

EDITED BY
RALPH NEVILL

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1907

PREFACE

When, some time ago, a collection of my mother’s reminiscences was given
to the public, we received a large number of suggestions that a second
similar volume would be certain of the same cordial welcome as was
extended to the first. The following pages, containing memories and
observations extending over a long period of years, are the result of
these kindly exhortations.

The task of arrangement and of selection from my mother’s scrap-books
and note-books has been carried out by me under her supervision; and I
have also included as many recollections, hitherto unpublished, as her
very excellent memory was able to furnish. Of the many anecdotes which
are given, the majority, it is hoped, are here told for the first time
in print; most of them, indeed, recount personal experiences of her own
or of some of the well-known people with whom during a long life it has
been her privilege to meet. In preparing the volume valuable assistance,
which it is our desire here gratefully to acknowledge, has been rendered
by many well-wishers, some of them old friends, some of them unknown to
us except by their encouraging and helpful letters.

It may be added that my only aim in the pages which follow has been to
arrange a mass of material—some of it no doubt old, but a great deal, I
hope, new—in such a form as may interest and amuse the reader and thus
serve to occupy a few leisure hours. If failure be the result, the blame
must be laid entirely at my door; while should the book in any measure
achieve its aim, the whole credit belongs properly to my mother.

RALPH NEVILL.

CONTENTS

PAGE
My scrap-books—A female politician of other days—Souvenirs of past
elections—_The Nottingham Lamb_—Bernal Osborne and his Irish
friend—Taxes—Political caricatures—Sir F. Carruthers Gould—Sir
Frank Lockwood—Lord Vernon and the Pope—Old menus—Weddings of the
past—Some anecdotes—Mrs. Norton—The Duchess of Somerset—_The
Owl_—The Fourth Party—Sir Henry Drummond Wolff—The Comte de Paris
and the Primrose League—Lord Randolph Churchill and his resignation
of office 1

Society—Conversation and the lack of it—Miss Gordon Cumming and Munro
of Novar—The Duke of Wellington’s hatred of publicity—Sir Robert
Peel’s wedding at Apsley House—Mr. Delane—An eccentric patron—A
curate’s wit—The Stock Exchange and the West End—Prince Edward of
Saxe-Weimar’s drive home—American influence—Lions—Mr. Watts and the
crinolette—Matchmaking—Lady Beaconsfield—Some anecdotes—Lord Henry
Lennox and the Duchess of Cleveland—Maria, Marchioness of
Ailesbury—Frances, Lady Waldegrave 22

III

Country houses—Letter from Lord Beaconsfield—Political influence of
landowners—Guests down with the
fish—Longleat—Hinchingbrooke—Goodwood—Old-time country
visitors—Colonel Nelthorpe and “Wulliam”—the Norfolk Militia in the
’fifties—My father and Casanova—A good-natured giant—Old Lady
Suffield—Lord George Bentinck—Admiral Rous—George Payne and Lord
Alexander Lennox—Religion of the former—The Duchess of Cleveland
and Battle Abbey—Anecdotes—Duke William of Normandy 41

Lady Holland’s girlhood at Battle Abbey—Her “court” at Holland
House—Her relationship to myself—Her ways—Her
insolence—Anecdotes—Lady Palmerston—Cobden and Lord Palmerston—Lord
John Russell—Lady Jersey and Lady Londonderry—Their social
influence exerted in favour of Mr. Disraeli—Letters from Lady
Beaconsfield—Her dinners—Lord Lyndhurst and Mr.
Disraeli—Interesting letter from the latter—His difficulties in
early life—His opinion of Mr. Gladstone—An ingenuous diplomatist 59

A memorandum by Napoleon—English opinions concerning him in other
days—His effigy burnt at Norwich—The Chevalier de
Bardelin—Interesting relics at Highclere—My sight of Marie
Louise—The Emperor at Mass—His love of church bells—Sir Henry
Drummond Wolff’s visit to Elba—Hears recollections of Napoleon’s
gardener—Anecdotes—The Emperor and General Lecourbe—Baron von
Kleist—Mr. Manning—Napoleon in London—“The Midnight Review” 78

The Bourbons—Mdlle. Félicie de Fauveau and her vow—Marie Antoinette
at the Petit Trianon—A buried treasure—Madame du Barry and her
bankers—Her lost jewels—A possibility of existence at some bank—Her
destroyers—Zamor and the Englishman Grieve—Mrs. Atkyns and the
Dauphin—Her gallant effort to save the Queen—Naundorff—An American
Dauphin—Eleazar Williams—Mystery surrounding the death of Louis
XVII 98

VII

Travelling abroad—Munich—Lack of comforts—Baths and bathing, then and
now—A careless traveller—A carriage on a railway truck in recent
years—The last of the Sedan-chairs—An eccentric menu—Abraham
Hayward—Acclimatising crayfish—English truffles—Change in dinner
hour—Old English fare—Careless housekeeping—Cookery books—Soyer and
his wife—An obsolete custom—The triumph of tobacco 120

VIII

London of the past—Eccentricities of modern architecture—Dreary
modern streets—Decay of the picturesque—The dignity of old
London—“The only running footman”—Berkeley Square and its
memories—Lady Cowper—Lord and Lady Haversham—Charles Street and
Mayfair—Curzon Street and Piccadilly—Wimborne House—A great
party—Changes since the ’sixties—The last of the apothecaries—Lady
Londonderry—The Sultan and his Ambassadress—Shadows of the past 140

The London parks—Old prints—Rural London—Deer in Hyde Park—Its
gates—Proposed railway station in the Park—Riots—Origin of the name
“Rotten Row”—An unlucky suitor and his trousers—Lady Diana
Beauclerk and the Baron de Géramb—Decadence of dress—The
_vis-à-vis_—The end of duelling—Lord Camelford’s will—His
burial-place—The first Lord Camelford—His Lines on Lady Hervey 160

Family pictures—Nelson and the Walpoles—A group by Devis—A fine old
French picture saved by Mr. Cobden—Eccentricity of Lord
Hertford—Dr. Schlieman’s bequest—Some beautiful books in Lord
Carnarvon’s collection—Fashion in art—Sir Patrick Grant and the red
cloak—Mr. Graves—Lord Leighton—Mr. Aidé—A genial artist—Sir David
Wilkie—Scene-painting and art—Stewart relics—Silhouettes—Anecdotes
of William IV.—Lady Georgiana Curzon and “Ugly
Mugs”—Watch-papers—The origin of Christmas cards 179

Collecting—Old watchstands—Samplers—Needlework pictures—Old military
prints—French engravings—French furniture—The Hôtel de Ménars—Mr.
Alfred Rothschild’s collection—The Tilsit table at Hertford House
and its history—A £20,000 commode in danger—Eccentricity of Mr.
Hawkins—Old English furniture inadequately represented in National
Collections—Chippendale and the austere Sheraton—An apostle of good
taste—Lady Hamilton’s cabinet—Furniture supports—Knole and its
treasures—Origin of the dumb-bell—A gifted lady 203

XII

Favourites of the past—Siamese cats—Sir William Gregory—A feline
tragedy—A dog’s last farewell—Chinese dogs at Goodwood—A reluctant
swain—Mr. Mallock’s epitaph—Sandringham—Riding and driving—Anecdote
of a parrot—Strange diet of a stork—My choughs and their
nests—Disappointed hopes—An unwelcome arrival—Mr. Darwin’s interest
in my garden—Mr. Cobden’s letter from Algiers—His interest in my
silkworms—Garden books—Some pretty verses by Mr. Lowe 226

XIII

A Diorama of Florence—Vauxhall Gardens—Causes of their end in
1855—_Fête_ at Cremorne—The Coliseum—Rinks and
Roller-skating—Aquariums—Zazel and Mr. Watts—Nelly Farren—The rise
of the Music Hall—A visit to Evans’—Paddy Green as a collector—The
Opera in old days—Taglioni and Cerito—Paul Bedford—Mr. Toole—His
joke upon Sir Henry Irving—The Exhibition of 1851—Houdin, the
Prince of Conjurers—Theatre at Rome—Old days at Töplitz—A libel
upon the Queen 246

XIV

Changes—Old customs—Country houses—A dispirited Conservative—Wigs—The
last Bishops to wear them—Some witty replies—Nightcaps—Dr. Burney
and Nelson—Posy rings—Mutton-fat candles in 1835—Belvoir
Castle—Old-world
country life—Poachers—The last of the smugglers—A terrible
crime—Hanging in chains—Pressing to death—Books bound in the skin
of criminals—Sussex roads—Old ironwork—Cowdray—The monk’s
curse—Otway’s birthplace—Trotton—Charles James Fox—Midhurst and its
tokens—Oratory in the country 265

Retrospection—The first train from Norwich—Disappearance of
coaches—Railway mania of the ’forties—Hudson and his house—Steam
carriages of the past—Letter franking—Society and its love of
pleasure—Bridge—Decrease of betting and increase of
speculation—Changes in Parliament—The late Mr. Bradlaugh—An
unfortunate speech—Growth of the Press—Lady Seymour and the
cook—Louis Napoleon—His witty criticism—The Franco-German
war—_Paris Herself Again_—Mr. Mackenzie Grieves—The overflow of
London—Disappearance of nursery gardens—Modern
villagers—Folklore—Friends who have passed away 291

APPENDIX

SOME SECRET NEGOTIATIONS OF THE PRETENDER WITH SIR ROBERT WALPOLE 317

INDEX 343

PHOTOGRAVURE PLATES

LADY DOROTHY NEVILL. Painted by G. F. WATTS, R.A., in 1844 _Frontispiece_

LADY DOROTHY NEVILL. From a Portrait by the Hon. HENRY
GRAVES _Face page_189

My scrap-books—A female politician of other days—Souvenirs of
past elections—_The Nottingham Lamb_—Bernal Osborne and his
Irish friend—Taxes—Political caricatures—Sir F. Carruthers
Gould—Sir Frank Lockwood—Lord Vernon and the Pope—Old menus—
Weddings of the past—Some anecdotes—Mrs. Norton—The Duchess
of Somerset—_The Owl_—The Fourth Party—Sir Henry Drummond
Wolff—The Comte de Paris and the Primrose League—Lord Randolph
Churchill and his resignation of office.

It has always been a passion with me to collect odds and ends of every
sort and put them into scrap-books and note-books. Consequently I now
have many volumes filled with old squibs, cuttings, photographs, scraps
of verse, menus of banquets, and other trifles which, together with
notes scribbled at the side, recall many pleasant and amusing days now
long vanished into the past. In many of my books, I must confess, the
contents are arranged in the most haphazard fashion, which now and then
produces some rather amusing contrasts; for instance, opening one at
hazard I came upon an old broadside of 1832 entitled “The Great Battle
for Reform,” side by side with a picture post-card dealing with the
Suffragette agitation,—a combination which brought into my mind the
following little anecdote. Long before the days of advanced female
politicians, in the year 1832, an elderly couple, peacefully sleeping in
their four-poster, were one morning roughly aroused at an early hour by
their excited maid-servant who, bursting into the bedroom, bawled out,
“It’s passed! It’s passed!” Extremely annoyed, the old lady called out
from inside the bed-curtains, “What’s passed, you fool?” “The Reform
Bill,” shouted the girl, “and we’re all equal now”; after which she
marched out of the room, purposely leaving the door wide open to show
her equality.

I possess many mementoes of old elections; amongst them an election
favour or ribband on which is embroidered “Disraeli,” a souvenir sent me
by Lord Beaconsfield in the early days of his political career.

Mr. Bernal Osborne, amongst others, also used to remember my passion for
collecting, and, consequently, I have a good many old election addresses
and squibs which are now beginning to possess some slight antiquarian
interest.

In 1868, at Nottingham, there was a tremendous electoral struggle, in
which no less than five candidates took part. Mr. Bernal Osborne, who
eventually found himself at the bottom of the poll, was one of these,
and sent me a curious little paper which was published during the
progress of what was a very acrimonious contest. This was an ephemeral
sheet, called _The Nottingham Lamb_, a copy of which I still retain,
issued apparently for the sole purpose of chaffing all five candidates.

As has been said, Mr. Osborne was defeated at this election; he did not
indeed succeed in again entering the House of Commons till 1870, when he
was returned for Waterford, the Irish constituency which, after his
Nottingham defeat, he had unsuccessfully wooed in 1869. Subsequent to
this election party feeling ran so high that Mr. Osborne had to be
smuggled out of the town in a covered car, some of his opponent’s
supporters having announced their intention of lynching him. A few days
afterwards he wrote to a friend: “I am slowly recovering from the
success of an Irish election.” Mr. Bernal Osborne, as is well known,
possessed the derisive faculty in an abnormal degree, and this he could
not help exercising everywhere, even in the House of Commons. He was,
indeed, the hero of many amusing incidents which convulsed that august
assembly, and even to-day tales are told of his readiness in banter and
repartee. I do not, however, know whether the following little story is
generally known.

Mr. Osborne had a great friend, an Irishman, and also a Member of
Parliament, though of quite opposite political views. This gentleman,
whose name was Tom Corrigan, was not by any means a teetotaller; indeed,
malicious people said that he never addressed the House except when
under the inspiration of sherry. On a certain night “Tom” chanced to
follow Bernal Osborne in a debate upon some Irish question or other, and
at once began: “What does my honourable friend know of Ireland? I
answer, nothing, or less than nothing. We all know the lines of the
poet—

A little learning is a dangerous thing” . . .

“Go on, Tom,” interjected his friend across the House; “go on, and quote
the next line!”

“And why should I be after quoting the next line, Mr. Speaker, sorr?”

“Because, Tom,” again interrupted Bernal Osborne, “the next line should
particularly suit you, for it runs: ‘Drink deep,’ Tom, ‘Drink deep.’”

Mr. Osborne was always very severe upon those who spoke above their own
capacity and other people’s comprehension. His favourite butts in the
House of Commons, indeed, were those pompous and Pharisaical members
whose _doctrinaire_ views he was ever ready to deride.

Amongst the political squibs in my scrap-book there is one directed
against the over-taxation which in long-past days certainly did press
very heavily upon the people of England. Exceedingly well written, it
is, I believe, an extract from an article by Sydney Smith, published in
the _Edinburgh Review_ about 1820. In the form of what we should to-day
call a political leaflet, it is rendered all the more effective by the
manner in which the words are arranged, and also by the very adroit use
made of capital letters:—

TAXES
upon every Article which enters into the Mouth, or covers the
Back, or is placed under the Foot;

TAXES
upon every thing which is pleasant to See, Hear, Feel, Smell,
and Taste;

TAXES
upon Warmth, Light, and Locomotion;

TAXES
on every thing on Earth and the Waters under the Earth;
on every thing that comes from abroad, or is grown at home;

TAXES
on the raw Material;

TAXES
on every value that is added to it by the industry of Man;

TAXES
on the SAUCE which pampers Man’s appetite, and the DRUG that
restores him to health; on the ERMINE which decorates the
JUDGE, and the ROPE which hangs the CRIMINAL; on the
BRASS NAILS of the COFFIN, and the RIBBANDS of the BRIDE.

AT BED or AT BOARD, COUCHANT or LEVANT,
WE MUST PAY.

The School Boy whips his TAXED Top;
The Beardless Youth manages his TAXED Horse with a TAXED
Bridle on a TAXED Road; and the dying Englishman,
pouring his Medicine which has paid 7 PER CENT,
into a Spoon which has paid 30 PER CENT,
throws himself back upon his
CHINTZ BED which has paid 22 PER CENT,
MAKES HIS WILL,
and expires in the arms of an Apothecary who has paid
£100
for the privilege of putting him to death.

HIS WHOLE PROPERTY IS THEN TAXED FROM
2 to 10 PER CENT;

Besides the Probate, large Fees are demanded for burying
him in the Chancel;

his virtues are handed down to posterity on TAXED MARBLE;
and he is then gathered to his Fathers to be

TAXED

NO MORE.

The old broadsides are now represented by the leaflets and posters which
so plentifully abound during modern elections. Within the last thirty
years election posters have assumed many different developments, though,
as a rule, it must be said that they are lacking in the incisive if
rather brutal force which characterised the cartoons and caricatures of
other days. The attempt once made by the late Mr. Lowe, afterwards Lord
Sherbrooke, to put a tax upon lucifer matches, called forth, I remember,
a perfect flood of ephemeral literature, as well as a quantity of
derisive illustrations, which no doubt played some part in causing the
abandonment of what was regarded as a very unpopular tax. A terra-cotta
statuette of Mr. Lowe standing upon a match-box is one of my treasures,
and another is a match-box crowned with the bust of the politician in
question.

Mr. Gladstone—his pastime of tree-felling, his habit of sending
post-cards, and his collars—afforded the caricaturist a very congenial
subject to work upon. I still have a very malicious cartoon entitled
“Khartoum _v._ Criterion,” in which the Grand Old Man is pictured
holding his sides with laughter in a box at the play, whilst above is
shown the death of General Gordon at Khartoum. As a matter of fact, by
no possibility could Mr. Gladstone have known that the very evening on
which he was going to the Criterion, Gordon was being done to death in
the far-off Soudan; and whatever may have been his faults, callousness
or inhumanity was most certainly not numbered amongst them.

A political caricaturist of modern days, whose works I collect, is Sir
F. Carruthers Gould. His wit, indeed, always of the most good-natured
description, is one of the most valuable assets of the Liberal party,
whilst the very moderation of his sarcasm, combined with an almost
preternatural aptitude for hitting off a situation, makes the work of
this talented caricaturist tell in a quite unusual degree.

The best amateur caricaturist I ever knew was the late Sir Frank
Lockwood, who used every year to send his friends some whimsical design
of his own composition. Among the New Year’s cards which he sent
me—souvenirs I still cherish—the best of a clever series is, I think,
the one I received at the end of 1893. In this Old Father Time is
pictured as a butler holding out a champagne bottle labelled 1894,
whilst another, 1893 sec, lies empty on the ground. Underneath is
written, “A fine wine, and not so dry as the last.” On another, Time—as
a sportsman carrying a dead pheasant, 1895—is shown keenly eyeing an
astonished young bird (1896) perched upon a milestone, the while he
murmurs, “I’ll have a shot at you next, my little man.” Sir Frank
Lockwood was a great loss to all his friends, for a more agreeable,
clever, and cheery companion never lived.

Looking over an old scrap-book of mine I came upon some Italian
caricatures of the carnival at Rome in the old days, when the Pope was
still an independent sovereign. These had been collected when I was
travelling in Italy with my mother about the year 1842. The carnival, I
remember, was not particularly gay. There were immense crowds, and a
perpetual rain of confetti and dead battered flowers, which increased to
a perfect storm when our carriage passed any house inhabited by our
friends. The people of Rome, however, enjoyed it all immensely, and a
young lady said to me, “If Paradise be half as delightful as the
carnival, what can be so happy?” Some English people, however, said it
was more like Purgatory!

During our travels at that time, when going by sea on a Tuscan vessel
from Genoa to Naples, we met Lord Vernon, who was our fellow-passenger
as far as Leghorn. He talked a great deal about Dante, the study of
whose works was his hobby, and also gave us a very lively description of
his interview with the Pope.

His Holiness, he said, after some very complimentary remarks, had
inquired of him how he translated the passage at the beginning of Canto
vii. of the “Inferno”—

“Papé Satan, Papé Satan, aleppé.”[1]

The difficulty, Lord Vernon told us, was overcome by his telling the
Pope that a great diversity of opinion existed as to the passage in
question, and he would therefore be especially grateful to his Holiness
if he, the highest authority possible, would tell him what the exact
meaning of it might be. The Pope, however, who was just as quick at
parrying home-thrusts as Lord Vernon, changed the subject, and pounced
upon another passage, describing the effect of sunshine upon a rock,
which he said he had been able to verify one day near his convent when
he was a Carmelite monk. Lord Vernon then said to him, “Your Holiness’s
observation is most valuable, and, with permission, I will put it in a
note to the translation I am making.” “No, no!” exclaimed the Pope; “non
bisogna mai nominare il Papa,”—“There is no need whatever to mention
the Pope at all.”

Anything which recalls the past becomes of interest as time goes on, and
some of the mementoes of other days which I have carefully preserved
bring vividly back to one’s mind scenes now almost historical, as well
as the people who figured in them.

Programmes of public meetings and menus of banquets are amongst the
trifles which I have collected and kept, and of these I have a
considerable number. The menus I sought for with the greatest eagerness
were those of public lunches or dinners attended by some great orator or
politician, and when I got them I generally managed also to obtain the
signature of the guest or guests of the evening, which naturally adds
very greatly to their interest. Of these souvenirs recalling great
social functions of the past, I have in particular a quantity of the
time of the Jubilee of 1887, which has now become almost an historic
memory. Besides their interest as souvenirs, these menus may one day be
interesting as illustrating the way in which the people of our time
dined. As a matter of fact, there has been very little change in the
number and nature of the dishes served at public dinners and banquets
during the last thirty-five years, as can be seen from some menus I
still retain as a remembrance of the entertainments given to the late
Shah of Persia (that is the one before the last), on his first visit to
this country in 1873.

Other relics which I treasure are certain old cards of invitation to
parties, weddings, and other social functions, which recall to my mind
friends for the most part, alas, long since passed away.

There was a good deal of robust joviality about the weddings of old
days, and the bride and bridegroom always drove away in a chariot drawn
by postillions resplendent in blue jackets and white breeches, and
wearing enormous white favours at their breasts. These, as a rule, were
mounted on what were generally known as “Newman’s Greys”—horses
supplied by Newman, the job-master. A team of four was by no means
uncommon, and very smart and appropriate such an equipage looked. What
astonishment would it not create at a wedding to-day! But the post-boys
and postillions of my youth in their quaint attire, together with
“Newman’s Greys,” have long ago journeyed their last great stage and
left no successors behind them. Their calling has now long been
obsolete, and were they once more to reappear they would attract about
as much attention as men in armour. Lord Lonsdale (I believe, almost
alone) still makes use of postillions, who in yellow jackets and white
beaver hats strike a picturesque note at Ascot and some other
race-meetings which he attends in old-fashioned style.

I remember some amusing stories told in connection with marriages of the
past. There was, for instance, the old peer who, though very proud of
his family, tempered his pride with a considerable sense of humour. One
day he was very much surprised to be told by his sister that she had
conceived a great affection for a well-known though somewhat eccentric
savant who, although generally esteemed, was of very humble Semitic
extraction.

Not quite determined as to what course of action he should take, he sent
for the prospective bridegroom with the intention of talking matters
over, and after some conversation said,—

“And now, sir, I should like to know something about your family?”

“I think it will be sufficient,” was the reply, “to say that I descend
from the illustrious blood of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”

“Oh,” said the peer, “of course our family has nothing to compare with
that! Therefore, if my sister really likes you, you had better take
her.”

The bridegroom became a Christian; but his brother-in-law always
expressed very sceptical views as to this conversion, and would often
say, “Christian—fine Christian, indeed—why, the fellow has
phylacteries sewn into the ends of his trousers.” Nevertheless the
marriage did not turn out at all badly, and proved anything but an
unhappy one.

Another rather amusing story is the one told about an East Anglian
clergyman of the past who was one day considerably embarrassed at
receiving a visit from a lady parishioner who, on entering the room, at
once said that she had come to ask his opinion, as her spiritual guide,
upon a subject about which she felt quite unable to make up her
mind—did he think that it could ever, under any circumstances, be right
for a woman to propose to a man?

Much taken aback, the poor rector replied that he certainly thought
there might be circumstances which would make such a proposal
justifiable; upon which, without the slightest hesitation, the lady
exclaimed, as Nathan said unto David, “_Thou_ art the man!” And, seeing
no possibility of escape, he was.

Norfolk in past times produced many strange types. I remember an old
parson who lived near my brother’s place—a landowner as well as a
clergyman, and one who farmed his own land, thus being what was known as
a “Squarson.” One Sunday his parishioners found affixed to the church
door a notice which said, “In consequence of domestic affliction there
will be no service to-day.” Everybody being naturally much concerned,
sympathetic inquiries were at once made, when it was ascertained that
the domestic affliction was an accident which had happened to a fine
bullock, in consequence of which it had been destroyed, after which the
rector had decided personally to superintend its being cut up. Another
old parson, at one of whose churches service was usually a mere form on
account of the lack of worshippers, found himself deprived of the
services of his ancient clerk, who was well used to his ways. On his
arrival at the church the following Sunday the new one set vigorously to
work at ringing the solitary bell, an innovation which was anything but
to the rector’s liking, as he quickly showed by shouting, “What on earth
are you doing, you fool, you? Don’t you know that if you go on ringing
like that some one is sure to come?”

My brother himself was something of a character, and could give an apt
enough reply when he chose. Two old ladies, cousins of ours, once
pestered him to let them see his country retreat, where he lived a very
solitary existence. Thinking at last to end their importunities, he
wrote saying that they might come and stay for a few days, in reply to
which he was informed that they hoped he would see that some one was
present as chaperon, as it would be hardly proper for them to be all
alone with him. Further correspondence (and their visit also, I must
add) was, however, checked by the brief note which he returned, in which
he said that as, according to computation, their ages and his own
amounted to about two hundred years, he thought that the voice of
scandal was not much to be feared.

People of original character and brilliant intellect were undoubtedly
more frequently to be met with some thirty or forty years ago than is
now the case, when almost every one seems to be cast in a mould of a
more or less mediocre kind.

There was, for instance, Mrs. Norton (who is still remembered on account
of her remarkable cleverness and graceful gift of versification), and
her sister, the beautiful Duchess of Somerset, who had been Queen of
Beauty at the Eglinton Tournament. I knew the latter very well, a most
original woman, possessed of a great deal of the Sheridan cleverness and
wit. Meeting her one day at an exhibition of pictures, one of the
principal features of which was a portrait of Mr. Gladstone, she led me
up to it and, pointing to the picture, a most execrable piece of
painting, said, “At last we Conservatives are avenged.” At one time she
was very much taken with the idea of utilising guinea-pigs as a new sort
of dish, declaring that they were most excellent when cooked, and
actually induced me to try them. I must candidly admit that they really
were not at all bad; she got me a little cookery book entirely filled
with recipes for preparing the curious little creatures for the table.

There does not now exist, I fancy, any brilliant little circle of people
such as in the ’sixties started that curious sheet the _Owl_, though
from time to time attempts at something of the sort have been made.
There was, for instance, the little coterie the members of which called
themselves “the Souls.”

These, I believe, had more or less regular meetings for mental communion
and improvement, and at one time they attracted a good deal of
attention. There were certainly several clever people amongst them, as
well as some exceedingly attractive and good-looking ladies, whose
mental aspirations (so they declared) lay in the direction of a higher
intellectual life than the one led by ordinary mortals.

The late Sir William Harcourt, whose keen and incisive wit was ever very
quick at summing up things at a true valuation, is said, when asked what
he thought of “the Souls,” to have replied, “All I know about ‘the
Souls’ is that some of them have very beautiful bodies.”

I often regret that I did not keep a complete set of the _Owl_; it was a
very clever little publication, and for a time created a considerable
sensation in London society. Originally started by Mr. Evelyn Ashley,
Mr. James Stuart Wortley, and the present Lord Glenesk, it was published
in a small shop in Catherine Street, the first number consisting of but
a single page containing some clever political comments, a little light
and satirical verse, as well as a good deal of amusing chit-chat. The
price was high, sixpence, for it was in no way intended for the general
public, being indeed, at its inception, sent gratuitously to many of the
best known people in London. Its success, however, was so enormous that
the scope of the paper was very considerably enlarged, many celebrated
people becoming contributors, including Laurence Oliphant, and an _Owl_
dinner being held every Monday, at which the forthcoming number of the
paper was discussed. By the public the _Owl_ was regarded more as an
aristocratic literary plaything than as anything else, but whenever it
appeared (for it was published or not according to the inclinations of
its editors) every copy would be sure to be snapped up. The political
information, in particular, contributed by those in the best position to
know, was especially good, and it used to be said, indeed, that the
_Times_ itself was occasionally anything but averse to drawing upon the
notes printed on the _Owl’s_ front sheet, which invariably contained a
good deal of novel and accurate information as to forthcoming events,
both in the parliamentary and diplomatic worlds.

Lord Wharncliffe used frequently to entertain the staff of the _Owl_ at
dinner at Wharncliffe House, occasionally contributing acrostics (for
which he had a natural bent) to the columns of the paper, whilst Lady
Wharncliffe would sometimes send notes as to any current event which
might be of interest to the fashionable world.

In the copy of the _Owl_ published on June 22, 1864, is an amusing
account of a meeting of the staff held at the Star and Garter, Richmond;
it is entitled “The Owls in the Ivy Bush.” On this occasion there were
present the Hon. Mrs. Norton, the Bishop of Oxford (Wilberforce), Lord
Houghton, Mr. Bernal Osborne, Laurence Oliphant, Sir William (then Mr.)
Vernon Harcourt, Abraham Hayward, and some others. A very brilliant
assemblage of wit and intellect, which, I fear, the London society of
to-day (or rather what passes for London society) would be totally
unable to equal.

Some of the jokes and scraps of verse which appeared in different
numbers of the _Owl_ were exceedingly brilliant and amusing, whilst fads
and fancies of the day were dealt with in a very humorous fashion.

The following lines, for instance, were published in the _Owl_ at the
time when Mr. Banting’s system of reducing fat was a general subject of
discussion:—

“BANTING IN INFERNIS”

Here lies the bones of him whose strife
Was how to drop the staff of life:
Falstaff he was; survivors he has shown ’em
How “nil” to leave “de mortuis nisi bonum.”

In another number is a witty riddle also dealing with the eminent
upholsterer in whose instructions for producing a reduction of weight
the fat people of 1864 placed so much trust:—

“Why is Lord Palmerston like Mr. Banting?” “Because his present measures
are far smaller than the clothes (close) of last session would warrant.”

My cousin, Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, is one of the few survivors of that
brilliant band who were contributors to the _Owl_, and no doubt will
have much that is amusing and interesting to say about it in the volume
of Memoirs which he has at last been persuaded to prepare for
publication. Unrivalled as a _raconteur_, Sir Henry was a constant guest
at my luncheon-table in the ’eighties, when almost every Sunday
three-fourths of the Fourth Party, that is to say, Lord Randolph
Churchill, Mr., now Sir John, Gorst, and Sir Henry used to give me the
pleasure of their company, to the delight of all who chanced to be
present.

Those were the early days of the Primrose League, the immediate success
of which put us all in very good spirits. A little later on, at the time
when the League as a political force was beginning to make its influence
felt, the late Comte de Paris became much interested in its methods,
conceiving the idea that some organisation of a similar kind might be
formed to promote Orleanist interests in France. He questioned me a good
deal about the League, I remember, and I referred him to my daughter,
who, ever an ardent worker on the Conservative side, thoroughly
understood its machinery. As a result of his inquiries, a French “White
Rose League” was soon afterwards formed, the badges being in the form of
a gilt rose, specimens of which we received and still retain. France,
however, manifested little enthusiasm at this attempt to breathe new
life into Royalist circles, and after a short time nothing more was
heard of the White Rose League, which soon relapsed into an obscurity
from which indeed it can hardly be said to have ever really emerged.

The originator of the Primrose League, as is well known, was Sir Henry
Drummond Wolff, who from the first received enthusiastic encouragement
from Lord Randolph Churchill, then a brilliant pillar of the
Conservative party, and full of political energy and intellectual
strength. An audacious conversationalist when in a good mood, few were
able to excel him in quickness and facility of expression, whilst he
would at times exhibit a gaiety which was very contagious. Nevertheless
Lord Randolph would never allow the tone of the conversation thus
engendered to degenerate into familiarity, and would be quick to resent
any approach to it. He always seemed to me as being a man who was
secretly conscious that he must make his mark quickly. Who can tell that
some foreboding of his premature end did not loom before him? Socially
his personality was a very striking one, and that personality he managed
to impress upon the electorate within a very short time of his entry
upon a political career. He realised, as it were, I think, that
advertisement (I am not speaking in a sense derogatory to his memory)
was necessary in a democratic age, and well advertised he was. The
newspapers were filled with his portraits and doings, whilst his
twirling moustache proved a never-ending subject of amusement to the
caricaturists. Theatres and music halls rang with references to
“Randy-Pandy,” who at one time was certainly the best known figure in
England. Then came the fall, brought on, I believe, by his conviction
that the Conservative Government were absolutely unable to do without
him. Bismarck it was, I think, who said, “no man is indispensable, every
man can be replaced,” or words to that effect, but Lord Randolph held a
different opinion.

Considering himself absolutely necessary to the very existence of the
Conservative party, the selection of Mr. Goschen to fill his place came
upon him as a complete surprise, for he had left that politician quite
out of the calculations which he had made.

Lord Randolph’s exclamation on learning that his resignation as
Chancellor of the Exchequer had been accepted is well known to
everybody, but the words “I forgot Goschen” were not the only ones which
were used by him.

Mr. Walter Long (who may now be called the chief hope of the
Conservative party) chanced to be present when Lord Randolph received
the first intimation of what was practically his political doom, and the
following is the true version of what occurred.

Mr. Long was that day in the smoking-room of the Carlton Club, sitting
with Lord Randolph, when the latter, who had just heard the news that
Lord Goschen (then, of course, Mr. Goschen, and not an M.P.) had
accepted the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, exclaimed: “All great men
make mistakes. Napoleon forgot Blücher, I forgot Goschen.”

I may add that it is with Mr. Long’s consent that I publish the true
version of a somewhat dramatic historical episode.

-----

[1] This is a line of exceedingly obscure meaning. Pollock in a note
translates it, “Ho, Satan! Ho, Satan! my Alpha or Chief!”

Society—Conversation and the lack of it—Miss Gordon Cumming and
Munro of Novar—The Duke of Wellington’s hatred of publicity—
Sir Robert Peel’s wedding at Apsley House—Mr. Delane—An
eccentric patron—A curate’s wit—The Stock Exchange and the
West End—Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar’s drive home—American
influence—Lions—Mr. Watts and the crinolette—Matchmaking—
Lady Beaconsfield—Some anecdotes—Lord Henry Lennox and the
Duchess of Cleveland—Maria, Marchioness of Ailesbury—Frances,
Lady Waldegrave.

Society in old days cannot in any way be compared with the motley crowd
which calls itself society to-day. A witty Frenchman of the eighteenth
century once said that in perusing the memoirs of the time of Louis XIV.
one discovered, even in the bad company of that age, something which was
lacking in the good of his own day—a remark which with but slight
alteration might, with justice, I think, be applied to the society of
to-day as compared with that of fifty or sixty years ago. To-day it
would be difficult to discover accurately who is in or who out of
society, or, for the matter of that, whether society itself
exists—though, of course, many little coteries of people think that
they, and they only, are the leaders of the fashionable world.

In old days society was led by certain recognised rulers who framed its
ordinances, against which there was no appeal; whilst it was entertained
by men whose capacity for wit and brilliant conversation was universally
admitted—individuals, indeed, who ruled with almost undisputed sway and
retained their power even when age had somewhat dulled their wits.
Society was quite content to listen, and it was not considered good
manners to resent being told things one knew perfectly well even by
people who did not sometimes know them at all. Now, however, everybody
chatters; it is not talkers that are wanted, far from it; but listening
is almost a lost art. The general tone of modern conversation is,
without doubt, much lower than it was in the days of the great talkers
of the past—inane flippancy being treated in much too lenient a manner.
The general impression given by those who habitually indulge in it
always seems to me to be that they are not quite sure that they are
ladies and gentlemen, and are therefore perpetually engaged in trying to
laugh it off.

On the other hand, the conversational autocrats of other days were far
too dictatorial, and, in many cases, undoubtedly checked general
conversation owing to a secret fear of incurring their displeasure and
evoking some verbal castigation not at all conducive to social
enjoyment.

The professional conversationalist, who in former days did really exist,
has now long since passed away. To-day he would be voted a bore, for his
social qualifications were not such as would render him popular in the
modern world, in which every one likes to share in the conversation,
which for the most part deals with trivialities.

The great talkers of old days, bold of speech and ruthlessly outspoken
at times, were especially deft in making use of banter, a weapon of
which, when necessary, they availed themselves with terrible effect.
This banter, let it be understood, was quite a different thing from the
chaff of to-day, which in most cases is little more than silly comment
on personal peculiarities, or criticism of a very primitive and obvious
kind which sometimes sinks to the level of childish teasing. A good
maxim which should never be forgotten is that to chaff any one up to
such a point that the victim loses his temper, places the assailant in a
very awkward and uncomfortable position, whilst demonstrating his
complete mental inefficiency in that particular line in which he has
been attempting to indulge.

It should never be forgotten that one angry or even irritated individual
will completely spoil a dinner-party. The difference between a clever
talker and one who delights in saying things which embarrass and annoy
is much the same as that which exists between a first-class fencer and a
bungling assassin.

In these days, when the art of conversation is little understood, it is
no infrequent thing to encounter hosts and hostesses who wilfully check
conversation by remarks, in many cases well meant, such as, “Now we will
talk of something else,” “Don’t you think we have heard enough about
that?” and other verbal stupidities which affect the good talker like an
icy blast.

The necessity for such crude methods can never really exist, for it is
perfectly easy to lead a conversation away from one topic to another by
almost imperceptible gradations which do not entail that awful silence
which is the solemn requiem of social enjoyment. After a pause of this
kind general conversation is difficult to revive, and then it is that a
bold and even an assertive talker is especially valuable in order to put
every one at their ease. In connection with this subject I cannot help
telling a little story which will exemplify what I mean.

Miss Gordon Cumming, a lady noted for her independence of speech, would
at times make very apposite and amusing remarks. Years ago there was a
certain Scotch gentleman, Munro of Novar, who was well known for his
carelessness as to dress, which indeed amounted almost to eccentricity.
He was, by the way, the possessor of a very fine collection of pictures,
which were sold in order to help the Turks in their struggle against
Russia in 1878, by his successor and heir, Mr. Butler Johnston, M.P.,
who was a warm and generous supporter of the Ottoman Empire. This
gentleman, I remember, created a great sensation by making a most
admirable speech in the House of Commons, which at the time caused
people to predict a great political future for him. His health, however,
broke down and nothing more was heard of him, for, becoming an invalid,
he withdrew from public life and died not very long afterwards of
consumption. Munro of Novar was, as I have said, very unconventional in
his attire, and usually managed to display a considerable amount of
shirt between the ending of his waistcoat and the beginning of his
trousers. This snowy space was one evening especially noticeable. During
dinner, for some reason or other, an awful pause in the conversation,
amounting practically to a dead silence, occurred, when Miss Gordon
Cumming, raising her voice, suddenly remarked, “I beg to call the
attention of the company to the very lucid interval between Novar’s
waistcoat and his trousers.” This utterance, naturally provoking
uproarious laughter, caused the chieftain in question to make the
necessary adjustment in his dress, and put every one into a good humour.

The general level of conversation in the so-called society of modern
days must, of necessity, be low, for society, or what passes for it, is
now very large, whilst wealth is more welcome than intellect. Good
conversation, therefore, is practically non-existent. The majority of
people, indeed, would, I think, quite frankly admit their incompetence
in this respect, perhaps adding that serious conversation is a bore,
which is true enough when an attempt is made to indulge in it by those
who have never learned anything and never wish to learn. To such the
world appears much as it does to that species of lizard which, from
having lived for ages in dark caves, has no power of sight.

In former days the love of publicity, which is such a conspicuous
feature of modern life, had little or no existence, and people, for the
most part, disliked the chronicling of their doings by the Press—an
aversion which can hardly be said to flourish at the present time. The
second Duke of Wellington, in particular, was especially averse to
attracting public notice of this kind, and was once very angry at a full
account of a social function which had taken place at Apsley House
appearing in a daily newspaper—one, I may add, of the very highest
class.

When the late Sir Robert Peel was married to Lady Emily Hay (the
Duchess’s sister), the wedding breakfast took place at Apsley House, to
which, as usual, no Press representatives had been invited. What was the
Duke’s horror, therefore, to read the next day in his morning newspaper,
a full account of the proceedings, together with a report of such
speeches as had been delivered! He was absolutely furious, and knowing
that I was a friend of the proprietor of the paper, came round to see
me, in a towering rage, to try to get me to discover the culprit. “I am
sure,” said he, “one of these newspaper fellows smuggled himself in and
lay under the table whilst the breakfast was going on.” In spite,
however, of my strenuous efforts, the miscreant was never discovered,
much to the annoyance of the Duke, who for years would never speak to
the owner of the paper—a dear friend of mine, who happily is still
alive.

Some time after this the latter told me that, to avoid any other
incident of this kind occurring, he had given strict orders that no
report of any social festivities whatever should appear unless
accompanied by the written permission of the hosts, and I rather fancy
that the rule in question still holds good.

At that time, of course, the Press was not regarded quite in the same
light as it is to-day, and the majority of its representatives were
viewed with a good deal of suspicion. Mr. Delane, however, was an
exception to this, and was everywhere warmly welcomed in society. I
often went down to parties which he gave for Ascot races at a house
which I believe is now tenanted by the Jockey Club, and also used to see
a certain amount of him in London. Well do I remember his once saying to
me in connection with some troubles which he was describing: “Ah! you
have no worries; your path is strewn with rose-leaves, and those
carefully ironed out.”

The fear of public opinion which now exists had little influence upon
certain people in old days. There were many who held very tenaciously to
the doctrine that with their own they could do absolutely what they
liked. Such a one was the peer who, when thwarted, would occasionally
display an almost injudicious independence of action which gave rise to
many stories, of which the following is one. He had several livings in
his gift, but having become a Catholic found that owing to his change of
faith the law prohibited him from presenting any one to them. This, for
some reason or other, particularly annoyed him, and he determined to
have the matter thoroughly investigated, when he found that this
prohibition only applied to Catholics: a Buddhist, Mahometan, or even an
avowed Agnostic could present—a Catholic patron alone could not do so.
More angry than ever at this discovery, he then conceived the idea of
advertising these livings for sale, giving especial instructions that a
proviso should be inserted that “no Christian need apply,” the
consequence of which was that, as he used gleefully to narrate, he
eventually sold the rights of presentation to a Jew.

Whilst on the subject of presentations to livings, I remember an old
story of a bishop and his chaplain which may possibly bear repetition.

A bishop was once having a discussion with his chaplain as to the exact
nature of wit, and defied him to explain it. The chaplain in reply said,
“Your Lordship will see that I can easily do that. The rectory of ——
is vacant, give it to me. That will be wit.” “If you can prove it,”
answered the bishop, “the living shall be yours.” “It would be a good
thing well applied,” rejoined the chaplain, and by his nimbleness of
mind gained the coveted appointment.

It was in the ’seventies that two new and powerful forces began to make
their influence felt in society, for about that time Americans—of whom
formerly comparatively little had been seen—began to come to London in
considerable numbers, and then began those Anglo-American marriages
which are now quite common. About this time also the Stock Exchange
began to make itself felt as a social power outside the City, whilst
several young men—pioneers of that vast body who now every morning
migrate from the West End to their various offices—declared their
intention of adopting the City as a regular career. Before that time
hardly any one in the West End of London understood anything about
stocks and shares. Whether, on the whole, London society has gained much
by this departure seems a somewhat doubtful question. Many younger sons,
it is true, have found a means of making a livelihood; but, on the other
hand, many elder ones have, in consequence of unsuccessful speculations,
been compelled to look about for one. Directly the City mania obtained a
firm grip upon what was practically virgin soil, people began to make
much of every one whom they thought capable of pointing out an easy path
to wealth; and many shrewd business men, who hitherto had never dreamt
of forcing the strongly guarded portals of society, were not slow in
taking advantage of such a state of affairs. In almost every case they
obtained more than they gave, and the ample hospitality which they
dispensed brought in a rich harvest of speculators, who, with childlike
confidence, eagerly rushed into any and every venture. They fondly
dreamt that with the advice of their new-found advisers wealth beyond
the dreams of avarice was now really within their grasp; but the hopes
of only a very few were realised, and the large majority burnt their
fingers very severely by over-indulgence in speculation.

At the time when rich aliens were first beginning to be admitted into
society a little incident was the cause of much amusement to the late
Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar. One wet evening during the season Prince
Edward, coming out from the opera and just about to step into his
carriage, spied a foreigner of very humble extraction, who had amassed a
considerable fortune in the City and was noted for his hospitality,
vainly searching for his brougham. The poor man was in a state of
despair bordering on distraction, and as the financier in question
lived, like Prince Edward, in Portland Place, the latter, who was the
kindest of men, very courteously offered him a lift home.

The offer was accepted with many expressions of the most profuse thanks;
but as the carriage rolled on Prince Edward gradually began to be
somewhat alarmed at the behaviour of his companion, who began carrying
on a long conversation with himself of a solemn and prayer-like nature.
Listening more attentively, the Prince at last was able to make some
meaning out of the broken sentences, which, uttered in a sort of
Dutch-English, produced a sort of weird, wailing effect.

“A broud tay indeed,” the man was saying, “a broud tay for me and mine.
Oh dat my boor mother had been sbared to see me dis night, triving side
by side with a Brince of the blood!”

Now, I fancy, Anglicised foreign financiers take these sort of things
more or less as a matter of course. No one, indeed, is at all surprised
at meeting people of uncertain nationality, one or two at least being
certain to be included in every fashionable party. To do these
individuals justice, most of them, after a mysterious process of
Anglicisation, become public-spirited men, whilst the great majority
yield to no one in vaunting the superiority of the Englishman over the
foreigner.

At the same time, with the influx of the rich foreign element into
English society has come a new conception of life altogether, and wealth
as the ultimate end of existence has been placed upon a pinnacle which
it never occupied before. In one respect, however, there can be no doubt
but that the new English have deserved well of their newly adopted
country: this is in their magnificent gifts and bequests to hospitals
and charities, acts of generosity which must silence much criticism.

On the whole, I think the influx of the American element into English
society has done good rather than harm, whilst there are many old
families which, both in mind and pocket, have been completely revivified
by prudent marriages with American brides. At the present day, so close
has the union between ourselves and the United States become that
Americans are hardly looked upon as foreigners at all, so many people
having American relatives; but in old days things were quite different,
and we rather dreaded the social influence of a people whom we did not
know. Bright and vivacious, it may with justice be said that it is by
the American girl that we have been conquered, for she it is in reality
who has brought about the excellent understanding which now exists with
the great people beyond the Atlantic.

In the late ’seventies and early ’eighties society was very fond of
“lions”—a taste which, I fancy, has rather decreased during recent
years. People vied with one another in getting celebrities of different
kinds to come to their lunches, dinners, and parties, and I fear that I
must plead guilty to having joined in the prevailing craze, which, as a
matter of fact, was no new one as regards myself, for I have always
liked to meet out-of-the-way or remarkable people. On one occasion,
however, I received what I must confess was a well-merited reproof. I
had arranged a luncheon-party, one of the guests being a well-known
lady—well-known on account of her beauty,—and it suddenly struck me
that my old friend Mr. Watts, a great admirer of perfection in the human
form divine, might like to meet her. So I sent him an invitation, to
which the following was the reply:—

LITTLE HOLLAND HOUSE,
_28th March 1884_.

DEAR LADY DOROTHY—Many thousand thanks. I am pleased to meet
remarkable people, especially those from whom I can profit, and
I delight in beauty, but I have little interest in those who
become famous from accident, so I should prefer to come and _see
you_ and a few old (or new) friends such as I had the pleasure
of finding at your house the day when I enjoyed myself very
much. The amusement you so kindly offer me in this case would be
in the indulgence of curiosity, not a nice feeling to be
encouraged towards any one who wears a crinolette; so please
give me another opportunity of so pleasantly paying my respects
to you,—And believe me to be, dear Lady Dorothy, yours
sincerely,

G. F. WATTS.

Possessing a mind which was essentially of a very high and elevated
type, Mr. Watts could not bear the thought of a lady being, as he
thought, “trotted out” as a curiosity, which I fancy my letter had led
him to believe was the object of the lunch, though, of course, such was
not really the case. The reference to the crinolette—that monstrosity
which seemed to be designed in emulation of the Hottentot form—sounds
strange to modern ears. It is to be hoped that this artificial
protuberance—hideous, uncomfortable, and supremely ridiculous—has now
for ever disappeared.

The crinoline, a much worse monstrosity, once nearly cost me my life
owing to the one I wore catching fire. It was, of course, nothing but a
revival of the hooped petticoat of the eighteenth century, and was
introduced, as far as I remember, by the Empress Eugénie. The name
originated, I think, from the _crin_ or horsehair of which the crinoline
was made; though it is also said to have arisen from a milliner who
invented it and was called Madame Crinoline; but such a story is, I
think, based upon no solid foundation.

Matchmaking mammas, perhaps, existed in greater numbers formerly than
to-day, when young ladies are so advanced that they are well able to do
their own matchmaking.

Many were the stories told of a certain lady who, clever, shrewd, and
good-natured withal, yet made little secret of her intense desire to
marry off her daughters, a feat which she duly succeeded in performing.
Once at a ball given in a very beautiful mansion, at which, however, the
decorations were more select than the company, a gentleman whom she knew
came up to her and said, “Ah, Lady ——, what a beautiful house this
is.” “It is, indeed,” was her reply; “but remember my daughters don’t
dance with the house.” On one occasion, however, it was declared her
matchmaking schemes had been thoroughly baffled by a certain young peer
who, rich and extremely nervous, seemed likely to succumb easily before
her attacks. His very nervousness, however, proved his salvation. The
lady one evening met him at a party, and, dragging the unfortunate youth
into an adjoining boudoir, opened fire with, “I must tell you that I
have frequently remarked your attentions to . . .”; but she was not
allowed to proceed further, for, breaking into her speech with a sudden
and extremely nervous rush, her would-be victim, with the words “Pardon
me, but I promised my dear mother never to flirt with a married woman,”
made for the door, and thus unwittingly escaped from confirming the
proposal which he had never made.

In after-years, when all her daughters were satisfactorily married, this
lady used to say, “Only give a sensible woman three wet days in a
country house, and she’ll marry her daughters to any one.”

Formerly, of course, English society was not nearly so cosmopolitan as
it is to-day, and there were many people quite ignorant of foreign
manners and customs, which were looked upon with a certain amount of
contempt.

The late Lord Clarendon used to tell a story about Lady Beaconsfield.
Her husband had introduced her to a distinguished Frenchman, and the
latter, wishing to be very civil to the Prime Minister’s wife, made an
attempt to kiss her hand as she advanced to shake hands with him, upon
which, not caring for this foreign mode of salutation, she drew her hand
away, at the same time saying, “Monsieur, ce n’est pas propre.”

This rather amusing incident has, I fancy, been more than once described
as having happened to other ladies, but as a matter of fact Lady
Beaconsfield was really the perpetrator of the blunder in question.

In former days there was generally some one person in London society who
was credited with saying the most ridiculous things and making absurd
mistakes in conversation. Mrs. Hudson, the wife of the famous railway
king, was, I believe, the Mrs. Malaprop of her day, but I never met her.
Another lady, however, who flourished during the ’seventies and
’eighties, when she entertained very largely, undoubtedly did
occasionally say things which were ludicrous in the extreme, and in
consequence caused other similar things which she had not said to be
attributed to her. It was positively asserted, for instance (and perhaps
with truth), that at the beginning of one season she had made the
somewhat startling announcement that she was going to give two big
balls—one for the _beau-monde_, the other for the _demi-monde_, by
which somewhat doubtful appellation she merely meant to indicate the
people who were not quite at the very top of the social tree. Many
stories also used to be told of what this poor lady had said at a dinner
at the British Embassy in Paris. Seated next to a Frenchman, who was
freely talking in his own language on a subject which she deemed better
unheard by the footman behind her chair, she is supposed to have pointed
at the servant, who she knew understood French, whilst she murmured in a
low voice, “Prenez garde, le derrière de ma chaise comprend le
français.”

Another lady, newly admitted into society, having sent a card to Lord
Cassillis (whose name is pronounced “Cassells”) for a ball she was
giving, was afterwards very indignant at some one remarking, “Cassillis
seems getting on very well with your daughter,” and at once went round
the ballroom saying, “I never asked that publisher to come at all.”

Then there was the gushing lady who, after a dinner-party where the
Chinese Ambassador and his wife were amongst the guests, found herself,
as she thought, sitting next the Ambassadress, over whose gorgeous robes
she went into an ecstasy of admiration, at first evoking nothing but a
mysterious smile from the object of her praise. When, however, she
proceeded to even greater lengths in the way of caressing gush, the
supposed Ambassadress at last significantly placed a finger upon her
lips, and, pointing with the other hand to where another quaint Chinese
figure was sitting, quietly murmured, “Takee care, my wife velly
jealous.”

The old Duchess of Cleveland—not the one who lived at Battle Abbey; she
had been Lady William Paulet—was a great character in her way, very
stiff and precise in her manner of talking, as well as abominating all
familiarity, such as calling people by their Christian names. Lord Henry
Lennox, I recollect, used to delight in irritating the old Duchess by
making use of slang expressions, which never failed to call forth from
her the remark, “May I inquire, Lord Henry, whether, when you have
completely mastered the language of the servants’ hall, you mean to
adopt its manners as well?”

Another lady, whose straight upstanding figure, deep voice, and striking
appearance can never be forgotten by those who knew her, was Maria,
Marchioness of Ailesbury, who, to the end of her life, sported a mass of
corkscrew ringlets, which fell in abundant masses around her somewhat
aquiline and commanding profile. In great request in society, she
frankly declared that she would go to no country house unless she could
stay a fortnight, as otherwise “it would not pay her.” She lunched and
dined out to such an extent that it was currently, and, I believe,
truthfully, reported that she herself kept no cook. Her only
extravagance was engaging tall footmen—any man about six feet high who
attracted her attention being promptly engaged, no matter what his
character might be. These footmen she herself used to put through a sort
of military drill, with a view to imparting to their actions that grace
and dignity to which she attached so much importance.

Frances, Lady Waldegrave, who was the daughter of old Braham, the
singer, was a woman of very determined character, and not a bit ashamed
of her origin. She would often jokingly say, when present at a party at
which any curious or unknown people were amongst the guests, “I am sure
every one will say they are some of my vulgar relatives.” It is rather a
strange thing that in days when society was still somewhat aristocratic
and exclusive. Lady Waldegrave and Lady Molesworth, both with no
pretensions to good birth, should have been rivals in leading it.

Lady Waldegrave expended huge sums on the decoration, or rather
destruction, of Strawberry Hill, which she filled with heavy gilt
furniture literally crowned with coronets. She also employed a very
indifferent painter to paint pictures of her friends. These works of art
were totally out of place at Strawberry Hill, where they produced the
worst effect imaginable. Art indeed was not at a very high level during
the Victorian era, for though there were some good artists, there were
many very bad ones as well.

III

Country houses—Letter from Lord Beaconsfield—Political influence
of landowners—Guests down with the fish—Longleat—
Hinchingbrooke—Goodwood—Old-time country visitors—Colonel
Nelthorpe and “Wulliam”—the Norfolk Militia in the ’fifties—My
father and Casanova—A good-natured giant—Old Lady Suffield—
Lord George Bentinck—Admiral Rous—George Payne and Lord
Alexander Lennox—Religion of the former—The Duchess of
Cleveland and Battle Abbey—Anecdotes—Duke William of Normandy.

The country houses in England may be said to be a unique national
possession, for in no other land does the same sort of mansion
exist—that is to say, a more or less commodious dwelling for the most
part of considerable antiquity, surrounded by an estate which affords,
or rather did afford, the owner sufficient and congenial occupation in
the form of sport. France has her historic châteaux, and before the
Revolution had a certain number of country houses with parks
approximating somewhat to those existing in the England of to-day; but
few have survived the great upheaval of 1789, and little land remains
attached to most of those that have.

The old houses and stately mansions of England form a valuable artistic
possession, and many of them have been utilised as the scene of their
work by our authors and novelists. Who can forget Brambletye House and
the Mistletoe Bough of Harrison Ainsworth? Thackeray also drew his
picture of the palace of the Marquis of Carabas from some stately,
though it must be admitted, cheerless country mansion; whilst, as the
following letter shows, the grounds of Bulstrode furnished Lord
Beaconsfield with his description of Armine in _Henrietta Temple_:—

HUGHENDEN MANOR, _April 17, 1865_.

DEAR DOROTHY—We came down here with our own horses; the first
time for many years. How delightful after railroads! We baited
at Gerrard’s Cross, twenty miles from town, and then strolled
into Bulstrode Park to see the new house the Duke of Somerset is
building in that long-neglected but enchanting spot. There,
though they told us we should find nobody but the clerk of the
works, we found the Duke and Duchess, who had come down for a
couple of hours by rail from Slough, and so they lionised us
over all their new creation, which is a happy and successful
one—a Tudor pile, very seemly and convenient, and built amid
the old pleasance which I described thirty years ago in
_Henrietta Temple_; for Bulstrode, then mansionless and
deserted, was the origin of Armine. Excuse this egotism, the
characteristic of scribblers even when they had left off work.
Adieu, dear Dorothy.

In the days when landlords were able to live upon their estates and were
content with a more or less simple country life, enlivened only by an
occasional party of their friends, the country house was no
inconsiderable political force. The views of its possessor, indeed,
greatly influenced the neighbourhood, whilst as a rule a fairly
contented tenantry followed their landlord—Whig or Tory—and voted
according to his lead; besides this they took a genuine interest in
everything which concerned him or his family. To-day this has ceased to
be, for the rich city men or American millionaires are but seldom in
touch with those living around their mansions, hired either for sport or
pleasure. The modern standpoint as regards country life is well
demonstrated by the remark of a lady whose husband had bought a country
house, and was told that some pleasant people lived in the country-side
near by. “Pleasant or not, it matters little to us,” was the retort; “we
shan’t see anything of them,—we shall get our friends down from London
with the fish.” Nor is such a standpoint to be wondered at when it is
remembered how little a permanent resident in the country can be in
touch with those whose whole life is a rush for pleasure and amusement,
a habit of which they not unnaturally cannot divest themselves even when
far away from town. Formerly country-house life was very quiet, perhaps
even humdrum, but within the last thirty or forty years it has undergone
a complete transformation.

In old days the possessors were wont to reside upon their estates for
the greater portion of the year, whilst the people who hire country
houses merely run down for week-ends in the summer and shooting parties
in the winter.

The modern practice of letting one’s country house would have appalled
the landed proprietors of other days when such a thing was yet undreamt
of. There was then, of course, a real bond of connection (very often one
of respectful sympathy) between a landlord and his tenants, which,
except on a very few estates, has now quite ceased to exist.

At present the majority of country squires are far too poor to resist
letting their places, which are naturally regarded much in the light of
a commercial asset, their sale-value for the most part consisting in
their capacity for affording some city magnate or American millionaire
the shooting or hunting necessary to amuse him in the intervals of a
life of business and speculation. Country life, or rather short spells
of it, has now become a sort of luxury of the rich; but few of any
considerable means care to reside for long periods in the country, as
was the case in old days when people regularly settled down there.

In the late Lord Bath’s time I used to go a great deal to Longleat, the
beautiful palace—for it is little less—built by Sir John Thynne, the
favourite of Somerset, some of whose letters beginning “Edward,
Protector by the Grace of God,” are still preserved in the house. The
fourth Lord Bath was very much interested in politics, and many
interesting people used to assemble under his hospitable roof. I well
remember being at Longleat on the occasion of an election at which the
present Lord Bath was standing as a candidate. His successful election
was greatly assisted, every one in the house believed, by a canvasser of
a race which has always been prominently to the front in political
matters—a donkey—over whose back two panniers were slung, in each of
which reclined one of Lord Weymouth’s children, whilst the legend, “Vote
for Papa,” was prominently displayed.

Lady Bath and her husband were the very perfection of what a host and
hostess should be, and besides the social pleasures of these visits
there was always the beautiful park to drive about in, a veritable feast
to the eye in itself, especially the picturesque spot very appropriately
known as “Heaven’s Gate.”

It was only the other day that I was once more at Hinchingbrooke, the
lovely old place where many years ago I used to go and stay with a most
delightful friend of mine—the mother of the present Lord Sandwich.
Besides being a charming conversationalist, she had a most unusually
lovely voice—indeed the famous Costa used to say that he had hardly
ever heard a finer. The house is a wonderful old place, filled with
magnificent pictures, whilst there is a quantity of marvellous old
letters and manuscripts in the library. I remember going there to meet
the present Duchess of Devonshire just about the time that she made her
first appearance in England. She was then in the full radiance of youth
and beauty, creating a sensation wherever she went.

Another country place of which I have many pleasant memories is Goodwood
House. Especially well do I remember the elaborate and splendid
festivities which took place at the coming of age of the present Duke of
Richmond, on which occasion the old English custom of roasting an entire
ox was observed. The rejoicings lasted an entire week.

It was no uncommon thing before the days of easy railway travelling for
a friend of the family to reside almost permanently in a country house.
I remember such a one at my father’s house in Norfolk—Colonel Nelthorpe
by name—an old bachelor who might well have stepped out of one of
Fielding’s novels. This old colonel had a room known as Colonel
Nelthorpe’s room, and a stall for his horse in the stables, both of
which were always kept vacant and ready in view of his arrival during
such brief periods as he might choose not to reside at Wolterton. His
servant, whom he addressed in tones such as we might fancy Squire
Western would have employed, he called “Wulliam,” and to “Wulliam” went
the whole of Colonel Nelthorpe’s not inconsiderable fortune, a bequest
which somewhat staggered my poor mother, who, though as a rule a most
unworldly woman, had in this instance conceived an idea that the old
colonel would be sure to leave his fortune to her two little girls (my
sister and myself), for whom she declared he had always shown a distinct
partiality. When we were alone with this old veteran in the country all
the tit-bits were for him; but her attentions were lavished in vain,
for, as I have said, nothing came to us, and all went to “Wulliam.”

My father’s friendship with Colonel Nelthorpe (one of the ugliest men,
by the way, I ever remember) had been in a great measure caused by their
being jointly associated for a very long time in the command of the West
Norfolk Regiment of Militia, now the 4th Battalion Norfolk Regiment.

My father commanded this battalion for years, whilst Colonel Nelthorpe
was its lieutenant-colonel right up to his death, at a great age, in
1854, having served in that capacity for about forty years. In 1815 he
had commanded a detachment of the regiment which had been sent to
Ireland, and the year before he died, at the age of eighty-two, he took
part in the annual training, on which occasion, the Peace Society having
circulated much anti-military literature, the militiamen were openly
reproached, hooted, and ridiculed in the streets of Norwich. It was to
this battalion of militia that Captain Borrow, the father of the
celebrated author of _Lavengro_, acted as adjutant for forty-two years,
whilst one of George Borrow’s brothers, who died in Mexico, also served
in it as a lieutenant.

Colonel Nelthorpe belonged to another age, and my father also had a wide
experience of a world the ways of which are now almost totally
forgotten. As a very young man, in the first years of the nineteenth
century, he had met Casanova at Vienna, where he had a prolonged
interview with him—an interview which impressed him unfavourably and
gave him but an unpleasant opinion of that prince of adventurers, whom
he declared to be testy and disagreeable. In justice to Casanova,
however, it must be added that my father would fly into a rage upon the
slightest opportunity, and in addition nurtured a supreme contempt for
all foreigners. The meeting, therefore, between the diminutive and
irritable English peer and the gigantic Venetian (who, in his last
years, as is well known, was in the habit of constantly getting into
tempers on account of imaginary insults) could hardly have been expected
to pass off in perfect peace.

The sight of a foreigner, indeed, as a rule sent my father into a rage,
for he seemed almost to resent the presence on earth of any other
nationality except the British. Notwithstanding this, however, he for
some years had a Russian valet—an importation from St. Petersburg,
where he had been _chargé d’affaires_ three years before the battle of
Waterloo. This valet, of colossal height and formidable appearance, was
by nature the mildest of men, as was shown by the sweet and almost
caressing smile which he would oppose to the storms of abuse which were
wont to rage around him when anything had gone wrong. Never, perhaps,
were his looks sweeter than when, as a finale to a tirade of unusual
vehemence, my father would say, “Let it happen again, and as sure as I
stand here I will throw you out of the window.”

My father was well known as a character in that part of Norfolk in which
he lived, and his friend, old Lady Suffield, known as the “Double Dow,”
who resided not far away, was another. This old lady had most
aristocratic ideas,—quite those of another age, indeed, for she simply
could not bear to think of people of inferior birth being allowed to
break down the social barriers, which, according to her, should rigidly
fence in the aristocracy, and more especially the person of herself.

On one occasion, when present at an assembly at the county town
(Aylsham), she was horrified to discover that two local men, sons of a
successful miller and merchant in that place, had obtained admission,
and it was not long before she gave a very pointed demonstration of her
resentment by exclaiming in a loud voice, “It is most unpleasant here. I
can hardly see across the room for the flour dust.”

She herself at her advent into this world had been the victim of great
resentment on the part of her father, the Earl of Buckinghamshire, who,
when he was apprised of her birth by his butler, is said to have
somewhat gloomily replied, “Then you had better go and drag the baby
through the horse-pond.” He was, it must be added, not unnaturally very
much annoyed at the birth of a girl, instead of a male heir who should
succeed to his estates.

Old Lady Suffield, besides presenting my father with her picture by Sir
Thomas Lawrence, also gave him a mat or rug which she herself had
worked. In old days ladies spent a good deal of time in making carpets
and the like. At Wolterton was a carpet, cross-stitch, worked all in one
piece, by my great-grandmother, Lady Walpole; whilst a tablecloth and
twelve dinner napkins were reverently preserved on account of having
been spun by her.

Needlework carpets were much valued by the families to whom they
belonged. There is still, I believe, at Croome a portion of such a
carpet which once covered the floor of a boudoir in the family mansion
in Piccadilly, now long since passed into other hands; whilst at
Apethorpe, in Northamptonshire, there used to be a very large needlework
carpet which had been presented to that Lord Westmoreland who was
Ambassador in Vienna, having been worked by the ladies of that city by
way of especial compliment.

The “Double Dow” and her ways carried one right back to the eighteenth
century, to which she in reality belonged, having been married in 1792.
Nevertheless she lived well into comparatively modern days, dying only
in 1850.

Living at Blickling in stately splendour, old Lady Suffield always drove
up to London, despising the railroad as being a vulgar innovation. In my
youth the post-chaise still flourished, and my father constantly
travelled in one.

Well do I remember seeing Lord George Bentinck waiting for him in a
post-chaise standing outside our house in London. He had come to fetch
my father, as they were both going to drive down to Newmarket together.
This, I think, was the only occasion on which I got a good look at this
handsome pillar of the Turf, as he was in those days, and the two things
I remember about him were his voluminous cravat and the delicate
moulding of his hands, one of which (the very perfection of form, I
thought) rested on the ledge of the open window of the chaise.

In 1846 a great dinner was given to Lord George at Lynn, at which my
father, who was then High Steward of the town, presided. Mr. Disraeli
was present, and made a speech which received a most enthusiastic
reception.

Two great friends of my father were Admiral Rous and George Payne, both
staunch supporters of the Turf, and therefore in complete sympathy with
his desire to win the Derby.

Admiral Rous, who died in June 1877, had left the Navy some forty years
before, principally, I believe, on account of the scant recognition
which a considerable feat of seamanship performed by him, under the very
greatest difficulties, had received from the authorities at Whitehall.

Setting sail from Quebec in command of the _Pique_, his ship struck upon
a reef off the coast of Labrador, and was only got off in a terribly
damaged condition, the rudder being practically torn away.
Notwithstanding this, Captain Rous ran three thousand miles to Spithead
in twenty days, the vessel making about two feet of water an hour the
whole time, which entailed tremendous exertions at the pumps on the part
of the crew, who would undoubtedly have abandoned hope had it not been
for the indomitable spirit of their commander.

Admiral Rous was a great opponent of high betting, which he always
declared meant ruin to the Turf. Like many of his contemporaries he
hated tobacco, the smoking of which he considered almost an
ungentlemanly act. Besides being devoted to racing, the old Admiral
would never acquiesce in the modern view of cock-fighting, which he
defended to the end in the most uncompromising manner. To-day the race
of men of whom he was a type has totally disappeared, for modern England
does not breed them; but whether such a state of affairs is for the
country’s good seems to me a very doubtful question. Bluff and
straightforward, totally devoid of superficial sentimentality, such men
expressed the very spirit which has made that British Empire which a
feebler and more sentimental generation, prone to much prattle of
humanitarian and socialistic fads, would seem desirous of destroying.

George Payne, who lived not far away from us in Queen Street, Mayfair,
was another man whose whole existence may be said to have centred in the
Turf, though, unlike Admiral Rous, the attraction with him lay a good
deal in the betting. Nevertheless, unflinchingly honourable and
high-minded, Mr. Payne was a great deal more than a mere gambler.

Many are the stories that have been told of his distaste for going to
church; yet at heart he was anything but an irreligious man, as the
following anecdote will show. The late Lord Alexander Gordon Lennox was
one night returning from some party with Mr. Payne; it was very late,
and both were very tired. Reaching the latter’s house, Lord Alexander
said, “Now, old fellow, you will be in bed in five minutes”; to which
the answer was “No.” “Why,” continued the original speaker, “whatever
are you going to do?” To which George Payne replied, “I am going to say
my prayers. I always have a bucket of cold water in my room, and if I am
very tired, put my head in it to waken me up to say my prayers.”

Lord Alexander also used to say that George Payne would never stand any
young fellow saying anything against religion at the club, but would at
once flare out at the offender.

There are, indeed, many people like George Payne, who, whilst they may
not be regular churchgoers, are yet at heart religious in the best sense
of the word. A certain gallant officer, for instance, who commanded a
battalion of the Guards, though not very fond of going to church, used,
when in the country, to make a practice of going for a long walk alone,
during which he would indulge in meditation. On one occasion he was
attacked by some one who, in the course of his oration, said, “Why, one
would think you soldiers had no souls to save!” The author of this
somewhat impertinent homily was, however, completely routed by the
good-humoured answer which the Colonel in question made. He calmly
looked the lecturer in the face, and merely remarked, “Mayn’t a man save
his soul by the way he likes best?”

As a matter of fact Satan is willing enough to let men go to church on
Sunday provided they work for him the rest of the week, as I fear many
outwardly religious people do!

In his career upon the Turf George Payne was peculiarly unfortunate from
a financial point of view; as is well known, he completely dissipated
two fortunes. By no means really astute, he would back a number of
horses in a race in the—usually delusive—hope of making sure of the
winner, a mania which cost him much.

It used to be computed by those well able to judge that Mr. Payne had
spent a fortune alone in the hire of chaises and horses in the time
previous to the introduction of railways, for it was his practice to
spare no expense in order to get from one place to the other with the
greatest speed possible.

My father himself was never particularly successful at racing, though he
won the Two Thousand Guineas and once ran second for the Derby. When he
did win a race, however, every one on the estate knew it, for he would
at once set to work upon his favourite project of enlarging the lake in
the Park. On the other hand, whenever fortune chanced to show herself in
an especially unkind mood, which was very often the case, all the men
employed at this work would be at once dismissed, whilst the most rigid
economy would prevail till such time as another horse managed to get
first past the post.

By no means an uncultivated man, fond of pictures and of art generally,
racing and its attendant betting was, nevertheless, my father’s master
passion. To him Newmarket was a very Mecca and, wherever he chanced to
be, at home or abroad, the loadstone towards which his thoughts were
perpetually directed.

The old Duchess of Cleveland (mother of Lord Rosebery), a lady dowered
with no mean intellectual gifts, lived to a very great age, being well
over ninety at her death. She was possessed of a considerable sense of
humour, and used to tell several entertaining stories of the many
visitors who were always coming over from Hastings to see Battle Abbey.
When the Duke of Cleveland first took possession, he naturally acceded
to the request of the Hastings Corporation that the Abbey ruins should
be open to the public once every week, and on the first public day eight
hundred people arrived, swarmed all over the place, and were only
prevented from entering the Duchess’s own boudoir by the determined
attitude which she assumed, advancing against the intruders with the
fury of her eye rendered doubly formidable by the huge pair of
spectacles which she habitually wore. The notes she used to receive from
visitors were sometimes very curious; one individual, for instance,
wrote saying that he considered he had a right to go over the Abbey at
all times, as one of his ancestors had fought at Hastings, and he
himself had been christened “Norman”! Another, a lady, wanted to know if
anything very pretty had been found at the spot where Harold fell, as in
Rome she had seen such lovely ornaments found in the tombs there. This
rather reminds me of another lady whom I once heard saying that her
favourite study was the history of the Moors in Mexico, and the relics
they had left behind there.

People used to be very fond of boasting to the Duke and Duchess of their
Norman descent, amongst others Mrs. Grote, who, when at Battle in 1867
with her aunt and the celebrated historian, declared that she was a
lineal descendant of Harold’s younger brother, “Earl Leofwine,”—a name
which in the course of time had been transformed into Lewin.

At one time, over the fireplace in the Abbots’ Hall was a stuffed black
horse, which used to be pointed out to visitors as the identical animal
which had carried William the Conqueror at the battle of Hastings. In
reality the horse in question had never carried any one more celebrated
than Sir Godfrey Webster, and then only at a review.

The arrangements at Battle Abbey in the time of the Duke and Duchess did
not err in the direction of excess of comfort. The Duke was inclined to
economy, and the Duchess, an extremely clever woman, was so much
immersed in various intellectual interests, mostly of an archæological
kind, that she did not trouble to give much attention to household
management. Matters were allowed to take their own course more or less,
with the result that on one occasion the French Ambassador, on his way
from the station to the Abbey, was delayed by the breaking of the
carriage pole, which collapsed owing to extreme and untended old age. It
was, certainly, no place for sybarites, who generally agreed with the
quotation from the Litany which a witty and luxurious member of the
Foreign Office once wrote in the visitors’ book—

From Battle, murder, and sudden death, Good Lord deliver us.

At the same time great care was devoted to the remains of the old
buildings, which, wherever possible, were as judiciously restored as the
taste of that day permitted.

There is something singularly attractive in the country-side around
Battle Abbey, by reason of its having been the site of that great
struggle which really created England—the battle of Hastings. It was on
Caldbeck Hill, on the evening of the 14th of October 1066, that the
Norman trumpets blared forth their pæan of victory.

The right of power, as an old historian says, had been tried by the
great assize of God’s judgment in battle. England had been beaten, but
by the very fact of her defeat was to develop into a greater England
than ever any of Harold’s Saxon thanes would have dreamed possible.

Here on this hill Duke William, having caused his standard to be set up,
stood amongst his Barons and Knights “solemnly rendering thanks to the
King of Glory, through whom he had the victory—mourning also frequently
for the dead.” An appropriate place, indeed, would this be for a statue
to the great Norman whose memory as the real maker of England deserves a
recognition which it has never obtained. Underneath might well be
inscribed the words which he addressed after the battle to his faithful
old follower, Walter Giffard, Lord of Longueville, near Dieppe—

I thank God we have done well hitherto, and if such be God’s
will, we will go on and do well henceforward.

Lady Holland’s girlhood at Battle Abbey—Her “court” at Holland
House—Her relationship to myself—Her ways—Her insolence—
Anecdotes—Lady Palmerston—Cobden and Lord Palmerston—Lord
John Russell—Lady Jersey and Lady Londonderry—Their social
inluence exerted in favour of Mr. Disraeli—Letters from Lady
Beaconsfield—Her dinners—Lord Lyndhurst and Mr. Disraeli—
Interesting letter from the latter—His difficulties in early
life—His opinion of Mr. Gladstone—An ingenuous diplomatist.

Battle Abbey was purchased by the Duke of Cleveland, then Sir Harry
Vane, in 1857, but within the last few years it has once more become the
property of the Webster family, the present Sir Augustus Webster, with
admirable devotion to the traditions of his line, having repurchased it
when it was put up for sale.

At Battle Abbey once lived the celebrated Lady Holland, who, as
Elizabeth Vassall, daughter of a rich Jamaica planter, became the wife
of Sir Godfrey Webster, the fourth baronet. As a matter of fact, young
Lady Webster was prevented from living in the Abbey itself by Sir
Godfrey’s mother, the Dowager, being made to reside with her husband in
a little house close by; and with the intention of driving away her
mother-in-law, the bride, it is said, attempted to frighten the old lady
by arranging ghostly manifestations and sounds in the Abbey. These,
however, proved of no avail, and merely increased the quarrel between
the old and the young Lady Webster. In the end, indeed, matters reached
such a pitch that Sir Godfrey took his wife abroad, with the result that
at Florence she met Henry Fox, third Lord Holland and the nephew of
Charles James Fox, with whom she eventually eloped.

Old Lady Holland at one time held a sort of “court” at Holland House.
Owing to her elopement, as may well be understood, she was never
received at St. James’s; nevertheless, she was made a great deal of by
the leading ladies of the Whig party, who used to crowd to her evening
receptions, and her youthful escapade was in latter years almost totally
forgotten or overlooked. I well remember being taken to see her, and, on
the occasion of these visits, though imbued with great awe, I did not
find her the terrible old woman of whose sternness I had heard so much;
she was, as a matter of fact, very nice to me. The old Duchess of
Cleveland used, very amusingly, to tell how, as a girl, she once paid a
visit to Holland House, and was treated with the greatest sternness by
its mistress, who cross-examined her (so she would declare) exactly as
if she had come straight out of a charity school, and expressed the
strongest disapproval on learning that her young visitor was allowed a
sitting-room as well as a bedroom in her father’s house. “I think it the
greatest of mistakes,” said Lady Holland, “to allow girls so many
luxuries—unless you marry well you will feel the difference.” In
after-years the Minerva of Holland House sent a message to the Duchess
to come and see her “as an old acquaintance,” but the latter, mindful of
the snubs she had received as a young girl, bluntly refused to go. To
me, as I have said, Lady Holland was most affable; my sister and myself,
however, it should be added, had gone to see her at her special request,
my brother being just engaged to marry Lady Holland’s grand-daughter,
Miss Pellew, whose mother, Harriet, was the daughter born of her first
marriage with Sir Godfrey Webster. In order to prevent her child from
being claimed by its father after her divorce, Lady Webster, as Lady
Holland then was, had caused it to be hidden away; she then pretended it
was dead, and actually had a funeral service performed over the body of
a kid, after which Harriet Webster returned to her mother’s house as an
adopted child. The sham burial is alluded to by Byron, who wrote:—

Have you heard what a lady in Italy did,
When to spite a cross husband she buried a kid?

Many were the stories of her dictatorial ways and passion for
interfering with and upsetting everybody. At times, indeed, she was
positively insolent. She was declared, for instance, on one occasion
when a very shy young man was sitting next her at dinner, to have
plunged her hand into his pocket, drawn out his handkerchief, and, with
a sniff of disgust, given it to the servant behind her chair, with the
words, “Take that to the wash!” In Count D’Orsay, however, Lady Holland
met her match, for, seated next him at dinner during the early days of
his residence in England, she kept letting her napkin slip from her lap,
expecting that the awestruck young foreigner would continue to keep
picking it up, as a commanding motion of the hand on each occasion
directly indicated. Polite at first, he soon wearied of what he
discerned to be no accident but a mere piece of impertinence, which was
effectually checked by the words, “Should I not do better, Madam, to sit
under the table in order to keep passing you your napkin more quickly?”
Lady Holland’s passage-of-arms with the Belgian minister, M. Van de
Weyer, is probably better known. With characteristic bad taste she
jeered him about the Belgians, saying, “Les Belges! Qu’est ce que les
Belges? I never heard of them.” “Madam,” was his grave reply, “it was
some one called Julius Cæsar, a pretty clever fellow, as you may have
heard, who called them by that name.”

Lady Holland could not brook the slightest opposition to her wishes, and
would ever attempt to overcome any obstacles which might stand in the
way of her will. On one occasion, whilst at Tunbridge Wells, she heard
that no stranger was ever allowed to visit Eridge Castle—which, I
believe, up to my cousin’s father’s day was actually the case.
Accordingly, she never rested till she obtained leave to inspect it, and
when this was accorded, marched through the place in triumph with a
large party, in which her maid was even included. Her behaviour, indeed,
even when staying at other people’s houses, was dictatorial in the
extreme. Once, when at Brocket on a self-given invitation to a party
with old Lord Melbourne, she completely upset the household and
installed herself exactly as if she were at home. Her room, as it
happened, chanced to be on the first floor, the windows completely
surrounded by the magnificent flowers of a splendid magnolia. Lady
Holland, however, did not appreciate their scent, which, as she
afterwards casually told Lord Melbourne, was too strong; and, without
asking permission, ordered every blossom to be cut off within
twenty-four hours of her arrival.

In spite of these very unlovable traits of character old Lady Holland, I
believe, had many good points, the chief of which was that she never
bore malice against those who refused to submit to her iron rule.
Indeed, the contrary rather was the case, and those who firmly stood up
to her in no way fell into her bad graces. A staunch and faithful
friend, she was long remembered with gratitude and regret by those who
had known her well, and, in spite of all her faults and her dictatorial
ways, she contrived to make Holland House the resort of the most
cultivated, learned, and clever society of her day.

Although Lady Holland did not owe her position as presiding genius at
Holland House to any especial distinction as a brilliant
conversationalist or wit, she occasionally made some very trenchant and
clever criticisms. Of two old people (a devoted couple who, it was
notorious, had been lovers for many years whilst the wife’s first
husband was yet alive) she said: “Is it not pretty to watch them—they
almost make adultery respectable!”

Lord Holland—a mere cypher in the household—was a man of great
geniality and charm, and no doubt this largely contributed to the
attraction of his wife’s parties. He, poor man, would as soon have
thought of asking any one to dinner without first consulting her as of
attempting to fly. This, perhaps, was no bad thing, for he was so
good-natured that had he been allowed to invite people as the fancy
seized him, Holland House would have been perpetually suffering from a
very invasion; as it was, the dinners there were far too crowded, many
of the guests having to find places at a side-table. Lady Holland, who
liked to do out-of-the-way things, very often chose to dine about two
hours earlier than any one else, alleging her weak health as an excuse,
but, as Talleyrand said, there was probably another reason—to upset
everybody; this she loved to do, not from caprice, but in order to show
her power.

Wielding great social influence, though of a totally different kind from
that exercised by Lady Holland, Lady Palmerston is still remembered by
those who knew her as the most admirable hostess possible to conceive.
At Cambridge House in old days she used to give the most charming
parties imaginable—indeed, I liked them best of all those which I
remember. There is no doubt that her tact and her advice were often of
great political service to her husband.

Lord Palmerston himself was a most adroit man of the world, and besides
this there was in his character a certain not unpleasant mixture of
French levity combined with English familiarity. His social qualities
served him in excellent stead in his political life, for he had a manner
of speaking to people, even to those he did not know, which conveyed the
impression that their name, constituency, and even their family were
perfectly well known to him. By these tactics, and also by asking the
wives of M.P.’s to his parties, he was able to do a great deal in the
way of retarding the passage of any measures which, for a time at least,
he might not be anxious to see pressed forward.

Mr. Bernal Osborne was often a terrible thorn in the flesh to Lord
Palmerston, although nominally a strong supporter of that statesman,
under whom he served as Secretary of the Admiralty in 1857. Towards the
close of his tenure of this office Mr. Osborne, however, became very
dissatisfied, and used to complain that his post had been reduced to
something very like a mere head-clerkship, his duties being limited to
registering minutes of the Board by day and furnishing silent notes by
night. Mr. Osborne, of course, was by nature opposed to control of any
sort, and being, above all, a political free-lance, the holding of
office in any form was quite unsuitable to his disposition, interfering
as it did with those onslaughts for which he was so well known in the
House of Commons. Later on in life he became a trifle more restrained in
his utterances, age causing him to regard everything with more patience.
His long experience of politics, he once said, had sobered him so much
that he could spy good qualities in every one—even in bishops.

Lord Palmerston was a politician in whom the country, as a whole,
reposed the utmost confidence. Though a Liberal, he was a regular John
Bull, and neither “retrenchment” nor “reform” was, I think, particularly
dear to him; whilst, as was well known, any slight to England would be
met with very spirited remonstrances during his tenure of office. There
were those indeed who assailed his Government as not being Liberal at
all. Bernal Osborne, for instance, roundly attacked the Army Estimates
in 1860, when he was particularly severe upon Aldershot, which he
described as “an indifferent preparatory school for forming indifferent
generals.” Later on, when the House had gone into Committee, Osborne
declared that Lord Palmerston (who had characterised his assailant’s
remarks as light and violent) was suffering from the effects of the
Mansion House dinner, combined with the larger doses of colchicum taken
to combat them. Lord Palmerston received this attack in a perfectly
bland manner, merely retorting that colchicum was sedative rather than
exciting, and consequently more suitable to the Honourable Member than
to himself. On another occasion Mr. Osborne applied to Lord Palmerston
the lines—

He frolics with the burden of four score,

adding that the Prime Minister’s fault, nevertheless, was not age but
youth, as was shown by his extravagance—a youthful folly. “He is
indeed,” added he, “never satisfied unless he is squandering the public
money.” This was a pleasantry which Lord Palmerston did not relish at
all, and, it was said, never forgot.

Mr. Cobden disliked Lord Palmerston as a politician, and would often say
to me, “Whatever I may do the old rascal will always insist upon calling
me his honourable friend.” As a matter of fact, Lord Palmerston once
offered the great Free Trader a baronetcy, an offer which was without
hesitation declined.

Lord John Russell was a totally different man, both in manner and
appearance, from Lord Palmerston—short, stumpy, and not at all
good-looking. I only recollect having met him once, on which occasion, I
must say, he was most agreeable. This was at a time when he had taken
Tennyson’s house near us in the country. A great friend of Lord John’s
happening to be one of our guests, it was suggested that we should all
go over in a party, which we did, and were most kindly received. I
especially remember some one pointing out to me a writing-table in the
library with two enormous stains of ink splashed on each side of the
blotting-book. “They are rather remarkable ink-stains,” said my guide;
“the Poet Laureate made one, and the Prime Minister has made the other.”

Bernal Osborne was always giving Lord John nicknames in the House of
Commons. One of these was “a political Mrs. Harris,” another “Dr.
Sagrado.” His Irish policy in particular provoked some extremely
sarcastic attacks from Mr. Osborne, who once declared that it differed
as little from that of the Conservatives as Tweedledum differed from
Tweedledee. “Drainage seemed to him the only thing upon which the
Liberal Cabinet was agreed—a set of Commissioners of Sewers was what it
really was.”

As a girl I was much at Lady Jersey’s house in Berkeley Square, having
been a great friend of her daughter’s. The great lady of her day, she
wielded considerable social influence, which she used, whenever
possible, in favour of Lord Beaconsfield, then plain Benjamin Disraeli,
and not particularly favoured by society in general. As a matter of
fact, Mr. Disraeli had rendered Lady Jersey an important service, having
taken great trouble to assist one of her relatives under peculiarly
delicate circumstances. This she never forgot, and did everything she
could to help him. Another great lady who also lent her aid to the young
politician was Lady Londonderry, who used to hold a sort of court at
Holdernesse House (now Londonderry House). Here she would receive her
guests sitting on a daïs under a canopy. To me she was always most
affable, but I could not with truth say that, as a general rule, she
took much trouble to entertain those who came to her receptions; indeed,
she exhibited great hauteur, and sometimes took little notice of them.
Some great ladies in old days (but not the very clever ones) gave
themselves great airs; small wonder, when they were brought up to think
they were the very salt of the earth. One there was whose behaviour at
her parties was so frigidly condescending that people used to ask one
another, “Are you going to see Lady —— insult her guests to-night?”

Nevertheless, as I have said, Lady Londonderry joined with Lady Jersey
in doing everything possible to assist and push on Benjamin Disraeli,
with the result that their efforts were eventually crowned with success.
I remember Lady Chesterfield (who, after Lady Beaconsfield’s death, was
a devoted friend of the great statesman; indeed he wanted, and I think
actually proposed, to marry her) saying to me how strange that she
should not have known Dizzy in old days. But it was not so strange after
all; for at the beginning of his career there were many who fought shy
of him, and later on certain people disliked his wife. Lady Beaconsfield
was, however, a dear friend of mine, and I was much grieved at her
death. Her handwriting was, I think I may say, the worst I ever saw, so
different from her husband’s, which was firm, clear, and easy to read.
Nevertheless, she wrote bright little letters, which gave one excitement
as well as pleasure, for to discover their meaning was much like
deciphering a cuneiform inscription. The following is a specimen of her
style:—

GROSVENOR GATE,
_May 9, 1859_.

MY DEAR DOROTHY—I have a portrait same as yours. Under mine is
written in old English letters: “Forti nihil difficile”—nothing
difficult to the brave—which I put because it is Dizzy’s motto,
and I think he has earned it. At the back of the
portrait—“Dizzy, 1859.” It stands on my table in one of the new
sort of frames. He will write his name on the portrait if you
prefer it. Town is going to be very gay, at least the Palace.
Comte Persigny comes here as Ambassador very soon, to our
party’s great dismay. Duc de Malakoff very sorry to go—kiss’d
Lord Malmesbury on each cheek! When are you coming to town?
Dizzy begs his love to you, and kind regards to Mr.
Nevill.—Affectionately yours,

MARY ANNE DISRAELI.

She wrote to me frequently with regard to politics, in which she took
great interest:

GROSVENOR GATE,
_February 15, 1860_.

DEAREST DOROTHY—I was so glad to see you bright and strong this
morning, and I hope you will come to town very soon. You have no
idea of the excitement about this unpopular budget—a great
meeting at Lord Salisbury’s—Lord Derby spoke beautifully.

The Government consider themselves in danger; your young friend,
Dizzy, is in fine fighting form.

Most affectionately yours,
M. A. DISRAELI.

I have said that Lady Beaconsfield’s handwriting was the worst I ever
saw; but, on reflection, I think such a statement is inaccurate—my own
is worse.

When I lived in the country, in Sussex, I used at one time to educate a
few poor girls at a school which I had built for their benefit. When
their education had gone on as far as seemed necessary, I used to try
and find good places for them; many turned out treasures, a few did not
do me much credit. One, a very nice girl, I thought was likely to suit
the person to whom I sent her—a famous doctor. He asked her several
questions which she answered satisfactorily, but when she produced her
character, written by me, it was returned to her, after a brief perusal,
with these ominous words: “I cannot take you now, for I am sure this
letter must be a forgery—no lady could have written it.” The poor girl
came back to me crying, and not knowing quite what to do. By means,
however, of a personal interview, I was able to convince the doctor that
the letter was no forgery, and everything was put right.

At the dinners given by Lord and Lady Beaconsfield, the guests were for
the most part either politicians, or people connected with politics, to
which one might say the host devoted his whole life. Most of these
dinners, Lady Beaconsfield told me, were furnished by a caterer at a
fixed price of so much per head, and I well remember her declaring how
annoyed she was with my brother (who always accepted every invitation,
and invariably excused himself at the last moment on the grounds of
impending death) at his having, after the most solemn assurances, played
her his usual trick. “He might,” said she, “just as well have made me
throw a sovereign into the Thames,” for this was the price per head at
which her contract was made. They were not at all bad dinners from a
gastronomic point of view, though in these luxurious days I suspect they
would not be thought very much of. The Beaconsfields were in no way
luxurious people, nor did they care for art, which did not then excite
as much attention as to-day, when every one appears to be more or less
interested in house decoration, collecting, and the like.

Mr. Disraeli’s marriage to Mrs. Wyndham Lewis was of great use to him in
his political career, for, his own means being anything but
considerable, the fortune which was thus at his disposal saved him from
much trouble and worry; whilst Mrs. Disraeli, being absolutely devoted
to her husband, was always delighted to assist him in every possible
way. I well remember, however, his being very much annoyed at a remark
made by Mr. Bernal Osborne, which somehow got round to his ears. “After
all, Dizzy only likes his wife out of gratitude.” As a matter of fact
this was far from being the case, for, though fully appreciative of what
he owed to his wife, the great statesman was also completely devoted to
her. As a proof of Dizzy’s carelessness about money, and almost culpable
lack of mercenary precaution, I may add that to the best of my belief
(though he well knew that Lady Beaconsfield’s fortune must return to her
husband’s family after her death) he never took the trouble to insure
her life. He was indeed absolutely devoid of all calculating financial
instinct, though shrewd and clever enough in all matters which might in
any way assist his political career. I have already told how he
contrived to secure Lady Jersey’s support; in another way he managed to
conciliate Lord Lyndhurst, for, recognising how valuable the latter’s
aid would be, Dizzy, who stood high in a certain lady’s graces, forbore
from paying his court to her on perceiving that he was regarded as an
unwelcome intruder by his older rival. By this self-sacrificing
behaviour, he secured a most valuable political patron and ally.

Lord Beaconsfield’s long friendship with me was in a great measure
caused by his sincere affection and regard for my dear brother, the late
Lord Orford, with whom he was ever on the most intimate terms, as the
following graceful letter will show:—

2 WHITEHALL GARDENS, S.W.,
_December 28, 1876_.

MY DEAREST ORFORD—A little line to thank you for remembering
me. One likes to be remembered by those whom one never forgets.
I am here alone, at this dreary season, in consequence of the
confusion in those waters where we once passed happy hours. I
was going to pass my Xmas at Weston with our friends the
Bradfords, and then to Trentham for a few days, when my
Sovereign Lady appealed to me not to leave her at this moment,
and declared it an act of high imprudence for myself and Derby
to leave town at this conjuncture.

Our friends, the Turks, are better diplomatists than Europeans
in general, and the affair will probably be longer than the
common mind imagines. It requires one’s wits about one. I feel
as if sailing on a sea full of torpedoes. My profound conviction
is, that the Russians dread war, and never contemplated it
except with a crowd of allies. When the pinch comes they find
themselves quite isolated, and Mephistopheles Bismarck scarcely
suppresses his laughter when he beholds that gentle Faust, the
Emperor of Russia, struggling in his toils. But to get them out
of the scrape with honour, _Hic labor, hoc opus est_. There must
be a golden bridge, and if necessary, it must even be gilt:
every possible facility—perfume on the violet.

I hope you are well and tolerably happy.—Remember sometimes,
your affectionate

BEACONSFIELD.

Lord Beaconsfield in his early political days, it must be remembered,
had many difficulties of a widely different sort with which to contend.
In addition to the disadvantage of not being favourably looked upon by
many, some did not scruple to call him a mere dandy who should not be
taken too seriously. Later on he had to educate his party, being
obliged, as was once rather wittily said, “to drag an omnibus full of
country gentlemen uphill.”

His Reform Bill of 1859 even excited a certain amount of ridicule. I
remember it being described as “a piece of Downing Street millinery,”
whilst his “Fancy Franchise,” as it was called, was declared to be “not
at all the thing for the people of England.” A more serious criticism
called it “change without progress.” It is very difficult to say what
Lord Beaconsfield’s real view of politics was, but my own impression is
that he was deeply attached to the traditions of government by
aristocracy, the romantic side of which appealed to his imagination and
nature. At heart I think he feared the eventual triumph of a sort of mob
rule, the coming of which it was ever his object to delay. Undoubtedly
in his last years he was extremely pessimistic as to the future, having,
rightly or wrongly, no particular confidence in the political sagacity
of an English democracy, the judgment of which he thought could be
easily swayed by unprincipled and specious agitators.

Always most guarded in his references to his great opponent, Mr.
Gladstone, and speaking very little about him at any time, Lord
Beaconsfield without doubt entertained a real and sincere distrust of
him as a politician, quite apart from any question of rivalry. There
were times, I know, when the Conservative leader was more than half
inclined to think that the Liberal policy was being dictated by no sound
mind, a conviction which is fully supported by certain references to
being “governed by Colney Hatch,” which Lord Beaconsfield made to a very
dear relative of mine. Mr. Gladstone, indeed, owing to his habit of
saying things which he afterwards declared were never meant to convey
the meaning which was naturally to be drawn from them, caused many
people who were not under the spell of his marvellous fascination to
wonder whether the Grand Old Man’s intelligence had not become more or
less unbalanced. He had a habit of saying things which, taken literally,
meant much, but as a number of them were often but pious opinions, it
was better to assume that they meant nothing at all. To take Mr.
Gladstone too seriously was sometimes very dangerous, as I believe a
foreign diplomatist of singularly trustful nature once discovered. From
a conversation with the Grand Old Man the secretary in question, then
_chargé d’affaires_, formed the impression that the evacuation of Egypt
by England was merely a question of a comparatively short time. Was it
not an act of justice dear to Mr. Gladstone’s heart? Bursting with joy
at this noble utterance, this somewhat ingenuous diplomat, in spite of
warnings from more worldly colleagues, at once informed his Government
of the glad tidings, which Government, making serious inquiry into the
matter, of course discovered that England had not the slightest
intention of removing one soldier from the land of the Pharaohs. The end
of the whole affair was that the unfortunate and confiding diplomatist
fell into great disgrace, and was eventually practically obliged to
abandon his career.

Bernal Osborne once nicknamed Mr. Gladstone the “Milo” of politics, a
name which certain events at the end of the Grand Old Man’s political
career rendered singularly appropriate. Milo of Crotona, the Greek
athlete famous for his strength, perished, it is said, owing to his
hands becoming fixed in a cleft of a tree which he had endeavoured to
rend in twain. Mr. Gladstone’s political life, or at least tenure of
political power, was ended by his having become entangled in the Home
Rule movement and by the efforts which he made to cleave in two that
Parliamentary bond which, in spite of his endeavours, still holds
England and Ireland together.

Mr. Osborne himself held some very original views as to the Irish
question, being particularly opposed to the system of government by a
Viceroy, which he deemed obsolete and demoralising, besides tending to
bring Royalty into contempt. Dublin Castle, he declared, was regarded by
both Conservatives and Liberals as a political club, of which the
Viceroy was merely a temporary manager, a _roi fainéant_ with no real
power. The British monarchy in Ireland, he once said, is in reality
embodied in the not very agreeable form of the Judge at the Assizes, who
puts on the black cap. Mr. Osborne always maintained that occasional
visits from the Sovereign would effect a great deal in conciliating the
Irish people, by nature inclined to poetry and sentiment.

A memorandum by Napoleon—English opinions concerning him in other
days—His effigy burnt at Norwich—The Chevalier de Bardelin—
Interesting relics at Highclere—My sight of Marie Louise—The
Emperor at Mass—His love of church bells—Sir Henry Drummond
Wolff’s visit to Elba—Hears recollections of Napoleon’s
gardener—Anecdotes—The Emperor and General Lecourbe—Baron von
Kleist—Mr. Manning—Napoleon in London—“The Midnight Review.”

Amongst the odds and ends which I have pasted into different volumes I
found the other day a memorandum, dated _28ème Pluviôse, an 4 de la
République_, addressed to the Minister of War and signed by Buonaparte,
at that time General-in-Chief of the Army of the Interior. The
memorandum in question deals with a request for increased pay made by
certain officers, which General Buonaparte declares, on account of _la
modicité de leur traitement_, to be _fondé et légitime_. The signature
of the great captain is a very original one, the letters running very
much together, and the whole ending with a double and determined
flourish. Looking at it my mind wandered back to the days of my
childhood when Napoleon was still remembered as having been a terrible
and dangerous foe to this country.

It is difficult, indeed, for those of a later generation to realise the
feelings of Englishmen of even seventy years ago towards our
neighbours—now our friendly allies—across the Channel. To those who
had lived through the time of the Napoleonic wars France was ever a
rapacious and world-enslaving country, only awaiting another Buonaparte
to make a descent upon the shores of England.

To-day the name of the great Emperor, now almost a mythical figure,
arouses as much admiration here as across the Channel, but to those who
had actually experienced the feeling that a French invasion was
immediately imminent, the French were brigands and Napoleon merely
“Boney”—feared, hated, and despised.

In the early years of the nineteenth century, when all England was in
daily anticipation of a French invasion, Norwich was not behindhand in
publicly demonstrating its hatred of the Corsican tyrant.

At a celebration of his defeat in 1813 an effigy of Buonaparte was
burned in the market-place, whilst a year later another effigy, loaded
with fetters, was paraded in processions both at Yarmouth and Thetford.
On the restoration of the Bourbons there was a great demonstration in
the market-place at Norwich, the church bells being rung and bonfires
lit, whilst amidst uproarious cheering the Chevalier de Bardelin, for
some twenty years an exile from France who had supported himself by
giving drawing and French lessons at Thurgar’s school, took his seat on
the mail coach, free, as he said, once more to return to his beloved
France. He received a real old English farewell, horses, guard,
coachman, and passengers being decorated with the emblem of the
Bourbons, the white cockade. Before he came to Norwich (where he was
universally popular) the Chevalier de Bardelin had been a _garde du
corps_ of Louis XVI., in which capacity he acted at Versailles on that
memorable day, October 6, 1789, when the mob from Paris nearly
assassinated the King and Queen. In 1816 M. de Bardelin married a
Norfolk lady, Miss Sutton, and until his death in 1852, at the age of
eighty-five, he kept in constant communication with his Norwich friends,
whom he always delighted to welcome on their visits to France. His
daughter became the Baroness de Fabry.

As late as 1843 there died at Lynn a man who had been a schoolfellow of
Napoleon, and who in the days of his boyhood was said to have taken part
in many a rough and tumble with him. This was Mr. Peter Lewis Dacheux,
who, having many years before immigrated into England, had, as a Roman
Catholic priest, long attended to the religious wants of such of his
co-religionists as resided in the old Norfolk town.

There are a good many relics of Napoleon in England. At Hertford House
is the table on which was signed the Treaty of Tilsit, whilst in the
library of Highclere Castle, the beautiful home of Lord Carnarvon, is
shown the table and chair used by the Emperor when putting his signature
to the act of abdication at Fontainbleau. On the right arm of the chair
is an “N,” roughly cut as if with a penknife, said to be the work of
Napoleon himself, it having been a well-known habit of his to cut almost
mechanically an initial upon the arm of his chair whilst pondering over
the various schemes which perpetually occupied his mind.

My father possessed a very fine bust of the Emperor by Canova, but what
has now become of it I am quite unable to say. I also remember at
Wolterton a print of Napoleon, given to my uncle, General Walpole, by
the lovely Pauline Borghese—this, fortunately, my nephew, the present
Lord Orford, still retains.

It is curious to read of the difference which Napoleon showed in his
treatment of Marie Louise and Josephine. The former he sometimes allowed
to enter his _cabinet de travail_, whereas Josephine would never have
been permitted to set foot in it. The Emperor in all probability allowed
his Austrian consort more latitude on account of her royal birth, for of
the two women Josephine without question was the better loved of the
two.

Oddly enough, I can say that in a sort of way I once saw the Empress
Marie Louise. In 1843, when travelling on the Continent with my parents,
we stopped an evening at Villach, a town in Germany just on the Italian
frontier. There was at that time no railway, and the very evening we
arrived the ex-Empress Marie Louise was expected at seven o’clock,
having sent on orders for horses to be in readiness. I remember that the
postillions in the courtyard were in a great state of excitement, being
helped to don their state liveries by the bustling damsels of the inn.
Everybody, indeed, was eagerly expectant, but all had to wait till nine
o’clock before Marie Louise arrived, and when she did come all our hopes
of seeing her were dashed to the ground, for it was too dark to see
much, except the four exceedingly dusty carriages which conveyed her and
her suite.

A certain number of the numerous portraits of the Emperor were drawn
from life whilst he was at Mass. This was said to be the best time to
catch his expression. Couder sketched him thus in 1811, and Girodet
twice in 1812, whilst many other portraits of him are known to have been
inspired during this religious function. During Mass Napoleon stood,
according to the military custom, with his arms folded and his eyes
glancing in all directions. He made little pretence of following the
service or taking any especial interest in it, never knelt, but stood,
grave, serious, and meditative. In front of him, at a _prie-dieu_, knelt
the Empress, to whom he would occasionally stoop down and address a
remark. On the whole his attitude was in no way irreverent, and
contrasted very favourably with that which Louis XVI. is reported to
have adopted in the Chapel of Versailles, where some English visitors
were scandalised at seeing the King laughing and joking with the Comte
d’Artois.

The Emperor’s attendance at Mass was accompanied with considerable
ceremonial. On each side of the altar in the chapel a grenadier stood on
guard, whilst a roll of drums announced the entry of the Emperor and
Josephine. The whole building glittered with the brilliant uniforms of
the imperial household, whilst a certain portion was set aside for
ladies-in-waiting and other friends of the Empress. Nevertheless,
Napoleon would never allow any special passes of admission to be issued
for his chapel, declaring that public worship should be free and for the
people. Any charge for chairs in a building devoted to religious
purposes seemed to him odious. “One ought not to deprive the poor,” said
he, “because they are poor, of that which is a consolation in their
poverty.”

When Napoleon re-established the Catholic religion in France, Girardin
told him that he would find attendance at Mass a bore, and advised him
to see that some excellent musicians and singers should always be
present to mitigate the tedium of the ceremony. The Emperor took his
advice and procured some of the best artistes that Paris could produce.
These were well paid, dividing between them some six thousand pounds.

In matters of religion Napoleon betrayed the genius of a consummate
politician, as was shown by his conciliatory attitude when in Egypt
towards Mahomedanism, which faith he ordered his troops to respect. As
regards his own personal beliefs it would seem that at all events he was
very far from being an unbeliever, his habit of crossing himself in
moments of danger, for instance, going to prove this. One of the
Emperor’s favourite maxims, indeed, was, “The future is in the hand of
God.” By nature inclined to fatalism, he was also imbued with a good
deal of native Corsican superstition. Friday in particular he ever
considered a momentous day: on a Friday he entered the military school
of Brienne, and on a Friday he left Saint Cloud to set out upon his
disastrous Russian campaign.

The sound of church bells was always especially pleasing to Napoleon and
produced a most extraordinary effect upon him. At Malmaison he would
listen to the church bell of the village of Rueil with the greatest
pleasure, breaking off from any conversation in which he might be
engaged to do so. “Ah!” he would say, “that sound recalls to me my early
days at Brienne; how happy I was in those days!”

Never, probably, did any man excite such hatred, and, on the other hand,
arouse such devotion as the Emperor.

When travelling in the island of Elba in 1854, my cousin, Sir Henry
Drummond Wolff (then Mr. Wolff), came across an octogenarian who had
been Napoleon’s gardener, and had gone with him to the palace of La
Malmaison. Monsieur Holard, as this old man was called, told Mr. Wolff
that though he had for ever lost his benefactor his name was graven on
his heart—he had indeed made desperate efforts to follow the Emperor to
St. Helena, but, not being allowed to do so, found himself, by the irony
of fate, gardener to the Duke of Wellington, then (1817) residing at
Mont St. Martin in the department of the Aisne. He had been recommended
to the Duke by Sir Neil Campbell, and at first had had some scruples as
to the propriety of entering the service of his imperial master’s
conqueror. These, however, were overcome, and Monsieur Holard spoke
gratefully of the kindness shown both to himself and his wife.

A great favourite with the Emperor, he told how, wishing to give his
master a pleasant surprise, he rose one morning early, in order to
arrange a number of small flower-pots in the cyphers of each member of
the imperial family. Before his task was quite finished, however,
Napoleon, ever an early riser, appeared on the scene and expressed his
pleasure at such an ingenious device, adding, however, that one cypher
had been forgotten—one which, as he said, should have been placed
first—the cypher of Queen Hortense. But Holard was not to be found
wanting, for, producing a quantity of pots filled with the flower called
hortensia, he explained how at that very moment he was just about to
arrange the missing cypher.

“Ah! Coquin,” said his master, whilst he affectionately pulled the
gardener’s ear, “I have never found you fail yet.”

The hortensia, as it is called in France and Germany, is the magnificent
Chinese flower known in England as the hydrangea. The French sea-captain
who brought home the plant from China in 1790 named it hortensia as a
compliment to his wife, whose name was Hortense. It quickly became very
popular in Europe, and was the “Lieblings blume” or favourite flower of
Queen Louisa of Prussia and also of the great Goethe. When Mr. Wolff
paid his visit to Elba, Claude Holard was, as has been said, an old man
of eighty, but his mental faculties were in no wise impaired by age or
by the many vicissitudes which had fallen to his lot, and he gave his
visitor many details of his life, which had been anything but an
uneventful one. Born at Metz in 1773, he became a soldier in the
Austrian army at the early age of fifteen, saw service, and was taken
prisoner by the forces of Dumouriez near Brussels. Allowed to return to
his native place, he afterwards joined the army of the Ardennes, and was
wounded at the battle of Fleurus whilst fighting under Jourdan. This
wound ended his military career, and he became Syndic of Marine at the
port of Breskens, a small town on the Scheldt opposite Flushing, and
married, for his prosperity seemed now assured. A trading vessel,
however, in which he had sunk his little fortune, was captured by the
enemy, and this loss, in addition to the difficulty of collecting
certain debts, eventually caused him to leave Breskens and make his way
to Fontainebleau, there to lay before the Emperor the story of his
misfortunes, which were much aggravated by the poor state of health into
which he had fallen. Certain persons of influence interested themselves
on his behalf, and he was nominated gardener to the Emperor’s sister,
Princess Elise of Piombino, afterwards Grand Duchess of Tuscany, in
which capacity he served till 1814, when, being ordered to repair to
Elba, he was made director of the imperial gardens, becoming, in due
course, gardener of the palace of La Malmaison during the hundred days.
After the Emperor’s final defeat and fall, the poor man, as has been
said, made every effort to be allowed to accompany his imperial master
to St. Helena; but this was not to be, and then followed a long period
filled with undeserved misfortune. It was in 1851 that Prince Demidoff
engaged him once more as head gardener in the gardens of San Martino at
Elba, the same post which the old man had occupied many years before
under the great Emperor; and, though this relieved him of all fear of
actual penury, Mr. Wolff was informed that he was much hampered and
worried by many vexatious restrictions and regulations not at all to the
taste of an old soldier of the Napoleonic times.

Whilst at Elba, Mr. Wolff was told several anecdotes about the Emperor,
of which the following shows very clearly that the idea of a return to
France was ever present in the great captain’s mind.

A balustrade being in course of erection in some part of the so-called
palace of San Martino, one of the Emperor’s suite declared the wood to
be so bad and the bars so thin that the whole affair could not last for
any time at all. “How long,” asked his imperial master, “do you give it
then—a year?” “Yes, sire,” was the reply. “That will do,” rejoined the
Emperor, with a smile.

During his stay at Porto Ferrajo, Mr. Wolff had an opportunity of
inspecting the books left behind by the Emperor. Amongst them he
particularly noticed two French handbooks to the study of the English
language, a rough cypher “N” being pasted on the back of each. Most of
the leaves were uncut, but another linguistic guide showed signs of
having been a good deal perused. This work, in which the original
English was placed side by side with a French translation, was entitled
_The Hundred Thoughts of a Young Lady_—“Cent pensées d’une Jeune
Anglaise”—written by Mistress Gillet. Queer reading this must have been
for the conqueror of Austerlitz!

Napoleon’s flag at Elba, which is, I believe, still in existence—three
golden bees on a red band running diagonally over a white ground—was a
modification of an old Tuscan ensign, made by the ship’s tailors of the
_Undaunted_, the vessel which brought him to Elba.

Another smaller flag of the same sort, which is said to have been the
regimental banner of the Old Guard which accompanied the Emperor to the
island, may be seen amidst other Napoleonic relics at the Invalides in
Paris, where also is his cocked hat decorated with an Elban cockade.

During his visit to the island in 1854, Mr. Wolff had many conversations
with persons who had been in close contact with Napoleon. He chanced to
travel in company with a certain Monsieur Larabit, who, as a young
officer of engineers, had superintended the repair and reconstruction of
most of the defences of the island some forty years before, and who
would often speak of the great interest taken by the Emperor in the
completion of his palace (in reality little more than a country house)
at San Martino; and also of the remark which he used to make, “Ce sera
la maison d’un bon bourgeois riche de quinze mille livres de rente.”
With this old senator (as he had now become) Mr. Wolff witnessed the
tunny fishing for which Elba is noted, at the same time hearing from the
veteran’s lips an account of how he had seen the Emperor on the 27th of
June 1814 attempt to land one of these fish, and fail owing to lack of
sufficient strength. As an instance of an extraordinary link between the
present and the past, it may be mentioned that during his visit to Elba,
Mr. Drummond Wolff was on one occasion rowed in a boat by a man whose
father had for years been a prisoner in the hands of Algerian corsairs.

A striking instance of the almost mesmeric power which the Emperor
Napoleon undoubtedly possessed, is shown by the reconciliation which he
effected with General Lecourbe, the story of which, I think, has never
been told in English.

Holding command in the army of the Rhine under Moreau, General Lecourbe
must certainly be mentioned in the foremost rank of those who
contributed to the military glory of France; but, nevertheless, owing to
his devotion to Moreau, whose cause, when brought to trial by the First
Consul, he warmly espoused, his name was ruthlessly obliterated from the
roll of the French army. He had offended Buonaparte, and for ten years
remained in the obscurity of civil life.

In 1815, however, after the Emperor’s return from Elba, generals of
tried capacity had to be found, and Napoleon’s thoughts flew to
Lecourbe. Accordingly, an order from the Ministry of War commanded him
to present himself at the Tuileries, to which a curt reply was returned
to the effect that General Lecourbe, being no longer a soldier, could
not recognise any order of the sort; if the Emperor wished to see him
one of his aides-de-camp must convey the intimation. On the morrow
arrived an officer with a personal invitation from His Imperial Majesty
to come the next day to the Tuileries at eleven o’clock in the morning.
“I will go,” said the old warrior to a friend, “but I shall speak my
mind—at last I shall be able to have it out with him.” The interview,
indeed, seemed likely to be a stormy one.

At eleven the next morning the General (not in uniform) awaited the
Emperor in the hall next his breakfast-room, from which Napoleon soon
emerged. Perceiving Lecourbe, he at once motioned him to approach, but
before he was able to do so strode forward himself (a thing he never did
for anybody), and then, drawing himself up, fixed the old soldier with
his eagle gaze.

“General Lecourbe,” said he in a resonant and penetrating voice, “your
grievances against the Emperor Napoleon I confess are great, but they
have not, I hope, obliterated all recollection of your old friend,
General Buonaparte. He, remember, is still your friend; will you be
his?”

At these words the veteran, already strangely moved by the mere
appearance of the Emperor, completely lost his self-possession, whilst
two big tears slowly rolled down his cheeks on to his grizzled
moustache. Terribly embarrassed, he could hardly stammer out a few words
of thanks, and his emotion rather increased than lessened when Napoleon
said, “I was sure I should find again the comrade of other days!” Then,
unbuckling his sword; “There will be work to do on the banks of the
Rhine; you know the ground, and I can rely upon you?” “Yes, Sire, you
may be sure of that.” “Take then this sword, General, as a pledge of our
reconciliation; there is no one able to use it better than yourself.”

Upon this the old man, completely overcome, seized the hand of the
Emperor in both of his own, and, rapturously kissing it, ejaculated:
“Rely upon me, Sire! Rely upon me!”

That afternoon General Lecourbe’s name appeared in the _Gazette_ as
commander of an important army corps.

On the other hand, there were men in whom the great Napoleon inspired
the most bitter hatred. Such a one was the Prussian general,
Field-Marshal von Kleist, to whom the Emperor sent the Legion of Honour.
Baron von Kleist, however, declined to wear it, and, purchasing a toy
bust of Napoleon, hung the decoration around its neck, always carrying
the bust with him wherever he went. The Emperor heard of this
contemptuous treatment and was greatly incensed thereby, declaring that
he would shoot von Kleist if he could catch him, but this he never did.
The Baron had conceived a violent antipathy for the Man of Destiny on
account of his rough and indeed almost brutal treatment of the gentle
Queen of Prussia (Königin Louise), always declaring, indeed, that it had
been with the greatest difficulty that he had restrained himself from
drawing a loaded pistol from his pocket and killing the Emperor during
the progress of the interview between the two sovereigns, at which he
had been present.

Baron von Kleist, when in command of a portion of the Prussian army in
1813, greatly contributed to the defeat of Napoleon at Leipzig.
Disregarding the cautious orders of Prince Schwatzenburg, the
Commander-in-chief, he marched by night across the heights of
Nollendorf, and after a fierce battle completely defeated Marshal
Vandamme, capturing sixty thousand men—practically the whole left wing
of the French army. For this brilliant military feat he was made Graf
von Nollendorf, and received from his King a complete dinner-service of
fine Berlin china, included in which were several large vases, bearing
on the one side the arms of von Kleist, and on the other the cross of
Kulm, a decoration especially instituted for those who had taken part in
the battle of that name. This dinner-service is still in the possession
of the old soldier’s descendants.

It is believed that the only passport ever signed by Napoleon for an
Englishman to visit England was one given to a Mr. Manning. This
gentleman, whilst at Oxford, received what he considered to be a very
serious affront or injury from the authorities of his college, and took
the matter so much to heart that he migrated to France, where he became
the intimate of many clever and learned Frenchmen, including Carnot and
the Abbé Remusat. Becoming interested in the East, Mr. Manning
afterwards set out on a long journey through Thibet, China, and Japan,
travelling, it must be added, in native dress. In after-years, owing to
his intimate acquaintance with the Chinese language, he was prevailed
upon to accompany an English expedition to China, where, by a somewhat
extraordinary chance, his vessel being shipwrecked, he was picked up and
taken to St. Helena. Here he had an interview with Napoleon, during
which, being asked by whom his French passport was signed, he tactfully
replied, “Par l’Empereur,” an answer which much pleased the illustrious
captive, who, by the special order of Hudson Lowe, was not allowed to be
addressed otherwise than as General Buonaparte.

It may not be generally known, perhaps, that from time to time
assertions have been made—some of the most emphatic kind—that Napoleon
once actually passed a considerable time in London. The date of his
visit is said to have been 1791-92, and the place of his residence
George Street, Strand. Whilst in all probability there is not the
slightest foundation for such a story, it would be curious to know from
what circumstance such a report arose.

About the time that I was a child there was written a poem, in which
Napoleon and his old army were resuscitated, by the very clever and
original pen of a young Hungarian poet, Baron von Sedlitz by name. This
poem, called the “Mitternachtliche Heerschau,” or “Midnight Review,” is
still, I fancy, very well known on the Continent, but the English
translations seem to be now totally forgotten. One of these, by William
Ball, was set to music and sung by the famous singer Braham (the father
of Frances, Lady Waldegrave) about 1831. He was an old man at the time,
but nevertheless is said to have rendered the words with such weird and
striking effect as to produce a very great impression upon his hearers.
The version in question, which has been reprinted in _Notes and Queries_
within comparatively recent years, rather fails to convey the impressive
simplicity of effect attained by the original poem. There are lines,
however, which are certainly striking:—

And at the midnight hour the chieftain leaves his grave,
Slowly he comes on his charger white amid his chosen brave;
The ranks salute their silent lord, the stately march renew,
And now with clanging music pass before their master’s view.
. . . . . . .
On their airy steeds on every side the thronging dead obey,
The blood-stained hosts of the battlefield in all their fierce array,
Ghastly beneath their glowing helms the grinning skulls appear,
And countless weapons high in air their bony hands uprear.
. . . . . . .

The weird scene which these verses describe has been depicted by Raffet,
in one of whose lithographs the spectre of the great Emperor is shown
passing a review of a phantom army.

Another translation of the “Midnight Review” was written by Mr. Leitch
Ritchie, a well-known writer in his day, who at one time edited the
_Era_, and also did a good deal of work for publications like the
_Keepsake_ and _Heath’s Picturesque Annual_. This version has not, to
the best of my knowledge, been reprinted since it first appeared in a
quarterly magazine (now somewhat difficult to obtain), about
seventy-seven years ago, which will be my excuse for giving it here side
by side with a French version which, it may be added, the Government of
Charles X. sought to suppress. Though no great poetic genius is shown in
Mr. Ritchie’s lines, avowedly a word for word translation, the writer
may nevertheless be said to have caught something of the simple and
impressive dignity which caused the German poem to create such a
sensation when it first appeared, some six or seven years after the
Emperor’s death.

THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW

Nachts um die zwölfte Stunde
Verlasst der Tambour sein Grabe,
Macht mit der Trummel die Runde,
Geht ewig auf und ab.

A minuit, de sa tombe
Le tambour se lève et sort,
Fait sa tournée et marche
Battant la caisse bien fort.

De ses bras décharnés
Remue conjointement
Les baguettes, bat la retraite,
Réveil et roulement.

La caisse sonne étrange,
Fortement elle retentit,
Dans leur fosse en ressuscitent
Les vieux soldats péris;

Et qui au fond du nord
Sous la glace enroidis,
Et qui trop chaudement gissent
Sous la terre d’Italie.

Et sous la bourbe du Nil
Et le sable de l’Arabie;
Ils quittent leur sépulture,
Leurs armes ils ont saisi.

Et à minuit, de sa tombe
Le trompette se lève et sort,
Monte à cheval et sonne
La trompe bruyant et fort.

Alors sur chevaux aériens
Arrivent les cavaliers,
Vieux escadrons célèbres
Sanglants et balafrés.

Sous le casque, leurs crânes
blanchâtres
Ricanent, et fièrement
Leurs mains osseuses soulèvent
Leurs glaives longs et tranchants.

Et à minuit, de sa tombe
Le chef se lève et sort;
A pas lents il s’avance
Suivi de l’état-major.

Petit chapeau il porte,
Habit sans ornemens,
Petite épée pour arme
Au côte gauche lui pend.

La lune à pale lueur
La vaste plaine éclaire;
L’homme au petit chapeau
Des troupes revue va faire.

Les rangs présentent les armes,
Lors sur l’épaule les mettant,
Toute l’armée devant le chef
Défile tambour battant.

On voit former un cercle
Des capitaines et généraux;
An plus voisin à l’oreille
Ce chef souffle un mot.

Ce mot va à la ronde,
Résonne le long de la Seine;
Le mot donné est la France,
La parole: Sainte-Hélène.

C’est là la grande revue
Qu’aux Champs-Élysées,
A l’heure de minuit
Tient César décédé.

At midnight, from his grave
The drummer woke and rose,
And beating loud the drum,
Forth on his round he goes.

Stirred by his fleshless arms,
The drumsticks patly fall,
He beats the loud retreat,
Réveille, and roll-call.

So strangely rolls that drum,
So deep it echoes round!
Old soldiers in their graves
Start to live at the sound.

Both they in farthest north,
Stiff in the ice that lay,
And who too warm repose
Beneath Italian clay.

Below the mud of Nile,
And ’neath Arabian sand;
Their burial-place they quit,
And soon to arms they stand.

And at midnight, from his grave
The trumpeter arose;
And mounted on his horse,
A loud shrill blast he blows.

On aery coursers then
The cavalry are seen,
Old squadrons erst renown’d,
Gory and gash’d, I ween.

Beneath the casque their
blanchèd skulls,
Smile grim, and proud their air
As in their bony hands
Their long sharp swords they bear.

And at midnight, from his tomb
The chief awoke and rose;
And followed by his staff,
With slow steps on he goes.

A little hat he wears,
A coat quite plain has he,
A little sword for arms,
At his left side hangs free.

O’er the vast plain the moon
A paly lustre threw;
The man with the little hat
The troops goes to review.

The ranks present their arms,
Deep roll the drums the while,
Recovering then, the troops
Before the chief defile.

Captains and gen’rals round
In circle form’d appear;
The chief to the first a word
Then whispers in his ear.

The word goes round the ranks,
Resounds along the Seine;
That word they give is—France,
The answer—Sainte-Hélène.

’Tis there, at midnight hour,
The grand review, they say,
Is by dead Cæsar held,
In the Champs-Élysées.

The Bourbons—Mdlle. Félicie de Fauveau and her vow—Marie
Antoinette at the Petit Trianon—A buried treasure—Madame du
Barry and her bankers—Her lost jewels—A possibility of
existence at some bank—Her destroyers—Zamor and the Englishman
Grieve—Mrs. Atkyns and the Dauphin—Her gallant effort to save
the Queen—Naundorff—An American Dauphin—Eleazar Williams—
Mystery surrounding the death of Louis XVII.

It is curious how, in spite of their manifold follies and
shortcomings—which were sometimes almost criminal—the Bourbons managed
to inspire certain of their adherents with an almost fanatical devotion.
Many and many a brave man sacrificed life and property for the ancient
Royal line of France. Of this stamp were the gallant Vicomte de Frotté,
shot by Napoleon in 1811, and the Marquise de la Rouérie, the organiser
and leader of the Chouan revolt. It is, indeed, almost impossible to
conceive the intense loyalty displayed by those Frenchmen and
Frenchwomen who cherished the traditions of the old régime.

In 1842 I knew at Florence a lady—Mademoiselle Félicie de Fauveau, a
sculptress of some note—who belonged to a noble French family. At that
time somewhat advanced in years, she had been much with the Duchesse de
Berri, and still remained a devoted supporter of the ancient monarchy.
To such an extent indeed was this the case that, inspired by a feeling
of the most ardent loyalty, Mademoiselle de Fauveau had made a vow never
to let her hair grow till the Comte de Chambord should as Henry V.
ascend the throne of France, and this resolution she carried out with an
utter disregard of the graces. The Comte de Chambord never reigned, and
therefore to the end of her life she kept her head closely cropped. I
very well remember seeing him at Vicenza in the same year as I met
Mademoiselle de Fauveau. He was not at all a remarkable-looking man, and
walked with a slight limp, the consequence of an accident which had
occurred to him as a young man, when his horse had fallen upon him. As a
matter of fact the fracture which he had sustained would have left no
traces had the doctors in attendance shown any great surgical capacity.
This, however, they did not do, allowing their patient to travel in a
carriage over bad roads before the fracture had been thoroughly reduced.
Dr. Récamier, it may be added, had especially warned them against
allowing such a thing, but no notice was taken of his letter.

The Comte de Chambord was far more high-minded than most of his line,
and it was always said that had he chosen to abandon some of his
convictions he would certainly have been King of France. His attitude,
however, was always straightforward, and for this reason it is in all
probability that he lies, the last of the Bourbons, uncrowned in his
tomb at Frohsdorf.

I still possess a sketch of Mademoiselle de Fauveau standing with her
hand on a favourite dog, which was drawn by my dear governess, Miss
Redgrave, from a full-length statuette which the sculptress herself had
modelled. The dress, oddly enough, is almost exactly similar to a
tailor-made costume of to-day; but in 1842 it was considered a very
great eccentricity, and used, I recollect, to excite almost as much
astonishment as the lady’s cropped head. Nevertheless, Mademoiselle de
Fauveau was a very dignified figure, her face, curiously enough, bearing
a considerable resemblance both in feature and expression to the
martyred Queen whose memory she adored.

Though it is now a hundred and fourteen years since Marie Antoinette
mounted the scaffold and became the victim of a crime which, according
even to Napoleon, was far worse than regicide, the very mention of her
name evokes as great a feeling of sympathetic compassion as it did at
the time of her brutal execution. No one who has studied the story of
the terrible persecution and mental torture to which she was subjected
can fail to be moved by the sufferings of this royal martyr, whose
dignified bearing in some measure actually impressed the howling mob
which shouted for her blood. The progress of the unfortunate Queen to
the place of execution was an awful one, for the squalid cart in which
she was placed was escorted by a band of furies, whose raucous howls and
ignoble jests disgusted even the rough soldiery who guarded the august
prisoner’s road to death. As the tumbril, it is said, passed the church
of Saint Roch a band of wretches seated on the steps actually clapped
their hands as if at a circus; the only open expression of sympathy,
indeed, came fitly enough from a little child, which, as the rueful
procession wended its way past the Oratoire, rose to its feet and kissed
its little hands to the poor Queen, a last message of love, as it were,
from the true heart of France.

When one thinks of the respectful affection, amounting almost to
adoration, which Marie Antoinette inspired in men like Fersen, the
Chevalier de Rougeville, and others, it would seem that there hung about
her graceful personality an atmosphere of mesmeric fascination,
something of which still seems to linger in certain places closely
connected with her romantic memory. Notably is this the case at the
Petit Trianon, where she must always remain almost a living figure to
the visitor of any imagination. Strolling through the beautiful grounds
on a fine spring day, the graceful trees bathed in a golden light, one
well imagines the beautiful Queen surrounded by her children and friends
wending her way to her _hameau_, the toy village in which she took so
much interest and delight.

To this lovely retreat, when the leaves were beginning to fall and the
lilies of France to fade came the news of the arrival at Versailles of
the crowd of Parisian rabble, who on the 5th of October 1789 invaded
that stately palace. The same day Marie Antoinette decided to join the
King, and flying to his side, abandoned for ever her beautiful Trianon,
the enchanting spot in which some of the happiest days of her life had
been passed, and which she was never to see again.

From that moment nothing but sorrow and misfortune were to be her lot.
Versailles was in a turmoil, and on her arrival there she soon found
that her life itself was in danger. Oh the following day (6th October),
she spent some terrible hours at the windows of the room known as the
bedroom of Louis XV., to which she had been forced to fly from her own
private apartments, whilst the crowd without the palace savagely called
for her blood. Only did its fury abate when both she and the King,
appearing on the balcony of an adjoining apartment, promised to set out
forthwith for Paris and to take up their residence at the Tuileries.

A mysterious legend has always declared that before taking their
departure the Royal couple caused a considerable sum of money, together
with many valuables, to be secretly buried in the park adjoining the
palace, but though careful search has often been made nothing has
hitherto come to light. At the present time, however (April 1907), there
is a rumour that, owing to the discovery of an old manuscript indicating
the place of concealment, the authorities in charge of the palace of
Versailles are on the point of discovering the exact locality of this
long-hidden treasure. It is much to be hoped that such a report should
prove true, for in all probability, in addition to the financial and
artistic value of such a discovery, some documents of the highest
historical interest are almost certain once more to be brought to the
light of day.

There must, undoubtedly, be much treasure and many jewels buried during
the great Revolution still lying hidden under the soil of France, for
before going into exile numbers of _emigrés_ buried their most valuable
possessions in the earth, with the intention of recovering them on that
return which in many cases was never to take place. A great portion of
the splendid jewellery of Madame du Barry has never been satisfactorily
accounted for, though it has often been declared that it still remains
intact and untouched in an unopened case lying in the strong-room of
Coutts’ Bank. Be this as it may, I believe that it is an absolute fact
that, this famous firm of bankers are still the guardians of a large
number of cases deposited there by French _emigrés_, who having returned
to France in order to forward the Royalist cause, met their death
without having left any instructions as to the disposal of their
property lodged in England. The rule, I believe, in such cases is for
the bank to allow the boxes literally to moulder to pieces, carefully
wrapping up in paper any objects which may fall out, and replacing them
in a heap on the top of what is left. It seems a pity that no Act of
Parliament should ever have been passed to deal with such cases, for
there are probably many priceless works of art slowly drifting to utter
decay in these old brass-bound chests fast mouldering into dust.

Though, as has been said, a legend declares that some of the jewels of
Madame du Barry still lie in the strong-room of Coutts’ Bank, it is
difficult to see how such can be the case unless she deposited her
valuables with more than one London banker; for it is absolutely certain
that the firm with whom she usually banked when in England was that of
Messrs. Hammersley and Morland of Pall Mall, in whose keeping, according
to her own estimate, she at one time had over 300,000 livres’ worth of
diamonds. The firm in question has long ceased to exist, and I do not
know who took over their business. At the end of 1794, after the death
of Madame du Barry, diamonds left by her in England were sold by order
of the Court of Chancery, and realised 13,300 guineas.

As is well known, this poor woman was literally hounded to death by an
Englishman, George Grieve by name; he was a native of Alnwick, in
Northumberland, where he early in life distinguished himself by his
Radical proclivities. Having squandered the patrimony bequeathed to him
by his father, an attorney of some local standing, he went to America in
1780, where, it is said, he met Washington, Franklin, and other lights
of the young American Republic. In 1783 he came to Paris, in which city
he appears to have posed, perhaps with authority, as an American
representative in the revolutionary demonstrations which were already
beginning to agitate the French. Later on, grandiloquently styling
himself, “Factieux et anarchiste de premier ordre et désorganisateur du
despotisme dans les deux hémisphères depuis vingt ans”—a title, by the
way, which might be recommended to the consideration of some of our
modern socialists—Grieve took advantage of Madame du Barry’s absence in
London in 1792 (to which city she had gone to look after her stolen
diamonds) to take up his residence at Louveciennes, where she possessed
a splendid residence, and where she was adored by the peasantry, to whom
she ever dispensed a truly regal charity. By bribery and persuasion this
apostle of progress gained over two of her servants, and then, managing
to obtain an order for seals to be placed on her papers and valuables,
installed himself in her house whilst procuring its mistress’s arrest on
her return to France. The villagers, however, mindful of the goodness of
their Lady Bountiful, petitioned for and obtained her release. Grieve,
no doubt desiring that his own very doubtful dealings with the contents
of her château should not be exposed, again managed to get her arrested,
but, as on the previous occasion, a petition of the inhabitants of
Louveciennes once more set her free. In November 1793, the wretch, who
was quite determined not to be balked of his prey, finally ran his
unfortunate quarry to ground, and was successful in getting the
favourite of Louis XV. tried and led to the guillotine. Her persecutor,
unlike many of his fellow-benefactors of humanity, contrived to survive
the Terror, and died peacefully in Brussels in 1809, having in the
interval once more made a journey to America, where he published a
translation of Chastellux’s travels.

It is curious to learn that Grieve, who was evidently full of
Anglo-Saxon hypocrisy, had the effrontery to make a personal appeal to
the Convention, in which he demanded the head of the Du Barry “in the
name of good morals.” The real truth of course being, as has been said,
that this scoundrel (who had obtained permission to make an inventory of
her valuables, which he drew up absolutely alone, entrance to her
residence at Louveciennes being closed to all but him) had made away
with much of her money and jewellery, and was in consequence determined
to have their unfortunate owner sent to another world in order that his
own defalcations might evade detection. In all probability he buried a
certain amount of treasure in the grounds of Madame du Barry’s house; at
all events local rumour has always declared that gold and jewels lie
hidden in the earth there. Many searches have been made, but no
valuables discovered. A skull, however,—in all probability that of the
Due de Cossé-Brissac, the Royal favourite’s last lover,—was dug up near
the house. Brissac having been hacked to pieces at Versailles, some
youths got hold of the head, and in high glee carried it on a dung-fork
to Louveciennes, where they hurled it through the open windows of the Du
Barry’s salon.

A principal agent of Grieve in his campaign against Madame du Barry was
her black page, Zamor, who appears in many a picture, fantastically
dressed, standing by the side of the beautiful mistress of Louis XV. The
old King himself took the greatest interest in Zamor, and bored as he
usually was with everything, would yet sometimes deign to smile at the
pleasantries of the spoilt little negro, who was allowed to take pretty
well any liberties he pleased. Zamor had been originally brought from
Bengal as a child by an English sea-captain, and, having been made chief
page to the favourite (who acquired him as a pleasing contrast to her
white dog and her monkeys), received an excellent education after being
baptized with the greatest pomp. Nevertheless, in spite of the favours
with which his mistress had loaded him, Zamor turned against her at the
time when one word from him could have saved her head. An ardent student
of Rousseau and an enthusiastic democrat, this little negro attained a
certain position in revolutionary circles, being given an official
position in the district of Versailles. He was called as an important
witness at the trial of his benefactress, and manifesting the greatest
bitterness against her, coldly and brutally gave such testimony as
directly contributed to her condemnation.

His ingratitude, however, did him no good, for, falling into disgrace
with the revolutionary authorities, he soon sank into the most dire
poverty, the property which he had amassed being got out of him by a
designing milliner. In old age he supported life by giving elementary
lessons to the children in the quarter of Paris which he inhabited,
where the little wizened old man was well known as “the negro who had
betrayed la du Barry.”

Silent and taciturn, he retained the cult of the revolutionary doctrine
to the end of his life, which seems to have occurred somewhere about
1820, his little room being decorated to the last with the portraits of
Marat and Robespierre, whilst the works of Rousseau, his favourite
author, occupied a prominent place upon his modest bookshelf.

Zamor was a traitor, it is true, but there is no doubt he was sincere in
his devotion to the revolutionary ideal, whereas the arch-scoundrel
Grieve was nothing but an egotistical hypocrite—a callous, canting
rogue.

An ancient Norfolk family, which in old days had much to do with France,
is that of Jerningham of Costessey Hall. Many of its members indeed,
prevented from entering the English army owing to their unswerving
adherence to the Roman Catholic faith, crossed the Channel and took
service under the banners of the French king, attaining in several cases
to high military command. The last of these to do this was General
Jerningham, Colonel Commandant of several Irish regiments under Louis
XVI., who, returning to England after the Revolution, died at Costessey
in 1814. At the present day the best known representatives of this old
family are that distinguished man, Sir Hubert Jerningham, and his
brother, Mr. Charles Edward Jerningham, a cultured collector and
authority upon prints of Old London. A peculiarity of the Jerninghams is
that, though they have steadfastly adhered to the Roman Catholic Church,
no one of them has ever been a priest, or, on the other hand, become a
Protestant; though Mr. Edward Jerningham, the friend of Horace Walpole,
well known as a good scholar and elegant poet, did, I believe, more or
less abjure his faith and declare himself an Agnostic. Notwithstanding
the very strong anti-Catholic feeling which in old days prevailed in
Norfolk (the bells of the Norwich churches were rung on the rejection of
the Catholic Emancipation Bill in 1825), the Jerninghams did not, like
so many of their co-religionists, abstain from social intercourse with
their Protestant neighbours, with whom, in spite of their faith, they
were always very popular. One of the Dillons, a close connection of the
family of which I have been speaking, took a leading part in the many
attempts made to rescue the unfortunate Dauphin who, according to the
most modern authorities, was actually got out of the Temple, a
substituted child being left in his stead. Another Norfolkian also made
several strenuous efforts to the same end. This was a lady, Mrs. Atkyns
of Ketteringham Hall, near Norwich, who expended practically her entire
fortune in efforts to save the unfortunate Prince.

An energetic and adventurous woman, the story of her life has been given
to the world in a French book published a short time ago. She was,
before her marriage, Miss Charlotte Walpole, an actress of Drury Lane
Theatre, and I like to believe that she was in some way connected with
the Walpole family to which I belong; her father, Robert Walpole, was
certainly a Norfolk man, but the exact degree of his relationship to us
I have never been able to discover. Certain is it, however, that she
used the Walpole crest with the addition of a lion, a circumstance which
might possibly point to a descent from Colonel John Walpole, a Royalist
who, for his services at Cropredy Bridge, was granted such an addition
to his arms. Miss Walpole, who appears to have been exceedingly
fascinating, before very long captured the heart of a Norfolk squire,
and after their marriage the young people took up their abode at
Ketteringham Hall, old Mrs. Walpole, the bride’s mother, being installed
in the Park close by in a house which has been long pulled down.
Curiously enough, flowers still come up in the spring-time at this spot,
which yet retains the name of Madame Walpole’s garden. After a short
time passed in Norfolk, Mr. and Mrs. Atkyns went to Versailles, where,
introduced into the intimate entourage of Marie Antoinette by the
Duchesse de Polignac, the lady conceived a respectful veneration for the
unfortunate Queen, which, in after-years, caused her to penetrate,
disguised as a member of the National Guard, into the prison of the
Conciergerie. By means of a daring stratagem she actually contrived to
obtain admission to the cell in which Marie Antoinette lay, her
intention being to inform the Queen of a plan of escape. At the moment,
however, of handing the royal captive a bouquet of flowers, the missive
which was concealed amongst its leaves fell to the ground, when Mrs.
Atkyns, seeing that a gaoler was about to read it, snatched the note
from his hands and without a moment’s hesitation swallowed it. Later on
Mrs. Atkyns was the chief organiser of several attempts to save the
Dauphin, and expended some very large sums of money in plots, actually
hiring ships to lie off the French coast ready to receive the young
Prince should one of the efforts made to rescue him prove successful.

Living to a great age, the poor woman eventually died almost penniless
in Paris as late as the year 1836, for Louis XVIII. though admitting, on
his restoration, that she had devoted her life and fortune to the
service of his line, would never reimburse any serious portion of the
sums which the mistress of Ketteringham Hall had, with the greatest
difficulty, raised upon her estate. He did once, however, under great
pressure, send her some insignificant sum. Ketteringham Hall itself is
now the property of Sir Francis and Lady Boileau, who, together with a
few others, have, within the last year, erected a memorial tablet to the
friend and would-be rescuer of Marie Antoinette. Owing to the
comparative state of destitution in which the poor woman died her wish
to be buried in Ketteringham church had not been respected. It is
therefore pleasant to think that, owing to the kindly initiative of Lady
Boileau, a memorial of her now exists close to those of her husband and
son—the last members, it may be added, of a distinguished county
family.

There exists a print of Mrs. Atkyns engraved by Watson and Dickinson
after Bunbury. In this she is represented in the character of “Nancy,”
who, dressed as a young soldier, has followed her lover to the camp of
Coxheath, a part which contemporary critics tell was enacted by the
young actress with much dash and charm. In this character, indeed, she
won the heart and hand of her Norfolk squire.

Retiring from the stage after the conclusion of the run of _The Camp_,
her next appearance in a soldier’s dress was to be in far different
surroundings. Surely when assuming the costume of the National Guard in
which she set out to attempt the rescue of the captive queen, her
thoughts must have flown back to those careless days in which, miniature
firelock in hand, she had gone through the military exercise amidst the
plaudits of the audience at “Old Drury.”

An inscription under the print runs:—

My Nancy leaves the rural plain
A camp’s distress to prove,
All other ills she can sustain
But living from her love,

to which I have added on a small plaque attached to the frame:—

Elle poussa le dévouement jusqu’à l’héroisme
et la courage jusqu’à la témérité,

a tribute paid to this brave Englishwoman by that admirable writer, M.
de la Sicotière, Sénateur de l’Orne.

Mrs. Atkyns, whilst residing on her estate in Norfolk, would seem to
have taken a warm interest in politics, her sympathies being, of course,
strongly anti-democratic. The following letter was found by my cousin,
Sir Spencer Walpole, amongst the papers of his grandfather, Mr.
Perceval, the distinguished statesman who met with such a tragic end:—

SIR—I flatter myself you will do me the honour to excuse my
intruding upon you at a time you must consequently be extremely
occupied. I most sincerely congratulate you on your becoming one
of His Majesty’s ministers. I, with a large majority of England,
felicitate myself as a true and faithful subject to my sovereign
on seeing a gentleman of your abilities and loyalty in the
situation you now fill. May Heaven prosper your efforts to serve
your King and country! I take the liberty to suggest an idea, or
rather, offer an opinion. I have heard that the present
Receiver-General for the county of Norfolk, Sir Roger Kerrison
of Norwich, is likely to lose that place; permit me, sir, to
hint to you that all the other bankers except Kett or Day are
downright revolutionists. From the knowledge I have of the
inhabitants of Norwich (my house being situated but five miles
from that city), I have taken the liberty to recommend either
the House of Kett or that of Day in case there should be a
change. Mr. Day is an alderman of the City of Norwich, a man
much respected. Kett was a Quaker, but was read out of the
meeting for having subscribed to the volunteers. In case of a
dissolution of Parliament either of these gentlemen will be
useful and active agents. Do not think, sir, that I recommend
them from my having any interest in their having such an
advantageous place, or from having any particular acquaintance
with either; on the contrary, I never spoke to Mr. Kett that I
know of, and not twice in my life to Mr. Day, but they are loyal
subjects to their King—that is enough for me—Day in
particular. Norwich is famous for the number of its democrats.
Excuse, sir, my troubling you, but it is for the public good;
that, I think, with you will be sufficient apology. The present
Receiver-General is not of what we call the Loyal Party. I shall
not mention to mortal my having written this. Should there be a
dissolution of Parliament, and that you think I can be of any
service in this county or the city, having some interest in
both, I request you will have the goodness to inform me.—I
have, sir, the honour to be, your most obedient, very humble
servant,

CHARLOTTE ATKYNS.
KETTERINGHAM HALL,
WINDHAM, NORFOLK,
_5th April 1807_.

If, sir, at any time you think I can by any means be of the
least use with regard to French affairs, having more knowledge
of that country than, perhaps, sir, you are aware of, you may
command me. There is a circumstance that most certainly may one
day or other prove a severe check to the allied Powers should
they attempt to enter France; it is a secret or artful menace
that Buonaparte reserves for a last manœuvre. When I come to
town, which will be in less than a fortnight, I will, sir, if
you please, explain my meaning. I need not request, sir, that
any communication I give, or my _now_ having taken the liberty
to address you, may remain a profound secret.

The secret menace to which Mrs. Atkyns here alludes would seem to
indicate that, in her opinion, Buonaparte was aware that Louis
XVII.—the child supposed to have died in the Temple—was still alive,
and was reserving this knowledge in order to make use of it should
necessity arise.

It was another relative of Sir Spencer’s, the Reverend Mr. Perceval, who
took such a great interest in the pretender Naundorff, an individual
claiming to be Louis XVII. Mr. Perceval it was who published a book
called _The Misfortunes of the Dauphin_, in which the adventures of the
Duc de Normandie, as Naundorff styled himself, are fully described. Much
of this narrative, however, is very involved and unsatisfactory, whilst
the account of the Dauphin’s escape from the prison of the Temple,
concealed in a coffin, carries but little conviction. The organiser of
this rescue is stated to have been Josephine Beauharnais, afterwards
Empress of the French.

It is not, in all probability, generally known that there were no less
than thirty-six pretended Dauphins, including an American one—Eleazar
Williams by name—about whose origin considerable mystery prevails. The
story told about him was that he had been brought as a child to America
by a French family in 1795, and placed in charge of an Iroquois
half-breed, Thomas Williams by name, being as a young man educated by a
Mr. Nathaniel Ely, a deacon of the Congregational Church—Eleazar
Williams himself afterwards entering the ministry. It was in 1851 that a
Mr. Hanson began the investigations which brought Eleazar Williams
before the world as the lost Dauphin.

The Duchesse d’Angoulême, sister of the child over whose fate such a
mystery prevails, is declared, when on her deathbed, to have sent for
General Larochejaquelein, a faithful adherent of the Bourbon cause.
“General,” she said, “I have a fact—a very important fact to reveal to
you—the testament of a dying woman. My brother is not dead. This is the
nightmare of my whole life. Promise me to use all possible means to find
him. Travel by land and sea to discover some of the old servants or
their descendants; for France can never be happy and tranquil until he
is seated on the throne of his fathers.”

Mr. Hanson was much struck with the words which the Duchess was supposed
to have uttered, and applied them to Eleazar Williams. In 1853 he
published an article embodying his researches and conclusions. It was
entitled, “Have we a Bourbon among us?” and appeared in a number of
_Putnam’s Magazine_. But Eleazar Williams himself, who appears to have
been a very quiet, dignified, and sincerely religious man, never made
any particular effort to establish his claims as Dauphin, or rather as
King of France, and passed most of his time in missionary work amongst
the Indians. He carried on a large correspondence, however, with those
interested in his history, and would sometimes discuss the question of
his supposed birth. It was a constant practice of his to declare that
there lingered in his memory vague recollections of a childhood passed
amidst the greatest magnificence. In the freedom of private conversation
he would also speak of a feeling of having passed through terrifying
scenes as well as of noble edifices, beautiful gardens, troops on
parade, and gorgeously furnished apartments—memories, indeed, such as
might have been inspired by the splendid Court of Versailles.

Eleazar Williams died in 1858, and a grandson of his is, I believe,
still living. The whole story of this American Dauphin—though, perhaps,
of no serious historical importance—is a curious one, and the book in
which it is set forth, _The Story of Louis XVII. of France_, merits some
attention, especially as it deals at length with the pretender to whom
allusion has already been made, the celebrated Naundorff, who is, in its
pages, ruthlessly denounced as an impostor and cheat. Naundorff’s
grandson, it may be of interest to know, is, or was, engaged in
commercial pursuits, and is styled Jean III. by the small band of
adherents who believe in his claims to the throne of France, whilst the
Dauphin, “Prince Henri Charles Louis,” born in 1899, is the offspring of
his marriage with the “Princesse Magdelaine,” daughter of a worthy
tradesman in the town of Lunel.

The whole story of the Dauphin seems destined to be wrapped in
impenetrable mystery, but, as has been said, it is now believed by those
most competent to judge, including M. Sardou (probably the greatest
living authority on the French Revolution) that the Dauphin did not, as
is generally supposed, die in the prison of the Temple. There is,
indeed, good reason to assume that having been got out by some means or
other (possibly in a package of dirty linen carried by the wife of
Simon, his gaoler), he was conveyed without the walls which encircled
his prison. Once liberated, however, his rescuers must have become
dispersed, very likely being themselves executed or imprisoned for some
reason other than their share in his escape, and the child, already
enfeebled by his captivity, alone in the seething whirlpool of
revolutionary Paris, entirely devoid of resources of any kind, would
under such circumstances have been in a very hopeless position. So in
all probability poor little Louis XVII., a forlorn and friendless
wanderer, died a miserable death in some obscure part of that vast city
over which his ancestors had held such absolute sway. As for the
numerous pretenders, some of them, there is no doubt, must have heard
the tale of the Dauphin’s rescue from persons who had a hand in it, thus
obtaining the material for the more or less plausible stories which made
a considerable impression upon certain people who certainly should have
known better. The Duchesse d’Angoulême, to the very end of her life, as
has been said, was always declared to entertain grave doubts as to her
brother having died in the Temple,—a fact which would account for her
refusal to accept the heart of the boy buried as the Dauphin by the
revolutionary authorities, a gruesome relic which was offered to her by
Dr. Pelletan. There exists a story that she left Memoirs with a definite
injunction that they were not to be published till one hundred years
after her death—1951—and should there be any foundation for such a
report it is therefore possible that those who live till that date may
see some definite light thrown upon not the least fascinating of
historical mysteries.

VII

Travelling abroad—Munich—Lack of comforts—Baths and bathing,
then and now—A careless traveller—A carriage on a railway
truck in recent years—The last of the Sedan-chairs—An
eccentric menu—Abraham Hayward—Acclimatising crayfish—English
truffles—Change in dinner hour—Old English fare—Careless
housekeeping—Cookery books—Soyer and his wife—An obsolete
custom—The triumph of tobacco.

Travelling on the Continent in old days was attended with many
discomforts, which to the present generation would appear almost
inconceivably irksome. In the first place, there was the passport
nuisance, whilst the Customs regulations were infinitely more
complicated and tedious than is at present the case. I remember that, in
1844, I nearly involved an old lady we knew—Miss Astley—in very
serious trouble through innocently begging her to take a sealed packet
to my sister, then staying at Mayence. In my little parcel were, amongst
other things, four pairs of Tyrolean gloves, then much in fashion, and
these nearly caused the arrest of this poor lady on the Belgian
frontier, where the officials threatened the most frightful penalties,
amongst them a fine of £50, for attempting to smuggle a lesser number of
pairs of gloves through the Customs than the Belgian law allowed—the
regulation being that nothing under a dozen pairs could be carried by
travellers without liability to a very severe penalty. The postal
arrangements abroad in old days were also totally inadequate.

As a child at Munich, in 1837, I recollect that our opportunities of
communicating with friends in England were extremely limited, for we
were practically dependent, so far as sending letters was concerned,
upon our Minister or upon stray travellers passing through the city.
Unfortunately for our correspondence, the English Minister had very
little to communicate to the Foreign Office at home, and only sent a bag
of dispatches about once a month, whilst the arrival of an English
visitor was, in those days, quite an event in the old Bavarian city.
Many of the habits and customs of the people of Munich were very strange
and uncomfortable. The great families, for instance, entertained a
strong dislike to having servants to board and sleep in their houses,
and the consequence of this was that ladies, on returning from some
grand party or other in a gorgeous carriage with two footmen behind,
dressed in rich liveries and hats loaded with plumes and feathers, used
to descend from their chariots, light their solitary night-lamps from
the flambeaux of their departing footmen, and then sadly creep up to bed
amidst the dreary and dismal solitude of a dark and deserted mansion.

At that time it was not at all an unusual thing on a cloudy day to see
Bavarian officers, in full regimentals covered with enormous military
cloaks, walking about attended by their footmen carrying umbrellas. Some
of the young officers were very pleasant; we used to meet them at the
_table d’hôte_, where, when tired of our own company, we used
occasionally to dine. On one occasion I was very much amused at a newly
fledged subaltern—a lieutenant, as he told us, of but six weeks’
standing—bashful and timid as a girl. That evening, for the first time,
there happened to be a band at dinner, which surprised my mother, who
inquired of the young officer—“D’où vient cette musique?” Blushing up
to the eyes, he answered, “Madame la Comtesse, de la part du diable.” We
had been talking of the opera, and the poor young man thought that my
mother was asking what was the music which the band had been playing,
which, oddly enough, happened to be a selection from a piece called “De
la part du diable.”

We were all convulsed with laughter at this incident, which was rendered
the more amusing on account of the complete mystification of the
lieutenant as to what indiscretion he could have committed; however,
when the matter was explained, he himself laughed just as merrily as the
rest of us.

At that time an open fireplace was seldom seen in Munich, whilst carpets
were practically unknown. In the house which my father took there was
not even a drugget in any of the rooms, though in other respects they
were quite elegantly furnished. The whole life of the place was quaint
and old-fashioned—a certain amount of state and magnificence being
pervaded by a homely simplicity which would arouse amusement in these
more luxurious days. In the early morning or as late as noon, for
instance, all of us used to go with my father to the market, where he
himself would choose and buy vegetables, fruit, and game, some of which
he would stuff into his pockets, whilst the main portion was placed in
an enormous basket which two of us would carry, and so would we
perambulate the principal streets back to our palace. After a great
“chasse” of the king’s a good deal of the spoils used to be put up for
public sale, and on these occasions my father would add a man-servant to
our marketing party, in order to assist in carrying home, as if in
triumph, the roebuck which it was his usual custom to purchase.

Well do I remember the extremely meagre provision which in those days
was made on the Continent for the performance of the ordinary ablutions,
but even at home in England things were not very much better. Very few
country houses had bathrooms, and even where they did exist the hot
water had generally to be brought up in cans. Baths, indeed, were
considered more as luxuries than as anything else, whilst children,
owing to the water being generally cold or at best lukewarm, regarded
their weekly tub with dread rather than affection.

That Saturday tubbing of my youth is now, I suppose, in these days of
almost universal bathrooms, quite a forgotten function. Modern
mechanical arrangements provide a more or less constant supply of hot
and cold water, and children are very rightly brought up to regard a
daily bath as one of the necessities of life, which was, of course, not
the case in the days when can after can of hot water had to be
laboriously carried all over the house from the kitchen. Saturday night
tubbing was, indeed, a sort of regular English institution, dating, I
believe, from the reign of King Henry VIII., who is declared to have
performed certain partial ablutions on occasional Saturday evenings, on
which occasions His Majesty’s barber, John Penne or Penn, was expected
to be in attendance. This John Penn was an ancestor of the famous Quaker
who bore the same name, and was a man of some importance in his day.

In the famous picture by Holbein of Henry VIII. delivering a charter to
the barbers and surgeons on the occasion of their amalgamation into one
body, John Penn stands out as a prominent figure. There is a story,
indeed, which, I fancy, rests upon no solid foundation, that the first
Sir Robert Peel always expressed the greatest admiration for this
painting on account of the fine portrait of the royal barber, and once
actually offered the Barbers’ Corporation £2000 to allow him to have it
cut out after a copy had been made to put in its place. An even more
fantastic legend used to declare that Sir Robert had often expressed an
intense desire to be allowed to have a bed made up upon the dining-table
of the Barbers’ Company, in order that on awakening in the morning his
eyes might rest upon his favourite Penn. The table in question, as a
matter of fact, is an ancient dissecting table on which, previous to
1745, the bodies of criminals and malefactors were laid—the executions
at Tyburn furnishing the Barber Surgeons’ Company with a constant supply
of anatomical specimens.

Up to comparatively recent years the country houses, as I have said,
which could boast a bathroom were very few in number, whilst in the
’forties and ’fifties, and even later, such conveniences were
practically unknown. In some houses, indeed, there were no big baths at
all, guests being expected to perform their ablutions in the so-called
foot-baths, which were a sort of cross between a wine cooler and a soup
tureen. At the same time it must be added that people were probably not
so very much dirtier than they are to-day, for the modern practice of
lying in hot water need not necessarily be any more cleansing than the
vigorous rubbing of a soaped flannel which, in old days, children were
taught to apply. I remember going to stay at a country house, shortly
after my marriage, where there were no baths at all. However, I
determined not to be beaten; I sent to the laundry for a large wooden
wash-tub, which was brought up into my bedroom, and answered its purpose
uncommonly well.

Some people there were who declared baths to be dangerous, as inducing a
tendency to catch constant chills. Untidiness in dress and the like
were, on the whole, I think, regarded with more tolerance than is the
case to-day—to go even farther back, the beautiful costumes of the
eighteenth century, there is reason to believe, in many cases covered
people none too careful about their personal toilet. The travelling of
the past, when comparatively little luggage could be taken, was rather
apt to promote careless habits of dress, and several great travellers
were quite notorious for this sort of thing, their economy of linen
being regarded with considerable lenience.

I recall to mind a story which used to be told of a celebrated traveller
who, almost alone, had made several wonderful journeys into the Far
East, and wandered over many strange and wild places on the earth’s
surface, in the course of which wanderings he was declared to have
contracted a supreme contempt for some of the ordinary ways of civilised
society. Careless to a degree, the changing of his shirts appeared to
him as nothing but an irksome usage, and, consequently, it was by no
means often that a snowy expanse of shirt front graced his breast. On
one occasion, when about to visit a country house at which he was to be
the lion of the party, his wife, who was not accompanying him,
determined that this once at least he should do her honour. The visit
was to last three days, and so carefully packing three spotless shirts
in his bag, she bade him at their adieu to take particular care to don
one of these shirts regularly every evening. The three days passed and
her husband returned. “I hope you did as I told you,” said she. “Of
course I did, my dear,” was the reply. “I put on a clean shirt every
evening, so with the one I started in, that makes four I am wearing at
the present moment.”

When travelling on the Continent in old days we drove most of the way in
our own carriages, which, when we came across the few railways which
then existed, were hoisted up on to trucks. This practice was not very
agreeable, for one was exposed to many discomforts, and I had always
supposed that it had long been totally extinct. This, however, appears
not to be the case, for such a mode of railway travelling has been seen
in England as recently as the summer of 1889, when, I am informed, the
nieces of the late Archdeacon Hindes Groome (the friend of Edward
FitzGerald, and a most delightful character, who remembered the
rejoicings after Waterloo), saw at Bournemouth Station a large open
barouche standing on an ordinary truck at the end of a train which had
just arrived. In the carriage sat—quite at their ease with their
sunshades up—two elderly ladies. A coachman and footman met the train;
the carriage was drawn on to the platform with the ladies still in it,
and from thence it was hauled outside the station, where, a pair of
horses being quickly harnessed, the whole party, with the addition of a
maid who had travelled in a second-class compartment, drove off.

Another curious survival was also witnessed by Miss Hindes Groome, who,
when staying at Cheltenham in the early ’sixties, was told by her mother
one cold Sunday morning in the winter: “I shall send for a Sedan-chair
so that we can go to church in comfort. Perhaps they still have them at
the place where in former days I remember that they could be hired.” The
message was sent, and to the surprise of the household the Sedan-chair,
borne by two men, duly arrived. The chair was brought into the house,
the front door being shut, and Mrs. Hindes Groome and her little girl
got in, being carried to Trinity Church, into a sort of inside lobby, in
which, after the service, they once more entered the chair, and were
carried home and deposited in the hall, being on both journeys
completely protected from the outside air and quite immune from
draughts. It may be assumed that this was about the last time that a
public Sedan-chair was made use of for ordinary purposes, though I
believe that at certain health resorts invalids still make occasional
use of a somewhat similar conveyance. Mrs. Hindes Groome, it appears,
was rather surprised, though very pleased, when she saw the men bringing
up the old chair, which revived in her memory many recollections of a
past age. She always declared that no modern vehicle could match a
Sedan-chair for comfort in wet or rough weather. This lady’s father, who
had been born in 1779, remembered the first stage-coach which ran from
Cheltenham to London, at which time it was considered a wonderful
improvement, for, previous to its introduction, everything came across
the hills on pack-horses.

The early days of railway travelling were very unpleasant in many ways,
whilst journeys on the Continent were regarded as positive adventures.
Such a thing as a train _de luxe_ was, of course, undreamt of, whilst
feeble linguists were terribly handicapped on account of there being no
officials well acquainted with foreign languages as is now the case;
only too often the instructions to travellers purporting to be written
in English were quite unintelligible. Even in comparatively recent years
mistakes in the phraseology and spelling of English in foreign
guide-books, time-tables, and the like, have not been uncommon; but I
think the following menu, which dates from the early days of the station
refreshment-room at Modane, is an almost perfect example of “English as
she is wrote.” It was sent to me by a friend, and I was so much struck
with it that it has been given a prominent position in a scrap-book of
mine filled with cards and menus of every kind, interesting souvenirs,
in many cases, of political and other banquets. One side of this menu, I
must add, is printed in French, the following translation being appended
on the adjoining sheet. It runs exactly as I give it here—

MODANE STATION

Travellers will find in the Refreshment Room (Buffet of the
Station) which is in direct communication with the Custom
Office, luncheon and dinner at the price of 3 frs., wine
included.

* * * * *

Porridge.

* * * * *

Slender at the Saint Germain.
Pike forced meat ball sauce of the financial
Beef to bake vegetables.
Poultry snow-drop of the Bresse at the
Jelly.
Salad of the time.
Side dish, chees and desert.
(½ bottle of wine.)

* * * * *

The prolonged stoppage of this train to Modane is long enough to
allow travellers to lunch and look over their baggage at the
Custom Office.

People when on a journey in old days were not very particular about
their food; indeed, too often thoroughly tired and worn out, they were
thankful to get anything to eat at all. Now pretty well every one who is
able to afford it is luxurious, and Spartan habits are at a discount.
Nevertheless there seem to be no noted gourmets to-day such as used to
exist in the past. Foremost amongst those, of course, was Abraham
Hayward, whose _Art of Dining_ is, I suppose, but little read at the
present time, when many of his gastronomic ideas would be considered
quite out of date. His contention, for instance, that the comparative
merits of pies and puddings present a problem difficult to decide, would
seem somewhat ridiculous to _bons vivants_ of the present day, when
puddings, formerly so popular, are, except in the sick-room, rarely
seen. Plum-pudding, of course, still maintains its ancient place. It may
not be generally known that it originated from plum-porridge, a first
course always served at Christmas in the seventeenth century. This was
prepared by boiling beef or mutton with a broth thickened by brown
bread, raisins, currants, cloves, nutmegs, ginger, and other condiments
being inserted when it was half-cooked.

The English are very contemptuous of many excellent things which their
country affords. Amongst these is the truffle, which, though perhaps not
equal in flavour to that of Périgord—called by Brillat Savarin the
diamond of the kitchen—is yet most delicious when properly cooked.
Besides this, owing to the small esteem in which it is held, its price
is exceedingly moderate, English truffles being purchasable in Covent
Garden Market at about one-eighth the price of the French variety. Years
ago, when staying at the Grange in Hampshire, I asked my host, the late
Lord Ashburton, whether he had ever thought of hunting for truffles in
his park, abounding as it did in beech trees, under which, in this
country, these esculents are found. He told me that he believed there
were plenty of truffles, but it was not worth the trouble of searching
for them, as no one cared for English truffles. I assured him that he
was wrong, for they were excellent; and, yielding to my entreaties, he
sent out orders for search to be made, and the next evening we had
English truffles for dinner, which were served merely as truffles,
without any announcement as to their nationality. Every one ate them,
and every one said they were delicious, and from that day to this the
English truffle, when in season, has continually been included in the
menu of the dinners served at the country house in question. Truffles
exist also at Goodwood and in Highclere Park—in fact, pretty well
everywhere where there are beech trees. The difficulty in obtaining them
seems to lie in the paucity of truffle-hunting dogs, which, of course,
have to be specially trained for their work. No doubt, were some easy
means discovered of finding truffles, their excellences would become
better known, and a home-grown delicacy, which is now almost overlooked,
would take its proper place in public appreciation.

Crayfish are excellent eating, as I believe the Germans realised when
they entered France in 1870. I was told that for years afterwards the
supply of _écrevisses_ was very limited indeed.

Many years ago, at a time when I was living in Sussex, I formed the idea
of attempting to acclimatise the crayfish in a little stream which
appeared suitable to their habits, and accordingly, after everything had
been prepared under expert direction, a consignment of _écrevisses_,
sent from France, were duly placed in a pool specially enclosed with
gratings, and furnished with everything that the most luxurious crayfish
could possibly desire. The experiment, however, proved totally
unsuccessful, for after a time not so much as even a morsel of shell was
to be found. Another consignment shared exactly the same fate, and Lord
Onslow, who made a similar experiment in acclimatisation, informed me
that his efforts, like mine, had also ended in disaster. For a long time
I was much puzzled as to what might have caused the death and also the
mysterious disappearance of any remains of these _écrevisses_, but am
now convinced that it was the result of raids by predatory water-rats,
the possibility of which we had left out of our calculations.

A rather curious thing in connection with gastronomy is that for the
last two hundred years the dinner hour in England has been getting later
and later.

In Addison’s time people dined at two o’clock, but gradually dinner was
put off and put off till four or five became the popular hour for dining
amongst the well-to-do classes. With the beginning of the nineteenth
century came a further postponement, and the dinner hour soon came to be
fixed at some time about seven o’clock; since which period further
encroachments upon the evening have taken place, and now half-past eight
is by no means an unusual hour.

The old English dinner which I remember in my childhood was, of course,
simplicity itself as compared with the elaborate banquets of to-day.
Nevertheless, a well-cooked English dinner, now almost unobtainable, was
not by any means a thing to be despised.

A small turbot, some well-roasted lamb or duckling, with green peas,
followed by a good apple or apricot tart, are, when well cooked, as Lord
Dudley used to say, a dinner for an emperor, and, in addition, far more
healthy than many a more costly and ambitious repast.

I well remember, as a child, my father sitting at the head of the table
and carving the joints himself, even when he gave a dinner-party. In
consequence of this we were in terror of asking for a second helping,
for even when only the family was present it was as much as he could do
to find time to eat his own dinner. The modern system is without doubt
much more convenient for everybody.

In the education of young ladies in England too little attention is as a
rule, I think, devoted to the inculcation of the principles of sound
housekeeping, and in consequence a good many mistresses of households
are quite ignorant of the important details of domestic management. Many
jokes, I remember, were current about one of this sort, a distinguished
matron of society, whom I may mention as Lady Caroline, a dear, portly
dame of high degree. Entering the married condition rather late in life
(despite a good average weight of some sixteen stone) as second wife to
a West-Country squire of limited estates, she undertook the management
of his household with a firm determination to conduct it on unswerving
principles of domestic economy. This truly admirable resolution was
unfortunately unenlightened by even a glimmer of elementary knowledge of
housekeeping, and her unsuccessful attempts at starting greatly
entertained her numerous friends. Her prompt dismissal of her first cook
in particular created much amusement. In vain had the poor woman, when
taxed with dishonesty, tried to persuade her mistress that only two legs
of mutton pertained to each sheep; for had not the lady, as she somewhat
angrily declared, all through her life seen them grazing with four!

In these days, however, there are so many admirable books published
which deal with household management and cookery in general, that little
excuse can be found for those who wilfully remain ignorant of the
essential amenities of existence.

I have a good collection of cookery books which I began to get together
at the time when the famous Soyer, who had been cook to Lady
Blessington, was creating quite a sensation in London. I remember being
taken to see him, and I also recollect his wife, who was a woman of
considerable artistic attainments, executing very pretty little sketches
in water-colour.

Both Soyer and his wife are buried, I believe, in a sort of mausoleum in
Kensal Green Cemetery, and on Soyer’s tomb is the very appropriate
inscription, “Soyer tranquil.”

Gentlemen used formerly to sit long in the dining-room over their wine,
of which they often drank a considerable quantity; but all this has now
been changed, and to-day they soon join the ladies, whose society they
very naturally prefer to the mineral waters in which so many of them
indulge instead of wine. People certainly seem to me to drink much less
nowadays, and of late years, I am informed, the consumption of wine at
dinner-parties has sunk to a very small quantity indeed, many men
drinking almost no wine at all. These would, I fancy, be bad days for
people like Abraham Hayward, who, when a friend of his remarked, “Why,
Hayward, I believe you could drink really any quantity of port, couldn’t
you?” is said to have replied, “Yes, my dear fellow, any _given_
quantity.” On the other hand, I believe that ladies who, up to
comparatively recent years, nearly all drank water, take a good deal
more wine, especially champagne, than was formerly the case.

The old custom of people asking one another to have a glass of wine at
dinner has long since died out. No doubt its disappearance is a good
thing, though there were occasions when it distinctly conduced to
pleasant sociability. A shy man, for instance, at a dinner-party of
strangers was soon put at his ease by kindly intimations that Mr.
So-and-so would like to take a glass of wine with him. Not a few,
however, carried the old custom too far, and, besides this, a set could
be so easily made against any especial individual whom mischievous
schemers might wish to exhilarate unduly.

Cigarette-smoking after dinner has undoubtedly been a great factor in
the cause of temperance. In old days such a thing would have been
regarded with horror; indeed, I think the greatest minor change in
social habits which I have witnessed is that in the attitude assumed
towards tobacco-smoking, which in my youth, and even later, was, except
in certain well-defined circumstances, regarded as little less than a
heinous crime.

Smoking-rooms in country houses were absolutely unknown, and such
gentlemen as wished to smoke after the ladies had gone to bed used, as a
matter of course, to go either to the servants’ hall or to the
harness-room in the stables, where at night some sort of rough
preparation was generally made for their accommodation. To smoke in Hyde
Park, even up to comparatively recent years, was looked upon as
absolutely unpardonable, while smoking anywhere with a lady would have
been classed as an almost disgraceful social crime.

The first gentleman of whom I heard as having been seen smoking a cigar
in the Park was the late Duke of Sutherland, and the lady who told me
spoke of it as if she had been present at an earthquake!

Well do I remember the immense care which devotees of tobacco used to
take, when sallying forth in the country to enjoy it, not to allow the
faintest whiff of smoke to penetrate into the hall as they lit their
cigars at the door. The whole thing was really ridiculous, but I suppose
it would have still been going on had it not been for our present King,
who most sensibly took the lead in promoting the toleration of what is,
after all, a great addition to the pleasures of life.

Besides this, there can be no doubt that the cigarette-smoking now
practically universally prevalent after lunch and dinner has been a
considerable factor in the direction of temperance, and has ended the
practice of consuming large quantities of wine, which in old days was
more or less universal. On the whole, I believe that smoking does more
good than harm, in spite of the attacks sometimes levelled against it.
Cigarettes, of course, are a modern invention, but I believe they
already existed in a slightly different form at the beginning of the
nineteenth century, when old Peninsular officers used to smoke tobacco
rolled up tight in a piece of paper. They called this a _papelito_, and
I fancy it was much the same thing as a cigarette. The exact time when
cigars were introduced into England seems very uncertain. In _Westward
Ho!_ Charles Kingsley pictures Amyas Leigh smoking a cigar, and it is to
be presumed that he had authority for this. At the same time it is quite
clear that cigars were hardly known in England at all as late as 1730,
for the writer of a book published about that time, when describing the
adventures of certain English sailors taken prisoners by a Spanish
pirate in South America, notes with special astonishment that the
captives were presented with “segars,” of which he gives a detailed
description.

The greatest traditionary smoker is, of course, Dr. Parr, whose motto is
said to have been, “No pipe—no Parr.” He is also declared to have once
very wittily told a lady, who had triumphantly prevented him from
indulging in his beloved tobacco, that “she was the greatest tobacco
stopper in England.”

VIII

London of the past—Eccentricities of modern architecture—Dreary
modern streets—Decay of the picturesque—The dignity of old
London—“The only running footman”—Berkeley Square and its
memories—Lady Cowper—Lord and Lady Haversham—Charles Street
and Mayfair—Curzon Street and Piccadilly—Wimborne House—A
great party—Changes since the ’sixties—The last of the
apothecaries—Lady Londonderry—The Sultan and his Ambassadress
—Shadows of the past.

Since the days when as a child I first knew London the outward aspect of
most of the streets may be said to have completely changed. Up to within
the last twenty years the alteration was not very marked, being for the
most part gradual, but now a veritable architectural revolution seems to
be taking place. Everywhere the boxlike Georgian house is passing away,
and on all sides towering mansions with elaborate frontages in every
possible style (some indeed being little but collections of decorative
samples jumbled up together) are making their appearance. Amongst other
eccentricities modern architects seem to have an especial love for small
windows, which, considering the not over-abundant supply of sunshine and
light available in London, seem somewhat out of place. On one estate (I
believe that belonging to the Duke of Westminster), a clause in every
lease forbids the building of a house with any but windows of very
moderate dimensions. In modern street architecture uniformity seems to
have little place; it is, I fancy, considered inartistic by English
architects, who, careless of the example of Mansard (the designer of the
Place de la Concorde) and other men of the past, who were capable of
really great architectural conceptions, imagine that decoration, no
matter how exotic or inappropriate, produces a more striking effect than
that well-proportioned, dignified, and graceful uniformity of
construction to which, I fear, they are quite unable to attain. The best
modern street in the West End, I think, is Mount Street, which,
notwithstanding the diversity of style exhibited in the façades of the
houses, is a really fine street, and one, moreover, not entirely
unpicturesque. Most of the old streets in the West End are too narrow
for the lofty houses now so frequently being erected. How the occupants
of these mansions—overshadowed as they must be by other giant
constructions facing them, and for the most part only furnished with
ridiculous little windows—ever obtain any light, is a mystery which I
think their builders would be considerably puzzled to explain. The old
Georgian houses were quite devoid of any pretension to especial
decorative merit, but some of them were not lacking in a certain dignity
of proportion, whilst ample provision for the admission of light was
always to be found. The ironwork of the railings was also in some cases
extremely artistic, never erring (as almost invariably does modern
ironwork) in the direction of over-elaboration and meaningless
eccentricity.

In former years Punch and Judy shows were quite common in the London
streets, but they are now rarely to be met with, and the piano-organs
look like sharing their fate, for of late there has been a great
diminution in their numbers, and few are now to be heard in the West
End. They have indeed been practically banished from many squares and
streets, in some of which draconian edicts are posted up against them.
Personally I rather deplore their disappearance, but then I have never
had the slightest pretension to being endowed with a musical ear, and I
suppose many people find them a great nuisance. Nevertheless, all the
barrel-organs in London could not produce anything like the din made by
that clanging and clattering conveyance, the motor omnibus. The old
red-coated crossing-sweepers are now also almost a thing of the past,
though one or two are still to be seen striking a picturesque note in
certain squares; modern methods of road-cleaning have, however, rendered
this humble vocation more or less obsolete. Some years ago street
vendors shouting out their picturesque cries still survived as a feature
of some London streets, but now, I believe, there are regulations
preventing any one shouting out anything, and even the newsboys, who
formerly used to utter the most strident cries when shouting out news,
real or imaginary, have been sternly bidden to hold their peace.

Rowlandson or Wheatley would find no picturesque types in London streets
to-day, from which even the Guy Fawkes celebrations, not very long ago
pretty well universal, have now been practically banished. As for the
Jack of the Green, with his attendants, he has long become but a memory
of other days, and with him has gone that strange instrumentalist who,
playing any number of instruments, may be said to have been a musical
host in himself. The tendency of the age now seems distinctly hostile to
everything which is not regulated, and a good-humoured toleration is no
longer meted out to the picturesque, if somewhat disreputable,
characters who were formerly well-known features of certain
thoroughfares. London, indeed, is altogether a different and, no doubt,
a much more orderly city than when Pierce Egan’s heroes, Corinthian Tom
and Jerry Hawthorn, were witnessing the day and night scenes which
Cruikshank pictured with such quaint and inimitable skill.

Externally, as I have before said, the streets within the last twenty
years or so have changed a good deal. Amongst other alterations the
removal of the old lamp-posts, which used to line each side of every
street, has effected a considerable alteration in the appearance of
London.

The electric light is, no doubt, a great improvement, but there was
something rather picturesque about the lamplighter who, at the dusk of a
winter’s evening, kindled the old gas-lamps which are now things of the
past. When the electric light first came in most people viewed it with
the greatest suspicion, which for some time seemed rather justified,
for, owing to an absolutely safe method of installation not being
perfectly understood, there were a good many slight outbreaks of fire,
for the most part happily extinguished before much damage had been done.
About the first people to make use of the new illuminant in their house
were Lord and Lady Randolph Churchill.

A certain architectural symmetry was always observed by the architects
who built the houses around the old squares of London, but to-day there
is no uniformity at all—buildings of every sort of style and size
jostling each other like toys in a shop window. In our streets and
squares, indeed, we may see attempts at every kind of style, from the
Byzantine to a sort of spurious Queen Anne, whilst terra-cotta
decorations (peculiarly unsuited, I fancy, to our atmosphere) ramble in
meaningless riot over many a sham Renaissance façade. Proportion, the
real foundation of true artistic effect, is totally neglected in favour
of laboured originality of design, whilst hardly ever do any of our
modern buildings convey that idea of dignified stability which should be
the thoughtful architect’s chief aim. It is true we have what might well
be termed “the prison style,” in which enormous arches of ponderous
design support minute pillars, which in turn are crowned with some
eccentric terminal, the whole being liberally topped by a series of
domes, pepper-boxes, or miniature steeples embellished with
ornamentation of a more or less insignificant kind.

Old London, from an architectural point of view, was a very
unpretentious city, as may be seen from many an old print; but there was
a certain air of solid comfort about it as well as a good deal of
old-fashioned dignity.

Few streets in the West End have escaped being modernised, and façades
of every period and style may now be seen side by side with such old
Georgian mansions as still remain. On the whole, however, Berkeley
Square has survived pretty well, and still retains a good deal of its
old appearance.

The streets leading out of it, though in many cases some of the houses
have been altered, also keep that air of quiet repose which makes this
part of London so pleasant to live in.

I have lived in Charles Street now for some thirty-eight years, and have
naturally become much attached to it and to Berkeley Square, where I was
born, and where nearly every house possesses memories which to me recall
the past. Charles Street boasts one of the most curious old tavern signs
in London—“The Running Footman”—though I fear that the sign itself is
but a modern reproduction of the original one. Be this as it may, no
similar signboard exists; it recalls the days when noblemen were
preceded by runners, whose especial duty lay in clearing the way. The
legend beneath the footman, clad in green coat and knee-breeches,
states, “I am the only running footman,” and such as a matter of fact is
the case, for there exists no other sign of this kind. Long may this
interesting survival of other days maintain its position!

The Duke of Queensberry,—“Old Q.,” the star of Piccadilly,—is believed
to have been the last nobleman to retain running footmen. These he
himself was in the habit of engaging after having made them give an
exhibition of such fleetness of foot as they might possess. A well-known
story used to be told of the trick which one of these gentlemen played
his Grace. A man desirous of serving “Old Q.” in the capacity of running
footman had to run a sort of trial up Piccadilly, whilst his future
master sat on the balcony of his house carefully watching the
performance. On one occasion, a particularly likely-looking candidate
having presented himself, orders were given that he should exhibit his
running powers in the Duke’s livery, in which accordingly he was
equipped. The man ran well, and “Old Q.,” who was delighted, shouted out
to him from his balcony: “You will do very well for me.” “And your
livery will do very well for me,” replied the man, after which reply he
made off at top speed, and could never be caught nor found again.

Running footmen were wont to sustain their energies by drinking a
mixture composed of white wine and eggs—a small supply of the wine
being frequently carried in the large silver ball which topped their
tall canes. About seven miles an hour was by no means an unusual speed
for them to attain, but when put upon their mettle they would do even
better.

In the eighteenth century these men were frequently matched to run
against horses and carriages, and one of the last recorded contests of
this sort was between a celebrated running footman and the Duke of
Marlborough, some time before 1770. The wager was that the footman would
run to Windsor from London quicker than the Duke could drive there in
his phaeton and four, both to start at the same time. The result was
that his Grace just (but only just) won, whilst the poor footman, worn
out by his tremendous exertions, and very much chagrined at his defeat,
died from the effects, it was said, of over-fatigue.

Some of these men wore no breeches at all, but a sort of short silk
petticoat kept down by a deep gold fringe.

In the north of England the calling of running footmen was not totally
extinct till well into the middle of the last century, for as late as
1851 the Sheriff and Judges were announced, on the opening of a North of
England Assize Court, as being preceded by two running footmen, whilst
about the same date the carriage of the High Sheriff of Northumberland,
on its way to meet the Judges of Assize, was attended by two pages on
foot, holding on to the door handles of the carriage and running beside
it. These running footmen were dressed in a short livery jacket and
white trousers, and wore a jockey cap.

In the old days, when communication between towns and villages was by no
means easy, swift runners were often of the greatest service to their
employers, especially in cases of illness when a doctor lived far away.
The story of the Scotch running footman is a very old one; still I hope
I may be excused for repeating it here. This man was on his way from
Glasgow to Edinburgh in order to requisition the services of two noted
physicians for his sick master, when he was stopped by an inquirer who
wished to know how the invalid was.

“He’s no dead yet,” was the reply, “but he soon will be dead, for I’m
fast on the way to fetch twa Edinbro’ doctors to come and visit him.”

In a small street at the foot of Hay Hill, leading towards Burton Mews,
used to be another quaint old sign—“The Three Chairmen”—a relic of the
days when Sedan-chairs were in fashion. I do not know whether this
public-house still exists, but rather think it has disappeared.

In 1774 a party of people driving in a coach were attacked and robbed on
Hay Hill; the reputation of this locality, indeed, was very bad, as
George IV. and the Duke of York, when very young men, discovered to
their cost, for they also were made to stand and deliver by highwaymen
who stopped their hackney carriage at this place. George IV. always used
to declare that the man who robbed him was none other than Champneys the
singer. The reason, as a matter of fact, why no great stir was made
about this affair, was that the Prince Regent would have had to account
for his whereabouts the evening before the robbery took place, and this
he was for certain reasons unwilling to do.

The whole neighbourhood, indeed, is full of memories of old days when
life in London was totally different from that of the present
time—witness the stout iron bar which stands in the doorway of
Lansdowne Passage in Berkeley Street. This was put up to hamper
highwaymen, one of these gentry having effected his escape after a
robbery in Piccadilly by galloping through the passage from Curzon
Street, his horse successfully negotiating the steps. This happened in
comparatively recent times—at the end of the eighteenth century.

It might be thought that in these more peaceful times highwaymen had
long been extinct in the West End of London, but such is not the case,
for within the last twenty years they reappeared in modern guise in the
very centre of Mayfair. One winter’s night in 1889, the French naval
_attaché_, who was going home from his club, was set upon in Curzon
Street by four men who, after violently assaulting and robbing him, left
him senseless upon the ground, where he was discovered by the police a
short time afterwards. The assailants in this case were never, I
believe, arrested, though the whole affair created a great sensation,
occurring as it did in the very centre of a quarter generally considered
to be about the safest in London.

Peaceful as Berkeley Square is to-day, it came near being a scene of
carnage at the time of Lord Liverpool’s ministry, when artillerymen
stood there, lighted match in hand, by the side of loaded field-pieces
which they were quite prepared to fire. Mount Street also has had a
military day, owing its very existence indeed to rumours of battle, for
on its site stood a bastion or mount—part of the line of fortifications
hastily thrown up to defend the western suburbs of London in 1643, when
the Parliament was expecting an attack from the forces of King Charles
I. In the centre of Berkeley Square stood, up to comparatively recent
times, an equestrian statue of George III. as Marcus Aurelius. This had
been erected by the Princess Amelia; it had no particular artistic
merit, and was perched upon a very clumsy pedestal.

Berkeley Chapel, at the other end of Charles Street, has been but
recently demolished; it may not be generally known that at one time the
celebrated Sydney Smith was its minister. In after-years this celebrated
divine took up his abode in Charles Street, at No. 33. At No. 42 in this
old street lived the celebrated and unfortunate dandy “Beau
Brummell”—this was about the year 1792; whilst a more intellectual
occupant of one of its houses was Bulwer Lytton, in whose house was a
room fitted up in exact facsimile of an apartment at Pompeii—everything
being in keeping. Charles Street, in all probability, did not derive its
name from the Merry Monarch, but from Charles, Earl of Falmouth, brother
of the first Lord Berkeley of Stratton. Berkeley Square, though begun
about 1698, was not finished till the time when Sir Robert Walpole was
Prime Minister; he, indeed, made a note of the last houses being built
there. Many distinguished people have lived in this old square—Lord
Clive amongst others. It was at a house in Berkeley Square that a butler
murdered a certain nobleman, his master—a crime which called forth from
George Selwyn the remark: “Good God! What an idea that butler will give
the convicts of us when he is sent to Newgate!”

In these days houses change owners very quickly, and people, I think,
rather like the amusement of taking new houses and redecorating them;
but in the past this was not at all the case. There is yet one house in
Charles Street, “No. 41,” which has been in the possession of the same
family for over one hundred and fifty years. Lord Powis’s house in
Berkeley Square is another instance of a long continuity of tenure.

Another old-world square is St. James’s. Passing through it the other
day my thoughts strayed back to the memory of a great lady of old days,
Lady Cowper, who used to live there. She was the mother of the late
earl, and has long been dead. Well do I remember the ballroom, and
especially some magnificent silver chandeliers, which made a great
impression upon my girlish mind.

Lady Cowper was an amusing woman, and used to say shrewd things at
times. She once told me, “To make a ball successful, three men should be
always asked to every lady—one to dance, one to eat, and one to
stare—that makes everything go off well”—and her entertainments
certainly did.

The beautiful drawing-room in this house is, I believe, reproduced at
No. 9 Grosvenor Square, the residence of Lord and Lady Haversham, who
are endowed with a quite unusual share of artistic taste, as is
exemplified in their delightful country residence, Southill Park, in
Berkshire.

There still remain in Charles Street, as well as in Berkeley Square,
several specimens of the old iron extinguishers which were formerly used
by the linkboys in the days when torches served to light people home and
no regular system of street lighting existed. For this reason the
neighbourhood of Mayfair was at one time none too pleasant at night,
abounding, as it did, in riotous characters.

It was said that it was Lord Coventry, the husband of the famous beauty,
who finally caused an end to be put to the “May fair” which used to be
held upon the ground now covered by Hertford Street, Curzon Street,
Shepherd’s Market, and some other streets. Lord Coventry lived at the
house at the corner of Engine Street (now Brick Street) which, in the
middle of the eighteenth century, had been erected on the site of the
large and ancient Greyhound Inn. The perpetual noise and uproar which
went on by night as well as by day during the whole month of May, owing
to the fair, so irritated and annoyed him that he determined to make an
effort to have it totally suppressed. As early as 1709 it had been
prohibited, but within a few years was once more revived, though the
Grand Jury of the City of Westminster had characterised it as a vile and
riotous assembly. Lord Coventry, however, by some means or other, was
completely successful in his efforts to abolish finally what he
considered to be an intolerable nuisance, and no “May fair” seems to
have been held much after 1764, the date at which Lord Coventry entered
into possession of his new house. Most of the ground on which the fair
was held belonged to a Mr. Shepherd, whence has originated the present
name of Shepherd’s Market, which is sometimes wrongly called “Shepherd
Market,” as if it had been a meeting-place for shepherds in the past.
This was never the case. Another gentleman of the same sounding name
also lived in Mayfair for a time in 1723. This was the celebrated Jack
Sheppard of notorious memory.

In an attic in Curzon Street Sir Francis Chantrey, when quite an
undistinguished young man, modelled his Head of Satan and the bust of
Lord St. Vincent; and in this street also lived Madam Vestris; the Miss
Berrys, one of whom I knew, lived at No. 8, whilst Lord Beaconsfield
went to reside in this street at No. 19 at the beginning of 1881, in
which house he died some three months later.

Many have sought to trace the origin of the name Piccadilly, but I
believe that no entirely satisfactory explanation has ever been given.
The first mention of what is now a world-famous thoroughfare occurs (as
is well known) in Gerard’s _Herbal_, which has originated an erroneous
idea that Piccadilly existed in 1596 when the work in question was
published. As a matter of fact, it is not in the original edition of
Gerard’s _Herbal_ that such a mention occurs, but in a much later one
published in 1636, and edited by Thomas Johnson. It runs as
follows:—“The little wild bugloss grows upon the dry ditch bank about
Pickadella.” It is pretty well authenticated that about 1630 a retired
tailor, named Higgins, whose fortune had been in a great measure made by
the sale of “pickadelles”—piccadillies or turnover collars—built
himself a snug house in this locality which he called Pickadilla Hall;
and Mr. Higgins, therefore, it was who, in all probability, originated
the name.

Up to about 1851, the year of the great Exhibition, Piccadilly was more
a fashionable lounge than anything else, but since that time it has
completely changed, and from having been a purely West End street has
become an ordinary London thoroughfare.

No. 22 Arlington Street, now Wimborne House, has had a good many
different names as well as occupants. Once it was called Beaufort House,
then Hamilton House, then Walsingham House, and now finally, as has been
said, Wimborne House. Amongst other remarkable people who have lived
there was Lord Houghton, who once took it for a year. It was the
interior of this house, it is said, that Hogarth utilised as the scene
of the wonderful series illustrating the marriage _à la mode_ of his
day. In 1870 Mr. Pender (afterwards Sir John) gave a great party in this
mansion to inaugurate the opening of a telegraph cable to India, in
those days considered a great feat. Messages, I remember, were sent to
the Viceroy during the evening, and congratulatory replies duly
received, whilst most of the intellect and rank of London were amongst
the guests. The present King and Queen were there, and Mr. and Mrs.
Disraeli, and altogether the whole entertainment was a most brilliant
one. Just about this time society was beginning to widen out, and the
stamp which once used so ruthlessly to hall-mark people as belonging to
the _crême de la crême_ or as being outside the pale, to make a more
feeble impression. Nevertheless, the great millionaires had not yet made
their appearance, and if any one died and left a hundred thousand it was
still thought enormous.

The ways and things of the ’sixties seem very strange to-day. Oysters
were a shilling a dozen, and people used to be made ill by arsenic green
wall-paper. The hideous crinoline was universally worn by ladies, and
entailed untold inconvenience and discomfort. Old Dr. Fuller of
Piccadilly (the last of the apothecaries) was once summoned to dislodge
a fish-bone from the throat of Frances Anne, Lady Londonderry, and when
imperiously told to begin, was obliged to say that he was quite unable
to get within many yards of her ladyship’s throat in consequence of her
crinoline being so enormous and so solid!

People were much more ignorant about health than is the case nowadays,
when they discuss the unromantic ailments of their interiors with the
greatest freedom. Formerly great reticence was observed about such
subjects, which no one would have even dreamt of mentioning. Doctors,
and the medicine they gave, were still viewed with something of a
mysterious awe. In the days when the old Coliseum in Regent’s Park was
still in existence, a gentleman came out of his doctor’s in Harley
Street, looking very solemn, and met a friend on the doorstep, who said,
“What on earth is the matter? You look like the man who lost a sovereign
and found sixpence.” “Well,” said the other, “my doctor tells me that
I’m not at all the thing. By the way, where is the ‘Perineum’?” “Oh,”
replied his friend, “that’s easily answered; straight down Portland
Place, and turn to the right, and then you’ll see it in front of you!”

At a great party which was given at the India Office during the Sultan’s
visit to England in 1867, the wife of the Turkish Ambassador (who was,
of course, like most of the Turkish envoys sent to England, a
Christian), a lady weighing some twenty-five stone, completely
succumbed, being overpowered by the heat. A doctor was present in the
room, being in close attendance upon the Sultan, and every one thought
that he would at once be sent to revive the enormous and prostrate
Ambassadress. Her imperial master, however, instead of thus despatching
his medical adviser, whom he kept in close attendance by his side, did
not show the slightest desire to dispense even for a moment with his
services, but on the contrary, fearing that the excitement consequent
upon this unfortunate occurrence would heighten the august temperature,
bade the physician keep his hand closely upon the imperial pulse till
such time as all inflammatory symptoms should have subsided.

Formerly, practically the whole of the West End was more or less given
up to the fashionable world, and the great majority of people in
Piccadilly or St. James’s Street knew one another. The men then thought
a good deal more of their dress than is to-day the case; indeed, having
as a rule no occupation, it was for many one of the principal ends of
their existence. The young man of that day lived principally in Mount
Street, where, before it was rebuilt, comfortable furnished chambers
could be procured for about a hundred a year—rather a difference this
from the present Mount Street, in which an unfurnished flat of the
simplest description costs about four or five hundred pounds per annum.
In spite of their greater attention to dress, the dandies of another age
were not so luxurious as the men of to-day—at least theirs was a
different kind of luxury. They had no City avocations to attend to
during the day, or restaurants to dine at in the evening, and
consequently clubs played a much greater part in their lives than is now
the case. A sort of mysterious solemnity used to attach to clubs in my
youth, and we used to regard them with the greatest awe. To-day ladies
frequently call for male relatives at their clubs; years ago such a
thing was absolutely unheard of, and would have been regarded with the
utmost consternation and horror.

In the ’forties, I remember, it was hardly considered proper for a young
lady to walk past the big bow-window at White’s, at that time filled
with the dandies of the day; and I well remember my father telling our
governess to take care that my sister and myself, when going down St.
James’s Street, should walk on the other side of the road. The peculiar
charm of this old street has been best expressed, I think, by my
delightful friend of other days, the late Mr. Frederick Locker:—

Why, that’s where Sacharissa sigh’d
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.

At dusk when I am strolling there
Dim forms will rise around me,
Lepel flits past me in her chair,
And Congreve’s airs astound me.

And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite,
Look’d kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps,—but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.

The London parks—Old prints—Rural London—Deer in Hyde Park—Its
Gates—Proposed railway station in the Park—Riots—Origin of
the name “Rotten Row”—An unlucky suitor and his trousers—Lady
Diana Beauclerk and the Baron de Géramb—Decadence of dress—The
_vis-à-vis_—The end of duelling—Lord Camelford’s will—His
burial-place—The first Lord Camelford—His Lines on Lady
Hervey.

The history of the London parks is a very interesting one, tinged, as it
is, with a certain amount of romance.

Of late a good deal of attention has been directed to prints of the
parks by reason of Mr. Charles Edward Jerningham, the clever “Marmaduke”
of _Truth_, having presented a collection of old prints, as well as of
park keys, passes, and the like, to the nation—an interesting gift
which, very appropriately, has now been permanently placed on view in a
room specially set apart at Kensington Palace. As may be observed from
those prints, the parks formerly had a much more rural air than is now
the case, when they have become little more than regulated pleasure
grounds for the people.

In the summer of 1739 an otter hunt took place in St. James’s Park. A
large dog otter, having taken up his abode there, played great havoc
with the fish in the ponds and canal, and eventually, as he would take
no notice of the traps set for his destruction, a regular otter hunt was
organised by the ranger, then Lord Essex. At nine o’clock in the morning
of a summer day, Sir Robert Walpole’s pack of otter hounds, which had
been borrowed for the occasion, appeared upon the scene, and after a
hunt which lasted two hours the otter, having left the water and tried
to run to the great canal, was speared by a Mr. Smith who hunted the
hounds.

At one time, of course, deer were regularly hunted in Hyde Park, and in
the seventeenth century several serious affrays took place between
poachers and the park gamekeepers, one at least of which led to
executions at Hyde Park Gate.

When I was a child there were still deer in Hyde Park, for they were
only finally removed in 1831. One of the chief reasons for their removal
was, it is said, that a great number of complaints were made concerning
the keeper, who was in the habit of shooting pet dogs which then, as
now, were taken to the park for exercise.

At the present time a vixen fox is said to have taken up her abode in
Richmond Park. Indeed, once again wild life is making its way into the
town, and of late years the advantages of the London parks as a haven of
refuge have gradually become recognised by many different kinds of
birds, which find in them a secure retreat. A kingfisher has, I believe,
been seen in St. James’s Park, whilst at the moment of writing these
lines a pair of magpies are busily engaged in building a nest in one of
the trees of the Green Park, quite close to the railings which skirt
Piccadilly. A curious fact in natural history is that pigeons which are
wild in the country are quite tame in London, apparently recognising
that once within the metropolis they have nothing to fear. So tame,
indeed, are they that their practice of building nests in all sorts of
places has of late begun to cause considerable inconvenience.

It was King Charles I. who threw open Hyde Park to the people, and this
he did, not owing to the force of circumstances, but quite of his own
free will. To-day the fact that this park was once the absolute property
of the Crown, and only thrown open by a royal concession, is more or
less forgotten, and, in common with other parks, it has long been
regarded as the property of the people, and is generally spoken of as
such. Some years ago a rather purse-proud millionaire was complaining at
a dinner-party of the worry that the two parks attached to his country
houses caused him, whereupon some one sitting at the other end of the
table said in a loud voice which every one could hear, “My parks don’t
worry me, though I have many more than that.” Somewhat humbled, the
millionaire, much taken aback at meeting some one, as he supposed, more
richly dowered than himself, immediately inquired where these properties
might be, and was completely silenced by the prompt reply: “Hyde Park,
St. James’s Park, the Green Park, and all the other parks.”

My eccentric ancestor, George Lord Orford, who once drove a four-in-hand
of stags, held the rangership of the parks from 1762 to 1791, it having
been offered to him through Horace Walpole by Henry Fox, first Lord
Holland, in the hope, as he said, that it would at least delay his ruin.
Previous to his receiving this sinecure, for it was little else, Lord
Orford had created some sensation in London when marching at the head of
the Norfolk Militia, 1100 strong, at a review in Hyde Park, his martial
appearance having much pleased the King. Pitt, in a letter to Lady
Hester Stanhope, wrote: “Nothing could have made a better appearance
than the two Norfolk battalions. Lord Orford, with the port of Mars
himself, and really the genteelest figure under arms I ever saw, was the
theme of every tongue.”

The old Ranger’s Lodge in the Green Park was removed in the spring of
1842 by Lord Duncannon (afterwards Earl of Bessborough), at which time
the gardens attached to the building were also thrown into the park. Sir
Robert Peel, who was then Prime Minister, wished other alterations to be
made in the shape of a terrace, adorned with fountains, statues, and
flower vases, from the gate at Hyde Park Corner to the houses at the
eastern end. These, however, were never begun. It may be mentioned that
the stags which formerly adorned the entrance to the Ranger’s Lodge were
removed to Albert Gate, where they still remain.

It is a curious fact that the principal gate of Hyde Park, which is
close to Apsley House, possesses no name whatever, being simply known as
Hyde Park Corner. The north-east entrance of the park, the Marble Arch,
was removed to its present position in 1851; before that date it stood
in front of Buckingham Palace. Near the gate, facing Great Cumberland
Place, was the place of execution known as Tyburn, and when a wall used
to enclose this corner military executions were carried out within it.
In this spot were erected the only gallows ever set up in Hyde Park;
this was for the purpose of hanging a Sergeant Smith who, two years
previously, in 1745, had deserted to the Scotch rebels.

In the Green Park the ancient course of the Tyburn has not entirely
disappeared, and may even be traced by the winding depression which
remains where it formerly flowed. There was formerly a pond in the
middle of this park, but this was filled up in 1842, at the same time
that the Ranger’s Lodge was razed to the ground. The design for Spencer
House, which looks into the Green Park, though known as having been the
work of Vardy, is also said to have in reality been taken from a drawing
by Inigo Jones, the pediment alone being purely original.

Probably few people have any idea that a serious proposal was once
actually made to erect a railway station in Hyde Park. This was to be
inside the park, on the left-hand side, not very far from the entrance
at Hyde Park Corner, and was to serve as terminus to a projected London
and Richmond railway.

At the upper end of the road skirting the garden wall of Buckingham
Palace, now called Constitution Hill, the great Sir Robert Peel met his
death on a June afternoon in 1850, when his horse, having shied at
something, threw its rider over his head, an accident which led to a
fatal termination a day or two later.

On Constitution Hill, by a somewhat strange coincidence, two attempts
were made upon the late Queen Victoria by individuals who were more or
less of deranged mind—Edward Oxford, on June 10, 1840, and John
Francis, on May 30, 1842. A little more than a month later a hunchbacked
youth also levelled a pistol at Her Majesty not very far away from the
same locality. His name was Bean, and the outrage occurred whilst the
Queen was proceeding from Buckingham Palace to the Chapel Royal. A
madman who entertained similar murderous designs also attempted to enter
Buckingham Palace in 1839, but was fortunately seized by a sentry before
he could do any harm. In former days lunatics were not kept under such
strict observation and control as is at present the case. In the early
’forties, for instance, a regular panic was produced in Kensington
Gardens by the appearance of a half-clad lunatic on horseback, who
created a great deal of confusion amongst the people listening to a
band.

The quaint old name of Constitution Hill was the “King’s coach-way” to
Kensington, whilst the Green Park was at one time known as Upper St.
James’s Park.

In old days there were occasional riots in Hyde Park, notably in 1855,
when a Bill to prevent Sunday trading aroused much irritation.
Frequenters of the park were a good deal molested by these disturbances,
which occurred several Sundays in succession. In 1862 there was also a
riot in the same park, which arose from a difference of opinion as to
the French occupation of Rome. A free fight took place, indeed, between
a number of working men and a body of Irish Catholics, in the course of
which a good many people were seriously injured. The breaking down of
the park railings during the Reform agitation was, however, a much more
serious affair, quiet being only restored by the arrival of the Life
Guards.

For the last forty years or so, with the exception of the Trafalgar
Square riots, the great demonstrations which are a regular feature of
London Sundays have passed off quite peaceably, those taking part in the
processions being drawn from a more orderly class than was formerly the
case. Even the demonstrations organised by the unemployed have been of a
law-abiding character. In connection with these I remember rather an
amusing little incident. A certain lady had been invited to view a
procession of the unemployed from the windows of a house belonging to a
hostess much interested in philanthropic endeavour. On that particular
occasion the unemployed had made but a sorry muster, and the lady in
question, with every desire to say the right thing, remarked on leaving,
“A most delightful afternoon, and I feel sure you are doing a great deal
of good; but it was disappointing, wasn’t it, that after all your
trouble there should have been so few unemployed?”

Whilst speaking of Hyde Park I am reminded of the various legends
prevailing as to the origin of the name Rotten Row, which some people
maintain is nothing else than a corruption of _Route du Roi_. I do not
believe there is any real authority for this derivation, which seems to
me somewhat speculative and fanciful, and rests upon no serious
foundation of historical evidence. There were formerly many streets in
England, and especially in Scotland, which were called Ratton Row,
either from alliteration, or allusion to the locality being infested
with rats. There was, for instance, a Ratones Lane or Rat Lane in the
parish of St. Michael, Greenhithe, as early as the 14th century, whilst
coming down to later times a portion of Old Street, just where it joined
with Goswell Street, was called Rotten Row in 1720, the houses being
appropriately enough in a bad state of decay; the name of this street
was afterwards changed to Russel Row. The most fanciful derivation of
Rotten Row is the one which declares it to have originated from
_Rattanreigh_, a Celtic term for a good mountain path or road as
contrasted with a bad one. Rotten Row in Hyde Park can, by no stretch of
imagination, be termed mountainous, and the name of this pleasant ride,
which is not an ancient one, in all probability actually arose from the
loose state of the mixture of sand and gravel of which its surface is
composed.

It was Sheridan who, in a debate in the House of Commons in 1808 on the
question of building houses on a part of Hyde Park, jokingly suggested
that both sides of Rotten Row might be built on, in order that gentlemen
taking their rides there might have the advantage of being gazed at by
ladies in the balcony.

Thanks to his efforts, and those of Sir Francis Burdett, Mr. Windham,
and Mr. Creevy, the scheme was abandoned and the park saved.

As has been said, the name of Rotten Row is not of any great antiquity,
the first printed mention of it being only found as recently as 1781,
though it is believed that the ride in question was known by that name
for some years anterior to that date. Though it is still much frequented
at certain hours. Rotten Row does not now evoke the idea of fashion and
pleasure, combined with a certain air of luxurious dissipation, which it
formerly did. People nowadays, I fancy, go there more to take a ride for
the benefit of their health than anything else, and the joking letter
written by a friend of mine in the early ’sixties would to-day be quite
meaningless. The writer was under the impression that I was out of town,
but, chancing to be taking a stroll in Hyde Park, caught sight of me
riding there, which prompted the following missive:—

DEAR LADY DOROTHY—I thought you were in innocence with your
flowers, but, instead, find you caracoling in the paradise of
the lost—in Rotten Row.

In old days no one would have dreamt of riding in the Row in country
costume; but now, I fancy, no rule whatever prevails about this, and
people ride in anything they like, whilst the brilliant and eccentric
figures which at times used to make their appearance have now totally
disappeared, having given way to a dull and monotonous uniformity of
costume.

During the season white duck trousers used to be much worn by gentlemen
in the park, and the extreme tightness which fashion at one time
prescribed for these occasionally led to some ludicrous incidents. A
former Duchess of Beaufort, I remember, used to relate a story of such a
mishap having happened to one of her admirers. Years ago there was a
good deal more romance surrounding the love-making and engagements of
young people than prevails to-day, and young men would often send a
little present to the lady of their choice with the message that its
acceptance would signify that their suit had proved successful, and its
return the opposite. At the time before the Duchess’s marriage, when she
was Lady Georgiana Curzon, a certain peer who was very much in love with
her at last determined to learn his fate, and so sent her a beautiful
little riding-whip, together with an impassioned note, in which he said
that he should be in the park the next morning, when he would expect to
discover her decision. This would be indicated by her riding-whip; that
is to say, the presence of one he had sent her would mean acceptance,
and its absence refusal.

The next morning the young lady duly rode in the park, but, to his
extreme disgust, her expectant swain saw that the riding-whip she
carried was not the previous day’s gift, whereupon, overcome with rage
and mortification, he at once put his horse into a gallop, with the
result (at the recollection of which the Duchess could never help
laughing) that his tight white trousers burst right up the side.

In Rotten Row Lady Diana Beauclerk was once wont to ride in a green
velvet riding habit, whilst the Prince of Orange caracoled by her side.
Here also used to canter the dashing Baron de Géramb, whose plumed
kalpack and furred pelisse made such an impression upon the British
military authorities as to cause the creation of certain cavalry
regiments dressed as hussars, which are still part of the English army.
This Baron, who ended his days as the chief of a Trappist monastery, was
an extraordinary and somewhat mysterious character, who, after having
offered to raise 24,000 Croatian troops to assist in the overthrow of
Buonaparte, was denounced as an impostor and ordered out of England.
Upon this he barricaded himself in his house, hanging out a board on
which was written, “My house is my castle,” and announced that he would
sustain a long siege whilst awaiting the arrival of his Croatians, and
at the last extremity would blow up his house and all Bayswater rather
than yield. His resistance, however, did not last long, for that very
evening he was captured, taken to Harwich, and sent out of the country.
In later life Géramb, becoming a monk, rose, as has been said, to a very
high position in the Trappist community. Indeed, when he went to Rome in
1837 he created such a sensation that Pope Gregory XVI. said, “There are
two popes now—Pope Géramb and myself.” The favourite motto of Géramb,
in his later years, when he had become a pattern of simple devotion and
zeal, was “_se taire, souffrir et mourir_,” words which he caused to be
inscribed on the walls of his modest cell. This Procureur-Général of the
Trappist Order, who was the creator of the English hussar, died at Rome
on the 15th of March 1848.

The era of the dandies has long since passed away, and were he to return
to the scene of his sartorial triumphs, D’Orsay,

Prince of unblemished boots and short napped hat,

would find that his well-thought-out costume, far from evoking
admiration, would be regarded only with ridicule and contempt. The days
of the gorgeous equipages which at one time formed one of the principal
sights in Hyde Park during the season are also over; there seems a
strong probability, indeed, that in the not very distant future horsed
carriages in London will become something very like curiosities, being
supplanted by motors, which, notwithstanding certain inconveniences, are
essentially suited to a modern city.

Probably the only person now living who used a _vis-à-vis_, a form of
carriage once very fashionable but now totally obsolete, is the present
Lady Cardigan, who now, I believe, seldom leaves Deene Park, her lovely
place in Northamptonshire. I remember my brother once being very much
amused, after having been on a visit there, at a little incident of
which he was the hero. Met at the station by a dogcart, he observed that
the driver treated his attempts at conversation with a somewhat tolerant
familiarity. On coming up to the house and finding that no stop was made
at the front door, he proceeded to inquire the reason, when he was told
that the servants’ entrance was elsewhere. He then found that he had
been taken for a French cook, whose arrival had been eagerly looked
for—a discovery which caused him the greatest amusement and delight,
for there was nothing that he liked more than telling a joke against
himself.

At the east end of Hyde Park once stood a fine avenue of walnut trees,
but these were destroyed in the early part of the nineteenth century,
when the wood was sold to be made into gunstocks.

Duelling, though practically obsolete in England after the first quarter
of the nineteenth century, lingered on up to about the middle of the
’forties, when an encounter between Lieutenant-Colonel Fawcett and
Lieutenant Munro, in which the former was shot dead, led to a debate in
the House of Commons owing to the wife of the former being refused a
pension. On this occasion Sir Charles Napier declared that but one way
existed of effectually putting an end to duelling. No duel should be
allowed which was not fought across a table. Of the two pistols used
only one should be loaded with ball, lots being drawn to see who should
have the loaded one. If this produced no result, then both pistols
should be loaded with ball, and the survivor, should there be one,
hanged. The last duel actually fought in Hyde Park is believed to have
taken place in April 1817, when two gentlemen exchanged shots, both of
them being wounded. As late, however, as 1822 a duel was fought in
Kensington Gardens between the Dukes of Buckingham and Bedford.

At one time a perfect mania prevailed for fighting duels, and this was
by no means confined to the well-to-do classes. In 1780 two negro
servants fought a duel in Hyde Park, neither of the combatants, however,
being seriously hurt; but an encounter which occurred some three years
later between two footmen in the same place was of a much more serious
character, both being severely wounded. Towards the beginning of the
nineteenth century, however, duels began to be much fewer in number.

At my old home in Norfolk—Wolterton Hall—my nephew, the present Lord
Orford, recently came upon a number of curious old documents, amongst
them a copy of the codicil to the will of the eccentric Lord Camelford,
drawn up by him two days before his fatal duel with Mr. Best. The
reasons for this codicil being at Wolterton was no doubt that Lord
Camelford’s mother had been a Miss Wilkinson, a family connected with
Burnham, a property which for generations has belonged to the Walpoles.

Lord Camelford, it will be remembered, was called out by Mr. Best under
great provocation, of which an officious person was the cause. This
individual had represented to Lord Camelford that Mr. Best had spoken
slightingly of him to a Mrs. Simmons, a lady with whom Lord Camelford
was on terms of considerable intimacy, whilst Mr. Best had formerly been
her lover. The latter, who was noted as a deadly shot, did everything he
could to avoid a conflict, and others also attempted to use their
influence, but their efforts were all in vain, Lord Camelford declaring
that the thing must go on. Accordingly a duel was fought in the fields
behind Holland House, with the result that Lord Camelford was mortally
wounded, expiring some four days after the fatal meeting.

The codicil, drawn up in the very face of impending death and
containing, as it does, a manly reference to Lord Camelford’s adversary,
is a dignified and interesting document, the full contents of which, I
believe, have never before been made public. For this reason I now
venture to give a copy of it here:—

I Thomas Lord Camelford of the Parish of Boconnoc in the County
of Cornwall deliver this paper as an explanatory note and
Codicil to my Will; There are certain Sums of money of mine in
the Hands of Mr. Colin de la Brunerie, who lives at No. 396, Rue
de L’Université at Paris, with this money he has purchased two
Estates the one in Picardy, the other near Lausanne, the whole
of these Lands, with whatever Money of mine may be in his Hands
I bequeath to the Grenvilles in the same manner as the rest of
my property described in my Will, after a settlement shall have
been upon him and his Wife (that is upon their joint lives) of a
salary equal to what he at present enjoys from me which I
believe is somewhere about 240£ a Year I likewise bequeath him
500£ as a proof of my esteem and respect for his talents and
integrity I have likewise certain Sums of money in the Hands of
Mr. Nicholson School Master of Soho Sq^{r}. greatest part of
which is vested in two Ships destined for the South Sea fishing,
these I likewise bequeath to the Grenvilles in the same way as
the other that is in the manner described in my Will, _fifteen
Hundred_ Pounds of this Money _is a loan_ to Mr. Nicholson made
on former occasion for the extending his establishment, this
Money (namely 1500£) I bequeath to him as a reward for his
private confidential Labours in my affairs, but the file patent
Machine will go to the Grenvilles. I likewise bequeath to my
good Friend and old Shipmate Capt^{n}. Burrie a full discharge
of all his debts to be paid by my Heirs as soon as may be
together with the redemption of his half pay, which I have
reason to fear he has sold, and I furthermore bequeath to him a
yearly Annuity of 200£ whenever he is not employed in Service,
on Condition that he does not reside in town or within one
hundred miles of it. To my friend Devereux I bequeath my little
Brown Hunter together with my Guns, Dogs and other sporting
apparatus which I think will amuse him, and tend to drive away
the recollection of the tedious Hours I have made him spend. He
will understand what that means, and I beg that the whole of
that business in every way may be forgot with me that is not
mentioned by him. Having now mentioned all those to whom I am
bound by sentiment of regard and esteem I will say a Word of
perhaps one of the worst men that ever disgraced humanity—I
mean my former Steward Berlingdon, he has got the command of a
Ship of mine called the Weldon, the particulars of which are in
the Hands of Mr. Nicholson part of her is his own as I allowed
him to vest somewhere about 500£ in her, the precise Sum is
mentioned in the paper at Mr. Nicholson’s, as there will be no
doubt, but that he will use every artifice in his power to
defraud my heirs. I hereby declare that except that share in the
vessel I do not owe him to my knowledge a single farthing and I
advise them to take the earliest opportunity of recovering their
own. There are many other matters at any other Time I might be
inclined to mention but I will say nothing more at present than
that in the present contest I am fully and entirely the
Aggressor as well in the spirit as in the letter of the Word,
should I therefore lose my life in a contest of my own seeking I
most solemnly forbid any of my friends or relations let them be
of whatsoever description they may be from instituting any
vexatious proceedings against my Antagonist, and should
notwithstanding the above declaration on my part the Law of the
Land be put in force against him I desire that this part of my
Will be made known to the King in order that his Royal breast
may be moved to extend his mercy towards him. With respect to
myself I have ever entertained an anxious desire that my remains
may be deposited in some _region of the Earth_ distant from the
place of my Nativity and where the surrounding scenery will
smile upon me, others adorn their abode while living and it is
my fancy to adorn mine when dead for this purpose I beseech most
earnestly that whenever the times will permit my body may be
removed in the cheapest manner to the Island of St. Pierre in
the Lake of Berne in Switzerland there to be deposited in the
Centre between the 3 trees that stand on the right of the
Tavillon a bush or some such thing may be planted over me but
without any Stone or Masonry in any shape or form whatever and
for the permission to have this my last wish carried into
execution I bequeath one thousand pounds to be paid to the
Hospital at Berne to whom the Island belongs I appoint Devereux
my Executor for all these things relating to my burial on which
I attach more importance than a sensible man perhaps ought to do
With respect to all my other friends and relations I beg that
they will not wear mourning on my account or shew any outward
mark of regret for my loss (signed) CAMELFORD [L.S. w/i circle]
Richard Wilson for _Lord Camelford_ by his express direction and
authority. Signed by Richard Wilson in the presence of and by
the express directions of the within named Thomas Lord Camelford
and sealed published and declared this eight day of March one
thousand Eight hundred and four as an explanatory Note and
Codicil to his Will referred to by him herein (he having written
and signed the Contents hereof on the sixth of this instant
March on two Sheets and a half of paper and being unable to
resign the same of this present Date) in the presence of us
whose names are hereunder written who in his presence and in the
presence of each other have subscribed our Names as Witnesses
attesting the same—P. E. OTTEY—H. U. THOMSON—S. NICHOLSON.

After Lord Camelford’s death an inquest was duly held and a verdict of
wilful murder returned against some person or persons unknown. A bill of
indictment was then prepared against Mr. Best and his friend, which was
ignored by the Grand Jury, who thus carried out the desire expressed in
the codicil. Lord Camelford’s other wish was also respected, and his
body was duly removed to Switzerland, where in a secluded spot near the
Lake of St. Lampierre this eccentric but dignified nobleman of another
age sleeps his last sleep. According to his instructions, no monument or
stone marks his resting-place.

This Lord Camelford was the second and last of the name, his father,
Thomas Pitt, a nephew of the great Lord Chatham, having received the
Barony. The first Lord Camelford was a cultivated man and something of a
poet, for when Lord Hervey stayed with him at Boconnoc in 1775 he wrote
the following pretty lines (which are not, I think, generally known) in
memory of his visitor’s mother, Lady Hervey, who had been the beautiful
Molly Lepell:—

Of manners gentle with strong sense combin’d,
All grace her form, all elegance her mind;
Thro’ every stage acquiring powers to please,
Wit without malice, dignity with ease;
Learn’d, tho’ no pedant, by reflection sage,
Smiling thro’ pain and beautiful in age.
Such Hervey was, but is, alas! no more—
All we once loved and all we now deplore.

Family pictures—Nelson and the Walpoles—A group by Devis—A fine
old French picture saved by Mr. Cobden—Eccentricity of Lord
Hertford—Dr. Schlieman’s bequest—Some beautiful books in Lord
Carnarvon’s collection—Fashion in art—Sir Patrick Grant and
the red cloak—Mr. Graves—Lord Leighton—Mr. Aidé—A genial
artist—Sir David Wilkie—Scene-painting and art—Stewart relics
—Silhouettes—Anecdotes of William IV.—Lady Georgiana Curzon
and “Ugly Mugs”—Watch-papers—The origin of Christmas cards.

Possessing a certain number of family pictures, the majority of which
are portraits of Walpoles, I have for many years past seized every
opportunity of adding to their number.

Many years ago I was fortunate enough to secure at a sale a fine
miniature of Horace Walpole as a child, dressed in a fanciful
costume—the work of Nathaniel Hone. Owing to people being out of town
and to its being a wet day, the bidding was very feeble, and this little
gem, which I have several times lent for exhibitions, became my property
for the insignificant sum of two pounds. Besides this I have also a
small portrait of Horace Walpole which had become the property of Lady
Blessington, at whose sale I bought it.

Amongst other family pictures I have also four pastels by Rosalba,
representing different members of the Walpole family. One of them is an
excellent portrait of the owner of Strawberry Hill, whilst another
represents Sir Robert’s brother, the Admiral Galfridus, whose sword was
one of Nelson’s most valued possessions. Galfridus Walpole himself had a
not undistinguished naval career, losing his right arm in a sea fight in
the Mediterranean, on which occasion he was in command of the _Lion_, a
ship of eighty guns which, single-handed, fought four French ships
mounting sixty guns apiece. When the Rev. Maurice Suckling married the
grand-daughter of Sir Robert Walpole’s sister, Captain Suckling
presented him with this sword, the recipient in course of time
bequeathing it to his grandson, Horatio Nelson, who always wore it, and
was grasping it in his hand when so severely wounded at the battle of
Teneriffe.

Always particularly interested in memorials of Nelson, I have managed to
collect a few things connected with the great admiral, amongst others
some curious pieces of a dessert service owned by him.

It is, I believe, a well-authenticated fact that Wellington and Nelson
only met once. On this occasion Wellington was going upstairs at Downing
Street and met a man coming down. He afterwards found, on making
inquiries, that this man was Nelson, who, on his side, told some one
that he had met a most remarkable-looking young man on the stairs at
Downing Street. There exists, I have been told, a print depicting what
is nothing but a purely imaginary interview between these two great men,
for there is no record that any regular meeting ever took place between
them.

Another interesting picture which I possess is one representing the
Vanneck family grouped on the lawn of their house at Fulham, with old
Putney Bridge (destroyed only a few years ago) standing out in the
background. This picture was the work of Arthur Devis, an
eighteenth-century painter of portraits and also of what are known as
“conversation pieces.” The work of Devis is not very much known to-day,
but during his lifetime the painter in question attracted a good deal of
attention owing to his very remarkable likeness to the Pretender;
indeed, during a period of political excitement he was actually obliged
to leave Preston in disguise. Appropriately enough he painted a picture
of the “Pretender and his Friends.”

Two prominent figures in my picture are two ladies, daughters of Sir
Joshua Vanneck, who both married Walpoles. One became the grandmother of
my husband (I have also a miniature of her by Smart), and the other the
great grandmother of my cousin, the late Sir Spencer Walpole. Her
husband was the Hon. Thomas Walpole, Horace Walpole’s cousin, who lost
his fortune owing to the capture of the West Indian Islands by the
French, having had the bad luck to accept bills drawn by the Scotch firm
of Alexander upon his real property in that quarter of the world. The
French Government after this capture at once declared all debts due to
English creditors to be annulled; but Mr. Walpole, betaking himself to
Paris, after a protracted struggle in the French Courts, eventually
obtained a judgment in his favour, and then very honourably handed over
his recovered estates to the Bank of England in discharge of his
obligations.

After the death of his first wife Mr. Walpole married in Paris Madame de
Villegagnon, the widow of the Comte de Villegagnon, and Sir Spencer
Walpole possessed the permission signed by the French King—the
unfortunate Louis XVI.—which, under such circumstances, it was in those
days necessary to obtain.

In addition to pictures I have also a certain number of Walpole relics,
amongst them a fine _marqueterie_ clock which formerly belonged to
Horace Walpole at Strawberry Hill.

In former years, before the rage for collecting had reached its present
pitch, and the extravagant prices of to-day were as yet undreamt of,
French art occupied a very different position in the estimation of
collectors from that which it does to-day, and occasionally fine old
French pictures were to be found in very queer places.

In one of my scrap-books I have a photograph of an old French picture
with some notes written at the side which recall to my mind a very
kindly action which was performed by Mr. Cobden, and by which he greatly
assisted a poor labourer and his family.

Mr. Cobden chanced to be one day walking in a Sussex village with his
friend Mr. Robinson (afterwards Sir Charles), of the South Kensington
Museum, and came across a child trailing what appeared to be a piece of
old board by a string run through two roughly made holes. For some
reason or other this board attracted his attention, and examining it, he
discovered it to be an old picture evidently of considerable artistic
merit.

Conducted by the child to its home, Mr. Cobden interviewed the father—a
poor labourer with a large family—to whom he suggested that as the
picture might possibly be of some value he should allow it to be
restored, and afterwards privately raffled amongst some friends; in this
way a nice little sum would be brought in to the poor household. The
labourer willingly gave his consent, and after careful restoration, the
picture turned out to be a graceful and elegant portrait of Madame la
Duchesse de Bourgogne, a Princess of the House of Savoy and the mother
of Louis XV. From the style and brilliant colouring of the painting it
was declared to be the work of Largillière, and in all probability had
once hung at Cowdray, the ancient home of the Brownes, the ruins of
which stood not very far away.

The raffle was duly organised by Mr. Cobden, twenty-five tickets at a
guinea apiece being disposed of amongst friends. Of course I took one,
but, alas, I did not win the picture.

Since those days works of art of all kinds have largely increased in
value, and realise sums which would have fairly staggered the collectors
of the past.

It is said that the Bernal Collection, which in 1855 realised £69,000,
would to-day fetch close on half a million. Many things, indeed, which
were then sold have since changed hands at a profit of a thousand per
cent, and even more. A Dutch picture, for instance, which was sold at
the Bernal sale for eighty guineas, was bought by Mr. Wertheimer, when
Mr. Adrian Hope’s pictures were sold, for no less a sum than £3200.

It is not, I think, generally known that before Mr. Bernal began his
great collection he had already formed a small collection of pictures.
These he sold on the death of his first wife, who met with such a tragic
end, being burnt to death while dressing for a party. She was Mr. Bernal
Osborne’s mother.

Many collectors are very careless of their treasures, and, once a
coveted _objet d’art_ is obtained, forget all about it. The Marquis of
Hertford, who did so much to make the Wallace Collection what it now is,
had a good deal of this tendency, and would keep some of his finest and
most valuable pictures piled up in heaps against the wall, not troubling
to have them hung, or indeed paying any attention to them at all.

Lord Hertford was in the habit of employing certain agents to buy for
him, and on one occasion, it is said, sending for one of the most able
of these men, bade him spare no expense or trouble in the effort to
secure a certain picture, the details of which he minutely described.
The collector accordingly set out, telling his lordship that his wishes
should certainly be fulfilled; but in spite of the most strenuous
exertions the much-sought-for picture could not be discovered, and Lord
Hertford eventually received a letter from the man saying that, much to
his regret, he was abandoning the search, feeling convinced that it was
useless.

A year or two later, however, this very collector, whilst travelling on
the Continent, chanced to come across a shrewd dealer whom he had not
yet questioned about this picture. He accordingly asked the man whether
he knew anything about it, to which the latter replied: “Know anything
about it? Of course I do; but you need not trouble any further about it,
for it has gone into a collection from which no money will cause it to
emerge. Lord Hertford bought it of me three or four years ago, and, as
you know, he never parts with anything.” The collector at once informed
Lord Hertford of what he had been told, and on a search being made the
picture was duly discovered, propped up behind several others with its
face to the wall.

The splendid Wallace Collection, as is well known, was lost to France by
the scant consideration which the French Government showed to Lady
Wallace; but it is said that England, on the other hand, failed to
secure another very interesting and valuable bequest entirely through a
misunderstanding.

Dr. Schlieman, the famous excavator of Troy, had, it is said, quite made
up his mind to leave his collection, which included many objects of
great antiquarian value, to this country, but oddly enough his election
as an honorary member of a very learned club caused him to alter his
decision. On receiving the notification of this election the
distinguished antiquarian (who did not understand that honorary members
paid no subscription) sent £10 to the secretary of the club, thinking
that he would at once acquit himself of his obligations as a new member.

The secretary, however, on receipt of this sum, interpreted it as being
either an insult or a bribe, and a great fuss was made, which so
disgusted Dr. Schlieman that he determined to reconsider his bequest,
and did so, with the consequence that the whole of his collection went
elsewhere at his death.

Lord Hertford, though a great connoisseur of French art, did not, I
believe, make any great collection of French eighteenth-century books,
such as the little almanacks, illustrated by good artists, which were
produced in such abundance during the reign of Louis XV.

Lord Carnarvon has a fine collection of these, amongst them being an
_Almanach des Muses_ bearing the arms of Marie Antoinette. Another of
his treasures is _Les bienfaits du sommeil_, an exceptionally scarce and
practically unknown almanack, embellished with four plates engraved by
Delaunay after Moreau. He also possesses a perfect copy of the very rare
_Suite d’estampes pour servir à la mode_—a reduction of the _Monument
de costume_ of Moreau le jeune. This, by great good fortune, he found
whilst looking through a vast assortment of rubbish at a shop in
Constantinople, one Turkish pound only being asked for two perfect
copies. Other rarities in this most careful collection of scarce and
beautiful books are the tallest known copy of that rarest of Elzevirs,
_Le pastissier François_, and a first edition of the _Art of Cookery_,
with H. Glasse, the autograph of Mrs. Glasse, written upon the
title-page. The well-known remark, “First catch your hare,” does not
occur in the first edition.

Lord Carnarvon also has many splendid bindings, as well as an ancient
morocco box, covered with gold tooling and made to hold prayer-books,
which once belonged to Gabrielle d’Estrées.

A collection of books of this kind, many of them containing sketches by
great artists such as Fragonard and Moreau, is exceedingly difficult to
get together—taste and knowledge being indispensable requisites as well
as the possession of a well-filled purse.

At one time massive folio volumes were the delight of the bibliophile,
but that day has long since passed: small and beautifully bound and
illustrated volumes are now the collectors especial delight. Fashion,
indeed, exercises her sway here as in other forms of art. I remember,
for instance, a regular craze which was originated by Sir Francis Grant,
a fashionable painter of other days, who was a great favourite in
society. A portrait painted by him of his daughter (a singularly
good-looking girl), wearing a red cloak, created a great sensation, and
in consequence of the happy effect produced by the brilliant colouring
of this picture, every one, old or young, ugly or beautiful, rushed to
have their portrait painted in a similar costume. The result in most
cases, however, was far from being as successful as in the case of Miss
Grant. She afterwards became Lady Annesley.

Sir Francis painted a picture of my sister and myself which now hangs at
Methley. This, in my opinion, was a great failure, for my sister looks
like a murderess, whilst I am represented as apparently suffering from
the effects of a narcotic which she has just administered. Nevertheless,
many people said it was not at all a bad picture, but I never liked it.
Sir Francis was an agreeable man, and we often used to go to his house
in Regent’s Park to sit to him in the evenings. He was the only painter
I ever heard of who painted by gas-light, a feat which has always
lingered in my memory as a somewhat remarkable thing.

[Illustration: _Emery Walker Ph. So._
_Lady Dorothy Nevill_
_from a portrait by the Hon. Henry Graves_ ]

The Hon. Henry Graves was another popular portrait-painter of the past.
I think that in all probability the best thing he ever did was a
miniature portrait of myself, which, on account of its beautiful
execution, is quite a little gem. For some years Mr. Graves had no
success at all, but a portrait of the late Lady Alexandra Lennox being
very much admired, he leapt into popularity, and afterwards, I believe,
regularly made several thousands every year. Thorburn also painted what
I suppose would be called a miniature of me. His particular bent lay in
painting portraits rather like miniatures, but covering a very much
larger surface. Another fashionable painter was Buckner, who painted my
portrait in what may be called the keepsake style (as a matter of fact,
an engraving of it actually appeared in a number of the _Keepsake_).
Though somewhat artificial in pose, this picture was not at all
unpleasing, being far more graceful than any modern effort of the same
sort. At the present time, alas, the art of portrait-painting, except in
one or two cases, cannot be said to stand at anything but a very
moderate level.

Buckner, it was said, invariably made his portraits more beautiful than
the sitters really were, in order to please people and thus cause their
friends to flock to his studio.

Lithographs after Count D’Orsay’s drawings of well-known people of his
day, which were once so popular, are now seldom to be seen. I well
remember Lord Beaconsfield telling me how anxious he was to secure a
picture of Napoleon the Third done by D’Orsay; it was coming up for sale
at Christie’s, and he feared that it would fetch at least two hundred
pounds, a sum which he declared himself ill able to afford. However,
when the day came, the bidding was very feeble, and he secured the
picture for twenty pounds. I suppose it still hangs at Hughenden.

Sir John Millais I used to meet every year at the shooting parties given
by that most delightful of hosts, Sir Henry (now Lord) James. I remember
that, by a curious fatality, the weather during these shooting parties
was always execrable, but the clever and pleasant guests, together with
the most excellent of hosts, used to make us all forget the torrents of
rain which fell most of the time.

Lord Leighton also for many years I regularly saw, for he always formed
one of a party which came to us every Easter. Nevertheless I cannot say
that I ever really knew Lord Leighton well, for there always seemed to
be something mysterious about him—a sort of curious reticence, as it
were, which prevented one becoming intimate with him. Perhaps this was
but fancy; in any case we always remained the best of friends.

A newspaper once mentioned Lord Leighton’s picture of Cimabue finding
Giotto at work on his sketches as the “Discovery of Grotto.”

Another criticism of the same sort which appeared in 1884 was the one
which described Walker’s “Harbour of Refuge”—a representation of an
almshouse, in the swarded quadrangle of which a mower plies his
scythe—as a good sea-piece.

Mr. Hamilton Aidé—one of the last survivors of the little group of
which I have just spoken—passed away only a few months ago. A man of
singularly refined taste and literary culture, Mr. Aidé was also a very
talented painter in water-colours. The most charitable of men, he would
occasionally have little exhibitions of his works, and as they secured a
ready sale, many poor people benefited by his artistic gifts. His works,
principally landscapes in Italy and Sicily, always sold well; at the
last exhibition of them in Bond Street, only a few months before his
death, they were purchased with great rapidity, and the poor, I believe,
benefited to the extent of four or five hundred pounds.

I used at one time to hear a good deal about various artists and their
work from my dear governess, Miss Redgrave, whose family (one of which,
Mr. Samuel Redgrave, wrote the invaluable _Dictionary of Artists of the
English School_) was well known in artistic circles.

A great friend of the Redgraves was Webster, whose pictures were at one
time very popular on account of their genial humour and gaiety. Many,
indeed, were engraved. Among his best-known works were “The Smile and
the Frown,” illustrating the two different moods of the schoolmaster in
Goldsmith’s _Deserted Village_—“The Boy with many Friends”—“The
Village Choir”—“The Dame School”—“Coming out of School,” and others
depicting subjects of a similar kind. Mr. Webster was very lively and
full of fun, and devoted to children, like many people who have none of
their own. He would describe how, as a boy, he had once, by mistake,
been locked into the village stocks by his brother, and kept there for
some time, owing to the key having been mislaid. He would laugh very
much over the recollection of the gibes levelled at him by the village
boys whilst he was awaiting his release, adding, however, that the
actual experience was anything but pleasant. Another great joke of his
was that when he wanted to join the Civil Service Stores, at the time
when they were first started, he was informed that only persons
connected with the Civil Service could be admitted as members, but
triumphantly obtained his ticket as the orphan of a Civil Servant, being
then over seventy years of age. Up to about the year 1856 Mr. Webster
resided in Kensington, but the rest of his life was spent at a charming
old house at Cranbrook, in Kent. During a severe attack of gout, he went
one winter’s day, wrapped up in blankets in a bath-chair, to the Round
Pond in Kensington Gardens, in order to note some ice and snow effects
for his picture of “Boys at a Slide,” his reason being that he feared a
thaw might set in and lose him the opportunity for observation. In his
later years he suffered terribly from the same affection, and would
constantly declare that it was only with the greatest difficulty he
could put an eye to a small figure or a curl of hair in its proper
place, as his poor fingers and trembling hands caused him to paint
details, and even features, in quite wrong positions.

The Redgrave family had also known Sir David Wilkie, whose picture “Rent
Day” created such a sensation. By a veritable _tour de force_ the
painter contrived in this work to represent a man coughing. The figure
in question is in the very centre of this picture. As a rule, attempts
to depict people coughing, yawning, or the like, are far from
successful.

There was, for instance, a picture I remember which was called “A Pinch
of Snuff,” in which the artist had made an effort to represent a sneeze,
and the result was not very satisfactory. Morland, however, in his
“Connoisseur and Tired Boy,” has shown the latter gaping in a very
realistic manner.

“The Long Sermon” (a picture by Hunt) also contained a study of
gaping—a young man being depicted as being quite unable to repress this
somewhat curious natural effect of being bored.

William Hunt, who died in 1864, was a fine painter of still life, and a
sturdy and genial humorist in art as well as one of the greatest (if not
the greatest) English flower painters in water-colours who ever lived. A
loving painter of rustic life, he cared little for professional models,
preferring to paint the real villagers whom he knew and understood. “The
Blessing,” a countryman returning thanks for his humble meal, is
probably Hunt’s masterpiece. Of this Ruskin said, “It is more than a
sermon; it is a poem.”

Hunt being a cripple, he was, as his family said, “good for nothing,” so
they made him an artist. In early life he assisted in the redecoration
of the rebuilt Drury Lane Theatre, and painted part of a drop-scene.
Curiously enough, a great many artists who have achieved success
originally began their careers as scene-painters. Amongst them may be
mentioned De Loutherbourg, the contemporary of Rowlandson, who was a
scene-painter at Drury Lane Theatre; Stanfield and Roberts, as well as
David Cox, who, in the early part of the nineteenth century, was
assistant painter at the Birmingham Theatre. The late Mr. Thomas Sidney
Cooper also, I believe, once did a little in this line. George Chambers,
marine painter to William IV., was scene-painter at the Pavilion
Theatre.

Amongst architects, Inigo Jones must not be forgotten as having
practically been a scene-painter, for his genius largely contributed to
the success of the masques which were so popular in his day.

A relative of Inigo Jones, who was also his pupil, attained some
celebrity as a designer of the scenery and accessories used in these
entertainments. This was John Webb, some of whose sketches and designs
are still, I believe, in the Duke of Devonshire’s library.

The first piece of regular scenery used on the English stage is said to
have figured in a play at the Duke’s Theatre, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in
1662. Evelyn, of course, mentions “sceanery” in his diary some three
years before that date, but this in all probability merely consisted of
hangings of figured tapestry.

My eldest brother, the late Lord Orford, was an ardent collector of
everything connected with the Stewarts and possessed a good many
interesting portraits. Amongst these was a painting of Prince Charlie
executed by Blanchet in 1730 for the Grand Duke of Tuscany; this
formerly belonged to the Duchesse de Berri when she lived at Venice, and
is now, together with a picture of Cardinal York, in the possession of
Colonel Walpole of Heckfield Place, Hants, who has a considerable number
of valuable Stewart relics, amongst them a gold snuff-box with a secret
spring revealing a miniature of Prince Charlie, whilst outside are
inscribed the names of those killed in 1745. Though there are many
collectors of memorials of the Stewarts, portraits of members of that
family are occasionally unrecognised at auctions. Such a case occurred
quite recently when an excellent portrait of the old Pretender was
labelled at the Duke of Fife’s sale as “the Comte d’Artois by Danloux”!
This was the more extraordinary as the Pretender is shown wearing the
Order of the Garter, a decoration which the Comte d’Artois never
received. The portrait in question, being purchased by a friend of mine
for a very moderate figure, was discovered by him to have been the work
of Batoni, an Italian artist, who executed an almost precisely similar
portrait of Prince Charlie, but of smaller size, which may be seen
hanging in the National Portrait Gallery.

A younger brother of mine was also much interested in the Stewarts, and
possessed some curious letters from the Pretender, certain of which are
dealt with in the Appendix to this book.

I possess a number of the old silhouette portraits very skilfully cut
out of black paper, amongst them one of George III. Silhouettes, in the
days before photography, were given to relatives and friends just as
photographs are to-day. At Eridge Castle there are several very good
ones of unusual size. Everybody knows the small silhouette in a black
frame so often seen in curiosity shops, but big ones are, I think, much
less frequently to be met with. Elaborate coats of arms used also
formerly to be cut out of white paper; these, when pasted upon a black
background, produced a very good effect. Some little time ago I was
fortunate enough to come across some Walpole arms done in this fashion,
which I at once secured, as a specimen of really good work of this kind
is by no means easy to procure. Silhouette cutting of every sort is now
more or less a lost art; it belonged, indeed, to a period when people
had plenty of time, and women were content to stay at home, beguiling
the long winter evenings with simple work of one kind or another, which
would be not at all to the taste of their more luxurious descendants.

Princess Elizabeth, daughter of King George III., was an adept at
cutting silhouettes and figures out of paper. I possess a little volume
which is entirely filled with her work. Some of the designs, instead of
being black, are white, and with each of these is a slip of green paper
to serve as a background. This little portfolio was formerly in the
possession of Lady Banks, to whom it was given by the Princess.

The best silhouette I have is one representing Mrs. Jordan—I think in
the character of “Sir Harry Wildair”—the pretty features (immortalised
by Chantrey in the monument at Père la Chaise) crowned by a profusely
plumed cocked hat. Of her royal lover, William IV., in whose reign I
lived, many stories used to be told illustrating his kindly nature and
great devotion to children, in whose society he absolutely revelled.
Lady Georgiana Curzon, for instance, well remembered how this kindly
monarch kept a whole cupboard full of dolls to give to little girls.

This cupboard was under the care of a favourite Hanoverian servant,
whose peculiar personal appearance had caused the King to nickname him
“Ugly Mugs.” Lady Georgiana used to tell how, when she was taken to the
palace, King William would say, “Now, little girl, you can go and ask
Ugly Mugs for a doll,” upon which, running off to the individual in
question, she made her request, “Please, Mr. Ugly Mugs, may I have a
doll?” The Hanoverian invariably met this by pretending to be very
angry, and by saying, “My name is not Ugly Mugs,” in a tone of simulated
rage, but the doll was always produced, whilst the kindly King never
failed to laugh at the description of Ugly Mugs’s rage.

As a child Lady Georgiana Curzon was present at the wedding of Lord de
Ros’s sister to Lord Cowley, which, by the wish of King William, took
place at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor—I rather think she was one of the
bridesmaids. Anyhow, I know that she used to describe her great
excitement on the occasion in question, and how much she looked forward
to the ceremony, and especially to the wedding breakfast and other
festivities which would come after its celebration.

Lord de Ros, however, who was fond of a joke, took her aside the day
before the wedding, and addressed her very gravely. “My dear child,”
said he, “I know you are looking forward very much to the breakfast and
amusements which you imagine are going to follow this wedding, but don’t
count too much upon them, for I may tell you in confidence that
everything depends upon whether my sister can make up her mind or not,
and I warn you that she is extremely unreliable. When you hear the Dean
ask, ‘Will you have this man for your wedded husband?’ prick up your
ears, for everything depends upon her answer. As a matter of fact I half
believe she will say ‘No,’ in which case you may say good-bye to
breakfast and everything else.”

Little Lady Georgiana was so upset at this that that night she hardly
slept at all, and words could not describe her excitement in the chapel
next day. The fateful moment, however, at last arrived, and when the
bride repeated in a clear voice the words “I will,” Lady Georgiana, who
could contain herself no longer, immediately shouted out, “You all heard
her! You all heard her!” So great was her excitement that only the
assurance that everything was all right could restore order.

One occasionally comes across queer little paper circles elaborately
ornamented and engraved. These are old watch-papers, which it was
formerly the custom for watchmakers to put in the outside cases of
old-fashioned watches which came to them to be repaired. These
watch-papers generally bore the repairer’s name and address, surrounded
with an appropriate design, and sometimes also contained a motto.
William Teanby, a Lincolnshire schoolmaster, achieved a certain
celebrity on account of his great skill in writing manuscript
watch-papers with a crow-quill pen. There are still in existence some
very pretty old watch-paper designs printed on white satin. One of the
best of these shows a mass of coloured garlands enclosing a miniature
silhouette of King George III.

These watch-papers, like engravings, are sometimes found in different
states. I have the first state of a very quaint one issued by J.
Woolett, watchmaker, Maidstone. On it is shown the figure of Time
pointing to a dial, whilst his scythe is seen lying at his feet. Around
the rim of this watch-paper are simple directions for regulating the
watch.

I possess a good many engraved concert and ball tickets, the work of
Bartolozzi, Smirke, Ibbetson, Legoux, and others. Legoux, in particular,
executed a number of benefit tickets closely following the style of his
master, Bartolozzi, whose own productions in this line, unlike most of
his stippled work, were invariably engraved by his own hand. These
tickets, generally designed in a spirit of fanciful allegory by his
friend Cipriani, were, as a rule, intended for benefits and charitable
entertainments, in which case Bartolozzi would engrave them for nothing.
There is a splendid collection of them in the British Museum, presented
in 1818 by Lady Banks.

Amongst other odds and ends which I have collected are a number of old
bill-heads, several of which are prettily engraved in quite an elaborate
fashion. The best of these dates from about the middle of the eighteenth
century, and on it, within an elaborate border, is a representation of a
merchant showing some elaborate wall-papers to a lady in a huge hooped
skirt, who is accompanied by a richly dressed gallant. The whole
composition is quite a work of art, and contrasts most favourably with
the bill forms in use at the present day. Many bill-heads continued to
have little engravings upon them till about the middle of the last
century, when this pretty custom practically died out.

Up to quite recent years an enormous number of valentines used to be
sent on the 14th of February, St. Valentine’s day. Most of these, it
must be confessed, were of a very inartistic and tawdry character,
whilst in some cases ridiculous and even insulting pictures were sent to
unpopular people. This custom, however, for some reason or other has now
completely died out, though it is not so very many years ago that
thousands of valentines must have passed through the post. On the other
hand, many more Christmas cards are sent than was formerly the case.
Sending Christmas cards, it may be added, is a custom of comparatively
recent introduction, the first of these cards having been printed in
England about the year 1846. This, I believe, was drawn by Mr. J. C.
Horsley, R.A., at the suggestion of Mr. (afterwards Sir Henry) Cole,
well known in his day as “King Cole.” The card in question was divided
into three parts by a trellis-work design, and in the two side panels
were designs representing “Feeding the hungry,” and “Clothing the
naked,” whilst the centre panel contained a merry family group drinking
the toast which was printed beneath—“A merry Christmas and a happy New
Year to you.” About a thousand only of these cards were produced, and it
was not until 1862 that Messrs. Goodall and Sons issued the first series
of Christmas cards which came into general use. These had border designs
of holly, mistletoe, and robins. Messrs. Goodall did not, however,
continue to produce Christmas cards, but after a few years relinquished
this portion of their business to Messrs. Marcus Ward and Co., under
whose auspices the Christmas card attained the great vogue which shows
no signs of abating.

Collecting—Old watchstands—Samplers—Needlework pictures—Old
military prints—French engravings—French furniture—The Hôtel
de Ménars—Mr. Alfred Rothschild’s collection—The Tilsit table
at Hertford House and its history—A £20,000 commode in danger—
Eccentricity of Mr. Hawkins—Old English furniture inadequately
represented in National Collections—Chippendale and the austere
Sheraton—An apostle of good taste—Lady Hamilton’s cabinet—
Furniture supports—Knole and its treasures—Origin of the
dumb-bell—A gifted lady.

In these days the number of collectors has become enormous. Besides
those who collect pictures, old furniture, and china, many people make a
special hobby of prints, old glass, old watches, and even old
watchstands, not to mention many other trifling relics of the past to
which time has imparted some share of interest and value. Some of the
old wooden watchstands just mentioned are exceedingly pretty, being
formed of cleverly carved wood in most cases covered with a coating of
gilt, whilst many specimens would appear to be of French origin, some of
the finest recalling the graceful timepieces of the eighteenth century.
Watchstands may still occasionally be picked up for a very moderate
price, though when of exceptional quality they may cost something
between fifteen and twenty pounds. Such watchstands, it must be clearly
understood, have nothing in common with the hideous Victorian wire
arrangement which the grandfathers of the present generation were wont
to place on their dressing-tables or by their bedside. In the old wooden
watchstand the dial alone of the watch is shown within a circular space
so contrived that the watchstand, as has before been said, presents the
appearance of an old clock.

Samplers, which not so very many years ago were only to be found in old
nurseries and forgotten attics, are now eagerly sought for, as are old
needlework pictures, which in many instances are highly ornamental. A
similar kind of picture is that in which the dress of the figures is
formed of coloured pieces of silk, cleverly worked on to an eighteenth
century print. A very interesting specimen of this work which I possess
represents an officer engaged in conversation with an elaborately
dressed lady, every detail of the costumes being carefully reproduced in
appropriate colours, whilst the figures themselves are cut out of two
prints published by Carington Bowles. The whole composition of these
pictures is most cleverly carried out, the wall-hangings and carpets
being accurately represented by stuffs of suitable pattern. Signed and
dated 1784, this composition, as was usually the case with needlework
pictures, was the work of an amateur. In past days many of the common
sort of prints were utilised in this manner, many hours being whiled
away by ladies whose sphere of activity would to-day be thought somewhat
limited.

Print-collecting, in which so many people are now interested, has of
late years become a very expensive hobby, but there are still some minor
forms of it which are accessible to those of moderate purses. Military
prints, that is, representations of old uniforms, are as yet not
particularly costly, and their brilliant colouring produces an
exceedingly decorative effect. Such prints are very fascinating to
lovers of past fashions, besides according very well with the hunting
and coaching prints which have now for many years been in considerable
request. A very pretty set of military prints is one drawn by Dayes and
engraved by Kirk in 1792. These prints, six in number, representing the
uniform of the Guards of that day, were published by Captain Hewgill of
the Coldstream regiment, and sold by Boydell at the Shakespeare gallery.

Of late, French engravings have come into great favour with many English
collectors. They are, as a rule, exceedingly pretty, expressing as it
were the very spirit of that pleasure-loving France which disappeared in
the blood-stained days of the Terror.

About the most valuable French line engraving, as well as one of the
prettiest, is “Les Hasards heureux de l’Escarpolette,” engraved by
Nicolas de Launay, after the picture by Fragonard, a replica of which
hangs in the Wallace Collection, where it is known as “The Swing.” The
little lady in the Wallace Collection, it may be observed, has no plumes
upon her hat, whilst these exist in the engraving, which is taken from
another similar picture now in the possession of a French collector,
Baron Edmond de Rothschild.

Other beautiful French prints are “Le Coucher de la Mariée,” by Moreau
le jeune; “La Soirée des Thuileries,” by Simonet; “La Toilette,” by
Ponce; and “Le Prélude de Nina,” by Chaponier. The coloured French
prints by Debucourt and Janinet are also exceedingly beautiful, but
their high price places them above the reach of any but a wealthy
collector.

Within the last twenty years French eighteenth-century art has become
highly appreciated in England, and the fine furniture of that epoch has
in consequence greatly increased in price. Nevertheless, there were
connoisseurs even in old days who estimated the beautiful work of the
French _ébénistes_ at its proper worth. A conspicuous example was the
late Mr. Jones, who cheerfully paid sums which were considered wildly
extravagant at the time for some of the choice specimens which now form
the Jones Collection at South Kensington.

Rooms fitted up entirely in the French style have recently been
increasingly popular in England, and in several cases old houses have
been purchased outright, in order that the fine _boiseries_ decorating
their walls might be removed to this country. This quite recently
occurred in the case of the Hôtel de Ménars, a splendid old house
standing not far from the Bourse, which once belonged to the celebrated
Fermier-Général of that name. Its fine panelling, enriched with carving
in the best style of the reign of Louis XV., has been most artistically
re-erected by the purchaser, a gentleman of very cultivated taste, who
has thus embellished three rooms of his mansion in Belgrave Square.
Here, once more restored to its original condition, this superb
_boiserie_ stands forth as a splendid example of French
eighteenth-century art. It may be added that during the repair and
cleaning of the panelling in question no less than forty coats of paint
had to be carefully scraped off. One of these was bright red, a thick
coating of which would seem to have been applied at the time of the
Revolution. It may be added that in the same house there is now an
almost exact reproduction of the dining-room which formerly existed in
the Hôtel de Ménars, the two original marble alcoves with scooped-out
basins for cooling wine having been retained, together with a massive
marble sideboard once more restored to its original use.

Amongst living collectors of fine French furniture, china, and pictures,
in England, Mr. Alfred Rothschild undoubtedly takes the first place.
Others there may be who also have fine collections; it is easy to
purchase rare and beautiful things if money is no consideration, but
taste and knowledge cannot be bought, and he is one of the very few who
is endowed with these very valuable attributes, too seldom possessed by
those of very large fortune. The best things, I think, in his possession
amongst the French pictures are a “Pater,” bought from the late Lord
Lonsdale; the “Baiser Envoyé,” by Greuze; and the “Toilette de Venus,”
by Boucher; whilst two unrivalled pieces of French furniture are a
_bureau cylindre_ in mother-of-pearl, once the property of Marie
Antoinette, and two Sèvres _coffres de mariage_. He also possesses two
very fine Sèvres tables, as well as two superb sets of Rose du Barry
vases, five in each set. At Waddesdon, the home of Miss Alice
Rothschild, are also many beautiful specimens of French art, a splendid
example of which is the superb timepiece known as “the Fitzwilliam
clock.” Here also is the beautiful “Fortune-teller,” by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, which once hung at Knole. The whole house, however, is so full
of fine things that it is difficult to particularise.

An interesting example of fine French furniture is the table, now in the
Wallace Collection, on which the Treaty of Tilsit was signed in 1807. Of
pale green lacquer and gilt bronze, it is said to have been made by
Dubois for the Empress Catherine of Russia in the last years of the
reign of Louis XV. This table was purchased by Lord Hertford, about the
year 1867, from the late Mr. Frederick Davis, into whose possession it
came in a somewhat curious way. Mr. Davis and his son, Mr. Charles
Davis, happened to be staying at an hotel in St. Petersburg towards the
end of the year 1866, when an individual brought to them, for sale, a
snuff-box with paintings by Von Blarenberghe, refusing, however, to
divulge the name of the owner. His curious attitude in the matter
excited a good deal of suspicion, and Mr. Davis, at length deciding that
the box had been stolen, was on the point of calling the police when the
vendor admitted that it was the property of Prince Kourakin. In order to
verify this statement, Mr. Davis and his son proceeded to call upon the
magnate in question, at whose house they were shown the famous “Tilsit
table,” which, after some negotiation, they succeeded in purchasing,
Prince Kourakin certifying that the Treaty of Tilsit had been signed
upon it, and adding that on the night of the signature there had been a
fire, from which the table had very luckily been saved.

A few months later the table was sold to Lord Hertford, who was, of
course, told its history. At the time Lord Hertford laughed at the
story, declaring that he purchased the table more on account of its
being a fine work of art than for any other reason; but, nevertheless,
he would appear to have made some investigations into its history, for
he subsequently told Mr. Davis that he had found his statement to be
perfectly correct, and had identified the table as being the identical
one upon which the Treaty had been signed. Lord Hertford added that he
had been present at Tilsit at the time, and now perfectly recalled to
mind this particular piece of furniture having been rescued from the
fire.

Another exceptionally fine relic of the best days of art, which passed
through Mr. Davis’s hands, was the famous Sèvres commode with mounts by
Gouthière, which he purchased from the late Lord Conyngham for £20,000.
This commode had once been in Windsor Castle, and was said to have been
purchased for George IV., at the time of the Treaty of Amiens, for the
sum of £200. When Mr. Davis had finished his negotiations (he just
managed to outbid the late Lord Dudley, who was especially anxious to
secure such a splendid example of French art) he sent his son in a van
to fetch it—a special precaution, to prevent the precious commode from
being damaged. To the horror of Mr. Charles Davis, on the return journey
his unwonted conveyance, suddenly coming to a dead stop, began to rock
about in a most disquieting manner, and in a few seconds he realised
from the sounds which reached him that the horse had been seized with a
fit of the staggers, and that the van was fast nearing a perilous
position close to the curb-stone, where it must almost inevitably be
upset. Rising to the situation, however, he shouted out, “A fiver to any
man who holds up the van,” and in consequence of this presence of mind
the van was somehow saved from overturning and the precious commode
rescued from what would have been certain destruction. Mr. Charles Davis
possesses a perfectly unique knowledge of French art, and having had
many varied experiences in European capitals, has naturally some very
interesting stories to tell—there are few things, indeed, which I enjoy
more than a chat with him about the great connoisseurs of the past.

The late Mr. Hawkins, whose snuff-boxes created such a sensation at
Christie’s not so very long ago, was a particularly eccentric collector.
Buying very largely, he would often not trouble to unpack his purchases
once they were made. A Sèvres tea-service, for instance, was found in
its packing-case in Mr. Hawkins’s hall in exactly the same place where
it had been deposited after its purchase, some twenty-five years before,
whilst valuable snuff-boxes were discovered put away in all sorts of odd
corners.

The late Lord Revelstoke probably possessed the finest set of green
Sèvres vases in existence; these, seven in number, were sold to the late
Baron Nathaniel Rothschild of Vienna.

Whilst in the Wallace Collection England possesses a superlatively
excellent collection of French furniture, the finest English furniture
of the eighteenth-century period is only to be found in the hands of
private collectors. It is much to be deplored that the Victoria and
Albert Museum contains no thoroughly representative collection of old
English furniture. True is it that a certain number of good examples are
to be seen there, but these are more or less scattered about, no special
section existing to show the evolution of style from Elizabethan times
to the end of the eighteenth century. This is the more to be regretted,
as an assemblage of the best work of English cabinetmakers such as
Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite, and others, could not fail to have
an admirable educational effect upon public taste, especially were it
displayed in rooms decorated in the style of their epoch. Mr. James
Orrock, so well known as a fine judge of old English furniture, once
attacked Mr. Gladstone upon this subject. He had long been anxious to
place before that great statesman a scheme to erect a National Gallery
of British Art on a site behind the great collection in Trafalgar
Square, in a position quite secure from all danger of fire, his idea
being that such a building should contain selected pictures from the
National Gallery, from the Victoria and Albert Museum, the British
Museum—in fact, from each of the National Collections. In addition to
this, adequate space was to be allotted to a permanent exhibition of
Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Queen Anne furniture, and rooms set aside to
contain the best work of Chippendale, Sheraton, and other great English
cabinetmakers. Introduced to Mr. Gladstone by Sir William Agnew, Mr.
Orrock at once commenced his attack, pointing out the extreme
desirability, and even the necessity, of the creation of what would be a
temple of British art. He added that the encouragement to collectors to
give and bequeath valuable works to such an institution could not fail
to have its effect, whilst the historical and educational value of the
collection must obviously be enormous.

Mr. Gladstone listened to all this in the most earnest manner, and
cordially agreed that the idea was in every way most admirable. His
opportunity appearing to have now really come, Mr. Orrock went on to
point out that the cost of a building such as he proposed would most
certainly be not more than half the sum expended upon the construction
of a battleship. In reply to which Mr. Gladstone, after a remark as to
the deplorable necessity of expending money upon such dreadful engines
of destruction, said, “But, Mr. Orrock, you forget I am not now in
power”; to which the latter very cleverly replied, “Mr. Gladstone, you
are always in power.”

Though the veteran leader of the Liberal Party promised at the end of
this interview that he would see what he could do to help forward the
suggested scheme, political strife must have obliterated it from his
recollection, for in spite of his assurance he never made any move in
the matter at all; and so it comes about that there is still no National
Collection of fine old English furniture. Most of the best pieces are in
private hands; for to-day the work of Chippendale and Sheraton is
eagerly sought for, and never fails to command huge prices when put up
to auction. Furniture after the designs of Hepplewhite has also many
admirers, but Dutch pieces are often passed off as being his work;
these, however, may be known on account of their being of a somewhat
heavier style of construction.

Sheraton and Hepplewhite chairs are of very much the same design—the
Prince of Wales’s feather ornament, so often found in the work of both,
was, it may be added, no mere piece of fancy decoration, but the badge
of the young Court party which was led by George IV. when Prince of
Wales.

Sheraton himself appears to have held Chippendale in but very small
esteem as a cabinetmaker, for in one of his books he speaks of the
designs of the latter as being “wholly antiquated and laid aside.”
Possibly Chippendale’s somewhat ornate designs may have appeared
frivolous to the austere Sheraton, who was an ardent Baptist and wrote a
good deal in furtherance of his religious views.

A great deal of wood was used in genuine Chippendale chairs, and an
infallible sign of a copy is when the carving seems cramped and flat
owing to the shallowness of the frame out of which it has been scooped.
Much so-called Chippendale furniture has not even a semblance of being
the work of that cabinetmaker.

One of the most ridiculous things possible, from an artistic point of
view, for instance, is a Chippendale overmantel—that is to say, an
overmantel constructed in the modern Chippendale style. Nothing of this
sort was even made in the eighteenth century, though of course mirrors
to go over mantelpieces were, and occasionally the decorative woodwork
surrounding them was very elaborate and graceful. Really old work,
however, is generally much more simple and dignified in style than the
so-called reproductions. A great quantity of good old furniture,
especially bureaus and book-cases, has been completely spoilt by
additional inlay and superfluous carving, in order to render it more
attractive to the unskilled buyer. As a rule, the sole ornamentation
originally lavished on such things was a more or less elaborate
moulding. It should always be borne in mind that in all really good
pieces ornamentation is strictly subordinate to use. Chairs and settees
were not made to exhibit eccentricity and flamboyant design, but to be
sat upon, though, of course, in many specimen pieces the carving, whilst
in no way flimsy or weak, is flowing and elaborate. Chippendale and
other great cabinetmakers invariably started with plenty of material to
work upon, and a sure sign of a spurious piece is a shallow frame, upon
which the carving is cramped and flat.

Modern cabinetmakers delight in producing _marqueterie_ furniture
embellished with elaborate vases, trophies, scrolls, and bouquets.
Sheraton and his contemporaries, on the other hand, produced their
effects by relying upon the nice, graduated, and artistic tones of their
veneers, rigorously excluding all over-elaboration of design. As for
modern painting on furniture, it is as a rule so feeble in execution as
hardly to deceive the most unskilled amateur—most of it, indeed, is
nothing but a bad caricature compared with beautiful old work.

As a matter of fact, it is extremely difficult to come across good old
English-painted furniture in first-class condition; as a rule, it has
been scratched or otherwise damaged in the course of moving, and the
restorations which this has necessitated are generally only too
apparent.

I suppose that taste, as regards furniture, was absolutely at its lowest
point some seventy years ago, during which period much beautiful Queen
Anne, Sheraton, and Chippendale was relegated to the attics and the
servants’ hall, its place being taken by the hideous and heavy early
Victorian furniture, which the upholsterers managed to foist upon a
somewhat inartistic generation.

In the ’forties, it is true, some slight signs of a reaction began to be
visible, one of the first of those to lead it being the late Mr. John
Burgess, a fine architectural draughtsman and painter, whose talents are
now hardly appreciated at their proper worth. He was a member of the old
Society of Painters in Water-Colour, to which he was elected through the
influence of George Cattermole. The latter, it is said, was so indignant
at Mr. Burgess being rejected on the first occasion of his seeking
election, that he threatened to resign if his candidate were not
admitted, with the result that at the next election everything turned
out as he desired.

At Leamington Mr. Burgess lived in a house filled from top to bottom
with English furniture, pictures, and drawings, all of the finest
quality, and here it was that Mr. Orrock, the well-known connoisseur and
collector, to whom allusion has before been made, first laid the
foundation of his knowledge of English eighteenth-century art. He was a
boy at the time, and accompanying his host in rambles over the
surrounding country, very naturally imbibed a taste for collecting the
beautiful old furniture at that time plentiful in country houses and
cottages.

In the days when Mr. Orrock first became an enthusiastic searcher after
fine old pieces of Sheraton and Chippendale, he brought down upon
himself, as he has often been heard to say, much laughter and ridicule.
His passion for “wormy” chairs in particular was a constant source of
amusement to some of his friends, who wondered what on earth he could
want with such rubbish. “You may laugh,” he used to say, “but I shall
laugh louder than you some day when my wormy chairs shall be appreciated
at their proper worth—the worm-holes can be stopped—every one to his
taste—some people like high game, I like high chairs.” In the course of
time his judgment was completely vindicated, and as an instance of the
enormous rise in the value of really fine old furniture the story of two
Elizabethan chairs which he bought in a cottage for ten shillings apiece
may be given. One of these chairs was an especially fine one, having
evidently drifted down into humble surroundings after having occupied an
honourable place in an old country house near by. This particular chair
Mr. Orrock soon sold for several pounds, a good price at that time. Some
years later, however, when taste had begun to improve, he repurchased it
for fifty pounds, almost immediately selling it again for one hundred
and fifty. To-day it would be worth at least two hundred to two hundred
and fifty pounds—not a bad increase on an expenditure of ten shillings.

The foundation of Mr. Orrock’s collection began in rather a curious way.
Chancing many years ago to be at Coventry with a friend, his attention
was arrested by a sale of old furniture which was proceeding at an old
coaching inn, “The King’s Head” by name. A large quantity of chairs,
tables, sideboards, and mirrors had overflowed into the street, and a
quite superficial examination convinced him that here was a unique
chance of acquiring some exceedingly rare and valuable specimens of
Queen Anne, Chippendale, Sheraton, and Hepplewhite, for the old inn had
been filled with the very finest work in several different styles, a
great feature being the extraordinary sideboards. Entering the sale, Mr.
Orrock, in concert with his friend, arranged to purchase the entire
contents of the house from the dealers who were engaged in bidding for
it, and the next day found himself in consequence possessed of a most
splendid and valuable collection. Long before this time he had
christened himself “the voice crying in the wilderness of British art,”
on account of his love of vaunting the artistic merits of old English
furniture; but after this purchase many fine judges of art, observing
the furniture in his house, began to declare that they were coming round
to his view. Before long, requests poured in upon him from every side
for information as to where old Chippendale and Sheraton could be
procured, some people, indeed, going so far as to beg him to furnish
their houses at no matter what expense. So it came about that this
purchase of old furniture at “The King’s Head” played a considerable
part in accelerating the renaissance of artistic taste, of which Mr.
Orrock was undoubtedly one of the chief originators.

Why old English furniture should have ever been discarded in favour of
the heavy horsehair abominations once almost universal seems in these
more enlightened days something like a profound mystery. Some of the old
designs, indeed, are quite equal to the finest Gothic, whilst many
examples of the time of Queen Anne—the finest period perhaps of all for
English furniture—are superb in their delicacy and exquisite finish.
Next to this in beauty must be placed the early Chippendale, certain
specimens of which display artistic qualities of the very highest kind.

With the death of King George III. fine old English furniture ceased to
be produced; it may, indeed, be said to have died with the monarch in
question.

Within the last thirty years fine pieces have commanded prices which
seem almost ludicrous in comparison with those of other days. A
gentleman, for instance, possessing two satinwood cabinets mounted in
silver, which had belonged to Nelson’s Lady Hamilton, actually obtained
two thousand pounds for them—rather, let it be added, against his will.
He had originally given a hundred pounds for the two—sixty for one, and
forty for the other—and had no intention of parting with them again. A
rich American, however, somehow heard of the cabinets in question, and
after obtaining a glimpse of them in the owner’s absence, at once
determined to become their possessor. With this purpose in view he
despatched an emissary to the gentleman, who was then away at the
seaside. The emissary, however, sought him out, went down by the
newspaper train, and confronting him early one morning, said, “I have
come to buy your cabinets.” “You have come to do nothing of the sort,”
was the reply. “I don’t want to sell them; tell your principal that when
he offers a thousand apiece I will think about it.” The man sat down at
a table, pulled out his cheque-book and wrote a cheque for two thousand
pounds. “There, will you take that?” he said. The offer was too
tempting, and the gentleman did. In the end the American was so
delighted with the cabinets that he insisted upon purchasing all the
other old furniture in the house, for which he paid some seven thousand
pounds. The wife of the original owner was much incensed on her return
to town to find an empty house, but an explanation as well as a timely
and handsome gift soon allayed her irritation.

Occasionally one comes across curious and interesting pieces in the most
unexpected places, but in these days when every one is more or less on
the alert to pick up antiquities, and dealers scour the country from end
to end, anything of value is almost immediately snapped up, whilst as a
rule larger prices are asked out of London than in it.

A friend of mine who is a great and discriminating collector of all
sorts of antiquities, the Hon. Gerald Ponsonby, some years ago
discovered, in Dublin, a set of what are known as “furniture supports,”
which are extremely rarely to be met with. They were never general all
over the kingdom, and, to the best of my belief, were confined to the
South of England. There are four of these supports, which are formed of
Staffordshire pottery. The face of one of them is believed to be
intended to represent Sir Robert Peel. The coat is scarlet with a black
stock; the hair and whiskers are brown; the eyes black, and the eyebrows
black also; the cheeks are a vivid red; whilst the stand itself is of a
deep mottled pink. The base is 2-7/8 inches in length by 2 inches in
width, and it is 2-1/4 inches in height. The height from where the head
begins, taken over the nose to the base, is 4½ inches, the circumference
immediately under the chin being 8 inches. These supports were used to
stand chests of drawers upon, so that when cottage floors were washed
the bright woodwork of the legs should not be spoilt. The legs of the
chest of drawers were placed upon the stand at the back of the head, the
face of the support being outwards.

The old four-posters which were once absolutely discarded and considered
fit for nothing but the lumber-room or the wood-heap have now once more
come into fashion, being eagerly sought for by collectors in old-world
villages and country towns.

When thoroughly cleaned and put into good order, with the addition of a
modern spring mattress, they make by no means an unattractive couch. As
a rule those four-posters are low, for people had low bedrooms in old
days. In many of them the woodwork above the shelf at the head of the
bed is a good deal charred—this is the result of burning by the candles
placed there by their former occupants, who would seem to have been very
careless as to fire. A great many oak bedsteads have very thick pillars
at the foot, the bases of which in some cases resemble the legs of the
old dining-tables, which were in most cases relegated to outhouses and
attics about the time of the downfall of the Stuarts. These tables were
in many cases adorned with some slight degree of inlaid work, and could
be lengthened by pulling out flaps at each end. At the particular period
when these tables were in use, furniture was not very abundant in
English houses, but what there was of it was very useful and solid,
elaborate ornamentation being principally confined to the chairs,
specimens of which may still sometimes be found in out-of-the-way
villages. Authentic pieces of Jacobean furniture of oak of English
growth and of somewhat severe design may generally be recognised by its
colour, which is something quite different from the dull black surface
of modern imitations. Its patina, indeed, if such a word can be applied
to furniture, is one which time alone can give, and this not even the
most skilled manipulator can copy. In the time of the Charleses there
was also a certain quantity of richly upholstered furniture in which
velvet and tapestry had their place. At Knole, Lord Sackville’s
beautiful treasure-house, are many fine examples of this sort of work,
amongst them a bed and a complete set of bedroom furniture given by King
James I., the coverings being of red silk ornamented with gold thread
and silver spangles.

A curious feature of Knole is the attic which for generations has been
known as the Dumb-bell Gallery, on account of its containing a quaint
wooden machine something like a windlass without handles. Around the
middle of the roller is wound a rope, and at each end are four iron arms
terminating in a ball of lead. The rope formerly passed through a hole
in the floor into a gallery below, and any one pulling it would cause
the roller to revolve and rewind the rope again, giving the person
pulling it the same exercise as is obtained by ringing a church bell. In
the seventeenth century, bell-ringing was a very popular pastime, and
probably it was about this time that the machine was set up in order to
afford opportunities for silent practice.

In all likelihood the modern wooden dumb-bell was developed from the
handles of the windlass dumb-bell by some athlete who understood its
possibilities. An illustration of this windlass and its handles is given
in an excellent privately printed account of Knole which Colonel
Sackville West has written.

A dumb-bell machine of the same kind, or rather the remains of it, was
also in existence up to some few years ago at New College,
Oxford—indeed, it may be still there to-day.

The leaden waterspouts at Knole are other very curious features, most of
them being some two hundred years old and bearing the initials and arms
of Thomas Sackville. There is also some chintz in the house which is
over a hundred years old. Made of a material known as _Toile de Jouy_,
it still retains its colour in spite of the countless cleanings which it
must have undergone. The old English furniture at Knole with its
original coverings is one of the marvels of the place—the rare old
stuffs being in a most unusual state of preservation.

Some time ago, when one of the sofas from a set covered with old red
velvet belonging to the Great Gallery was under repair, a yet older
covering, dating from the reign of Elizabeth, came to light. The
woodwork of the set in question, it may be added, is elaborately carved,
the work in all probability of Italian workmen who were imported into
England in Jacobean days. Few old mansions are in such a wonderful state
of preservation as Knole, which in its present condition may be called a
monument of judicious taste. This happy effect, I may add, has been in a
great measure produced by the reverent restorations and judicious care
exercised by Mrs. Sackville West, a lady whose knowledge of art and
whose artistic discrimination are of the highest possible character. Of
these gifts Knole itself as it is to-day forms a sufficiently convincing
demonstration.

XII

Favourites of the past—Siamese cats—Sir William Gregory—A
feline tragedy—A dog’s last farewell—Chinese dogs at Goodwood
—A reluctant swain—Mr. Mallock’s epitaph—Sandringham—Riding
and driving—Anecdote of a parrot—Strange diet of a stork—My
choughs and their nests—Disappointed hopes—An unwelcome
arrival—Mr. Darwin’s interest in my garden—Mr. Cobden’s letter
from Algiers—His interest in my silkworms—Garden books—Some
pretty verses by Mr. Lowe.

In some of my old scrap and photograph books I have many memorials of
long dead and gone animal favourites, such as horses and dogs, besides
one or two pictures of the Siamese cats which at one time were great
favourites of mine. It was the late Mr. Harrison Weir, a true lover of
animals if ever there was one, who first brought these beautiful
creatures to my notice, and by a fortunate chance I became possessed of
several of them, which had been imported from Siam and were presented to
me by Sir R. Herbert of the Colonial Office. Exceedingly docile and
domesticated, as well as ornamental in the highest degree, these cats
were unfortunately very delicate in their constitution, and I never
managed to keep any one of them alive longer than two years. At that
time the only pure breed was kept by the King of Siam, and specimens
were very difficult to procure, for they could only be obtained by those
having high influence in the palace. Of a beautiful dun colour, the
nose, face, ears, feet, and tail of a dark chocolate brown, and with a
tail shorter and finer than that of our own English species, the “royal
cat of Siam” (as the animal is properly called) is exceptionally loving
and affectionate in its nature, following its owner from room to room
more after the manner of a dog than that of an ordinary puss. Curiously
enough these cats as a rule are quite friendly with the dogs of the
house they inhabit, frequently occupying the same baskets. The best I
ever had was a lady cat which I called Mrs. Poodles, and exhibited at
the Crystal Palace Show, where it was awarded the gold medal. It had
three kittens by an English cat, but oddly enough none of them exhibited
the slightest trace of their Siamese descent, all being pure tabbies.
Since those days—I am speaking of the ’seventies—I fancy the mania for
Siamese cats has died away, for I have never come across any in recent
years. I myself gave up keeping them on account of their extreme
delicacy of constitution, to which I have already alluded, and also on
account of the sad end of another Poodles to which I was much attached.
She also, like my prize cat, contented herself with an ordinary plebeian
cat as a husband, for I was unable to obtain any suitor of her own royal
line, though many people did their best to help me to do so. Amongst
these was that delightful man the late Sir William Gregory, who before
setting out for the East wrote me an amusing letter, in which he said:—

I shall enter into relations with mercenary and desperate men to
steal a tom cat from the palace of the King of Siam, and when
stolen he shall be conveyed as a comfort to your Siamese tabby.

However, as no royal lover could be procured, this poor Poodles became
visibly more and more depressed, and as time went on developed a mania
for strolling off into the woods, where I fancy she dallied with certain
humble admirers who began to hang around the grounds. This partiality
for wandering did not cause me much alarm, as she always came safely
back, remaining away, as a rule, for but a short time; but, alas, there
came the fatal day when my poor Poodles did not appear for twenty-four
hours. She had been caught in a trap, and we should never have known her
fate had it not been for the devotion of a humble cat, evidently her
lover, who hung around the house uttering such piercing wails that he at
last induced some one to follow him into a little wood just outside the
garden, where we found his suffering love—a touching instance of feline
devotion. Though we did everything we could for her, the accident ended
in poor puss’s premature death, and after her demise I ceased, as I have
said, to keep any more Siamese cats. I still have a memento of this
Poodles in the shape of a muff made of her coat, very much resembling
beautiful sealskin, which it is usually taken to be.

Of dogs I have always been very fond, and have had many in my possession
of all sorts, breeds, and sizes. Looking over one of my old scrap-books
the other day, I came upon a little sketch of a pet of long ago to which
I was particularly devoted. This was a little dog called Shuck, after
the phantom dog which is supposed to haunt the Norfolk lanes round
Cromer and the country-side in that part of Norfolk in which was my old
home. Poor little Shuck lived far longer than most of his race, for when
he died he had reached the age of seventeen years—a sort of canine
Methuselah. His end was pathetic in the extreme. He always slept at the
foot of my bed, and I was one night awakened by feeling him creep up and
gently lick my hand, after which he somewhat laboriously returned to his
usual place, once more to relapse, as I thought, into peaceful slumber.
From this sleep, however, he was not to awake, for in the morning I
found him dead. It has always seemed to me that the caress which he gave
me that night was a last farewell, bestowed whilst dimly conscious of
his impending end.

For some years I always had one or two of the dogs known as the “lion
dogs of China,” most beautiful little animals with a luxuriant coat of a
light brown colour, and having particularly fine tails. These were given
me by the late Duchess of Richmond; indeed the breed was then only to be
obtained from Goodwood, the late Duke of Richmond having been sent some
of them from China. I believe, however, that now there are other
families of these Chinese dogs in England, for of late I have
occasionally observed them in the streets. Every dog of this kind which
I possessed was called Goodie, from Goodwood, the home of its family.
These Goodies were dogs of very curious characters and marked
individuality. One especially I recall to mind, an extremely fine dog,
who was a canine misogynist of the most pronounced kind. On one occasion
it was arranged that he should accompany me on a visit to Goodwood,
there to form a matrimonial alliance with a distant cousin—a charming
little lady Goodie. Her attractions, however, did not appeal to him, and
the moment that he set eyes upon his _fiancée_ he became moody and
ill-tempered, immediately attempting to run away. The extreme disgust he
manifested was only too visibly shown in a photograph taken of the
couple (the _fiancée_, by the way, looking somewhat ashamed and
embarrassed), side by side, sitting up on their hind legs. Nothing would
induce him to stay with her, and when he eventually escaped he at once
demonstrated his extreme joy by racing all over the house, barking in
the most obstreperous manner. All ideas of the contemplated alliance had
to be dropped, and when my Goodie returned with me to London he was
still a bachelor, in which celibate condition he ever afterwards
remained.

A breed of dogs somewhat resembling the “lion dogs” are the little
Pekinese, some beautiful specimens of which are owned by Lady Algernon
Gordon-Lennox. I believe that there is only one other possessor of the
true breed of these very valuable little dogs in England.

Amongst other dogs which I have possessed, I very well remember a
Kurdish sheep-dog which was sent me by my brother from Turkey. It had an
extraordinary name, Bedar Khan Beg, I think it was, and this, together
with the £40 which its journey to England cost me, causes it to linger
in my recollection. It was not a particularly attractive animal, and I
never got to care for it very much. I hardly had time to do so, indeed,
for it only lived a month after it arrived, never recovering from the
fatigue of its very costly voyage.

In the letter which my brother wrote announcing the despatch of this
canine gift, he told me that an interview he had had with a certain
Pasha had much amused him—amongst other humorous incidents, his
dragoman translated a remark made in Turkish by the Pasha, “The dog
lies,” as “Le Pasha dit que monsieur se trompe!”

Sir Edwin Landseer once gave me a collie, and a very beautiful animal it
was, with one rather annoying fault, however, that of barking on every
possible opportunity—a habit, I believe, which is very often found
amongst collies.

Looking back upon the many canine pets which have lived out their little
lives by my side, it is a pleasure for me to think that their existence
was in every case about as happy as a dog’s life can be, for their
faithfulness and affection I delighted to repay in the best manner I
could; and when, in the natural course of events, they sank into their
eternal slumber, I felt that I had nothing wherewith to reproach myself
on the score of neglect or inhumanity. Many of my dogs lie peacefully
buried in an animals’ cemetery which I had laid out at our house in
Hampshire, and over the graves of some of them I even put up short
epitaphs, one of the best of which was written by Mr. W. H. Mallock, who
at that time had just created a considerable sensation with his very
clever book. _The New Republic_:—

ON TOPSY
Where art thou now, little wandering
Life, that so faithfully dwelt with us,
Played with us, felt with us, fed with us,
Years we grew fonder and fonder in?
You who but yesterday sprang to us,
Are we for ever bereft of thee,
And is this all that is left of thee,
One little grave and a pang to us?

I do not know whether the lines written by Louis XVIII., to be inscribed
on the collar of a dog belonging to Madame de Caylus, are generally
known:—

On n’offre point de largesse à celui qui me trouvera,
Qui me rapporte à ma maîtresse pour récompense il la verra.

The dogs most to be envied in England are certainly those at
Sandringham, King Edward’s Norfolk home. Here Queen Alexandra, kindest
and most feminine of queens, whose love of animals is quite unbounded,
has always several beautiful indoor pets who are looked after with the
most loving care; whilst the splendid condition of a number of more
robust dogs, who live out of doors under the most perfect conditions
possible, attests the great attention devoted to their welfare.

Besides dogs, I have had many horses which were more or less pets. Such
a one was a mare, Black Bess by name, who was so gentle that I could
ride her up close to a street door and ring the bell from her back. I
rode more or less for the greater portion of my life, but I cannot say
that I was ever very devoted to riding—perhaps I had too much of it
when I was a child, when a very great deal of my time was spent in the
saddle.

The first horse which I recollect being allowed to have for my very own
was a beautiful grey mare, Testina, so called on account of her little
head. She was the daughter of my father’s racehorse, Clearwell, the
winner of the Two Thousand Guineas, and on her, as a little girl, I rode
with him from Antwerp to Munich in the ’thirties, when railways were
scarcely in existence. After this I had many other horses, but I
eventually gave up riding with but little regret; my early experiences
with Testina, who was seventeen hands high, and extremely difficult to
manage, having rather set me against that form of exercise.

Driving appealed to me much more in the ’sixties and early ’seventies. I
had two ponies which I really loved. These I used to drive in the low
pony-chaise so fashionable at that date, controlling them with the whip
combined with a parasol, which the present generation only knows from
Leech’s drawings in _Punch_. At the slightest touch they would (though
in reality perfectly manageable) perform the most astounding antics,
rearing up in the air and shaking their heads in a manner which startled
every one except myself, who knew the real gentleness of their
disposition. These ponies lived to a great age, and when they were past
work I took care that they should spend their last years in well-earned
peace and happiness in a pleasant paddock.

Birds of all sorts I have owned in numbers, amongst them a parrot which
never talked at all for a year, till one day when we had a
luncheon-party it burst out into a torrent of bad language which much
disconcerted everybody.

Mr. Bernal Osborne, I remember, used to have an amusing story about a
parrot, which he used to tell when desirous of administering a sly dig
at any one who had contrived to obtain a reputation for cleverness by
merely saying nothing at all. A great ornithologist, he declared, once
advertised for sale the cleverest parrot in the world. The price was
large—£500—but would-be purchasers were asked to realise that the bird
was absolutely the cleverest in the world. This announcement created a
considerable sensation amongst lovers of parrots, and eventually a rich
old lady, having somewhat reluctantly paid the required price, secured
the treasure. She kept it for some months, during which it said not a
single word; but thinking the bird still felt strange amidst its new
surroundings she determined to wait a year, and if she had waited a
hundred the result would have been the same—never a word did the parrot
utter. At the end of this time, being very naturally annoyed, she went
to the ornithologist and expressed her surprise and disappointment. “The
parrot you sold me,” said she,—“the cleverest bird in the world, you
called it,—never speaks at all.” “No,” was the reply, “but remember,
it’s a very devil to think.”

At the time of the Crimean War General Sir John Mitchell sent me a live
demoiselle crane—whether the bird was a demoiselle or a monsieur we
never discovered, but she or he lived with us at our home in Hampshire
in the greatest amity and peace. There were, indeed, occasional
insinuations that fresh eggs disappeared in a mysterious manner, but we
did our best not to believe these base accusations against our dear
friend. At one time, I remember, she insisted on taking care of a little
family of chickens, leaving the inconsolable mother to go crying about
in a despondent manner. In addition to the crane we usually used to have
two storks striding about the grounds, but I do not believe they were
ever really happy; possibly they did not easily resign themselves to the
want of water to bathe and splash about in. I fear also that there must
have been something wanting in the food we gave them, for after a short
sojourn with us pair after pair went to a better land. In consequence of
this continued mortality we eventually had recourse to a post-mortem
examination, in order to discover the exact cause of their death. It was
then found that the responsibility lay with their diet, which was shown
to have been somewhat Spartan in character, and to have consisted for
the most part of small pieces of slate, bricks, and what was still more
singular, brass buttons of various sizes. The digestion of these poor
birds, strong as it was, had not been able to cope with this
extraordinary collection of hardware, which they had probably been
forced to adopt as a menu owing to the lack of some substance which the
soil did not supply.

For many years I delighted in the possession of two choughs,—delightful
birds, with red feet and beaks, as tame as magpies. A pair of them, to
our great astonishment and delight, made a nest in a tower of our house,
laid a couple of eggs, and gave every appearance of preparing for the
advent of a family. We were all much excited about it, for it is, I
believe, an unheard-of thing for choughs to breed in captivity. In the
expectation of an event which seemed likely to cause a considerable stir
in natural history circles, we forbore from disturbing the enterprising
couple in any way; but at last it became clear from careful observation
that the blessed day of hatching would never arrive.

Sir William (then Mr.) Flower was immensely interested in our choughs,
so when all hope of offspring was at an end I wrote informing him of the
sad downfall of our anticipations, and received the following letter in
return:—

ST. JOHN’S LODGE, nr. AYLESBURY,
_Sept. 5, 1882_.

MY DEAR LADY DOROTHY—I am sorry to hear that the choughs did
not hatch, but hope that they will do better next year; it is
something that you have saved two of the eggs, and I shall be
very pleased to add one of them to the collection under my care,
if you will kindly send it addressed to me at the College of
Surgeons, any time after the 16th of this month, when I return
to town.

It will be safer than sending it here, where we are all spending
a pleasant autumn holiday.

We were for a week, last month, at Norfolk, at Lord
Walsingham’s, whose beautiful entomological collections you are
probably acquainted with. He is a very enthusiastic naturalist.

We have not been to Combe Lodge or Dangstein since the spring,
though Lady Thompson has kindly asked us to go again; but as we
have several other visits to pay, I am not sure whether we shall
be able to accomplish it before the autumn has gone.

I trust that when you are in London again you will not forget to
come to see my museum; just now we are full of painters, and I
am afraid it will be two months at least before it is restored
to its normal condition of order.

With kind regards, in which Mrs. Flower joins,—I remain, yours
very truly,

W. H. FLOWER.

The following year our choughs were once again observed building a nest
in the same tower, and in due course our eyes were gladdened by the
sight of eggs lying peacefully in the nest, at which we used to peer
through a trap-door which could be opened without arousing the choughs’
alarm. At last came the happy day when one little fledgling actually
made its appearance; at last we seemed certain of being able to announce
that we had achieved an ornithological record. From time to time,
however, further peeps at the new arrival began to disconcert and puzzle
us, for its plumage of the most unchoughlike character did not at all
accord with that of its parents; and one fine day, alas, the dreadful
truth was at last forced upon us—the choughs had hatched out a little
starling!

In the end everything was explained, for, on investigation, it was
discovered that our pair of choughs were both of them hens—the reason
that the two eggs had never produced offspring! The two poor birds,
evidently realising that their only hope of a family lay in adoption,
had the next year annexed the eggs of some unfortunate starling, and
then hatched out the little alien, whose arrival in the world was the
cause of our disappointment and disgust.

At our place in Sussex, just on the borders of Hampshire, I had a very
large garden, and here, besides greenhouses, was an aviary in which were
kept many different kinds of birds. I do not know, however, that
aviaries are ever a great success; it is far more pleasant, indeed, to
see birds at liberty like my choughs, who used to stalk about the
grounds as if the whole place belonged to them, as did also the poor
storks; these latter, however, always looked melancholy, owing, I
suppose, to the permanent state of indigestion produced by their
partiality for dining off broken crockery. I was very proud of my
garden, in which most of the distinguished botanists and biologists of
that day, including Sir Joseph Hooker and Charles Darwin, took a great
interest.

In my greenhouses I had at one time a large collection of insectivorous
plants, specimens of which I used occasionally to send to Mr. Darwin,
who carried on a correspondence with me about these curious things, in
which he was very much interested. I went once to pay him a visit at his
house at Down, in Kent, but unluckily found him suffering from one of
those attacks from which he perpetually suffered, he having never
perfectly recovered from the terrible sea-sickness which tortured him
during his voyage on the _Beagle_. In consequence of his indisposition I
was only able to talk to him for a short while, but, nevertheless, he
told me a great deal about the digestive powers of the secretion of the
_drosera_ or sun-dew, which, as he had actually proved by experiment,
acted upon albuminous compounds in exactly the same manner as does the
gastric juice of mammals.

One or two of our greenhouses were entirely devoted to rare plants and
orchids, which were sent to me by my friends from every part of the
world. The late Lord Sherbrooke, then Mr. Lowe, and Mr. Bernal Osborne,
I remember, used rather to laugh at my partiality for horticulture—the
latter especially used to declare that ladies liked taking in scientific
men by pretending an interest in the subjects which were their especial
study. Mr. Cobden, however, took the warmest interest in my gardening
experiments, and wrote to me often on the subject. In 1861, when in
Algiers, which in those days was, of course, not nearly so well known as
at present, he sent me the following letter:—

ALGIERS,
_19th January 1861_.

MY DEAR LADY DOROTHY—It was, indeed, very kind of you to think
of me when in another quarter of the globe. I will not lose a
post in replying to your kind inquiries. The weather here is
delightful. It is an English summer. I suspect from the
admission of the natives that we have an exceptional fine
season. However, I have derived great benefit from the change.
There is really no excuse for coughs or asthmas here, for we
have generally a blue sky, and never any fogs or white frosts. I
have been annoyed for many months with a sort of stiff neck. It
is precisely the same as if I had sat in a draught and caught
cold yesterday. I have a difficulty in turning my head without
turning my body. You know I have been (all my life) rather
stiff-necked in a moral sense, but this permanent muscular
affection is rather novel and puzzling. However, I hope it will
yield to the warm weather and other remedies. You would be
delighted to see the fields and the gardens covered with roses
and flowers. In walking in the country the other day I plucked a
little wild flower like a larkspur, with leaves somewhat
resembling parsley, and I remarked to my wife, “If we had found
this in Lady Dorothy’s conservatory, how we should have admired
it!” The hedges are generally made of cactus and aloes, and they
would puzzle the fox-hunters to go through them. The country is
generally very uncultivated, and is covered with dwarf palms.
The date-palm does not bear fruit here, though the trees grow
very tall. You must penetrate some hundreds of miles into the
interior to find the best dates. The city of Algiers, which
stands on the steep slope of a hill, presents a strange aspect
to the European visitor. There is a greater variety of costume
than even at Cairo. You see Arabs, Turks, Jews, and Greeks mixed
up with every variety of military French uniforms. There are a
great many soldiers here, and I confess I should not feel quite
so safe among the Arabs (who in their heart have no love for the
infidel) if we had not a strong garrison of the _pantalons
rouges_. The Moorish women walk about with their figures
enveloped in white muslin, leaving only holes for the eyes. If
one of these were seen walking near Dangstein the country people
would be frightened, and would think that a newly buried corpse
had escaped from the churchyard. There is a Jardin d’Essai, or
experimental nursery garden, near Algiers, kept up by
Government, which affords pleasant walks. A great number of the
shrubs which you have under glass are flourishing here. The
custard-apple flourishes. What surprises one is the rapidity
with which the trees grow. There are some which in fifteen years
have grown as large as they would have grown in forty or fifty
in England. They have very little idle time, for there is no
winter, and, if they get plenty of water, they grow rapidly in
the summer. The orange tree is very fine in Algeria, but they
are cultivated more extensively at Blidah, thirty miles in the
interior, than here. They require a great deal of water at their
roots. In fact, all the fruit, whether dates or other things,
depends on irrigation. “Their feet in water and their heads in
the fire” is the phrase used by the natives to show the
treatment that agrees with them. If the climate did not make
people idle, what an immense production there might be where
there is no winter and the land of waters requires no rest! The
vegetable market in Algiers at eight in the morning is a sight
to see, such piles of cauliflowers, beans, peas, and new
potatoes. I cannot say a word about politics; I am busy with
_Adam Bede_, _The Woman in White_, and other equally amusing
volumes. I spend as much time as possible out of doors. There
are forty or fifty English visitors here for their health,
besides a few residents, and there is a staff of engineers and
navvies employed by Peto and Co. on a railway and a boulevard,
for which they have a contract. The hotels are good, but not
cheap. Many people find lodgings a little way in the country.
There—I am afraid I have exhausted nearly all my Algerian news.
Pray give my kind regards to Mr. Nevill. I hope the severe
weather has not interfered with his farming operations. I hear a
good account of my lambs. I shall remain here till I get quite
strong, and my return home will depend on the weather in
England. I shall not attempt to be in the House at the opening
of Parliament. I was working in Paris the whole of last summer
and autumn, and can therefore take a little holiday with a clear
conscience. My wife joins me in kind regards to you and
family.—Very truly yours,

R. C.

It was through Mr. Cobden that I obtained a special sort of silkworm
which at one time I kept in my garden. Before this I had from time to
time experimented with the ordinary silkworm which feeds upon mulberry
leaves; but my experiences had not been very satisfactory, for, in
addition to other inconveniences, my silkworms, which were kept in the
house, used occasionally to stray about and get up people’s trousers,
much to their inconvenience and horror. So I determined to make an
altogether new departure, and had a sort of regular silkworm farm laid
out in a part of the garden where it could be under constant
observation. A certain portion of this ground was entirely devoted to
the _Ailanthus glandulosa_, or “Tree of Heaven,” which is quite hardy.
On its leaves lives the Ailanthus silkworm, which I then set about to
procure, and wrote to several of my friends asking them to assist me.
Eventually it was through the kindly efforts of Mr. Cobden that my
ambition was achieved, as the following letter will show:—

ALGIERS, _23rd February 1861_.

MY DEAR LADY DOROTHY—My wife will have the pleasure of writing
to you with the beads, and I merely wish to add that I am also
sending some amber beads they procured for me. Having called at
the Jardin d’Essai here, and spoken with the intelligent
director, he tells me that he has only about one hundred cocoons
of the kind of silkworm you allude to, and that he obtained them
from Paris, where he advises me to apply for some. He wrote me
the following:—“Pour avoir des œufs ou des cocons de ver à soie
de l’Ailante, s’addresser à M. G. Ménéirlle, secrétaire de la
société Impériale d’acclimatation à Paris.” I give you this
address so minutely that you may be enabled, if you are
impatient to possess these little animals, to send for them
before I return through Paris, otherwise, if you will be so good
as to express the wish, I shall be delighted to execute the
commission for you on my way home. The weather is delightful
here. Last week I placed a thermometer on a table in the sun in
front of the house, and it stood up to 95°. We find it too warm.
With kind remembrances to Mr. Nevill,—I remain, very truly
yours,

R. C.

These silkworms did very well indeed, and I actually obtained enough
silk to have a dress made out of it; but in the end I was compelled to
give up keeping the Ailanthus moth on account of the small birds—tits
in particular—which were so taken with what they came to regard as an
irresistible gastronomic treat, that all precautions, such as nets,
scarecrows, and the like, proved powerless to save the poor silkworms
from destruction.

At that time the cult of gardens was not, as now, universally popular;
it was before the day of garden books, though some very good works on
horticulture of a more serious type were occasionally published. Such a
one was a very interesting book called _My Garden_, written by a Mr.
Smee, who had a beautiful garden near Carshalton. This was embellished
with cuts of nearly every plant, bird, or insect which the owner had
observed upon his domain—a most excellent idea which was admirably
carried out. Of course, amongst modern garden books there is none to
compare with the delightful _Potpourri from a Surrey Garden_, a work
which, in addition to containing much valuable horticultural
information, is also permeated with the personal charm and originality
of its gifted writer.

Though people did not, as a rule, formerly devote so much care and
attention to their gardens as is now the case, many country houses had
attached to them “a garden of friendship.” One of these, at Cortachy, in
Scotland, I particularly recall to mind, on account of the many happy
days I have spent with its mistress, Lady Airlie, a very dear and old
friend of mine. Mr. Lowe (afterwards Lord Sherbrooke) once wrote on this
garden some very pretty verses, a tribute to a hostess for whom he
entertained the very highest admiration. It was, alas, but seldom that
Mr. Lowe exercised his gift of graceful versification, but the lines in
question show that his talents in this direction were of no mean
order:—

THE GARDEN OF FRIENDSHIP AT CORTACHY

Is life a good? then if a good it be,
Mine be a life like thine, thou steadfast tree;
The selfsame earth that gave the sapling place
Receives the mouldering trunk in soft embrace,
The selfsame comrades ever at thy side,
Who knows not Envy, Wilfulness, or Pride.
The Winter’s waste repaired by lavish Spring,
The rustling breezes that about thee sing,
The intertwining shadows at thy feet,
Make up thy life, and such a life is sweet.
What though beneath this artificial shade
No Fauns have gambolled and no Dryads strayed!
Though the coy nurslings of serener skies
Shudder when Caledonian tempests rise,
Yet sways a cheering influence o’er the grove
More soft than nature, more sedate than love.
And not unhonoured shall thy grove ascend
For every stem was planted by a friend,
And she, at whose command its shades arise,
Is good and gracious, true and fair and wise.

XIII

A Diorama at Florence—Vauxhall Gardens—Causes of their end in
1855—_Fête_ at Cremorne—The Coliseum—Rinks and roller-skating
—Aquariums—Zazel and Mr. Watts—Nelly Farren—The rise of the
Music Hall—A visit to Evans’—Paddy Green as a collector—The
Opera in old days—Taglioni and Cerito—Paul Bedford—Mr. Toole
—His joke upon Sir Henry Irving—The Exhibition of 1851—
Houdin, the Prince of Conjurers—Theatre at Rome—Old days at
Töplitz—A libel upon the Queen.

About the first public entertainment which I remember was a diorama of
the Church of Santa Croce at Florence which I was taken to see when
quite a child. It made a great impression upon my mind, and the
recollection of the delight it gave me still lingers in my memory. The
effect was beautiful and greatly enhanced by some extremely fine music
which exactly simulated the swelling strains of an organ.

I suppose there are not many people alive who remember Vauxhall Gardens,
an historic place of amusement to which I went several times—and very
delightful I thought it. This, of course, was almost in the last days of
prosperity which this once fashionable resort enjoyed, for towards the
end it had become but a feeble and, I fear, none too reputable shadow of
its former self.

Well do I recollect the ham sandwiches for which Vauxhall, or rather its
expert carver, was famed. Rumour indeed declared that so great was this
official’s talent for cutting transparent slices of ham that, if put
upon his mettle, he could cut from one single ham sufficient slices to
cover the whole gardens, which were by no means inextensive in area. It
was a pleasant place with its music and coloured lights, and, above all,
the many memories of the eighteenth century which clung about the old
gardens. Some of the decorative paintings were by Hogarth, and the
artistic taste of another age could clearly be discerned, though time
and the weather had done their work in the way of spoiling a good deal
which would otherwise have been artistic and interesting. To such an
extent was this the case, that when the pictures came to be sold (there
were, I think, two sales, the last in 1859) ridiculously small prices
were realised, though many were the work of well-known and highly gifted
painters.

Vauxhall Gardens were finally closed about 1855. I fancy that a
succession of unfavourable and rainy seasons greatly contributed to
their end, for in spite of the added interest of balloon ascents and
other sensational performances the public declined to be attracted. So
bad was the weather one season that the management, with considerable
sense of humour, sent out men bearing huge umbrellas upon which the
attractions of Vauxhall as an open-air pleasure resort were vividly set
forth.

At Cremorne, which lasted well into the ’seventies (when its reputation
became such as to call forth loud Puritanical protests which eventually
caused its closure), fashionable _fêtes_ used sometimes to be held, when
the gardens presented much the same appearance as Vauxhall in its palmy
days. I went to some of these _fêtes_, but not to the last, on which
occasion, I believe, considerable disorder prevailed on account of a
number of the usual frequenters of Cremorne obtaining admission and
squirting ink at the ladies’ dresses as a sign of their displeasure at
the intrusion of another society than their own. In consequence of this
no more of these _fêtes_ were held, the gardens being entirely abandoned
to the class which eventually caused their end.

As a girl I used often to go with my sister to the Coliseum, a
pseudo-classical building erected in 1824 from the designs of Decimus
Burton. The buildings and grounds covered about an acre, and in addition
to the main attraction, which was always a panorama, there were various
other sights to be seen, such as to-day would be termed “side shows,”
the chief of these being, I remember, a stalactite cavern. In 1844 the
directorate made the first attempt to introduce roller-skating (or
rather “wheel-skating,” as it was then called) upon a floor of boards;
this, however, proved an unsuitable surface, and the new amusement did
not at all take the public fancy and had a very short vogue. Some thirty
years later, however, it was revived, under more favourable and more
modern conditions with extraordinary and, for a time, almost frenzied
success. In the middle ’seventies, indeed, the mania for roller-skating
suddenly caught hold of every class, and rinks, some improvised and some
specially built, sprang up in almost every town of any importance;
whilst London, and more especially fashionable London, went mad about
the new amusement. The craze, however, did not last as long as many
speculators had confidently anticipated, and a great deal of money was
eventually lost by those who, convinced of the permanency of the
roller-skating rage, had invested or rather risked their money in the
construction of rinks. The mania indeed died out as suddenly as it had
originated, though some years ago skating on artificial ice secured a
certain amount of popular support.

Roller-skating whilst it lasted called forth many witticisms and jokes,
some of them, it must be added, of none too refined a taste. Certain
ladies, for instance, were said to stand on a very unsteady footing,
whilst others of irreproachable conduct and stern demeanour were spoken
of as constantly falling. One could not help smiling to hear that people
regarded as models of decorum had recently had many a slip. The whole
craze, indeed, with the comical accidents it entailed, produced general
and widespread hilarity.

Another craze of a somewhat more lasting nature was that for aquariums,
which were greatly patronised when they were first started with the
object, according to the promoters, of providing the public with palaces
where amusement was to be unobtrusively blended with instruction.

The best known and, for a time, the most successful of these was the
Westminster Aquarium, quite recently demolished, the opening of which
created quite a sensation. For a time all London flocked to this resort,
where, in addition to the denizens of the deep, there was generally some
extraordinarily daring acrobatic feat to be seen. The most sensational
of these performers was Zazel, a graceful female acrobat who was fired
out of a cannon and caught a trapeze, if I remember rightly, at the end
of her flight. In reality the mode of propulsion was a strong spring,
though the illusion of a real cannon being fired was produced by the
volumes of smoke which surged from the cannon’s mouth as the performer
flew through the air. Zazel was presented to the public by Mr. Farini,
an unrivalled purveyor of wonders. I was much struck by the grace and
daring which this young lady exhibited, and being acquainted with some
of the directors managed to get a quiet talk with her. I went one
morning, I remember, and she explained to me exactly how the feat was
performed, giving, indeed, a special and private performance of it for
my benefit, in her working dress.

Zazel—a model, I may add, of the domestic virtues—was a singularly
graceful athlete, and, in addition to the sensational cannon act, used
to perform upon a trapeze slung high up near the aquarium roof. Her
grace of movement, indeed, was such that many artistic people were
attracted to the performance; amongst others, I remember, the late Mr.
Watts, whom, on more than one occasion, I met observing this artiste
with the greatest interest and delight. He told me that he had seldom
seen a more perfect example of graceful human motion, and had come there
as much for the purpose of study as for the sake of amusement. When
Zazel’s cannon feat was first performed a considerable outcry was raised
on account of the supposed danger to the human missile, and a high
Government functionary was said to have been about to interfere,
whereupon Mr. Farini (so ran the story) completely set the public mind
at rest by proposing to demonstrate the safety of the performance by
shooting the august official himself out of the cannon, not once only
but as many times as he might like, undertaking that on each occasion he
should be returned to his office perfectly unharmed and intact.

Seldom, I should say, has any acrobatic performance caused so much
excitement in London as Zazel’s, and those who went to the Gaiety at
that time will remember the amusing burlesque of the feat (given in, I
think, “Little Doctor Faust”) by Edward Terry and that
never-to-be-forgotten incarnation of clever vitality, Nelly Farren, in
which the latter, having climbed into a burlesque cannon, was asked,
“Are you in? Are you far in? Are you Nearly Far-in?”—sallies which were
greeted with thunders of applause.

The music halls, to which to-day every one goes, were formerly not
considered at all correct places for ladies. About the first time that
society began seriously to realise their existence was, I think, at the
time of the Russo-Turkish war, when Plevna, a sort of spectacular
ballet, was being given at the Canterbury. A great benefit was organised
in aid of the Turkish wounded, and a good many people crossed the river
and took boxes. This incursion into what was to them an unknown world
produced a certain taste for this kind of amusement, and led to music
halls being gradually patronised by a very different sort of audience
from the one which was formerly enraptured by the singing of the _lions
comiques_. As years went on music hall after music hall abandoned its
chairman,—a man, as a rule, of stentorian voice who in old days was a
principal feature of these places. The entertainments given then
gradually changed their character, and to-day every one goes to the
music hall, where, for the most part, the performance is quite as
innocent as a village penny-reading presided over by the vicar.

Before the days when the music hall had attained the popularity which it
now enjoys, vague rumours, of course, used to reach society as to its
chief stars, and occasionally some of us used to be unobtrusively taken
to see them. One of the chief was George Leybourne, whose song
“Champagne Charlie,” with its sparkling music and catchy refrain,
combined with the fact that he used to drive about in a carriage drawn
by four horses, created quite a sensation in London. Another was the
great Macdermott, whose song “We don’t want to fight, but by Jingo if we
do,” originated the expression a “jingo,” so often used in political
controversy. The _lion comique_ is now but a memory of the past, his
very direct and somewhat robust methods being unsuited to the taste of
the generation which takes its pleasures in a very different way from
that popular in less squeamish times.

I well remember once going with a party—amongst others Lady Molesworth,
Lord Torrington and Mr. Bernal Osborne—to Evans’ Supper Rooms. It was
not a place, I fancy, to which ladies went as a rule, but both Lady
Molesworth and I had wished to see it, and so it was arranged that we
should go. The evening was not as successful as it might have been, as
some of the party were in a bad temper; but we tasted the potatoes, for
which the place was famous, and, during the course of the visit, I was
introduced to the celebrated Paddy Green. He was brought up into the
sort of box in which we sat by Mr. Bernal Osborne, who presented him to
me with a long sort of speech in which he informed the old man that he
was meeting a connection of the well-known Horace Walpole. Paddy Green,
contrary to my expectation, was immensely interested at this, and,
telling me he would go and get something which I ought to see,
disappeared for a moment, only to return bearing with him the “Opera
Pass” which had belonged to my literary kinsman, and which the old man
was quite delighted to show me. He kept declaring, I recollect, that
some day I should have it, and I always had a sort of idea that he would
leave it to me. He did not do so, however, and at his death it was sold
by auction, when it was purchased by Mr. Hambro of Milton Abbey.

Forty or fifty years ago theatres were few in number, and a visit to the
play was considered a serious adventure and not a mere casual
distraction as it is to-day, when places of entertainment are almost too
plentiful in number. As girls, we used, I remember, to be sent to bed
for two or three hours in the afternoon in order to rest before the
excitement of witnessing a dramatic performance. The opera then, as now,
was the most fashionable resort during the season; not, I think, that
the opera itself excited any very keen interest—the ballet was the main
thing; but as these were the days of Cerito and Taglioni there is little
cause for wonder at such having been the case. Taglioni, of course, was
not generally received, but, nevertheless, I once met her at a party,
though I cannot remember where, or how she got there. Cerito, however, I
perfectly well recollect seeing at a Mr. Long’s, at whose house in
Grafton Street one used to meet all sorts of clever and interesting
people, for he had the especial gift of collecting together notabilities
of every sort. I was introduced to this famous dancer, who looked very
pretty and demure and made an excellent impression upon every one.

Taglioni was the very perfection of grace, and her name is still
remembered as a queen amongst dancers. Poor woman, her latter years were
clouded by poverty and misfortune, and she was obliged to give dancing
lessons in order to support her children. Her opinion of the modern
school of dancing was extremely low, and she did not scruple to declare
that it appeared to her both ugly and improper. “Dieu, qu’elles sont
laides avec leurs indécences,” was the criticism she passed upon some
ballerinas who claimed to be her successors at a time when the acrobatic
distortion known as the cake-walk had not yet been invented. What indeed
would she have thought of that? So-called dancing in these days is more
often than not largely composed of wild gymnastic exercises, whilst
skirt-dancing is too often but a series of feeble kicks executed by
angular performers whose lack of grace is concealed by a number of
voluminous swathings and petticoats.

When my sister and I went to the opera neither the performance nor the
ballet attracted either of us as much as what was called “the
crush-room,” which was our principal delight. This social institution is
now totally extinct. In those days, however, directly the opera was over
the fashionable portion of the audience at once adjourned to a hall
arranged for people to wait in whilst their carriages were being
fetched, and here the gay world would linger generally for at least an
hour. The crush-room, indeed, was like a sort of informal evening party;
but such an institution would have no success in these days of bustle
and rush when every one is only too anxious to be first away, and so
many are eager to betake themselves to the fashionable restaurants, the
possible existence of which was undreamt of up to comparatively recent
years.

I have seen nearly all the actors and actresses whose names to-day are
but dim recollections of the past. Paul Bedford I well remember in a
burlesque of Norma singing an excruciatingly funny song with a wreath of
carrots and turnips on his head. He was the funniest comedian I ever
saw, though his methods would perhaps be thought too broad at the
present time when the stage almost ranks with the Church, and not a few
theatrical people are as proud as if they possessed three eyes and a
tail. Paul Bedford, besides being a comedian of extraordinary though
very rollicking talent, was an excellent vocalist as well. He had,
indeed, originally made his reputation in Lablache’s great part of Don
Pasquale.

The late Mr. Toole, who often used to come and lunch with me, was the
last of the comedians of the old school whose original personality was a
principal cause of their success. Theatres to-day are, of course, far
more luxurious than was formerly the case, everything being changed,
from the lighting (in old days a very primitive affair) to the
programmes, which used to be merely roughly printed slips of coarse
paper.

Unfortunately I have no large collection of old theatrical programmes,
and I always feel sorry that as a girl I did not keep the playbills of
the day, which would now be of very considerable interest. One
programme, however, I did carefully retain, treasuring it as a souvenir
of two clever friends of mine—Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft, who retired
from management in 1885, their last performance taking place on July 20
of that year. This farewell programme, as it was called, is decorated
with a nice little photograph of the clever manager and manageress,
whose retirement from the stage may be said at that time to have
eclipsed the gaiety of the Metropolis.

The late Sir Henry Irving used constantly to send me any trifles which
he thought likely to be of interest. I have a certain number of
bookplates mostly sent me by friends, and having seen a new one designed
for Sir Henry by Mr. Bernard Partridge, I told him how much I should
like a specimen. Accordingly he sent me this bookplate, together with a
rather amusing letter describing an adventure with Mr. Toole at
Canterbury Cathedral, where the latter seized the opportunity of
exercising his well-known love of joking—

15A GRAFTON STREET,
BOND STREET, W.

MY DEAR LADY DOROTHY—The 15th will soon be here, and I hope
that you will soon afterwards come to “Becket.”

Pray let me know when you can, on which night I may have
pleasure of making you welcome.

On Saturday nights we play some other play, to be afterwards
included in our American repertoire.

I was at Canterbury lately with our mutual friend, Toole, and
greatly enjoyed the visit—until he began insisting to the
attendants that I was a descendant of the great archbishop, and
that my visit to the Cathedral would do much to make it popular.

So it seemed, for a little crowd soon collected, from which we
were rescued by a most considerate canon, who insisted on
conveying us safely to the crypt.

I am glad you like the bookplate which was designed by Bernard
Partridge.—Believe me, dear Lady Dorothy, sincerely yours,

H. IRVING.
_13th April 1893._

The public nowadays may be said to be satiated with amusements, but
formerly it was quite otherwise, and anything new in this line was
considered as a positive wonder. I well remember the sensation caused by
the Exhibition of 1851, which in some mysterious manner was supposed to
be the inauguration of an era of perpetual peace. I went there once
alone with Charles Greville—“the gruncher” as he used to be called (a
nickname which, I suppose, originated from the French word _grincheux_,
for there were times when he could be anything but pleasant)—and we had
to make our way through most tremendous crowds. I shall also never
forget being nearly crushed to death on the last day of the same
Exhibition, when I had gone quite alone. I got caught in the crowd, and
being very small would have certainly been at least very seriously
injured by the terrible crush, had not a friendly official thrust me
into a place of safety in the shape of his little pay-box.

In old days conjuring (now almost entirely a children’s amusement) was
far more popular than is at present the case. The prince of conjurers
was, of course, Robert Houdin, who carried sleight-of-hand and
legerdemain pretty well to perfection; in addition to this he was also a
very clever man, whose mind was constantly on the alert, as the
following little incident will show. Houdin was very popular with the
Sultan and performed before him on many occasions. Being one day asked
to the palace to dine, he said to his imperial host, “Your Majesty has
several times been pleased to express some very flattering opinions as
to my magical powers, and it is true that I have performed some rather
difficult tricks. They, however, are nothing to the feat I shall now
perform, provided your Majesty accords me full permission to do what I
like with the watch which lies on that table.” At the same time he
pointed to a wonderful specimen of the watchmaker’s art which,
beautifully enamelled and embellished in the Louis XV. style (a present
indeed from that King himself to a former Sultan), lay in a glass case
close at hand. The required permission was given, whereupon Houdin rose
from the table, and to the horror of all present, and to the visible
annoyance of the Sultan, took up the watch and in full sight of every
one threw it out of the window into the sea.

An awkward pause now ensued, and one which seemed ominous for the
conjurer; but the fish just then making its appearance, Houdin, with the
greatest self-possession, bade one of the servants take a particular
dish to the Sultan and beg him to cut right across the fine turbot which
it contained. This the Sultan did, and to his stupefaction discovered
the Louis quinze watch beneath his knife. From that day Houdin’s
prestige was greatly increased, whilst presents were heaped upon him by
the Sultan, who thought it best to keep on good terms with such a
wonderful magician. The explanation, however, of this
feat—extraordinary as it appeared—is quite simple. Houdin had chanced
to see the watch during a previous visit to the palace about a year
before, and being a man of very alert intelligence, photographed, as it
were, every detail upon his brain, having a vague idea that something
might be made of it. Surely enough, he discovered the watch’s exact
double in a curiosity shop in London—another gift from Louis XV. to
some sovereign, which had fallen upon evil days. Securing the twin at a
considerable price, he thought out the trick which so astonished the
Sultan, and which, though it cost the conjurer a good sum, brought in a
very handsome profit in the shape of increased imperial favour and the
benefits resulting therefrom.

As a girl travelling on the Continent with my father I was taken to
several theatres, which as a rule were terribly stuffy and
uncomfortable. I remember, for instance, going to a theatre at Rome in
1845 with Lady Pellew, and there seeing a play which was really very
amusing, though it left one with no desire to make a second visit.

The length was the same as an English play of those days—that is, from
seven till past eleven—a melodrama, a pantomime, and a farce. The
latter amused us mightily; it was a quiz upon the English, more
laughable than fair, for it satirised their riding, an art in which our
nation is not behind the Italians. The hero, an immensely corpulent John
Bull, with a pert booby of a son, who answered “Yes, papa,” to
everything, and walked about with his thumbs in the armholes of his
waistcoat, was seen mounting a horse for the first time. This he
accomplished by means of a crane which lifted him up, with his legs
spread out, a good height into the air, and then let him drop on the
horse’s back. After this followed a lesson in riding, in which John Bull
fell off, as did his son, and then they ran against each other, boxing
and fighting all the time, till eventually the son went on his knees and
craved forgiveness from his daddy, who graciously held out his hand to
be kissed. At the end the riding-master introduced a number of tumblers,
who threw somersaults over four horses standing side by side and
performed other feats of activity, in all of which they were immediately
imitated and even surpassed by old and young John. It was great
nonsense, but very funny. The audience was so filthy, and the smells so
overpowering, that it gave us an idea of what we had heard used to
happen in some American theatres, for many of the men took off their
coats and sat in shirt sleeves which for colour would have shamed an
Irish labourer. The upper ranks of Roman society went at that time only
to the opera, and the audience of this theatre consisted entirely of
shopkeepers and tradesmen, very different to an English audience of the
same class, which behaves in a respectable and gentlemanlike way. These
people were dirty to a degree, and might well have been old Westminster
or St. Giles turned into the pit and boxes.

On a previous occasion some years before, at Töplitz, in 1838, we all
went to a Jewish marriage. We had bought glass and garnets in some
quantity, the latter being considered superior to the Oriental ones;
indeed, a mania for buying had seized us all. We had thus been good
customers of the Jews, who at that time lived in a quarter of their own
and were very numerous there. In gratitude they invited us to their
synagogue “to hear the pure worship of One God,” upon which I daresay
they especially prided themselves in that image-adoring land; and one
day a pretty Jewess ran after us in the street, and invited us to come
and see a wedding. My father not only urged us to go but went with us
himself. They had very beautiful music, and a sort of marriage song was
sung by a single voice, with a chorus that would not have disgraced
Braham, so full, so clear, and so sweet was it. The Hebrew chanting, of
course, we could make nothing of, but the sermon or address to the newly
married pair who stood up before the preacher was in perfectly
intelligible Deutsch, and affected both bride and bridegroom to tears.
It was a very pathetic homily, and alluded feelingly, though very
delicately and distantly, to the present degraded state of the
Israelites, urging them to seek their happiness all the more in the
“heilige Himmelreich.” There was a certain degree of elevation about the
whole ceremony, the only drawback being that we were sadly devoured by
fleas, which my father somewhat flippantly declared to be of the true
Jerusalem breed.

During our stay at Töplitz, a German newspaper was brought to my dear
governess, Miss Redgrave, to translate, on account of its containing a
libellous description of Queen Victoria’s habits, which were represented
as being sadly gormandising. It purported to be copied from the English
Court Journal, and pretended to detail all she ate and drank from rising
until going to bed. This statement was denounced to the Minister in
Dresden as a libel on Her Majesty, and accordingly he inquired into the
matter, intending to complain of it, should it appear to be scandalous,
but finding that it was only a simple statement of facts copied from an
English newspaper he could say nothing to it. The German editor thought
it necessary to explain the meaning of several words, particularly
toast, “slices of bread roasted on the coals and buttered hot”; of these
he declared the Queen habitually ate an uncounted number, whilst three
helpings of turtle soup were said to have cooled the admiration of the
Duke of Nemours!

XIV

Changes—Old customs—Country houses—A dispirited Conservative—
Wigs—The last Bishops to wear them—Some witty replies—
Nightcaps—Dr. Burney and Nelson—Posy rings—Mutton-fat candles
in 1835—Belvoir Castle—Old-world country life—Poachers—The
last of the smugglers—A terrible crime—Hanging in chains—
Pressing to death—Books bound in the skin of criminals—Sussex
roads—Old ironwork—Cowdray—The monk’s curse—Otway’s
birthplace—Trotton—Charles James Fox—Midhurst and its tokens
—Oratory in the country.

Within the last hundred years the changes wrought by steam and
electricity have completely transformed the world, whilst making it, no
doubt, a very much more comfortable planet to live in than it ever was
before. Nevertheless, much that was picturesque and curious has
disappeared; few old customs survive, though in certain places they are
still (perhaps somewhat artificially) preserved. The practice of beating
the bounds, for instance, is, I believe, still occasionally, in a very
modified form, carried out in certain towns; but the serious necessity
for it having passed away, it is more of a holiday pastime than anything
else.

As late as the ’fifties the old custom of wassailing the orchards was
still to some extent preserved in Sussex, where it was known as
“apple-howling.” A troop of boys used to go round to the different
orchards, and, surrounding the apple trees, repeat some quaint rhymes
and shout in chorus, the leader of the band meanwhile producing some
strange sounds from a cow’s horn. Part of the ceremony consisted in
rapping the apple trees with sticks. At the present day this apple-tree
superstition, to which Herrick makes allusion in his _Hesperides_,
appears to be extinct.

Wassailing at Christmas time was, of course, a totally different thing
altogether, of which possibly some vestige has survived to the present
day, though in a very modified form. In the days, not so very long ago,
when Sussex labourers could not read, they were absolutely dependent
upon tradition for their songs, which, in many cases, were exceedingly
quaint. Two favourite ones were the “Blind Beggar’s Daughter of Bethnal
Green” and the well-known “Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington.” Others were
“Lord Bateman was a Noble Lord” and “A Sweet Country Life.” These old
songs used to be sung by parties of carol singers who went from house to
house, well assured of receiving a warm and hearty welcome.

Formerly, of course, people who lived in the country were much more
dependent upon the shops in the local village than is now the case, when
everything can be got down from London with the greatest ease. Most
country houses of any size had a large brew-house attached to them,
where home-made beer was brewed for the labourers and servants; this was
at all events exceedingly wholesome, being quite free from all
adulteration. Country households were also more or less self-dependent
in other ways, and many articles of domestic use were made at home,
which in these days are purchased from the huge emporiums with which
London abounds. Those were the days of feather-beds, and the feathers of
chickens and of game-birds were not thrown away as to-day, but carefully
preserved and picked in order that they might be utilised as stuffing
for this somewhat hot and uncomfortable sort of couch.

At my old home in Norfolk two women were kept constantly employed at
this work. I can still see in my mind’s eye old Phœbe Barwick, as she
was called, picking away together with another aged character—they
never seemed to stop from morning to night, a room being specially set
aside for their use. Phœbe’s companion has ever lived in my recollection
by reason of the fact that when she heard the news of my brother’s
election, as member for East Norfolk, in 1835, she rushed downstairs,
seized a huge dinner-bell, and rang a pæan of exultant triumph on the
lawn in front of the house. My brother himself was imbued with but
little political fervour even at that time, and in his later years his
efforts on behalf of the Conservative party were limited to sending on
one occasion a cartload of hares into his market town as presents for
the Tory electors. The Liberals, however, having made the driver drunk,
proceeded to distribute the hares amongst their own supporters, a
proceeding which my brother ever afterwards declared had thoroughly
disgusted him with all political propaganda.

In my early childhood there were still men living who had not abandoned
the eighteenth-century fashion of wearing a wig. This custom, indeed,
did not entirely die out with the coming in of the nineteenth century,
some old-fashioned people continuing to wear these head-coverings as
late as the early ’thirties. The last man to wear a pigtail is said to
have been one of the Cambridge dons, who retained it as late as the year
1835. The higher clergy did not abandon their wigs till a somewhat later
date. As recently as 1848 Bishop Monk wore a wig whilst officiating at
an ordination at St. Margaret’s, Westminster. Archbishop Sumner,
however, is said to have been the very last ecclesiastic to discard this
head-covering, which Bishops Bagot and Blomfield had been the first to
lay aside. Bishop Blomfield was a divine who was noted for his wit, and
his sayings were sometimes very amusing. He was once engaged in a
controversy with a learned man as to the mental superiority of the East
over the West, and after much argument his opponent as a parting shot
said, “Well, at any rate the wise men came from the East—you can’t
dispute that.” “Surely,” retorted the Bishop, “that was the wisest thing
they could do.”

On another occasion, at a party where a lady in an extremely _decolleté_
gown excited a good deal of attention, some one remarked to him: “Her
appearance is really quite scandalous. Did you ever see anything like
it?” “Never,” replied the Bishop; “at least, not since I was weaned.”

When wigs were first abandoned the new fashion of wearing the hair was
not by any means universally popular, and in some country districts
old-fashioned parishioners were by no means enamoured of the change in
their pastor’s appearance. A certain clergyman, for instance, who at the
beginning of the last century determined to follow the new fashion, and
having discarded his wig, appeared in the village street with a cropped
head, was severely snubbed by a lady parishioner whom he had consulted
as to the effect of this change in his personal appearance. Her remark
was, “Once a man, twice a child.” For many years, indeed, people of the
old school considered this innovation a most undignified change.

Nightcaps, which were once universally worn, have now pretty well gone
the same way as wigs; in old days every one, not only men, but also
women, wore them, and they were considered as indispensable as any other
article of ordinary attire. There is a well-known story relating to the
celebrated Dr. Burney which illustrates this.

Dr. Burney, whilst staying with Nelson at Merton, discovered that he had
omitted to bring any nightcaps with him, and so borrowed one from the
great admiral. Sitting up to study before retiring to bed, the cap
somehow caught fire in a candle, the end portion of it being consumed,
upon which Dr. Burney wrote out the following lines, which he sent with
the remains of the cap to his host on the following morning:—

Take your nightcap again, my good Lord, I desire,
I would not detain it a minute;
What belongs to a Nelson, where’er there’s a fire,
Is sure to be instantly in it.

Amongst many relics of other days and ways I have several of those
old-fashioned wedding and betrothal rings which almost invariably
contained a motto inscribed upon their inner surface—posy rings as they
were called. The word “posy,” it may be added, is simply an abbreviated
form of “poesy,” which Richardson, in his _Dictionary of Derivatives_,
defines as “a brief poetical sentiment,” especially one inscribed on a
ring. The custom of inscribing a motto or posy upon brooches survived in
Scotland up to comparatively modern times. Those known as Luckenbooth
brooches were sold in the “Luckenbooths” round St. Giles’ church in
Edinburgh, and were used as love-tokens and betrothal gifts. On them
were inscriptions such as—

While lyfe is myne my heart is thyne,
Of earthly joys thou art my choise;

lines which also occur on many old English rings. Some ladies on the
death of their husbands used to convert their wedding or posy ring into
a mourning one. This was effected by engraving an elongated skeleton
outside the ring, its bones being brought into prominence by a
background of black enamel. Occasionally a death’s-head alone was
engraved outside.

Another kind of ring which is now obsolete was the Serjeant’s ring. It
was an old legal custom for a Serjeant-at-law, on his appointment, to
present a ring to the Crown, and also a ring of lesser weight than the
royal ring to each of his brother Serjeants. This custom was only
abolished in 1873, when the office of Serjeant-at-Law was done away
with. At Windsor Castle there are said to be candlesticks formed
entirely of Serjeants’ rings placed one above the other. Unlike the posy
rings, the inscription upon the Serjeants’ rings (a flat band of gold
with a moulding at top and bottom) is placed upon the exterior
surface—the motto being, as a rule, in Latin and very seldom in
English. _Vivat Rex et Lex_ and _Lex regis præsidium_ are two to be
found upon ancient rings of this kind.

Posy rings, though usually of gold, are sometimes found to be made of
silver, and even of brass. For the most part quite plain, some few have
decorative patterns on the outside. Besides betrothal and wedding rings,
there were also posy rings made to be given as presents on St.
Valentine’s Day; a certain number of these engraved with suitable
inscriptions were, in all probability, always kept in stock by the
goldsmiths of other days.

A curious motto found on a posy ring is—

Fare God and lye abed till Noone;

whilst

Like this my love shall endless prove

is one of the prettiest.

Lady Cathcart, on marrying her fourth husband in 1713, had “If I survive
I will have five” engraved upon her wedding ring.

Since my young days the prices of many things have changed very
considerably indeed. On the whole the necessities of life have certainly
become cheaper, and its minor luxuries have been brought well within the
reach of those boasting but a slender purse. When I was a child we used
to burn mutton-fat candles in our nursery, and it was only in 1835, as I
find from a letter of my dear old governess, that we abandoned this form
of illumination for a little lamp trimmed with the best sperm oil. In
still older days candles made of deer-fat used, I believe, to be burnt
in country houses, where the whole problem of lighting was no easy
matter.

The cumbersome oil lamps of pre-electric light days were a great source
of trouble and expense, apart from the danger of fire which they
sometimes caused owing to careless handling. In large houses men had to
be specially told off to attend to the lamps. I remember the uncle of
the present Duke of Rutland showing me the lamp-room at Belvoir full of
gigantic barrels of oil; at the same time he told me that no less than
six men were kept constantly employed at nothing else but looking after
the lamps. This Duke of Rutland was very much devoted to hunting and had
several very severe falls. My husband and myself used often to go to
Belvoir, and I remember that on two occasions, when going to visit
there, we turned back at Grantham, it being there reported to us that
the Duke, having had a terrible fall, was hovering between life and
death; nevertheless he survived both these accidents. The late Duke
(Lord John Manners) I always considered one of the most
high-bred-looking men I ever saw in my life. I knew him in youth and in
old age, and in both he was ever the typical English aristocrat; his
polished and courteous address—the heritage of his race still preserved
in the present generation—will always linger pleasantly in my memory.

There was naturally something much more picturesque about old country
life than is the case to-day, when, owing to railways and motor cars,
people are kept in constant and close touch with town. The poacher,
perhaps, is now the sole anachronism, and even he, I fancy, has
discarded his old-world raiding ways in favour of more calculating and
scientific methods. Poaching in old days was regarded by the
country-folk much as smuggling had been by their forebears—that is,
with a certain sneaking feeling of sympathetic toleration.

Many years ago, when I lived in Sussex, stories of the smugglers who
formerly abounded along the coast were still told by those who had
actually witnessed and, in some cases, taken part in their operations.
Smuggling, as a matter of fact, hurting as it did no one but the
Revenue, was not regarded with any particular horror, and the long
trains of heavily loaded carts escorted by the smugglers were generally
interfered with by no one except the Revenue officers and the
coastguardsmen. One of the favourite haunts of the “Free Traders” was in
Parham Park, and old Baroness de la Zouche used to say that, when she
was a little girl, walking one day in the park with her governess, some
smugglers had made her open a gate in order to facilitate the passage of
a long train of pack-horses loaded with kegs, then on its way to a
remote part of the park near the heronry. In Eridge Park, also, caves
still exist where smugglers used to store their bales of goods. During
the eighteenth century the house was not inhabited, and the surrounding
park was practically a wilderness, so that these caves formed a most
excellent and secure retreat. There runs beneath the present Eridge
Castle a long passage, the entrance to which is far distant from the
house, and as its existence has never been accounted for it is not
improbable that smugglers may have had something to do with its
construction; it is almost certain, at least, that they knew of it and
kept it in repair.

The officers of the Customs, who were called “riding officers,” though
sometimes assisted by dragoons, could do but little against the
smugglers, who sometimes indulged in very savage reprisals. The last
occasion when life was lost in a smuggling affray was in 1838 at Camber
Castle, but it was some time before that date that the last great party
of smugglers passed through Petworth—sixty well-armed men, pistols in
their belts and cutlasses by their sides. They escorted two carts and a
number of horses loaded with tubs of brandy and hollands, whilst a few
of them also had bales of silk slung across their backs. This
picturesque procession—the funeral cortège, as it were, of
smuggling—came into the old town on a Sunday morning, whilst the
inhabitants were at church, and made its way through the streets in a
very leisurely fashion, some of the smugglers even halting at the inns
to have a drink, for it was in the days when licensing reform was as yet
a thing of the future. The last of the smugglers were armed chiefly with
“bats”—thick ash poles about six feet long. An old smuggler, Smithurst
by name, killed in a fight at Bexhill in 1828, was found with his bat
almost hacked to pieces but still grasped tightly in his hands.

A particularly ferocious murder committed by smugglers was that of some
Custom House officers in 1749, when five men actually robbed the Custom
House at Poole. The criminals were eventually caught, hung, and gibbeted
in chains, one only escaping this fate through dying of fright whilst
being measured for his irons. One of the leg-irons of William Carter, a
member of this gang, who was hung in chains near Rake on the Portsmouth
Road, came into my possession, and this I still retain.

The last example of hanging in chains took place when I was a child in
1834, in which year a man named Cook, a bookbinder, who had murdered a
Mr. Paas at Leicester, was hung and gibbeted in Saffron Lane outside the
town. So much disorder and rioting, however, prevailed that the body was
very soon removed, and in the same year hanging in chains was finally
abolished.

It has been sometimes declared that criminals were at one time actually
hung alive in chains, but this is pure fiction. Before being hung, a
criminal, it is true, was measured for his irons—an ordeal under which
many completely broke down. After the hanging, the body was taken down
and thrown into a cauldron of boiling pitch, on being taken out of which
it was placed in the chains, which were riveted around it, and then
slung up upon a gibbet, where it swung in the wind as long as the chains
held together. In some instances sacks took the place of chains.

At the last public execution in England, which took place in 1852 at
Northampton, the crowd which had assembled was exceedingly incensed at
finding that the day had been changed. Some of them, indeed, loudly
declared that if they could only get at the Under-Sheriff “they would
let him know what it was to keep honest folk in suspense,” whilst one
old lady, who was especially vociferous in her denunciation, announced
that she should certainly claim her expenses from the authorities. It
was also at Northampton in 1818 that the governor proudly described the
new drop set up at the county gaol as being admirably suited for the
hanging of twelve persons comfortably.

It may be observed that pictures of gibbets are exceedingly rarely to be
found, the greatest number, oddly enough, being in works illustrated by
Thomas Bewick. There are several gibbets in the tailpieces of his
_British Birds_, and also one or two in his _Quadrupeds_. I may add that
some sixteen years ago a very interesting little volume on the subject
of _Hanging in Chains_ was written by Mr. Albert Hartshorne, a gentleman
well known for his knowledge of old English glass and general love of
research into the past. The book in question, however, which is fully
illustrated, has now, unfortunately, become somewhat difficult to
procure.

On North Heath, north of Midhurst, a gallows once stood. From this, some
hundred and eight years ago, swung in chains the brothers Drewitt,
convicted of having robbed the mail on that spot. Their guilt,
nevertheless, does not appear to have been thoroughly proved, the real
criminal, it was thought by some, having been their father, who after
the execution used to be seen sitting at the foot of the gallows beneath
the bodies of his sons. A curious old Sussex tradition declared that a
dead man’s hand would cure any affection of the throat, and people would
walk great distances to put this cure to the test. Whilst the body of
the younger of the two Drewitts swung in the wind (which it did for a
long time, a further proof, it was pointed out, of his innocence),
children were brought from far away and held up in the air in order that
the dead man’s hand might swing across their throat. The younger
Drewitt, who to his last breath maintained that he was quite unconnected
with the robbery, was generally considered a martyr in the district, and
the tale of his unjust fate, together with numerous details of his
capture, “in a new pair of buckskin breeches,” was told at many a
cottage fireside long years after hanging in chains had become but a
memory of the past.

A far more barbarous method of punishment than hanging in chains was
“pressing to death,” the last recorded infliction of which took place in
Sussex, at Horsham gaol, in 1736. When a man, for no matter what reason,
refused to plead, he was ordered to be laid naked on his back on the
bare floor of a low dark chamber, and as great a weight of iron as he
could bear—and more—put upon him. From time to time he was questioned,
and should he continue to refuse to answer, heavier weights were added.
As the victims of this torture sometimes survived for days, the law very
humanely provided that on the first day they were to be allowed three
morsels of the “worst bread procurable,” whilst on the second three
draughts of “standing water” were allowed. This alternation of food and
drink was to continue from day to day till the prisoners answered or
till they died. The last man to suffer this horrible punishment was one
who was charged with robbery and with murdering a woman at Bognor, and
who refused to plead, not uttering a word. Many endeavours were made to
induce him to speak, but all of them proving useless, he was taken back
to Horsham gaol to be pressed to death. The weight which finally killed
him was some four hundred pounds, in addition to which the executioner,
a man turning the scale at sixteen stone, jumped upon the board and thus
administered the _coup de grâce_.

Executions in quite modern times were horrible affairs. Within my own
lifetime the skin of more than one murderer has been taken from his
body, tanned, and used to bind a book. Such a thing happened after the
execution of William Corder, who was hung at Bury St. Edmunds in the
year 1828, having been found guilty of murdering Maria Martin. On this
occasion the Bury coach on its way to London was stopped in order that
the passengers might witness the execution. Macready used to say that
during the performance of _Macbeth_ the same evening at Drury Lane the
actor who impersonated Duncan was interrupted at the words, “Is
execution done on Cawdor?” by a man in the gallery who shouted out,
“Yes! He was hung this morning at Bury.” In connection with books bound
in human skin it may be mentioned that a copy of the Poetical Works of
John Milton in the Exeter Museum is said to be bound in the skin of
George Cudmore, a Devonshire murderer executed in 1830, whilst I believe
there is also a large quarto volume preserved at Bristol which is bound
in the skin of a murderer executed as recently as 1843.

During the Reign of Terror in France, it has been stated, several pairs
of ladies’ white kid gloves were made from the same gruesome material.

In my childhood also, “resurrection men,” as those who stole dead bodies
for sale to the surgeons were called, were much dreaded, extraordinary
methods of protecting corpses from being carried away being often
employed. Such things seem quite of another age to-day, but the evil in
question was only ended in 1832 when the Anatomy Act was passed.

In the eighteenth century the Sussex roads were notorious for their bad
condition, and little effort was made to improve them, partly owing to
an idea that better means of communication would bring many cut-throats,
pickpockets, and other undesirable folk down from London. Indeed, when
the road to Brighton through Cuckfield was first made, the inhabitants
of Hurstpierpoint became so alarmed at the proposal to run it through
that place that they petitioned Parliament, and were successful in
having it diverted. So bad were some of these Sussex roads that there
are records of people having habitually used oxen to draw their coaches.
Defoe, for instance, travelling in Sussex in the eighteenth century,
came upon a lady, whom he describes as “of very good quality,” being
drawn to church in a village near Lewes by six oxen.

It was largely owing to the isolation produced by faulty means of travel
that Sussex villages, up to comparatively recent times, retained so much
of old-world quaintness and charm. Many of the labourers of a past
generation never moved out of their own district during the whole of
their lives. A story used to be told of a Heathfield labourer who, after
a quarrel with his wife, deserted his home and went to another village a
few miles away. Home sickness, however, soon overcame him, and, coming
back to his family, he declared that he had had quite enough of “furrin
parts”—nothing like Old England after all! An old lady of the village
of Ditchling, who was going up to London, being asked what sort of place
she thought she was about to see, replied that she expected it would be
“about like the bustling part of Ditchling.”

The old cottages in the villages were formerly full of Sussex ironwork,
and of this I made a collection, which includes some very good
specimens—fire-dogs and backs, rush-light holders, tongs, and the
like—of this extinct industry. At that time I lived in the very centre
of what was formerly a great iron-producing district, for near
Heathfield were many furnaces which at one time kept half the population
in full employ. Many Sussex families owed their fortunes to the
ironworks, amongst them the Fullers, one grateful member of which set up
the inscription “Carbone et Forcipibus” on the house. The old hammer
ponds still existing are extremely picturesque, in many cases having
clear rippling streams, containing brook trout, flowing out of them. The
last furnace in Sussex—Ashburnham Furnace—was only finally blown out
in 1825, having been worked by Lord Ashburnham up to that time; the iron
produced there was at one time said to be the best in the world. As the
iron industry decayed hop-growing was introduced, which gave some
measure of employment to the population which began to find its old
occupation gone.

Some time before I began collecting Sussex ironwork I used to live in
quite another part of the county bordering upon Hampshire, and here also
I found much of great antiquarian interest. Not many miles distant from
our house, for instance, stood the crumbling walls of Cowdray, the
beautiful seat which once belonged to the Brownes, and was destroyed by
fire in 1793. I have several relics and pictures of this old mansion. At
the time of the fire the young owner, Lord Montague, was away on the
Continent, and the house was being renovated in view of his return. In
the disastrous conflagration perished many valuable relics of art and
pictures, for the house being under repair at the time, everything had
been stored in the north gallery, which was difficult of access. A
picture of Charles I. at Woburn is said to have been one of the few
saved, another being a painting of the two brothers Fitzwilliam lying
dead in armour. Many relics from Battle Abbey were also destroyed, among
them, it is said, the sword of the Conqueror, his coronation robe
ornamented with gold and rare gems, and, most interesting perhaps of
all, the Roll of Battle Abbey. These had been removed to Cowdray when
the seventh Lord Montague sold Battle Abbey in 1717.

After the burning of Cowdray no care appears to have been taken to
safeguard any of the contents which remained undamaged. Things, indeed,
saved from the fire were taken away to Midhurst by any one who cared to
take the trouble, the whole neighbourhood being allowed to roam through
the ruins. I myself, indeed, as has been said, possess some relics of
Cowdray—several good pieces of carved woodwork (the decoration of the
salon) which I purchased near Midhurst from a man whose grandfather, I
am very much afraid, had in all probability annexed them without leave.

It was in the Abbots’ Hall at Battle that the curse of fire and water
was pronounced against Sir Anthony Browne, who was holding his first
great feast there after the spoliation of the monasteries by Henry
VIII., the abbey having been granted to him by that king, in whose
favour he stood very high. Striding through the crowd of guests and
retainers, a monk is said to have made his way to the daïs where Sir
Anthony sat, and, raising his voice, to have solemnly cursed him and his
posterity. “By fire and water thy line shall come to an end; thus shall
it perish out of the land.”

The fact that the eighth Lord Montague was drowned when attempting to
shoot the falls of Laufenburg at the very time that Cowdray (then being
renovated in view of his coming of age) was consumed by fire has been
regarded by many as the fulfilment of the curse, but it must not be
forgotten that Sir Anthony Browne himself and his descendants lived
quite free from misfortune for some two hundred years. As is well known,
the two sons of Lord Montague’s only sister, Mrs. Poyntz, were drowned
in the very flower of their youth, before the eyes of their parents, in
a boating accident at Bognor in 1815—another sad catastrophe also
attributed to the curse. On the death of Mr. Poyntz the Cowdray estate
passed out of the Browne family, being divided amongst his sisters, and
in 1843 it was sold to the sixth Earl of Egmont for some three hundred
thousand pounds. The new possessors of the place made no attempt to
restore the ruins of the noble old mansion, a splendid example of
domestic architecture, but built a new house on the site of the keeper’s
lodge which was pulled down.

In West Sussex we had many pleasant neighbours, amongst them the Rev.
Mr. Knox, a most amusing man and a great authority on birds. He lived in
an ancient manor-house which belonged to my husband—Trotton Place, a
quaint old house still the property of my eldest son. Trotton, a small
village on the Petersfield Road, possesses some claim to attention in
having been the birthplace of the unfortunate Otway, who was the son of
the rector of the adjacent parish of Woolbeding. Educated at Winchester
and Oxford, Otway, when twenty years old, betook himself to London and
became an actor, and, some five years later, a playwright. Obtaining a
cornet’s commission in a regiment about to proceed to Flanders, his
military career was short and unfortunate, lasting only about a year.
The force to which he was attached never reached its destination, the
money voted for transport having been diverted by King Charles II., who
preferred the worship of Venus to that of Mars, to more peaceful and
congenial purposes. In his comedy of _The Soldiers Fortune_ Otway
clearly alludes to his disappointment:—

Fortune made me a soldier, a rogue in red (the grievance of the
nation). Fortune made the peace—just as we were on the brink of
war; then Fortune disbanded us and lost us two months’ pay.
Fortune gave us debentures instead of ready money; and by very
good fortune I sold mine and lost heartily by it, in hopes the
grinding, ill-natur’d dog that bought it may never get a
shilling for’t.

After his retirement from the army the young poet wrote several plays,
amongst them _The Orphan_, and in 1685 the powerful and beautiful
_Venice Preserved_, which, as Dr. Johnson wrote, though the work of a
man not attentive to decency or zealous for virtue, yet shows that the
author was a man of great force and originality, and had consulted
nature in his own breast.

At thirty-four years of age Otway died, choked, it is said, by a roll
which he too hastily swallowed after a long fast. The unfortunate poet,
almost naked, starving, and fearfully harassed by creditors, was given a
guinea by a friendly gentleman in a coffee-house where he had asked for
a shilling. Out of this guinea he purchased the piece of bread which
caused his death. Another account declares that Otway, desirous of
avenging the death of a friend who had been shot in the street, pursued
the assassin as far as Dover on foot, which brought on a fever from
which he died in the “Bull Inn” on Tower Hill. Pope corroborates this
version of Otway’s death, but says his friend had been merely robbed and
not murdered.

A brass affixed to the wall of Trotton church within comparatively
recent years commemorates the memory of the unfortunate young man, but
Otway himself lies in a vault under the church of St. Clement Danes.

Trotton church is an interesting old building, which contains a tomb of
great archæological interest—the sarcophagus of Sir John Camoys and the
Lady Elizabeth, his wife. This church has, like many village churches,
suffered more or less from the restorations to which it has been
subjected. One alteration which particularly annoyed me was the removal
of an old door which bore the mark of many a Cromwellian bullet upon its
exterior side. Within the last few years, however, some attempt has been
made to repair the ravages of the restorer—the old wooden altar-rails
having been replaced in their original position, whilst certain very
curious mural paintings have been once more exposed to view. In the
’sixties and ’seventies the fiend of restoration may be said to have
stalked rampant through the land, and rectors vied with one another in
renovating and vulgarising the sacred edifices committed to their
charge. At a Sussex church in a village quite close to where we lived,
great indignation was, I remember, aroused by workshops being erected
all over the churchyard, in which workmen fashioned modern Gothic
pinnacles and other architectural gewgaws wherewith to decorate the
stately old church. Tombstones were temporarily taken up, no particular
attention being paid to their exact position, and in consequence no one
felt at all certain that they were ever replaced in their old
position—the tombstone of “John Smith” being in many cases placed over
the grave of “Thomas Brown,” and _vice versa_, a proceeding not entirely
satisfactory to their families, some of whom were very annoyed. The
rector, however, who was delighted at his vulgarised church, thought
little of such a trifle as this, and organised an ornate service of
reopening at which his parishioners somewhat ruefully returned thanks
for the blessings of the restoration.

Not very far from Trotton is the town of Midhurst, for which Charles
James Fox, when only nineteen years of age, was returned in 1768. He
actually had two encounters in debate with Burke before he attained his
majority. On one of these occasions, it is said, when Fox had set the
Treasury Bench in a roar of laughter at Burke’s expense, the latter was
much nettled, and turning on the youthful member, exclaimed, “You may
speak if you like, but being a minor you have no right to vote.”

At one time Midhurst was a great place for the manufacture of quilts,
and from this, no doubt, originated the weaver’s shuttle which was
stamped on the town pieces or tokens about 1670. These were known as
Midhurst farthings, issued, as the legend on one side of them said, “For
ye use of ye Poor.”

Midhurst and Rye were the only two places in Sussex which issued town
tokens, that is, one token struck for the use of the whole town. The
custom of striking tokens—small coins of the value of farthings,
halfpennies, and pennies—only prevailed from about 1648 till 1672. As a
rule, these were issued by tradesmen, but in some cases towns struck
them. In Somersetshire, for instance, there were thirteen town tokens;
in Dorsetshire, eight; in Devonshire, five; in Kent, one; and in Sussex
the two which have just been mentioned. In Yorkshire there were none at
all.

Midhurst has more than once been somewhat closely associated with great
political orators, for not far away, at Dunford, lived Mr. Cobden, whom
I often used to go and hear speak in the House of Commons, where his
oratory never failed to secure the appreciation which it deserved. In
West Sussex, however, he did not excite any extraordinary attention
either as an orator or politician, many regarding his political views
with extreme distrust, whilst others did not understand them. Very often
it is the case that politicians of quite European reputation are but
lightly esteemed in their own part of the country, a state of affairs
which is sometimes caused by their talking over the heads of the
audiences whom they address. Country-folk as a rule do not (or did not)
appreciate highly cultured oratorical efforts, but prefer speeches, not
devoid of humour, dealing with matters of local interest.

I once heard a peculiarly apt criticism of a speech made by a politician
of profound learning and knowledge, but one not very much in sympathy
with the more frivolous side of life. This orator, having to address a
meeting in a country town, had beforehand been begged to remember that
his audience was not remarkable for any great intellectual culture, and
was consequently unlikely to appreciate historical allusions or erudite
criticism—a chatty, sparkling speech judiciously peppered with anecdote
and chaff would be the sort of thing to arouse enthusiasm and capture
its sympathies. The evening having come, the speaker, determined to
profit by these hints, attempted to enliven his discourse by here and
there interpolating remarks of a less serious kind than those which his
speeches usually contained. Well satisfied with the result, and driving
away with an old friend, he said to him: “Well, I hope that suited you;
at any rate no one could say I spoke too seriously.” “It was a capital
speech,” came the reply, “only, to tell you the truth, it rather
reminded me of an article from the _Quarterly Review_ out for a lark.”

Retrospection—The first train from Norwich—Disappearance of
coaches—Railway mania of the ’forties—Hudson and his house—
Steam carriages of the past—Letter franking—Society and its
love of pleasure—Bridge—Decrease of betting and increase of
speculation—Changes in Parliament—The late Mr. Bradlaugh—An
unfortunate speech—Growth of the Press—Lady Seymour and the
cook—Louis Napoleon—His witty criticism—The Franco-German War
—_Paris Herself Again_—Mr. Mackenzie Grieves—The overflow of
London—Disappearance of nursery gardens—Modern villagers—
Folklore—Friends who have passed away.

Looking back to old days in the ’thirties and ’forties, what gigantic
changes come into view! Nearly everything was on a different footing
from to-day, and things which are now permanent institutions were at
that time either at their very beginning or not dreamt of at all.

The majority of modern inventions were unknown, or in their infancy,
whilst life in general went on very much in the happy-go-lucky fashion
characteristic of another age. Law and order, it is true, exercised a
sort of sway, but the former, if just, was often terribly cruel, whilst
the latter was, by comparison with to-day, only indifferently
maintained. Three years after I was born our excellent modern police had
been established by Sir Robert Peel, but the county police in Norfolk
were only constituted some ten years later—a salutary innovation which,
strangely enough, was not greeted with universal approbation. In 1842,
indeed, when the new guardians of law and order had already done duty
for three years, my father, at a meeting of the county magistrates at
Norwich, presented a petition, signed by himself and a large number of
other landowners, praying for some reduction or even the abolition of
the police force, on the ground that it produced nothing but expense,
and caused people to be prosecuted for offences of a very trivial
nature.

My father, of course, disliked the new police force principally on
account of its being an innovation, for, a staunch Conservative, he
opposed changes of any kind whatever, including railroads, which were
his special abomination. The advent of the railway in Norfolk was, I
remember, a depressing blow to him, and he did all he could to keep the
line outside the borders of his property so that he might forget its
existence. Direct railway communication between London and Norwich was
not established till 1845, the first through train starting from Trowse
on the morning of June 30 of that year. In January 1846 all the coaches
between Norwich and London had ceased to run, the last of them to go
being the mail through Bury St. Edmunds.

In the ’forties came the railway mania, when many of a speculative
disposition were completely carried away by dreams of immediate and
colossal wealth. Within a year or two, however, a dreadful awakening was
the lot of those who had gambled in railway shares, which went down
faster than they had risen, a large number of people being completely
ruined, amongst them the great Hudson himself. During the time when
things were going well, flattery and praise were heaped upon him and he
was the recipient of several public testimonials; but after the
disastrous fall in railway shares he at once became the principal object
of an outburst of widespread popular indignation.

Hudson, to whom Carlyle once alluded as “the big swollen gambler,” lived
on to the early ’seventies, an annuity having been purchased for his
benefit by some friends only a few years before. In his prosperous days
the “railway king” used to entertain very lavishly at his house at
Albert Gate. This mansion, together with the one opposite to it, was
built by Cubitt, and the two houses used to be called the “two
Gibraltars,” it being prophesied that they never would or could be
taken; however, as has been said, Mr. Hudson soon falsified this
prediction. The house is now the French Embassy.

Previous to the construction of the railway between London and Norwich,
several experiments had been made in Norfolk with steam carriages to run
upon the roads—the precursors of our modern motor cars. As early,
indeed, as 1842, a Mr. Parr had patented a steam carriage to run for
hire between Norwich and Yarmouth, whilst in the following year a steam
coach was experimentally put upon the Yarmouth road. This vehicle,
however, did not answer its inventor’s expectations, as its wheels
refused to revolve unless lifted up from the road, when, as a
contemporary somewhat quaintly put it, they at once flew round with
alarming velocity.

As far back as 1831 a Parliamentary Committee had decided that carriages
weighing three tons, propelled by steam and carrying fourteen
passengers, could travel on the ordinary roads at an average speed of
ten miles an hour with perfect safety. The first steam omnibus,
constructed by Mr. Hancock, ran from the Bank at Paddington in April
1833; it could attain a speed of from ten to fifteen miles an hour,
carrying some twenty-five passengers, and consumed a sack of coke every
eight miles. Two years later Mr. Hancock ran what was called a
“steam-engine coach” between Whitechapel and his house at Stratford.
Colonel Macirone and Sir Charles Dance also ran steam cars, as did Mr.
Gurney, whose coaches averaged about nine miles an hour. Though these
early motor cars were by no means inefficient, they were for some reason
or other put down by legislative interference, and a great industry was
thus held in abeyance for some forty or fifty years.

Prints of the old steam carriages have now become difficult to obtain,
as they are eagerly snapped up by votaries of the motor car, many of
whom make a hobby of collecting the records connected with the early
infancy of their favourite sport. One of the most curious of these
prints represents an accident which happened to a Scotch steam carriage
in the summer of 1834. Designed by an eye-witness of the catastrophe, it
shows the unlucky passengers, several of whom were killed, being shot
into the air, the boiler of the car having burst owing to an overstrain.
It is said that this accident was really caused by the trustees of the
road between Paisley and Glasgow who were very much opposed to the new
method of locomotion, and therefore purposely kept the surface of the
highway in such a condition as to impede its progress as much as
possible. The remains of the wrecked steam carriage are still preserved
in a museum at Glasgow. Its maker was John Scott Russell, the builder of
the _Great Eastern_ steamship, which at the time it was launched was
considered one of the wonders of the world.

The spirit of what we call Progress made its influence felt in the
’thirties and ’forties, and in the course of a few years, after the
passing of the great Reform Bill, quite a new England began to come into
existence. Old customs and ways gradually lost their hold upon the
people and another order of things arose, whilst such privileges as the
upper classes enjoyed became subjects of comment and criticism, with the
eventual result that most of them were voluntarily relinquished.

Amongst minor changes of this sort was the abolition of the practice of
franking letters. Up to the year 1840, when uniform penny postage was
introduced, Peers and members of the House of Commons were entitled to
have their letters conveyed free of any charge, and I still treasure a
few of these frank-marked envelopes—faded souvenirs of a bygone age. In
the course of the same year appeared the artistic Mulready envelope,
which has now become somewhat scarce, specimens in good condition being
much prized by stamp collectors.

Many of the older people shook their heads at what they called
new-fangled schemes and inventions, and some, like my father,
indiscriminately denounced all reforms and reformers of every kind. My
father, as I have before said, hated all innovations, and would hardly
consider any merits which they might possess. He was, however, by no
means alone in taking up this standpoint, which to-day, when all the
world eagerly grasps at anything new, seems almost inconceivable. Men of
his generation viewed things from a curious point of view, being firmly
imbued with the idea that the acceptance of new methods would send
England to the dogs. Their outlook upon life was in reality that of the
eighteenth century, and in addition to this they would appear to have
vaguely realised that new ways meant the annihilation of their power as
a dominant class. Even at that time there were many who foresaw the rise
of democracy, a development which they regarded with feelings of the
utmost alarm, as tending to bring about the ruin of England. Nor did the
wonderful new inventions please pessimists of this sort, who declined to
welcome them with enthusiasm, and predicted that in the end they would
make for unhappiness and discontentment. As a matter of fact these
vaticinations, ridiculous as they seemed, have not proved so fallacious
after all, for modern inventions have produced the commercialism which
is undoubtedly one of the chief causes of that curious
creed—Socialism—which, deliberately ignoring the immutable instincts
of human nature, holds out the prospect of a visionary Utopia, and
promises everything to every one at somebody else’s expense.

In another chapter I have spoken of the great changes which have taken
place in the constitution of what is known as “Society,” but since I
first knew it there is one respect in which there has in reality been no
alteration at all—I refer to its love of amusement and pleasure. True
it is, perhaps, that in past days these were indulged in with a certain
reserve and dignity—qualities which to-day seem to be considered as
being of small account. True it is also that seldom did the passing
fancies and follies of its leaders find their way into the public Press.
Nevertheless they existed, though perhaps in a more modified form than
to-day, when publicity is too often welcomed rather than shunned.
Society, which is after all but a collection of quite ordinary
individuals—many with more money than brains,—naturally contains (as
it always has done) a certain number of people whose wealth prompts them
to gratify many a costly caprice. There is nothing very astonishing
about this, nor is it likely that any effect will be produced by the
fulminations of those critics whose ideal society would appear to
consist of a collection of prigs, faddists, and cranks, perpetually
interfering in other people’s business as well as lecturing and boring
the world in general. In all probability London society is no better or
worse than it was in the past, though certainly more stupid. Clever
people seem rarer than in former days, whilst an undue importance is
attached to wealth, no matter how uninteresting may be its possessor.

Nevertheless, considering all things, society might be a great deal
worse, and it certainly does not deserve the indiscriminate censure
which is frequently passed upon it, there being, after all, a large
measure of real kindliness and generous feeling to be found hidden
beneath its veneer of frivolity. Society, however, is always an easy and
attractive subject for attack, the British public being apparently never
tired of hearing of its crimes. Sometimes it is blamed for the vast sums
expended in entertaining, which, after all, circulates money and is good
for trade; nor is it clear why people in a position to do so should not
entertain their friends, or even their enemies for that matter. By the
austere it is upbraided for its bridge playing, and here, perhaps, is a
more legitimate reason for censure, the game in question (which I do not
play, disliking all card games) having utterly destroyed much pleasant
conversation. At the same time it seems to amuse a great number who
would otherwise be bored, and many people welcome the game as a pleasant
change from the exchange of empty and commonplace remarks.

The question of gambling is another and a graver matter, though I
personally have never heard of any young lady being dragged into playing
for stakes which she could ill afford, and, indeed, I wonder very much
what sort of host or hostess it could be who would allow such
proceedings under his or her roof. Society is to-day a very wide term,
covering as it does a great number of different sets which gradually
fade away into an almost imperceptible outer fringe; but even in the
most remote of its confines, surely any man who deliberately laid
himself out to win money from a young girl (as has been alleged) would
be visited with the censure he deserved. As a matter of fact good bridge
players, as is perfectly well known, dislike nothing more than the
intrusion of a novice whose errors must of necessity ruin their game.

Gambling on the Turf has without question decreased. Where are the
plungers of to-day? Non-existent. Modern youth, except in a few rare
instances, knows better than to risk a fortune on a racehorse—an act of
folly which in former days was very often committed. On the other hand,
the insidious craze for speculating in stocks and shares has an almost
unlimited number of votaries—women as well as men—whose one thought is
to obtain information (as a rule unreliable) as to the chances of a rise
or fall. This is an entirely new development. The great ladies of the
past would as soon have thought of dabbling in City matters as of
witnessing a prize fight; in fact, of the two I think they would have
given the preference to the latter as being the more select. Those,
however, were the days before the City had conquered the West End, and
when the jargon of the Stock Exchange was as yet unfamiliar to
aristocratic ears.

Finance in these latter days has become as much the appanage of society
as politics were in the past, whilst all doors fly open at the advent of
a successful speculator or financier. Politics, of course, which in old
days were something of an engrossing pastime for the leisured classes,
have now become a much more serious affair altogether.

Since the days of my childhood many and great changes have occurred in
Parliament in the method of electing its members, and in the admission
of others than Protestants to sit in the House of Commons. The first
Roman Catholic to take his seat since the downfall of the Stewarts was
Daniel O’Connell, who, elected member for Clare County in 1828, was
admitted to Westminster in the following year, when the Catholic
Emancipation Act having been passed, the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Dormer,
and Lord Clifford also took their seats in the House of Lords. The first
English Roman Catholic member of the House of Commons was Lord Surrey,
who was returned for Horsham at the same time.

Though Mr. Joseph Pease had been admitted as an M.P. on making an
affirmation in 1833, the objection of the late Mr. Bradlaugh as a
Freethinker to taking the Parliamentary oath created a very great
sensation some forty-seven years later. In May 1880 the member for
Northampton was refused permission to affirm, and it was only some two
months later that a resolution moved by Mr. Gladstone allowed him to do
so. Much acrimonious controversy ensued as to the legality of such an
act, Mr. Bradlaugh being on one occasion prevented from entering the
House of Commons by the police. Finally, in 1886, Mr. Bradlaugh was
permitted to take the oath, further intervention being stopped by the
Speaker. A thoroughly sincere man, the member for Northampton lived to
gain the goodwill and respect of the House of Commons, and when he died
in 1891, worn out by hard work and worry, universal regret was expressed
at his demise. A pronounced individualist, he was quite uncompromising
in his denunciation of anything which he deemed to be false or untrue,
and in the debates in which he indulged with certain ministers of
religion was very outspoken as to his views on the Christian faith. This
not unnaturally caused him to be regarded as a monster of iniquity by
many who had no opportunity of realising the splendid qualities which he
in reality possessed, and many were the absurd stories circulated about
him—generally, I fear, to his discredit.

It was declared, for instance, that on more than one occasion he had
defied Heaven itself, by taking out his watch at public meetings and
saying, “If there be a God, let Him strike me dead within the next five
minutes.”

I do not know what truth there may have been in this story, but some of
the Russian revolutionary agitators (so I hear) have actually uttered
this blasphemous challenge—their idea being to emancipate the peasants
from the thraldom of their priests. It is said that an agitator of this
sort came one day to an out-of-the-way village, and proceeded to address
the peasants thus: “The God whom you fear so much does not exist, and I
will prove it to you; for if I am not speaking the truth let Him kill me
within the next five minutes!” Four minutes passed and the orator, more
defiant than ever, jubilantly exclaimed, “You see I am right; there is
no God, for I am still alive.” The headman of the village, however,
stepping to the front, altogether changed the aspect of affairs. “You
have proved nothing,” said he. “God exists, and you are going to die.
God has not chosen to kill you, for He knew we should do so for Him,”
after which statement the unfortunate apostle of Atheism was duly
despatched.

One of the most striking features of the last seventy years is the
prodigious growth of the Press. In 1836 there were only about a hundred
and sixty newspapers published in England, whilst all the daily papers
put together had only an average of 12,000 copies a day. At that time
there were, I believe, but five hundred and fifty newspapers in the
United States, of which fifty were dailies. The London morning papers
were, of course, few in number, and as a rule not more than sixty to
eighty persons were employed upon their production. None of the
illustrated papers now issued were then in existence, the _Illustrated
London News_ only making its appearance in the ’forties. Newspapers were
considered quite precious things in old days, being frequently treasured
up to be sent on to friends—a very different state of affairs from
to-day, when edition succeeds edition with lightning rapidity, and a
paper a day old is never looked at again.

In the way of provincial journalism Norfolk was early in the field, for
the _Norfolk Chronicle_ was founded in 1761, whilst the _Norwich
Postman_ is said to have been the first local newspaper published in
England. It has frequently been stated that the oldest provincial
newspaper is the _Worcester Journal_, the first copy of which appeared
in 1709; but as a matter of fact, I believe that the _Norwich Postman_
appeared some three years earlier, being first published in 1706 by T.
Goddard, a bookseller of the town. It was sold for a penny, unless that
sum could not be obtained, when, it is rather amusing to learn, a
halfpenny would generally be accepted.

The _Newcastle-upon-Tyne Courant_ is another paper which can lay claim
to a very respectable antiquity, dating as it does from 1711. Many
people, in consequence, have stoutly declared that the organ in
question, and not the _Worcester Journal_ (or _Worcester Postman_, as it
was originally called), was in reality the first provincial newspaper;
but, as I have said, it is now pretty well authenticated that from
Norwich issued the first beginning of what has now become the great and
influential Provincial Press.

_John Bull_, a daily paper which has long ceased to exist, was a great
favourite with my father, and we children used to look upon its columns
with a sort of respectful awe. In 1855 began a new era in journalism
with the foundation of the _Daily Telegraph_ and the _Saturday Review_,
the latter of which for many years exercised such a remarkable influence
by reason of the able writers who at different times were members of its
staff. Ten years later, in 1865, was founded the _Pall Mall Gazette_,
which still flourishes under the very able editorship of my friend Sir
Douglas Straight. It may not, perhaps, be generally known that the word
“Gazette” is derived from the name of a small Venetian coin which was
the price asked for the first newspaper sold in the city of Venice.

One of the most curious advertisements which has ever appeared was that
inserted in the _Times_ of 10th March 1858. This stated that the
secretary of the Army and Navy Club would pay the sum of £50 on the due
conviction and punishment of the offender who had sent the _Punch_
cartoon of “The Crowing Colonel” (a picture very unflattering to the
French army, it is hardly necessary to say), accompanied by a forged
message from the club to an officer in command of a French regiment.
Notwithstanding this liberal reward, the culprit was, I believe, never
discovered.

Although so-called society journalism, as it exists to-day, was unheard
of, the newspapers of the past occasionally inserted scraps of gossip
dealing with well-known scandals and the like. In 1840 was published a
somewhat amusing correspondence between Lady Seymour, the Queen of
Beauty at the Eglinton tournament (to whom reference has before been
made—she was afterwards Duchess of Somerset), and Lady Shuckburgh. Lady
Seymour, having written to the latter to ask the character of a servant
named Stedman, and whether she was a good plain cook, received the reply
that Lady Shuckburgh, having a professed cook and housekeeper, knew
nothing about the under-servants. Upon this, Lady Seymour wrote again to
explain that she understood that Stedman, in addition to her other
talents, had had some practice in cooking for the little Shuckburghs.
Lady Shuckburgh instructed her house-maid to answer this as
follows:—“Stedman informs me that your ladyship does not keep either a
cook or a housekeeper, and that you only require a girl who can cook a
mutton chop; if so, Stedman or any other scullion will be found fully
equal to cook for or manage the establishment of the Queen of Beauty.”

At the Eglinton tournament, which had taken place just a year before,
Prince Louis Napoleon appeared in a broadsword encounter with a Mr.
Lamb, who enacted the part of the Knight of the White Rose.

Prince Napoleon’s pretensions to the throne of France were not at that
time regarded as being serious, though he himself ever entertained a
fixed idea that he would one day succeed in obtaining the Imperial
Crown. This conviction, which was firmly implanted in his mind, no doubt
had a good deal to do with his ultimate success.

I remember him perfectly well, and suppose that I am about the last
living of the partners who danced with him in the London ballrooms of
some sixty years ago. An agreeable and clever talker, he could be
amusing when he chose, and in later years, when Emperor, many stories
were current as to his witty sayings. Perhaps the most amusing of these
was the remark which he is supposed to have made at a fancy dress ball
at the Tuileries, to which a certain lady had come attired in a costume
which was an adornment rather than a covering. In the course of the
evening the Imperial host approached this lady and, congratulating her
upon her beautiful dress, at the same time inquired what it might be
intended to represent. “L’Afrique, Sire,” was the reply. “Très bien,”
said the Emperor, “I must then again congratulate you on the accuracy
with which you have followed the progress of geographical exploration;
for of your dress, as of the Dark Continent, it may truthfully be said
que c’est seulement la partie centrale qui n’est pas encore découverte.”

I was little in Paris during the second Empire, but after the disastrous
war of 1870 I paid a visit to France and collected a few relics of that
dreadful struggle. Amongst other things I purchased a number of very
amusing caricatures, some of them dealing with the humours of
underground life in the cellars during the siege of Paris; in others the
(very) irregular forces improvised by the so-called Government of the
Commune, such as the “Voltigeurs de la Villette” and the “Chasseurs de
Belleville,” were held up to ridicule.

English sympathies during the Franco-German war were very generally
given to the French, and a good deal of sarcastic comment was passed
upon the pious utterances of the old Emperor William, whose piety was
nevertheless quite sincere. Amongst other skits were published some very
ribald verses supposed to be written in imitation of the Prussian King’s
letters to his Queen after a victory. They began, as far as I
remember:—

By Heaven’s aid, my dear Augusta,
We’ve gone another awful buster;
Ten thousand Frenchmen gone below,
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

At the time of the French reverses it was thought that France could
scarcely recover from the effect of the terrible catastrophe which had
overtaken her, but to the astonishment of the world this gloomy estimate
was completely falsified, and in 1878 Europe, flocking to see the Great
Exhibition, found to its surprise and delight that Paris, but a few
years before bombarded and beleaguered, was, as the late George Augustus
Sala wrote, “comelier, richer, gayer, and more fascinating than ever.”
These words occurred in a very well written and interesting book which
Mr. Sala produced after a visit to the Exhibition. It was entitled
_Paris Herself Again_, and though it is now some twenty-nine years old
it may still be read with pleasure. Besides containing interesting
information about Paris and the ways of its inhabitants, the volume is
also full of amusing illustrations by clever artists and caricaturists
such as Bertall, Cham and Grévin,—names now but memories to survivors
of the generation which admired a verve almost amounting to genius.

Mr. Sala was a very clever draughtsman; I rather think that it was he
who drew a panoramic roll illustrating the funeral procession which
accompanied the Iron Duke to his grave; this has now become scarce, and
when in good condition is somewhat valuable. Mr. Sala’s knowledge of
Paris was very thorough, and he had seen the pleasure-loving city under
many different conditions—during the Revolution of 1848, the _coup
d’état_ of 1851 (when he was nearly shot), and in addition he was all
but murdered as a Prussian spy on the 4th of September 1870. Having
received his early education in France he spoke French just as well as
his native tongue, and was as much at home in that country as in
England.

In former days there were certain well-known Englishmen who made their
home in Paris, Lord Hertford and his brother, Lord Henry Seymour, and
later on Sir Richard Wallace, being conspicuous examples. The last of
those, however, whom I remember was Mr. Mackenzie Grieves, a gentleman
of the old school who in early life had been an officer in the “Blues,”
and who died not a great number of years ago. Whenever he came to
England he rarely failed to pay a visit to Strathfieldsaye, and there I
frequently used to meet this polished representative of all that was
best in the French society of the past. Possessing the most charming
manners, there was something about him which vividly recalled what one
had heard of the best days of the old régime; his costume, for instance,
though of extreme simplicity, had a particular note of distinction which
has now totally disappeared from men’s dress. A remarkable judge of
horse flesh, especially of the great Norman horses known as
_percherons_, he was also well known as a perfect master of the _haute
école_. His judgment in Turf matters was also held in very great respect
in Paris, and his immaculate frock-coat and voluminous tie were seldom
absent from Longchamps, where he had something to do with the direction
of the races.

One of the principal reasons given by Mr. Mackenzie Grieves for his love
of Paris was the delightful nature of its environs, as well as the charm
of the Bois de Boulogne, an ideal spot for a morning ride. London, alas!
has nothing to equal this, and in these days one has to go many miles
out before reaching the real country.

One of the greatest changes which I have witnessed, indeed, has been the
overflow of London into the pleasant fields which formerly lay quite
close to what are now the inner line of suburbs. Streets and streets of
uninteresting and depressing-looking little houses now cover districts
which not so very long ago were quite rural. About the time I was
married people used very often to drive out to the market gardens, which
were then quite close, and eat fruit there. The strawberry season was
the great time for these excursions. In 1840 quite large nursery gardens
existed at Paddington, whilst some hundreds of acres near what is now
Battersea Park were utilised for the same purpose up to much more recent
times. The gardens here were especially noted for the early fruit and
vegetables which they produced, as also for their asparagus, said to be
the best grown in the neighbourhood of London.

Hammersmith, on the other hand, was famous for its fruit,—strawberries,
raspberries, and the like, being grown in great perfection. Fulham also
formerly produced a great quantity of fruit and vegetables, and though
several acres of land which had previously served for this purpose were
put to other uses in 1865, the ground stretching towards Hammersmith and
North End was pretty well covered with market gardens as late as the
’seventies. In my childhood, of course, Chelsea and Hammersmith were
considered quite in the country. As an instance of this, it may be
mentioned that in the Royal Blue Book for 1826 Chelsea Farm is given as
the “country residence” of Lady Cremorne. The ground occupied by this
lady’s house, after being utilised for the celebrated Cremorne Gardens,
has now been covered with streets.

Every year London grows bigger and bigger, and the day now seems to be
not far distant when the road to southern watering-places, such as
Brighton, will run through an almost unbroken line of villas. Of late
there seems to be a tendency to live more and more out of London, City
men and others making a practice of travelling up and down every day,
journeys which can now be made in perfect comfort and convenience.
Luxury in travelling, as in most other things, has much increased.

Marvellous it is how, within my lifetime, the general standard of
comfort amongst all classes has been raised, though not, I fear, with
any particular increase of contentment. The so-called necessaries of
life have become very much multiplied, and there is now a universal
craving for amusement which was quite unknown in old days. Everything is
comparative, and the luxury of to-day becomes the necessity of
to-morrow. The life of the poorer classes living in the country,
notwithstanding the fact that wages were lower than at present, was
certainly not an unhappy one in old days, when there was a bond of
sympathy existing between landlord and tenantry which is now, except in
some few cases, a thing of the past. Classes were then more strictly
defined, and the farmers, the majority of them sturdy yeomen of far more
distinguished descent than most of the brand-new Peers of to-day, would
have laughed to scorn any idea of calling themselves gentlemen; now,
however, it would seem that every one is a gentleman or a lady.

Universal and, as many think, misdirected education has completely
destroyed the picturesque side of village life, and in the place of the
quaint old traditions and picturesque beliefs handed down by their
forefathers, modern villagers possess a rudimentary smattering of all
sorts of useless knowledge, which, imperfectly assimilated, serves but
to render them loutish copies of the townsmen whom it is their ambition
to imitate.

Students and archæologists, it is true, do their best to preserve some
record of the old country traditions and ways which have been so
ruthlessly destroyed. How dignified and spiritual was the idea which
many of them conveyed! Take, for instance, the old belief which formerly
prevailed amongst Norfolk fisher-folk, that deaths mostly occurred at
the falling of the tide. From this East Anglian legend was it that
Dickens drew his beautiful picture of the death of Barkis. “People can’t
die along the coast,” said Mr. Peggotty, “except when the tide’s pretty
nigh out. They can’t be born unless it’s pretty nigh in—not properly
born till flood. He’s agoing out with the tide—he’s agoing out with the
tide.” And so Peggotty and David Copperfield watched by Barkis’s bed
till, it being low water, the latter went out with the tide.

At rural weddings in some parts of Norfolk it was formerly the custom to
strew the path of the happy couple with fern leaves, and to greet them
on their exit from church with wedding peals rung on all the handbells
of the village, whilst in more remote times an elder sister was by an
old custom obliged to dance in a hog’s trough should her younger sister
marry before her. Country maidens in Norfolk who were desirous of a
swain used also to recite the following spell, “a clover of two”—that
is, a piece of clover with but two leaves—being supposed to possess
much magical power:—

A clover, a clover of two, put in your right shoe,
The first young man you meet in field, street, or lane
You’ll have him or one of his name.

As has been said, the advent of the school board rang the death-knell of
rural tradition and legend, and the rustic of to-day considers himself
far above any such superstitions. Strange old tales and folklore handed
down from long-dead generations have little interest for the villager of
to-day, who seems to spend a good part of his time lolling about the
village street, and flattening his nose against the shop windows, which
seem mostly to be filled with those brilliantly coloured tins of foreign
preserved meats and provisions which our ancestors, happily for
themselves, never knew. The countryman takes his pleasures more sadly
than of yore. His rough old amusements and sports are gone; about the
only excitement which penetrates into rural life being furnished by some
realistically dished-up tragedy or _cause célèbre_ imbibed through the
medium of a halfpenny paper.

The folklore of East Anglia has been very thoroughly recorded in various
publications, amongst them the _East Anglian Magazine_, which for some
time was edited by the late Miss Mary Henniker, who for so many years
lived in the little house in Berkeley Street, familiar to a large circle
as the residence of her universally popular younger sister. Her death,
which occurred but a few months ago, was the cause of much sincere and
genuine regret to all her friends. Miss Helen Henniker, though in latter
years labouring under considerable physical disability, ever retained an
extraordinary amount of good-natured vitality. She was, indeed, one of
those people whom it is difficult to realise as being dead. Bright,
vivacious, and good-natured to a quite unusual degree, “Helen,” as she
was affectionately called, possessed a most comprehensive knowledge of
all the different types which make up that motley crowd known as London
society. She was welcome everywhere, and the disappearance of this
kindly and original personality called forth many a sincere expression
of real grief.

Within the last few years death has robbed me of many valued friends,
some, like that most kindly of men, Lord Haliburton, dying after severe
illness, and others, like my dear cousin Sir Spencer Walpole, suddenly
struck down in the apparent fulness of health and strength. Sir Spencer,
who attained a position of some eminence as a painstaking and accurate
writer of contemporary history, was by nature a man of most judicial and
well-balanced mind, and was an almost unique instance, as he himself
would admit, of what I may call a serious Walpole, for the majority of
my family, since the days of Sir Robert, have never been conspicuous for
any particular mental stability. Mayhap some of the southern blood of
old Pierre Lombard, a native of Nîmes, whose daughter was our
ancestress, is the cause of this. Sir Spencer himself used to say that
this erratic and impulsive temperament had in his case been modified by
the marriage of his great-grandfather to a lady of Dutch nationality,
and his even temper and calm mental outlook would certainly seem to have
justified such a supposition.

Erratic, and sometimes lacking balance to the verge of eccentricity, the
Walpoles were ever a somewhat curious race, their chief characteristic,
perhaps, being an intense love of frivolity combined with a real liking
for literature and art. For music, however, few of us have cared at all,
whilst most have positively hated its more serious side. As a rule, too
indolent to grasp the political laurels which their intellects were in
several cases easily capable of winning, and not by nature fitted for a
public career, the Walpoles have now for many generations scarcely
attempted to emerge from the humdrum backwaters of private life, the
founder of our fortunes, Sir Robert, remaining the first and last great
politician which the family has produced. Nevertheless, there is a
compensation in that very nature which has rendered serious effort so
unattractive to us, for with something of the child’s dislike of order
and restraint, we have also the counterbalancing advantage of the
child’s buoyancy of disposition and easy forgetfulness of trouble,
retained in some cases to an age when others of more serious temperament
have long ceased to take an interest in anything at all. And now, with
these somewhat egotistical reflections, I will take leave of my readers,
only hoping that their patience will not have been overtaxed by the
perusal of these Notes, Memories, and Recollections.

APPENDIX

SOME SECRET NEGOTIATIONS OF THE PRETENDER WITH SIR ROBERT WALPOLE

Some little time ago my nephew, Lord Orford, discovered in his library
at Wolterton some rather interesting old papers dealing with certain
negotiations which appear to have at one time been afoot between the
Pretender and Sir Robert Walpole. It is said that a picture formerly
existed at Houghton in which both Sir Robert (as a youth) and his father
were shown wearing the Stuart tartan, but notwithstanding this my
ancestor has always been regarded as an uncompromising upholder of the
Hanoverian succession. Nevertheless, it would appear from the
correspondence which he discovered that at one time Sir Robert was not
altogether disinclined to learn the Pretender’s proposals, though of
course he may have only done this from diplomatic reasons. The principal
portion of the documents in question consists of a memorandum drawn up
by a certain Mr. Thomas Carte, whose name is well known to historical
students. A non-juring clergyman, he had strong Jacobite leanings, and
is known to have been much interested in the Stuart cause. My nephew’s
father, Mr. Frederick Walpole, appears to have made some inquiries about
him of his friend Mr. Whitwell Elwin, the well-known editor of the
_Quarterly Review_, for the following letter was found appended to the
correspondence:—

BOOTON RECTORY, NORWICH,
_March 18, 1865_.

DEAR MR. WALPOLE—I have been an age in answering your letter
owing to my reading the name of Thomas Carte as Thomas Lart. I
could not remember that I had ever heard of the name of the
latter gentleman, and I searched books and indexes in vain in
order to discover what my memory would not supply. Five minutes
ago I took up your note, and again scrutinised the word, when
all of a sudden it flashed upon me that the name was Carte,
though your C is very indistinct. You will find an account of
him in any English Biographical Dictionary. If you want any
details beyond what an ordinary book of reference will supply
you must come to me again. Andrew Stone was sub-preceptor to
George 3. when Prince of Wales. There are stories of him in
Horace Walpole, Mahon’s History, and other books. He was chiefly
noted, I think, for his supposed Jacobite bias in early days.
You must not assume that I shall be always as dilatory in
answering questions. I should have written at once if I could
have solved your problem.

Two or three months, I presume, will bring an election which
will carry you into Parliament, and long may you flourish there.
I do not hear a word of East Norfolk. If Stracey is goose enough
to stand it will only end in a fall. He will have no support
worth the name. I was delighted to hear that you and Lord O.
were one again.—Believe me, ever sincerely yours,

W. ELWIN.

At the beginning of the memorandum is the following note in Sir Robert
Walpole’s handwriting:—

This Paper was delivered to me, the 15th of Sept. 1739, at nine
o’clock at night at my house at Chelsea,[2] by Mr. Tho. Cart, a
non-jurying Clergyman, as a Copy of Heads, etc., drawn up by
Him, by order of the Pretender, as explanatory of some
conferences held by Him at Rome upon the subject of the security
of the Church of England and delivered to the Pretender by Him
in July last.

R. WALPOLE.

The memorandum itself, which is somewhat lengthy, appears to have been
drawn up with a view to satisfying Sir Robert that in the event of the
Pretender being placed upon the throne of England no attempt would be
made to interfere with the privileges of the Protestant Church. It
begins:—

HEADS OFFERED TO CONSIDERATION IN RELATION TO THE SECURITY
AND ADVANTAGE OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND

When in the year 1721 I looked over Archbp. Sancroft’s
manuscripts and papers, I found among them one containing a
scheme for the government of the Church of England under a R.C.
Prince; which I thought exceeding well drawn, as well for
preserving a just prerogative in the Crown, as for providing a
reasonable security for the Church. It appeared to me to be
drawn at the time of the Bill of Exclusion, when the late K.
Charles offered to come into any scheme of that nature, though
he was resolved never to passe that Bill, as conceiving it to be
contrary to honour, justice and conscience. I laid that scheme
aside, with some curious discourses of the Archbps. and
abundance of valuable letters which I selected in order to write
his life. But being to passe into Leicestershire and spend 3 or
four months before I got to London, I left them at Fresingfield,
intending to send for them to town, as soon as I got thither.
But being forced to come abroad not long after in 1722, they
still remained at Fresingfield, and were swept away by Dr.
Tanner, then Chancellor of Norwich, with the rest of the
ArchBps. manuscripts, which he bought in the beginning of 1728,
about a quarter of a year before I returned to England. Dr.
Tanner dying about 3 years ago and leaving all his MSS. to the
University of Oxford, I made two journeys thither last year to
search for this scheme: but though I looked over every
individual paper of his that had been delivered to the
University, I could not find what I searched for. This makes me
conclude that the Drs. Executors did not deliver to the
University all the MSS. that were bequeathed them; and the
rather because I did not observe among them half even of the
most curious MSS. of the ArchBps. which I had taken a short
catalogue of for my own use.

In defect of this scheme, I venture to draw up my own thoughts
on the subject, and to mention some particulars which I conceive
may be either for the security or for the advantage of the
Church of England.

First, that which I imagine would be a very good and perhaps a
better security to it than any other privilege, is the restoring
to the Clergy their ancient right of taxing themselves; a right
enjoyed by the Clergy in all parts of Europe, and never enjoyed
by the English till 3 years after King Charles the Second’s
restoration; when the Convocation then sitting gave it up by a
Solemn Act, without ever consulting their Constituents,
reserving, however, to themselves by an express clause a power
to resume it whenever they should think fitting. It would be
against all law, justice, and equity to deny them such a
resumption whenever they demand it; which they are now
universally desirous of doing, having seen the Sitting of
Convocations interrupted, and that representative Body and chief
judicature of the Church rendered useless, almost ever since
they gave up this right. The House of Commons, fond of
allocations of extending their power, and grasping at everything
that will aggrandize themselves, may not perhaps care to part
with this new branch of their power; but it is not the interest
of the Crown that the Commons should grow too great, and the
experience of 1641 ought for ever to make a Prince, and indeed
all orders of men, jealous of every accession of power which
accrews to that Body: and if ever they are to be prevailed with
to part with this additional branch thereof, it is most likely
to be done on the account here mentioned, viz. for the security
of religion. For by the constant and regular sitting of the
Convocation concurrent with every Parliament (which will be
fully provided for by restoring to the Clergy this right of
taxing themselves), it will be scarce possible for any material
steps to be taken for the introducing of another religion, when
there is a body of men sitting and on the watch against all
measures of that kind, and ready to oppose them by their weighty
and prudent remonstrances. There is no method so proper for
redressing grievances as by returning to the old ways of our
Constitution; all deviations from which have ever been found of
mischievous consequence. The inconveniences of new institutions
are seldom thought of till they are felt; but we have the
experience of ages to shew us the wisdom and advantages of
ancient usages: and as no inconvenience ever yet attended this
right of taxation during the many hundreds of years that the
Clergy enjoyed it, it cannot with the least pretence to reason
be surmised that any should now attend the restoring it to them.
I knew not whether I need observe that the only reason why the
Convocations grants of subsidies were inserted in Acts of
Parliament was that the Collectors thereof might have a power of
distraining on the glebe and goods of the Clergy; which could
not be given by any Ecclesiastical authority.

2. Another thing that would contribute greatly to the security
of the Church, and be as much for its benefit, is a repeal of
the Act of Submission passed in the time of Henry 8, which
hinders ArchBps. and Bps. from holding provincial and diocesan
synods, to which they were obliged by the old canons of the
Church, but are deterred from doing so by the dread of a
Praemunire, which in such case they would incur according to the
terms of that Act. The right of holding such synods in provinces
and dioceses, for the due ordering of Ecclesiastical affairs and
the better execution of the Canons, is as ancient as the
institution of Christianity, and is enjoyed in all Christian
countries upon earth, except in England. For the Act of
Submission having never taken place in Ireland (where as there
had been no exercise of the Legative power, so there had been no
obedience paid to it, and consequently no penalties thereby
incurred), the Clergy in that Island still enjoy the right of
meeting in provincial and diocesan synods. ArchBp. King of
Dublin lately held one of the first sort, and the Acts of one of
the latter kind held by Bedell, Bp. of Kidmore, are published in
the life of that prelate: which are sufficient evidences of this
right of the Church of Ireland. It was in this manner that the
Primitive Church was governed, and it is fit that every National
Church in times posteriour to their should be governed in the
same manner; as that of England indeed ever was till the Act of
Submission. These Synods will be a great security to the Church
of England in the intervals of Parliaments and Convocations.

They will be likewise of great use in other respects, and
contribute much to the ends of religion. They may restore the
just discipline of the Church, and correct abundance of
grievances, as well as in regard of the scandalous corruption of
the spiritual Courts, as of the shameful oppression of the
Clergy by some Bps. in many cases. Bishops in France and other
countries abroad, tho’ obliged by the Canons to hold diocesan
Synods every year, are yet not very fond of holding them,
because they are a curb upon their authority. For tho’ they can
put a negative upon the resolutions of the majority, yet being
often ashamed of dissenting from truth and reason, the
Presbyters or incumbents of livings are still found to have the
greatest weight in such Synods. And possibly for the same reason
they may be as little agreeable to our English Bishops, who
having in a manner quite lost the power of exercising any part
of their authority over the Laity, endeavour continually to make
themselves amends by lording it over other Clergy; insisting (as
their Archdeacons also, after their example and in virtue of
their delegated authority, have done) upon the oath of canonical
obedience, which they pretend obliges the Clergy to obey them in
everything whatever that they enjoin which is not absolutely
unlawfull; an interpretation of that oath contrary to the sense
of all Canonists abroad, who agree that it only obliges to
obedience in such things as are prescribed by the Canons. But
the fonder they are of power, the more necessary is it that
their power should be restrained to the ancient bounds, and that
institutions of such great use as Diocesan and Provincial Synods
should be restored.

It was in such provincial Synods, that all disputes about
matters of faith were determined and heresies condemned during
the 3 first centuries of Christianity. It is in these that the
authority and jurisdiction of the Church has in all ages been
chiefly and most usefully exerted. ’Tis a hardship peculiar to
the Church of England to be deprived of a benefit which all
other Churches upon earth enjoy, and therefore it is much to be
wished this right of holding provincial Synods were restored.
There would then be no want of visible judge of doctrine and
controversies, such as served to direct the primitive Christians
and martyrs in the first ages of the Gospel in the way of
salvation. There would not then be any want either of a ready
antidote against any heretical or irreligious books that are
published nowadays with encouragement rather than impunity, or
of power to censure them and punch the authors thereof if they
should prove to be Clergymen. There would not then, if any Bp.
or other Ecclesiastick should preach and maintain any heretical
tenets or assert any of the new erroneous doctrines which the
Court or Church of Rome have grafted upon the ancient faith of
the Church, or be guilty of any other crime the Canons have
decreed to be punished with deprivation, be any want of
canonical authority to take cognisance of the cause, and
pronounce sentence in a regular manner. For it is in these
provincial Synods that Bishops have in all ages of the Church
been ever judged and deprived in such cases: and if the same
method had been established in England in Q. Mary’s time, the
church would not then have been ruined. For none of the Edwards
Bps. were deprived canonically by a Synod of their comprovincial
Bps., but by a few persons, some of them Laicks, empowered by a
particular commission from Her Majesty. The High Commission
Court has indeed been since put down by an Act of Parliament,
which provides that neither that Court nor any like it shall
ever be erected for the future. But lawyers may possible dispute
whether that Act extends to such particular commission as Q.
Mary issued (which perhaps were not thought of in 1690 when this
Act passed); so that it is highly to be wished that Provincial
Synods might be restored, and the offences of Bps. and Clergymen
inferring deprivation, subject to their cognisance.

Diocesan Synods never intermeddled in matters of faith. Their
business was confined to points of mere discipline, and their
chief care was to make proper regulations for inforcing the
practise of that discipline, and to provide for the due
observance of the Canons within their district. Offences against
these were also within their cognisance, and whatever else was
under the jurisdiction of the Bp. in his single capacity, came
also before him when at the head of these Synods; which may be
composed either of all incumbents in his Diocese, or of the
Chapter of the Cathedral, the Archdeacons, Rural Deans, and two
Proctors chosen by the Clergy of each Deanery. And if in the
interval of these Synods a Bp. was obliged to consult with the
Chapter of his Church, and the Rural Deans of his Diocese before
he gave judgment in any cause, and to use them as his
co-assessors in hearing it, this would add much to the dignity
and effect of such sentence, and would probably reconcile
abundance to Episcopary, that are at present disaffected to that
kind of government.

There was in the last Sitting Convocation in 1713/4 a proposal
made and an intention formed of reviving the institution of
Rural Deans, and it would probably have taken place in the next,
had there not happened a change of government which has ever
since put an end to the Sitting of Convocations. But were that
old institution revived, and such a method of episcopal and
synodical jurisdiction settled, it might easily be so adjusted,
as to reform abundance of shameful practices in the spiritual
Courts to prevent any false doctrines either heretical or Roman
from being instilled into the people. For whilst there is so
short and easy a method of calling those who reach them to an
accompt before their brethren of the Clergy in their own
neighbourhood, scarce anybody will dare to attempt such an
innocation, when he must expect a censure to be immediately
passed upon him by his Bp. not alone, but assisted by a
venerable Council of Rural Deans recommended for their merit by
the body of the Clergy, and antecedent to his crime approved of
and constituted by their Diocesan.

There was at the same time another proposal made of reviving
also the charge of Suffragan Bps. as anciently used in the
Church of England, or as at last regulated in the reign of
Henry, and continued to that of Q. Elizabeth. And as some
Dioceses in England are too large, they might be very useful for
the due exercise of discipline, as well as for reforming the
corruptions and lessening the power of Spiritual Courts.

It might be observed that the corruption of those Courts is not
owing to the Bishops. Some of these have endeavoured to reform
them, but in vain, they have put limiting clauses into the
patents, and they have granted to Vicars general, Chancellors
and Commissiaries, but still to no purpose, even with regard to
the granting of licenses to preach, which being, by the Rubrick
of the Common Prayer book established by Act of Parliament,
reserved expressly to Bps. they naturally thought they might
very well restrain their deputies from granting them. But these
deputies, distinguished by the several titles before mentioned,
pretend that a Bp. having constituted them Vicars general,
Chancellors or Commissiaries by patent, they are in virtue
thereof actually invested with all the power usually annexed to
such office, and that all restraining clauses are null by common
Law: and so they continue to exercise a power in those cases
wherein by the express terms of the patent they are debarred the
exercise thereof. Our Common Law is in truth but too favourable
to such iniquities, and it is highly reasonable that an Act
should pass to restrain the power of these officers to the terms
of their patent; or perhaps it may not be amiss to provide that
such offices should be held only for the life or incumbency of
the person that grants them; or if allowed to be granted to
persons quamdice bene se gesserint, certain cases may be
specified wherein these officers shall be removable by the
judgment of the Bp. in conjunction with the Chapter and Rural
Deans of the Diocese, from whose sentence there should lye no
appeal to Common Law.

The Courts of Common Law, however they have intrenches on the
jurisdiction of the Spiritual Courts, do yet give countenance
and protection to all their iniquities, which serve to bring
them in business; and this makes the Common Lawyers so loath to
see them reformed, and so ready to baffle all attempts of that
nature. The judges thereof have stuck to no maxim so constantly
as to that scandalous one of St. Edw. Cokes, A Boni judicies est
ampliare jurisdictionem curice suce, and have by monstrous
fictions, and by the help of numberless querks and pretences
swallowed up in a manner all the jurisdiction of other Courts,
as the Lord Constable and Marshals, Admiralty, etc. in order to
draw all business to themselves. Thus also as often as they
please they call by prohibitions (for which they never want
pretences) all causes before them from Spiritual Courts and
other Ecclesiastical or Visitatorical jurisdictions: and when a
cause is once brought into their Courts, where they can invent
and start an hundred points and issues to be argued, there is no
end of the expense or no hopes of a decision, so that it must
drop at last after several years continuance without any
determination as the late affair of Dr. Bentley. It is very fit
there should be prohibitions in many cases, as there are appels
d’abus in France; but it is as fair that those cases should be
settled fixed and determinate. There was in the time of K. James
I. a judgment given upon this subject by the King in his Privy
Council (to whose judicature it properly belongs to decide of
the just authority of different Courts when they quarrel about
their jurisdiction) and proper bounds were fixed to the
authority, as well of Spiritual Courts as of those of Common
Law, which were tolerably well observed till the troubles of
1641 threw all government into confusion, and Episcopacy being
destroyed and the jurisdiction of Bps. suppressed with their
Order, the Common Law carried all before it, swallowed up the
Ecclesiastical authority, and has ever since kept a great part
of what it then invaded.

This is now grown to so intolerable an height, that at present
there is not any Ecclesiastical authority in England to call a
Clergyman to an accompt, and punish him for preaching or
printing any heretical doctrine or any erroneous tenets of the
Court of Rome: so that unless the Common Law be restrained in
this respect, and the use and authority of provincial and
diocesan Synods be revived, I do not see how it can be
practicable to secure the Church of England from being overrun
with false doctrines. For unless there be a short and easy way
of punishing those that vent them, many will be induced to do
so, when temptations shall be offered and encouragements given
for the attempt: and this power can be vested nowhere so
properly, so safely and so unexceptionally as in provincial and
diocesan Synods, agreeable to the constitution of the Primitive
Church.

If it be apprehended that these Synods may be apt to assume too
great a power (not to say that such an apprehension is
groundless) it is a very easy matter to prevent their doing so
by restraining their jurisdiction to the crimes of heresy, false
doctrine and Simony and to the persons of the Clergy, leaving
all Laicks who are guilty of the like offences to the cognisance
of the Civil Courts.

3. Another method for the security of religion is, to
distinguish between _Legatine_, and the _Archiepiscopal_ power
of the ArchBp. of Canterbury, and to reduce that exorbitant
power he possesses at present to what it was before the year
1400, when he enjoyed only his Archiepiscopal authority, not
being made _legaties natus_ till after that year. These two
powers are compounded at present, and the ArchBp., though he
enjoys the legatine, only in virtue of the exercise thereof by
his predecessors, derived originally from a Papal grant of no
force in England, does yet continue to exercise it, tho’ he
hereby encroaches upon the jurisdiction and rights of all the
Bishops and the Kingdom in several cases, and by the abuse
thereof may ruin the established church when he pleases. It was
in virtue of this Legatine power, which is as yet affirmed by no
law, that Dr. Tennison deprived Watson Bp. of St. Davids by his
single authority; tho’ according to the ancient Canons and
constitution of the Christian Church, no Bp. can be regularly
condemned, but by the sentence of a Provincial Synod, in which
twelve Bps. are present. ’Tis easy to see how fatal such a claim
of power, now supported by the seeming countenance of an House
of Lords, may be in its consequence to the Church of England.

There was in the time of Henry 8 (when the Papal power was
abolished in England) an authority vested in the ArchBp. of
Canterbury to grant faculties and dispensations in all cases
where the Pope used before to dispense. Under pretext of this
general grant Archbishops have taken upon themselves to grant
dispensations in cases where the Pope himself could not
effectually dispense. Such particularly is the power of
qualifying persons for living and dignities annexed by Law to
certain degrees in our Universities. The Pope had certainly long
used to confer honorary degrees on such as he saw fit, but these
degrees never qualified persons in France or other countries
abroad for benefices and dignities appropriated to Graduates in
their Universities. This is so settled a point that even in the
Pope’s own territory of the Comtat de Venagsein about Avignon,
tho’ he confess such benefices on those who are not graduates,
yet he always in his bulls obliges them to take their degree
requisite in the Universities. Yet in England ArchBps. of
Canterbury have of late exerted their power in numberless
instances to the great discouragement of learning and prejudice
of our Universities. This is a point that well deserves to be
corrected.

4. As the Universities are a nursery for the Church, and a great
support of the established religion, there cannot be too great
an assurance given of the preservation of their privileges,
their statutes and rights of election; which should not be
liable to be invaded, by any Ecclesiastical Commission for the
extraordinary visitation of particular Colleges or of the
Universities in general, or by writs of Mandamus for putting in
Heads or Fellows of Colleges, contrary to their Statutes and
right of election; or in fine, by appeals from the sentence of
Visitors to the Courts of Common Law, where they have been
controverted of late; particularly in Dr. Bentley’s case; tho’
such sentences were ever deemed unappealable and have been so
declared in the House of Lords in the case of Exeter College,
wherein they gave judgment against their own jurisdiction in
this point.

But if it should be apprehended that an unlimited restraint from
all relief at Common Law, may in some eases be hard on a
sufferer by a Visitor’s sentence, the absolute prohibition of an
appeal may be thus limited, “unless the body of the University
assembled in a Convocation (whereof, and as well of the occasion
of its being called as the day and time when it is to be held,
publick notice shall be given a month before) shall within a
year or 6 months after such sentence petition the King for a
revision thereof; and then his Majesty may issue out a
Commission of Delegates, composed of the Chancellor of the
University, the Visitors of all the Colleges therein, and an
equal number of Drs. of Civil Law, to review the process and
give a final decision.” If University causes come into Common
Law Courts, there is no end of them, and no supporting the
expense: and our ancestors wisely provided they should never
come there: but those Courts are hardly ever at a loss for
pretexts to draw all causes to the Bar, and to break through all
regulations. Their power is now grown to an exorbitant height,
and with it their oppression is extended; so that since the
Chancery, by being put almost ever since the Reformation into
the hands of Common Lawyers, is become in a manner a Common Law
Court where equity is little considered, they are become one of
the greatest grievances of the Nation.

5. Whereas Deans and Chapters of Cathedral Churches in England
do at present retain an empty shadow of the privilege they
formerly had of choosing their own Bps. in that a Conge d’Elire
is constantly upon the vacancy of a see, sent to them and
requiring them to proceed to such election; but they are obliged
to choose the person named to them by the King in a letter
missive sent at the same time, under the pain of incurring a
Praemunire and subjecting themselves to the penalties of the Act
of Henry 8 regulating the election and confirmation of Bishops.
It were to be wished that a better regulation might be made in
this respect, and that Deans and Chapters may, in the case of a
person whom they cannot in conscience contribute by any act of
theirs to advance to a See of which he is unworthy (by having
preached or published heretical and false doctrines, or by being
guilty of Simony or other crimes punishable by deprivation), be
allowed the liberty of declining their choice and approbation
without being liable to the said penalties. It may not perhaps
be fit to make them judges in the case any further than relates
to their own conduct, and therefore upon their signifying the
crime of which the person named in the letter missive is accused
and on account whereof they cannot choose him, and of the
grounds they have to presume of his guilt, till he is judicially
cleared, the cognisance thereof may in the case of a Bp. be
taken by a Provincial Synod, and in the case of a Presbyter, by
a Synod of the Diocese, wherein he has usually resided; and if
the person be acquitted therein, the Chapter then to be obliged
to choose him under all the penalties of the aforesaid Act, but,
if he be condemned, to be justified in their rejecting him, and
a better to be named in his stead.

There are some other regulations of a like kind, that would be
useful with regard to the inferior Clergy, viz.: that every
Certificate of good behaviour and right principles in religion,
usually brought to a Bp. by every person that comes for
Ordination or for Institution to a Living, be signed by the
Rural Dean of the district wherein he has resided for the time
mentioned therein; (unless such person hath been constantly
resident in the University, in which case the Certificate of his
College may serve as at present) otherwise the Bp. to be at
liberty to reject him. And if a Bp. upon examining a person
presented to a benefice shall find him illiterate and
unqualified for the Cure, he shall appoint such person to attend
him another day, when he shall likewise summon the Rural Deans
of his Diocese to appear and shall in their presence examine the
pretentee; and if upon the concurrent judgment of all or of the
major part, or of two thirds of them, he shall be declared
illiterate and insufficent for the charge of a cure of Souls,
the Bp. shall be justified in refusing him institution without
being aliable to any suit in law, or other prosecution whatever.

Such expedients as these afford undoubtedly a very rational
security to the Church of England, and yet none of them really
intrench on the just prerogative of the Crown, unless the
redeeming of the Church from the slavist part of the Letter
missive put upon it contrary to the first article of Magna
Charta be deemed to do so, tho’ it does not infringe the Kings
right of naming the Sees but only provides against the ill
consequences of his being deceived and drawing into the naming
of unworthy prelates; or unless it be in the waving of the claim
of right to make writs of Mandamus for putting Heads and Fellows
upon Colleges in the University; which if it was a right of the
Crown, has been exercised very rarely and never without great
odium, and which seems only to be founded upon a notion, that
the incorporation of Colleges and establishment of Status for
electing the Heads and members thereof, as well as for
regulating their conduct, tho’ made at the request of the
Founders who endowed them, yet derived their force from the
authority of the Crown, which might therefore dispense with
Statuts of their own creating and rights of their own granting,
whenever there was occasion or it was thought proper to exert
the unlimitedness of the prerogative. But if this maxim were
good and would hold in Law, it would hold as well in regard to
Corporations as Colleges; and yet it was never used in the ease
of the former, unless upon some crime and forfeiture of their
privileges, or at least on a pretence thereof, and even then
when advantage was taken of such forfeiture (as was the case a
little before the Revolution) it raised a terrible ferment in
the nation.

There are some other things which tho’ not immediately relating
to the security of the Church of England, yet being much for the
benefit, dignity, and credit of the Clergy, will contribute not
a little to its support.

The English being naturally a serious and devout people ran
eagerly in all ages into all the modes of religion then in
vogue. Hence an infinite number of Monasteries of all kinds were
erected in the Kingdom, and the Religious thereof being by their
institution more attached to the Pope than the secular Clergy
were, it came to pass that when the Papal power was first
introduced into England in the reign of Henry the First (in
whose time the Cardinal de Crema came over the first Legate of
the See of Rome, and appeals to that Court began to be
introduced), they soon got the Pope to exert the plentitude of
his power, and the sovereignty he claimed over all the
possessions of the Spirituality (tho’ originally the grant of
our Kings) and to appropriate the tythes glebe and revenues of
livings to Monasteries. This was done generally between the
years 1120 and 1250. Hereupon the Religious of these
Monasteries, keeping all the great tythes and sometimes the
small ones also, and even the oblations (which in those days
were very considerable) to themselves either supplied the cures
by one of their own body, or endowed a resident vicar either
with a slender portion of the small tythes, or with a stipend in
money, which, whatever it was in those days, is now very
inconsiderable, and insufficient for his maintenance. When
Monasteries were dissolved, and their lands given to Henry 8,
the tythes and revenues of Livings thus appropriated to
religious houses were given to him at the same time, and were
alienated by that Prince together with the Abbey lands. Thus was
the Church miserably impoverished, and even to the time of the
Rebellion in 1642 there were left 6000 Vicarages in England
under £30 a year, 4000 under £20 and 2000 not worth £10 a year.
The Bishops upon the Restoration having abundance of leases,
particularly of Tythes (for Q. Elizabeth had forced their
predecessors to exchange their manners of their Sees for the
tythes then remaining in the Crown which she could not keep in
conscience as she alledged) that were either expired during the
troubles or were near expiring, took care in the renewal thereof
to augment great numbers of these poor vicarages. Private
persons have since made them considerable benefactions and many
Vicarages have been of late augmented out of the revenue of the
First fruits and Tenths: yet still there are some thousands so
meanly provided for that they do not afford a competent
subsistence to a Minister.

Of all Livings throughout the Kingdom none suffered so much in
the general alienation of Church revenues as those in Cities and
great Towns; for scarce any of these were without one or more
Monasteries, the Monks whereof supplying the cure of those
Livings, had only a small stipend for their pains. Hence these
Livings are the most provided for of any in England, two or
three of them being often united together to make up about £30 a
year for an Incumbent, whose poverty neither allows him to buy
books to increase his stock of learning, nor to live with a
dignity suitable to his character, not to do that good or speak
with that authority in his parish which a better income would
enable him to do, and generally speaking worthless Livings will
be filled with worthless Clergymen. This hath proved as much to
the disservice of the Crown as of the Church. For these great
Towns being sorrily supplied with Ministers, and being many of
them thronged with Calvinists that came out of the Low
countries, Germany and other foreign countries and settled there
for the sake of trade, the Puritan party in the reigns of K.
James and K. Charles took care to send Lecturers thither (to
whom they gave large stipends) to propagate Sedition and
disaffection to the Church and Crown among the inhabitants of
those great Towns, which by that means generally sided with the
Parliament against the King in the rebellion of 1641, and by
their wealth contributed greatly to the neine of His Majesties
affairs. Had these Towns been duly supplied with a learned and
well affected Clergy, the rebellion would probably have been
prevented or the event of the war have proved more favourable to
the royal cause. There are few things would be more serviceable
to the interests both of the Church and Crown than a proper
endowment of the Livings in such great Towns and Cities: and if
any forfeited houses therein, or forfeited lands and tythes of
lands adjoining thereto were applied thereto, the benefit to
both would be great, and the Clergy in such Cities would by
their interests as well as principle be obliged to support the
Crown from which they desire such benefactions.

K. Charles the First gave all the Tythes remaining in his time
to the Crown throughout Ireland to the Churches whereunto they
originally belonged, as often as Leases of Crown lands were to
be renewed or grants thereof expired. K. Charles the Second
after the Restoration gave all the forfeited tythes in that
Kingdom to the Church. Many grants of lands in England, with
tythes annexed thereto or part thereof, may probably be now
expired or are continually dropping in to the Crown; and
forfeitures of a like nature will according to the course of
human affairs be making from time to time and afford
opportunities of the like benefactions; for if tythes were
exempted as well in the renewal of such grants as in the
remission of forfeitures, they might be very usefully applied
for the better endowment of churches in popular Cities. In this
or the like manner may that great inconvenience be in a good
measure removed.

A noble grant hath been made of the First Fruits, and Tenths for
the augmentation of small Livings, which will in a course of
years be a considerable, though slow remedy for this evil. But
it is still a question whether the Church will gain more by that
benefaction, than it will lose in the same term of years, by the
late change of the maxims of the Court of Exchequer in relation
to tythes by the great encouragement which the Judges thereof
give to pretended and unreasonable moduses (or certain trifling
payments of money in lieu of tythes of 20, 30 or fifty times
their value) and by the continual multiplying of such moduses
all over the Kingdom; which Gentlemen are labouring by all ways
to find pretexts to create, and corrupt patrons have too great
opportunities of effecting with regard to livings in their
Advowson, so that the evil is not unlikely in some years to grow
universal.

The case of the Clergy is certainly very hard in this respect.
They come to a Living generally Strangers to the place and
ignorant of the rights and dues belonging to the Church. It is
the interest and commonly the business of every one in their
parish to impose upon them with false accounts of the value of
their tythes, and to draw them into agreements much below the
real value thereof. Their predecessor being dead, his papers
neglected or carried off by his executors, they derive little
knowledge from either. After long waiting for some equivalent to
the large expense of a University education, coming at last into
a benefice, they are glad to take the first offer that will make
them easy, being either by their former manner of life and
attachment to their studies, indisposed to have their time and
thoughts taken up in the collecting of tythes, or by the
ignorance of country affairs utterly unqualified to manage so
new and troublesome an affair as the gathering of them in kind,
not caring to oppress or disoblige their parishioners, or to go
to law upon a footing they do not fully understand, and at an
expense they are not able to bear; especially since they have
only a life interest in the Living, and if they can but be easy
for their own time, they are willing to leave the burden of
asserting the rights of the Church to their next successor.
These circumstances and this temper of mind induce the Clergy
too often to afford those who have a mind to make a prey of the
revenue of the Church, means of effecting their dishonourable
purpose; in which they are not a little favoured by the
proceedings of the Courts of Westminster Hall.

Great care had been taken in ancient times to preserve the
revenue of the church, but it was by methods adapted to the
nature and circumstances of those times. Terriers or particular
accounts of the rights of each benefice in a Diocese, have been
for many ages given in at every Bps. triennial visitation; and
these being drawn up by the joint consent of the Incumbent and
Parishioners, and signed by the Minister and Churchwardens were
used to be looked upon, and in all reason and equity ought to be
deemed exceptionable evidences of such rights. They were
accordingly received as such in the spiritual Courts where all
suits for Tythes and other dues of the Clergy were carried on,
and being Ecclesiastical causes and only of their cognisance.
But since the Reformation the Common Lawyers have found out
querks in law to draw these causes into their Courts, and
particularly whenever a modus is pretended, that pretence is a
sufficient reason for a Judge to issue out a prohibition
ordering the Spiritual Court to proceed no further in such a
cause. It being thus brought into the Common Law Courts, the
next thing is to set aside all the evidences against such
pretence of a modus, arising from the agreement of these
Terriers for hundreds of years together; which is done on a
pretext that these Terriers were taken by direction from Bps.
and not in virtue of any special commission from the Crown, the
result of which alone is all the evidence allowed in these
Courts.

The Clergy thus stripped of all the evidences wherein they
confided, and had been ever safe before, were forced to have
recourse to other methods for opposing such pretences of a
modus. Now by Law a Modus must have been from time immemorial,
and this was judged to be the time of Richard I. higher than
whose reign none of our Records relating to this subject go; and
indeed none are ancienter except the Piperolls and Domesday
book. When therefore a Modus of sixpence an acre for land now
set at twenty shillings an acre and the Crop whereof is probably
worth considerably more was pretended, they thought it a
sufficient refutation of such Modus, to shew by records of the
Tax rolls in the resigns of the Successors of that King, and by
Inquisitions taken in virtue of commissions from the Crown, that
the very land in question was set in later reigns than Richards
but at three pence an acre, and therefore six pence an acre
could never be then paid for the tythe thereof. This proof was
indeed allowed till Baron Pryse was removed from the Exchequer
Court; since which it has been rejected and all the maxims
formerly received there in favour of tythes laid aside; so that
the decision of the cause is now left to the testimony of living
witnesses for the time of their particular memory; in which
respect the Clergy lye under a manifest disadvantage, few caring
to depose on their side, and their predecessors papers and
accompt books seldom falling into the hands of the successors,
whilst all the receipts of those predecessors are in the hands
of their adversaries with whom they are at law.

To bring them out of these difficulties and to put a stop to the
growing evil of new Moduses starting up daily nothing seems more
proper or can be more effectual than a Commission to be granted
to worth virtuous and understanding Gentlemen in every County of
the Kingdom to enquiry into the value of Livings and to draw up
a particular account of the rights and dues of each to be
returned into the Court of the Exchequer and there kept on
record. This would stop at once all future pretences to new
Moduses; because there is no averring against a record, and the
rights of the Clergy will be fixed for ever, liable to no
invasion, especially if exemplifications of such returns of the
Commissioners under the Seale of the Court of Exchequer were
lodged in the registry of every Bp. and Archdeacon in England.

K. James the First took this method in Ireland when he granted
the escheated Counties of Ulster in different parcels of land to
Planters, he caused a glebe of 60 acres of land in every
thousand of which a parish consisted, to be set out for the
Minister to whom he likewise gave all manner of tythes in kind
of all the lands throughout each parish. As every Planter was
obliged to pass patents under the Great Seale for this land, so
were the Clergy for their glebe or tythes; but as the passing of
so many single patents as there were benefices in Ulster would
have been too heavy a charge upon each incumbent he directed for
the saving of fees that the endowments of all the livings in
each County should be passed in one patent. Among other happy
consequences of this proceeding, it is a very agreeable one to
the Clergy of that province that they never have any lawsuits
with their parishioners, nor indeed can have, so long as a
record subsists to clear and express in their favour. Were the
same method taken in England, were the rights of Livings as well
ascertained and lawsuits about them as effectually prevented, no
Clergy upon earth would have more credit with their parishioners
than those of England, who are not inferior to any other in
learning, judgment, merit or indeed any other respect. Few
things would be more serviceable to the security of the Church
of England, than such a method of keeping the Clergy always well
with their parishioners.

With the same view was it that K. James settled one common
tything table for all Ulster thereby preventing all disputes in
small matters. It were to be wished, the same method was taken
in England, and that one uniform tything table was settled all
over the Kingdom, or at least in the different quarters thereof,
according to the different circumstances of each quarter. This
would contribute to the same desirable end.

There was about A.D. 1710 a Bill passed in Parliament in favour
of the Clergy, for the more easier recovery of small tythes, by
which in the case of Quakers and other refractory persons
Justices of the Peace were empowered to give the Clergy
possession of their dues by distraining on the premises or on
the goods of the refractory persons. This remedy was speedy
attended with very little expense, and was had at first without
trouble or difficulty. But of late years men disaffected to the
Clergy having been put into the Commissions of the Peace, and
the terms of the Act being that they _may_ (not that they
_shall_) give relief and do justice to the Clergy, these
Justices say, they are indeed empowered but not obliged to help
the Clergy to their rights, and so refuse to act in the case; by
which the law is evaded, and the intent of it defeated. If this
or some other such short and easy method of recovering the dues
of the Clergy were properly established it would be another help
to the security of the Church.

After all the means that have been mentioned for the security of
the Church of England in an ecclesiastical way, there is another
of a different kind more considerable and necessary than all of
them together: and this is the establishing of the choice of an
House of Commons on such a foot, as it may be free from all
Court or Ministerial influence. There cannot be a point
conceived of more absolute necessity for the good of the
kingdom, nor is there any other so universally and ardently the
common wish of the Nation. This, once settled, would secure
everything else that any lover of this country and religion has
to wishe. But the great question is by what means and in what
manner this is to be effected.

For my part, I readily profess that in all cases I am disposed
to have recourse to the old ways of our constitution for the
redress of any pressing grievance. There was formerly a
reasonable proportion between the representatives of Counties
which were about 90, and those of Cities and great Towns which
amounted to about 100, and those of lesser burroughs which
returned about 70 deputies, these making in all about 256
members of Parliament. This proportion of representation lasted
till the time of Q. Elizabeth: but since the beginning of her
reign, it has been gradually destroying, and is now so entirely
overturned, that the smaller burroughs, though they do not
possess the thousandth part of the others property, can outvote
them both in the House of Commons, there having been as many
representatives for these paltry burroughs added to the
Parliament, as it consisted of before that time. In one Session
of Parliament in that Queen’s reign eight small burroughs in
Cornwall were called upon to send Deputies, and the humour went
on till the Parliament of 1641 made up the disproportion now
complained of with so much reason. There does not therefore
appear to me any means of rectifying this abuse and of restoring
the ancient balance of our Constitution, so natural as the
disfranchising at once of all those late created Parliamentary
burroughs, whose constant corruption and bribery of late years
so well known and so easy to be proved, call loudly for such a
method to be taken.

If this should be thought too great a change, and the
disfranchising of these burroughs should be deemed improper,
their corruption may probably be prevented by allowing all the
freeholders of 40s. a year within the hundred, in which such
burrough is situated, to vote equally with the present electors
or inhabitants in the burrough for the representatives thereof:
and in case this method be taken, such Freeholders being allowed
a right of voting for representatives, no wrong would be done
them, if the right of voting in elections of Knights of the
Shire were restrained to Freeholders that pay for 10£ a year to
the land tax: which would render County elections much more easy
and less expensive.

If neither of these methods should be approved, it may be
considered whether all these burroughs should not be limited to
one representative, and the choice of the other transferred to
the several Counties of the kingdom in proportion to their
payments towards the Land Tax; by which means the present number
of representatives may be preserved. One or other of these
methods seems necessary to be taken, or else the corruption,
being grown so general and barefaced in these burroughs, will
not admit of a cure: and unless it be cured, Parliaments that
should naturally be the guardians of all our rights and
liberties, will prove the worst of our grievances, and such an
one as will make all the rest irremediable. If these great
points, of the proportion of our representation, and the
unbiassed freedome of elections were once secured, everything
else will easily be secured by Parliament.

To establish this freedom and put a stop to the corruption or
violence that destroy it, nothing appears at first sight more
proper than the putting of Parliaments upon their ancient foot,
allowing them to sit but one Session, and never to continue
above a year. In such a case foreigners or strangers who have no
merit or interest in a burrough but what their bribes and money
purchase them, will never be able to carry elections against the
Gentlemen of the neighbourhood, who have a natural interest in
the place. For as the present circumstances of the Crown and
Nation, so different from what they formerly were, require
Parliament to be annually held for the granting of new supplies,
no private purse can hold out for any length of time in
furnishing those immense sums that are now squandered away by
strangers in the expences of disputed elections: and as this
evill is grown very rife, and all laws made to remedy it have
hitherto proved ineffectual, it is scarce possible to be cured
by any other method.

There is another practice in the House of Commons itself, that
helps to destroy the freedome of Parliaments: I mean the method
taken by the stronger party of thinning the House, and expelling
such as are of different sentiments from themselves, however
duely chosen; altering the rights of electors as they see fit
and as will best furnish them a pretence for that purpose. Some
method should therefore be taken in fixing the right of voting
in elections on an invariable foot, so as not to be violated or
altered by any determination of the House of Commons. If this
were done by an Act of Parliament, and every person whose vote
is refused by the returning officer, or whose right is infringed
by the intrusion of a wrong member, had power to bring an action
and to recover very great damages, from both of these, this
scandalous and mischievous evill might possibly be prevented.

The iniquities of these late times suggest some other measures
to be taken; such as the limiting of the number of officers and
pensioners that sit in the House of Commons; and the disabling
of all Excise men, Custom house officers, and soldiers, that are
under command and consequently not free to vote according to
their own inclinations and real sentiments, from having voices
in elections, unless on account of their freeholds, when they
have any.

In former times the Civil and Military power of the Nation lay
entirely in the hands of Gentlemen of estates, and was incident
to their tenures; but that face of things is now changed, and
the exercise of the Civil power is at present vested in the
Justices of the peace, as that of the military is in the Lord
and Deputy Lieutenants. Very inconsiderable persons have of late
years been put into both these commissions; and very ill
consequences have either been found or are daily apprehended, to
arise from thence. This makes it generally wished that none
should be qualified for the office of a Deputy Lieutenant who
has not £500 a year, or for that of a Justice of peace in any
county, who has not £300 or at least £200 a year in such County.
These methods for restoring in some degree such considerable
branches of our old Constitution would at the same time advance
the security of the Church.

There are penal laws enough already made, and I do not see any
occasion there can be of adding to them unless that instead of
receiving the Sacrament occasionally, the constant conformity of
a person to the established Church, be made the qualification
for any government, command or office of rank or profit: and
that instead of a Certificate of a persons having received the
Sacrament, another of his being a constant communicant with the
Church of England be insisted on and given by the Minister and
Churchwardens of the parish where such person usually resides
six months at least in the year, before he shall be allowed to
enter upon the exercise of his office.

Some such regulations as these, (which are but too much wanted
at present,) would contribute equally to the security of the
Church, and the happiness of the Nation.

At the end of this Memorandum there is appended the following autograph
letter from the Pretender, which would seem to show that Sir Robert
Walpole had personally authorised Mr. Carte to obtain a statement of his
views. It runs as follows:—

ROME, _July 17, 1739_.

The Message you bring could not but appear verry singular and
extraordinary to me because you deliver it only from second hand
and that I have no sort of proof of your being authorised by the
person in question, who cannot but feel that it is natural for
me to mistrust what may come from him. It may be and I hope it
is the case that he wishes me and my cause well, and I am
sensible it may be greatly in his power to serve both.

If he hath realy my interest at heart, lett him send to me some
trusty friend and confident of his to explain to me his
sentiments and viewes; and if he pursues measures which
manifestly tend to my Restoration, I shall be persuaded of his
sincerity, and shall consider and reward him after my
restoration proportionably to the share he may have had in
bringing it about. But whatever may or may not be in this
matter, I have no difficulty in putting it in your power to
satisfy him authoritically on the two articles about which he is
sollicitous, since independant of his desire, I am fully
resolved to protect and secure the Church of England according
to the reiterated promisses I have made to that effect, and
shall be ready after my restoration to give all reasonable
security which a first Parliament can ask of me for that end. As
for ye Princes of the House of Hannover I thank God I have no
ressentment against them, nor against any one living; I shall
never repine at their living happily in their own Country after
I am in possession of my Kingdomes and should they fall into my
power upon any attempt for my restoration, I shall certainly not
touch a hair of their heads.

I thought it proper to explain in this manner my sentiments on
these heads not absolutely to neglect an overture which may be
of great importance if well grounded, and if otherwayes no
inconvenience can arise from what I have here said.

JAMES R.

At the back of this letter is written in Sir Robert Walpole’s writing—

This original letter wrote to Mr. Tho. Cart when at Rome, and
given Him by the Pretender was deliver’d to me by the said Mr.
Tho. Cart Sept. 15th. 1739 together with the Heads &c.

Whilst this correspondence would seem to show that Sir Robert was not
altogether disinclined to enter into secret negotiations with the
Pretender, it must be remembered that up to comparatively recent times
statesmen at the head of affairs were much given to employing secret
agents for the purpose of obtaining information—very often without the
knowledge of the Government over which they presided. Cavour, I believe,
was about the last to employ these methods, and it is said that though
he was very much given to this sort of thing, he never obtained any good
by it, as the agents he employed never reported anything of the
slightest value, most of their communications being absolutely
unreliable and untrue. Mr. Carte, however, appears to have really
enjoyed the confidence of the Pretender, and the whole correspondence is
somewhat interesting as showing the great amount of intrigue and love of
secret negotiation which prevailed at the period of the eighteenth
century when this memorandum was drawn up.

-----

[2] The site of Sir Robert’s house in Chelsea is now covered by Walpole
Street, which traverses the ground upon which his mansion stood.

INDEX

Advertisement, a curious, 305
Agnew, Sir William, 212
Aidé, Mr. Hamilton, and his paintings, 191
Ailesbury, Maria, Marchioness of, her appearance, economies, and one
extravagance, 39
Ainsworth, Harrison, 42
Airlie, Countess of, and her garden of friendship, 244-245
Albert Gate, Hudson’s house at, 293;
stone stags at, 164
Aldershot in 1860, Bernal Osborne’s criticism on, 66
Alexandra, Queen, 155;
her dogs, 233
Algerian corsairs, a prisoner of, alive in 1854, 89
Algiers in 1861, a letter on, from Cobden, 240
Amelia, Princess, statue of George III. erected by, in Berkeley Square,
150
American girl, the, her conquest of English society, 33
invasion, the, 30, 33
Amusements and entertainments, recollections of, 246 _et seq._
Anglo-American marriages, 30, 33
Angoulème, Duchesse de, and her brother’s escape, 116, 119;
her Memoirs, 119
Annesley, Lady (_née_ Grant), famous portrait of, 188
Apethorpe, needlework carpet at, 50
Apsley House entertainments, forbidden ground to the Press, 27-28
Aquarium, 249
Architecture in London, eccentricities of, 140-141, 144-145
Art in the Victorian era, 40
Artist acquaintances, 188 _et seq._
Ashburnham Iron Furnace, extinction of (1825), 282
Ashburton, Lord, the late, and the English truffle, 131
Ashley, Hon. Evelyn, and the _Owl_, 16
Astley, Miss, and the customs, 120
Atheism, Russian, story of, 302
Atkyns, Mrs. (_née_ Charlotte Walpole), her efforts to save the Dauphin
(Louis XVII.), 110;
ingratitude of Louis XVIII., 111;
her Memorial at Ketteringham, a print of her in character, 112-113;
a letter from her to Mr. Perceval, 113-114
Author, the, her bad handwriting, 71;
her long ride in the ’thirties, 233;
portraits of, and of her sister, 188, 189

Bagot, Bishop, discards the wig, 268
Bancroft, Sir Squire and Lady, souvenir of their retirement, 257
Banks, Lady, her art treasures, 197, 200
Bantling’s cure for fat, verses, etc., on, in the _Owl_, 17-18
Bardelin, Chevalier de, his life in exile, 79;
before and after his marriage, and daughter, 80
Bartolozzi, engraved benefit tickets by, 200
Bath, Marquis of, and his election, 44-45
Marquis of (_late_), and his wife, as hosts, 44-45
Battersea Park, old nursery gardens near, 310
Battle Abbey, its owners, 55-57, 59;
historical associations and surroundings of, 57;
relics from, fate of, 282
Beaconsfield, Countess of (Mrs. Wyndham Lewis), 36, 72, 73, 155;
her dinner-parties, 71;
her bad writing, 70-71
— Earl of (Disraeli), 51, 190;
letter from, on _Henrietta Temple_, 42;
great ladies befriending him, 68, 69;
early days of, 74;
his Reform Bill, 75-76;
his real views on politics and distrust of Gladstone, 75;
his motto, 70;
his friendship with the author and her brother, a letter showing, 73-74;
his marriage and devotion to his wife, 72-73;
his carelessness as to money, his tact, 73;
his death in Curzon Street, 154
Bean, attack by, on Queen Victoria, 165
Beauclerk, Lady Diana, her riding dress, 170
Beaufort, Duchess of (a former), her “lover’s tragedy,” 169-170
Bedford, Duke of, duel of, in Kensington Gardens (1822), 173
— Paul, comedian, 256
Belgrave Square, art treasures in, 207
Belvoir Castle, lamps at, in former days, 272
Bentinck, Lord George, his good looks, 50-51
Berkeley Chapel, its famous incumbent, 150
— Square, associations of, and notable inhabitants, 145, 150, 151
Bernal, Mr., collection of, present-day value of, 184;
tragic death of his wife, _ib._
Berri, Duchesse de, 98, 195
Berry, the Misses, in Curzon Street, 154
Bertall, caricaturist, 308
Bessborough, Earl of, 163
Best, Mr., duel of, with Lord Camelford, 174, 177-178
Bewick, Thomas, drawings by, of gibbets, 277
Bexhill, smuggling affray at (1828), 275
Bill-heads, engraved, author’s collection of, 200
Bird pets of the author, 234 _et seq._
Bismarck, Count, on non-indispensableness, 20
Blanchet, portrait of Prince Charles Edward by, its past and present
owners, 194
Blarenberghe, Von, snuff-box painted by, 209
Blessington, Countess of, 179, 235
Blomfield, Bishop, two stories of, 268-269
Boileau, Sir Francis and Lady, Memorial set up by, to Mrs. Atkyns, 112
Bookbindings in human skin, 279-280
Bookplates, 257
Borghese, Princess Pauline, sister of Napoleon I., 81
Borrow family and the West Norfolk Regiment, 47
Bourbon family, devotion inspired by, instances of, 98 _et seq._
Bourgogne, Duchesse de, her portrait in a Sussex cottage, 183
Bradlaugh, Mr., and the House of Commons, 301
Braham, the singer, 39;
his singing of “The Midnight Review,” 94;
beauty of his voice, 262
Brick Street, associations of, 153
Bridge-playing, 298-299
Brienne, Napoleon I.’s early days at, 84
British Museum, Banks’ collection of engraved benefit tickets in, 200
Brocket, Lady Holland’s impertinence at, 63
Browne family of Cowdray, 183;
the curse on, stories of, 282 _et seq._
“Brummell, Beau,” his house in Charles Street, 151
Buckingham, Duke of, duel of, in 1822, 173
Buckingham Palace, 165
Buckinghamshire, Earl of, and his unwelcome baby girl, 49
Buckner, portrait by, of the author, 189
Bulstrode, literary associations of, 42
Burdett, Sir Francis, 168
Burgess, Mr. John, and his collections, 216-217
Buried treasures in France, 102, 103, 105
Burke, Edmund, his snub to the youthful Fox, 288
Burney, Dr., and Nelson’s nightcap, 269-270
Burnham, Norfolk, a Walpole property, 174
Burton, Decimus, architect, 248
Byron, Lord (the poet), on the sham funeral of Harriet Webster, 61

Caldbeck Hill and the Battle of Hastings, 57
Camber Castle, smuggling affray at (1838), 275
Cambridge House, Lady Palmerston’s parties at, 65
Camelford, first Lord (Thomas Pitt), verses by, on the lovely Lepell (Lady
Hervey), 178
— second Lord, his will preserved at Wolterton, occasion of its making,
174-178;
his burial place, 178;
his family, _ib._
Camoys, Sir John, and his wife, sarcophagus of, at Trotton, 286
Campbell, Sir Neil, 85
Cardigan, Countess of, her _vis-à-vis_ carriage, 172
Carnarvon, Earl of, Napoleonic relic owned by, 80-81;
other treasures, 187
Carriages, former magnificence of, in Hyde Park, 172
Carte, Mr. Thomas, and the Pretender’s negotiations with Sir R. Walpole,
317 _et seq._
Casanova, stormy meeting with Lord Orford at Vienna, 47;
his hasty temper, 48
Cassilis, Lord, quaint mistake concerning, 38
“Castle” rule in Ireland, Bernal Osborne’s views on, 77
Catherine II., Empress of Russia, 208
Cattermole, George, and John Burgess, 216
Cavour and his methods, 341
Caylus, Madame de, lines on her dog’s collar, 232
Cerito in social life, 254-255
“Chaff” and flippancy in modern gatherings, 23-24
Cham, caricaturist, 308
Chambers, George, and his paintings, 194
Chambord, Comte de (Henry V.), his appearance and character, 99
Changes and survivals, 265 _et seq._
Chantrey, Sir Francis, works done by, in Curzon Street, 153
Charles I. and Hyde Park, 162
Charles II., 285
Charles X. (Comte d’Artois), 83, 95;
portrait of the old Pretender mistaken for, 195-196
Charles Street, curiosities of, 145, 152;
derivation of the name, 151;
notable inhabitants, 150-151
Chatham, Earl of, 198
Chelsea in 1826, 311
Cheltenham, a Sedan-chair used at, in the ’sixties, 128
Chesterfield, Lady, her friendship with Lord Beaconsfield, 69
Chinese Ambassador, mistaken for his own wife, 38
Chippendale, 212 _et seq._;
characteristics of his work, 214-215
Church “restorations,” nineteenth-century effects of, 286-287
Churchill, Lord Randolph, and the Fourth Party, 18;
association of, with the Primrose League, 19;
as conversationalist, 19;
his personality, portraits, and caricatures, what he really said at time
of his political fall, 20-21
Cigars, when introduced into England, 138
Cigarettes, as making for temperance, 137, 138;
origin of, 138
Cipriani, engraved tickets by, 200
Cleveland, Duke of (Sir Harry Vane), one-time owner of Battle Abbey, 55,
56, 59
— Duchess of (_née_ Paulet), her detestation of slang, 38
— Duchess, the late, and Battle Abbey visitors, public, 55;
and personal, 57
— Duchess of, on her visit to Holland House in youth, 60-61
Clive, a dweller in Berkeley Square, 151
Cobden, Richard, 242;
his dislike of Palmerston, 67;
his discovery of a French painting, 182-184;
his home in Sussex, 289
— letters from, on Algiers, 240-242;
on the author’s silkworms, 243
“Coliseum,” the, and its attractions, 284
Comfort, rise in standard of, 311-312
Conjuring, Houdin’s feats, 259-260
Constitution Hill, and its associations, 165;
old name of, 166
Continental travelling in old days, difficulties and discomforts of, 120,
126, 127, 130;
the early days of railways, 129
Conversation a lost art, 23, 26-27
Conyngham, Marquis of, the late, 210
Cooper, Thomas Sidney, as scene-painter, 194
Corder, William, the “Red Barn” murderer, and his skin, 279
Corrigan, Tom, and Bernal Osborne’s repartee, 3, 4
Cortachy, “garden of friendship” at, lines on, by Lord Sherbrooke, 244-245
Cossé-Brissac, Due de, last lover of the Du Barry, his fate, 107
Costessey Hall, the Jerninghams of, 108
Couder, sketches by, of Napoleon I., 82
Country houses of England, a unique national possession, 41;
utilised by authors, 42
— old-time self-dependence of, 266-267
Country houses as political forces in former days, 42, 44;
why so no longer, 43
Coutts Bank, jewellery of _emigrés_ still unclaimed at, 109
Coventry, Earl of (husband of Miss Gunning), and the abolition of Mayfair,
152-153
Cowdray, ruins, stones and relics of, 183, 282 _et seq._
Cowley, Countess of (_temp._ William IV.), wedding of, 198-201
Cowper, Countess, her recipe for a successful ball, 152
Cox, David, as scene-painter, 194
Crayfish, author’s attempt to acclimatise, 132
Cremorne, 247-248, 311
Creevy, Mr., 168
Crinoline, 156
Croome, needlework carpet at, 50
Cruikshank, George, 143
Cumming, Miss Gordon, her conversation, an amusing example, 24-25
Curzon, Lady Georgiana, afterwards Duchess of Beaufort, a pet of William
IV., 197-198;
her story of a wedding, 198-199
Curzon Street, highway robbery in (1889), 149;
notable inhabitants of, 153-154
Customs officers, 274-275;
murder of, at Poole, 275

Dacheux, Mr. Peter Lewis, a schoolfellow of Napoleon I., at Lynn, 80
_Daily Telegraph_ founded, 304
Dance, Sir Charles, his steam cars, 294
Dandies of the past, 158
Dangstein, 238
Darwin, Mr. Charles, a talk with, 239
Davis, Mr. Frederick, and his son, 208-211
Day, Mr., of Norwich, a loyal banker, 114
Dayes, military prints drawn by, 205
Delane, Mr., of the _Times_, 28
Demidoff, Prince, and Napoleon’s old gardener, 87
Democracy, English, Lord Beaconsfield’s views on, 75
Devis, Arthur, paintings by, 181
Devonshire, Duchess of, 45
Duke of, 195
Dillon family and the Dauphin (Louis XVII.), 109
Dogs owned by the author, 229 _et seq._;
their graves and epitaphs, 232
— of Queen Alexandra, 232-233
D’Orsay, Count, dandyism of, 171-172;
lithographs after his drawings, 189-100;
a match for Lady Holland, 62
Downing Street, historic scene in, 180
Drewitt brothers, story of, 277-278
Du Barry, Madame, her missing jewellery, 103-104;
how she came to her end, 104 _et seq._
Dubois, famous table by, 208, 210
Duelling, slow extinction of, in England, 173
Dumb-bell gallery at Knole, 223
Duncannon, Lord, afterwards Earl of Bessborough, and the improvement in
the Green Park, 163
Dunford, Cobden’s Sussex home, 289

East Anglian folklore, 314
Edward VII., 155, 232
Egan, Pierce, 143
Eglinton Tournament, 305;
Napoleon III. present at, 306
Egmont, sixth Earl of, new house built by, at Cowdray, 284
Egypt, evacuation of, 76
Elba, Island of, Napoleon I. at, 84 _et seq._
Election souvenirs, political squibs, etc., 2, 4, 6, 7
Electric light, early days of, 144
Elizabeth, Princess, daughter of George III., her paper cuttings, 197
Elwin, Mr. Whitwell, on Thomas Carte, 317
English furniture, eighteenth-century, no representative public collection
of, 211
Eridge Castle, Lady Holland’s visit to, 62;
large silhouettes at, 186;
mysterious passage from, 274;
park, smugglers’ caves in, 274
Evans’ supper rooms, a visit to, 258
Evelyn, John, mention of stage scenery by, 195
Exhibition of 1851, 258

Fabry, Baroness de, her parentage, 85
Falmouth, Charles, Earl of, 151
Family portraits owned by the author, 179 _et seq._
Farren, Miss Nelly, 251
Fauveau, Mademoiselle Félicie de, sculptress, her devotion to the
Bourbons, 98-100
Fersen, Count, his devotion to Marie Antoinette, 101
FitzGerald, Edward, 127
Flags of Napoleon I. at Elba, present location of, 88-89
Florence, a diorama at, 246
Flower, Sir William, his letter on the author’s pet choughs, 237
Footmen, running, stories of, 145-148
Foreign manners and customs, old-time English dislike to, 36
Fox, Charles James, 60;
his first seat, 280
Fragonard’s “Escarpolette,” print of, 205;
replica of, at Hertford House, 206
Franco-German war, caricatures of and skits on, 307
Franking letters, 295-296
French art, past and present estimates of, 182-184;
eighteenth-century books at Highclerc, 186-187;
furniture, Jones collection of, 206
French panelling, fine examples of, set up in London house, 206-207
Friday, Napoleon I.’s superstitions as to, 84
Frotté, Vicomte de, a brave French royalist, 98
Fulham and its market gardens, 310-311
Fuller, Dr., and the crinoline, 156;
family, source of its wealth, 281-282
Furniture supports, a curious set of, 221

Gambling, 299
Gardening, a letter on, from Cobden, 240-242;
modern books on, 244;
old gardens of friendship, lines on, by Lord Sherbrooke, 244-245
“Gazette,” derivation of, 304
George III., 197, 219;
statue of, formerly in Berkeley square, 150
George IV., 210, 214;
robbed on Hay Hill, 148-149
Géramb, Baron de, and the hussars, his end as Trappist Procureur-Général,
170-171
Gibbets, pictures of, 277
Girodet, sketches by, of Napoleon I., 82
Gladstone, Rt. Hon. W. E., a bad portrait of, one view of, 14, 15;
as a subject of caricature, 6;
Lord Beaconsfield’s distrust of, verbal jugglery, 75-76;
Bernal Osborne’s apt nickname for, 76-77;
Mr. Orrock’s reply to, 212-213
Glasse, Mrs., her famous cookery book, 187
Glenesk, Lord, and the _Owl_, 16
Goethe, his favourite flower, 86
Goodall, Messrs., and the first series of Christmas cards, 202
Goodwood House, coming-of-age festivities at, of the present Duke of
Richmond, 46;
“Lion dogs of China” bred at, 229-230
Gordon, General C. G., death of, cartoon on, directed against Gladstone, 7
Gorst, Sir John, and the Fourth Party, 18
Goschen, Viscount, and Lord Randolph Churchill, 21
Gossip and scandal in newspapers, an instance of, 305
Gould, Sir F. Carruthers, his political caricatures, 7
Grange, the, Hants, English truffles at, 131-132
Grant, Sir Francis, and the red-cloak craze in portraits, 188;
portraits of the author and her sister by, _ib._
Graves, Hon. Henry, portrait of the author by, 189
_Great Eastern_ steamship, its builder, 295
Green, Paddy, and Horace Walpole’s “Opera Pass,” 253-254
Green Park, old Ranger’s Lodge in, 163
Gregory, Sir William, as cat purveyor, 228
Greville, Mr. Charles, his nickname, 258
Grévin, caricaturist, 308
Grieve, George, destroyer of Madame du Barry, 104 _et seq._
Grieves, Mr. Mackenzie, the late, a well-known figure in Paris society,
309-310
Groome, Archdeacon Hindes (the late), 127;
Misses, two survivals noted by, 127-128;
Mrs., and the Cheltenham Sedan-chair, 128
Grosvenor Square, No. 9, drawing-room in, 152
Grote, Mrs., her claim to Norman descent, 56
Guinea-pigs as a table dish, 15
Gurney, Mr., his steam coaches, 294
Guy Fawkes celebrations, 143

Haliburton, Lord, 315
Hambro, Mr., 254
Hamilton, Emma, Lady, cabinets once owned by, 220
Hammersley and Morland, bankers of Madame du Barry, 104
Hammersmith, its nursery gardens and fine fruit, 310
Hancock’s steam omnibus, 294
Hanged man’s hand, curative power ascribed to, 277-278
Hanging in chains, 275, 277;
the last case of, 276
Hanson, Mr., and others associated with the American “Dauphin,” 116
Harcourt, Sir William, and the _Owl_, 17;
his _mot_ on “The Souls,” 15
Harold, King, and the battle of Hastings, 56, 57-58
Hastings, the battle of, 57-58
Haversham, Lord and Lady, artistic tastes of, 152
Hawkins, Mr., art collector, his eccentricities, 211
Hay, Lady Emily, afterwards Lady Emily Peel, marriage of, 27
Hay Hill, inn sign near, 148;
robberies on, eighteenth century, 148-149
Hayward, Mr. Abraham, and the _Owl_, 17;
his _Art of Dining_, 130;
his powers of port wine drinking, 136
Henniker, Hon. Mary and Hon. Helen, 314-315
Hepplewhite, 212, 214
Herbert, Sir R., 226
Hertford, Marquis, as collector, 184;
the Tilsit table, 208-210
Hervey, Lord, and his lovely wife, 178
Hewgill, Captain, military prints published by, 205
Higgins, Mr., the tailor, and the word “Piccadilly,” 154
Highclerc Castle, Napoleonic relic at, 80
Highwaymen in Mayfair, 148-150
Hinchingbrooke, 45
Hogarth, William, _mise en scène_ of his “Mariage à la Mode,” 155;
paintings by, at Vauxhall, 247
Holard, Monsieur, Napoleon’s gardener, his tales of his imperial master,
84 _et seq._,
his life-story, 86-87
Holland, Lady (_née_ Vassall), her first husband and life at Battle Abbey,
59;
her elopement and marriage with Lord Holland, 60;
her court at Holland House, 60, 63;
her kinship with the author, 61;
sham funeral of her daughter, 61;
her ways and insolence, 61-63;
some pleasanter traits, 63-64;
a clever criticism, 64
— Lord, and his wife, 60;
his character, 64
Holland House, duel fought behind, 174;
in Lady Holland’s days, 60 _et seq._
Home Rule movement, the, and Mr. Gladstone, 77
Hone, Nathaniel, miniature by, of Horace Walpole, 179
Hooker, Sir Joseph, 239
Horsham gaol, scene of the last “pressing to death,” 278-279
Horsley, Mr. J. C., R.A., designer of the first Christmas card, 201
Hortense, Beauharnais, Queen of Holland, and the hortensia blooms, 85-86
Hortensia or hydrangea plant, 85;
some famous lovers of, 86
Hôtel de Ménars, _boiserie_ of, now in London, 207
Houdin, Robert, conjurer, a story of, 259-260
Houghton, Lord, 155;
and the _Owl_, 17
Hudson, Mrs., and her Malapropism, 37;
Mr., the “railway king,” 293
Hunt, William, and his paintings, 193-194;
Ruskin on, 194
Hussar, the English, the creator of, _see_ Géramb
Hyde Park, carriages in, 172;
deer hunts and poaching in, 161;
dress in, 169-170;
duelling in, 173;
gallows in, 164;
once royal property, 162;
Peel’s scheme for adorning, 163;
railway station, proposed, in, 165;
riots in, 166;
smoking in, 137;
walnut avenue formerly in, 173
Hyde Park Corner, 164

Ibbetson, engraved tickets by, 200
_Illustrated London News_, 303
Inn signs in Mayfair, 145, 148
Invitation cards, author’s collection of, 10
Irish question, Bernal Osborne’s views on, 77
Ironwork railings, past and present designs in, 142
— Sussex, author’s collection of, 281
Irving, Sir Henry, letter from, with a bookplate, 257
Italian political caricatures, 8

Jacobean oak furniture, how to recognise, 223
James, Lord, of Hereford, his pleasant shooting-parties, 190
James III. (the Pretender, _q.v._), letter from, to Mr. Carte, 340
“Jean III.,” descendant of Naundorff, 117
Jerningham family, the, of Costessey Hall, French connections of, 108-109
Jersey, Countess of, and Disraeli, 68
Jewish marriage, a, witnessed by author, 262-263
_John Bull_ newspaper, 304
Johnston, Mr. Butler, 25
Jones collection of French furniture, 206
— Inigo, architect, 164, 194
Jordan, Mrs., silhouette of, 197
Josephine, Empress, 81, 83
Jubilee of 1887, souvenirs of, 10

Kensington Gardens, duel in, 173
— Palace, old prints of London Parks in, 160
Ketteringham Hall, and Mrs. Atkyns, 110-111;
her memorial erected by its present owners, 112
Kirk, military prints engraved by, 205
Kleist, Field-Marshal Baron von, and Napoleon I., 92
Knole, art treasures of, and curiosities, 223-225
Knox, Rev. Mr., of Trotton, 284
Kourakin, Prince, and the Tilsit table, 209

Lamb, Mr., at Eglinton Tournament, 306
Landseer, Sir Edwin, gift from, 231
Lansdowne passage, the bar in, and its _raison d’être_, 149
Larabit, Monsieur, on Napoleon in Elba, 89
Largillière, portrait by, strange vicissitudes of, 183
Larochejaquelein, General, dying confidence to, of the Duchesse
d’Angoulême, 116
La Rouérie, Marquis de, a gallant Chouan leader, 98
Launay, Nicholas de, famous print by, 205
Leamington, Mr. Burgess’s art treasures at, 217
Lecourbe, General, and his reconciliation with Napoleon I., 90 _et seq._
Leg-iron of hanged man, owned by author, 275-276
Legoux, engraved benefit tickets by, 200
Leicester, last case of hanging in chains at (1834), 276
Leighton, Lord (the late), 190
Lennox, Lady Alexandra, portrait of, by Graves, 189
— Lord Alexander Gordon, on George Payne and his respect for religion, 53
— Lord Henry, and his slang, 38
Lepell, “Molly” (Lady Hervey), verses on, 178
Lewin, derivation of name, according to Mrs. Grote, 56
Link extinguishers, 152
Lion dogs of China, 229-230
_Lions comiques_, 252
Locker, Mr. Frederick, verses by, on St. James’s Street, 158-159
Lockwood, Sir Frank, New Year’s cards designed by, 7
Lombard, Pierre, and his daughter, ancestors of the Walpoles, 315
London, architectural changes in, 140 _et seq._;
expansion of, 310-311;
Madame du Barry in, 105;
Sunday demonstrations in, 166
— parks, hunting in, 160-161;
old prints of, 160;
a proud proprietor of, 162;
wild life in, to-day, 161-162
— streets, noises in, past and present, 142;
vanishing characteristics of, 142 _et seq._
Londonderry, Marchioness of, her stately receptions, and friendship for
Disraeli, 69;
her crinoline, 156
Long, Mr., notabilities met at his house, 254
— Rt. Hon. Walter, and the true text of Lord R. Churchill’s exclamation on
hearing that his resignation had been accepted, 21
Longchamps, 309
Longleat, 44;
pleasures of visits to, 45
Lonsdale, Earl of, and his postillions, 11
Louis, Dauphin of France (Louis XVII.), attempted rescues of, the problem
of his fate, and his impersonators, 109 _et seq._
Louis XV., 102, 106, 107
Louis XVI., 82-83
Louis XVIII. and the dog of Mme. de Caylus, 232;
ingratitude of, to Mrs. Atkyns, 111
Louisa, Queen of Prussia, her favourite flower, 86;
and Napoleon I., 92
Loutherbourg, De, and his scene-painting, 194
Louveciennes, residence of Madame du Barry, 105;
alleged buried treasure at, 106
Lowe, Sir Hudson, and Napoleon I., 94
Lunatics, care of, past and present, 165-166
Lyndhurst, Lord, 73
Lynn, a schoolfellow of Napoleon I. at, 80
Lytton, Sir G. Bulwer, his house in Charles Street and its Pompeiian room,
151

Macirone, Colonel, his steam car, 294
Mallock, Mr. W. H., a dog’s epitaph by, 232
Malmaison, Napoleon at, 84;
his gardener’s stories, 85, 87
Manning, Mr., his travels in the East, his passport from Napoleon I., and
the sequel in St. Helena, 93-94
Marble Arch, the, 164
Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, tragedy of her fate, 82, 100 _et seq._
Marie Louise, Empress, a glimpse of, 81-82
Marlborough, Duke of (about 1770), his match with a running footman, 147
Mayfair, the original, abolition of, 152-153;
highwaymen in, 148-150
Melbourne, Earl of, and Lady Holland, 63
Menus, author’s collection of, 9, 10
Midhurst, its arms and associations, 277
“Midnight Review, The,” poem, by von Seidlitz, two versions of, 94 _et
seq._
Military prints, a pretty set, 215
Millais, Sir J. E., 190
Mitchell, General, Sir John, gift from, 235
Modane, instance from, of “English as she is wrote,” 129-130
Molesworth, Lady, 253
Monk, Bishop, and his wig, 268
Mount Street, bachelor abodes in, past and present, 157-158;
military associations of, 150;
its architecture, 141
“Mrs. Poodles,” a Siamese cat, 227
Munich in 1837, 121, 123
Munro of Novar, his eccentricities, 25, 26
Music halls, past and present, 252

Napoleon I., relics of, in England, 78, 80 _et seq._;
the invasion scare, as affecting East Anglia, 79-80;
his wives, 81;
portraits of, his attitude during Mass, 82-83;
his beliefs and superstitions, his love of church bells, 84;
at Elba, tales of, 85 _et seq._;
traces of, 88;
his power over men, a tale of, 90 _et seq._;
alleged visit to London, 94;
on the death of Marie Antoinette, 100
Napoleon III., in England, 306;
a portrait of, by Count D’Orsay, 190
Naundorff, the pretended Louis XVII., 115;
his descendants, 117
Needlework carpets, 50;
pictures, 204
Nelson, 180,181, 269-270
Nelthorpe, Colonel, permanent visitor at Wolterton, 46, 47
Nemours, Duke of, 204
Nevill, Miss Meresia, and the Primrose League, 19
New College, Oxford, dumb-bell machine at, 224
_Newcastle-upon-Tyne Courant_, antiquity of, 304
“Newman’s Greys,” at weddings, 11
Newmarket, 50;
Lord Orford’s Mecca, 55
Newspapers, 303 _et seq._
Nightcaps, Dr. Burney’s lines on, 269-270
Norfolk, advent of the railway, 292;
beliefs and customs, 313;
newspapers, early in the field, 303;
police first constituted, 292;
“squarsons” and their ways, 13
_Norfolk Chronicle_, age of, 303
Normandie, Duc de, Naundorff’s assumed title, 115
Northampton, two hanging stories of, 276-277
Norton, Hon. Mrs. (_née_ Sheridan), 14;
and the _Owl_, 17
Norwich, anti-catholic feeling in, 109;
hatred shown by, to Napoleon I., 79;
democrats of, 114;
Peace Society’s doings at, 47
_Norwich Postman_, antiquity of, 303

O’Connell, Daniel, first Roman Catholic M.P., 300
Oliphant, Laurence, and the _Owl_, 16
Onslow, Earl of, tries to acclimatise crayfish, 133
Opera, the, and its attractions, 254;
the crush-room, 255-256
Orford, Earl of (author’s brother), stories of, 13, 14, 172, 231, 267;
letter to, from Lord Beaconsfield, 73-74
— Earl of (author’s father), 84,158;
characteristics and opinions of, 48, 123, 292, 296;
his racing, 50, 64-65
— Earl of (author’s nephew), old documents owned by, 174
Orrock, Mr. James, connoisseur and collector, 217, 218;
scheme for National Gallery of British Art, 212
Osborne, Bernal, 253;
his election struggles, 2, 3;
on the author’s gardening tastes, 239-240;
nicknames given by, 68, 76;
his attitude to Palmerston, 65-67;
his “parrot” story, 234;
his repartee, 3, 4;
his views on the Irish question, 77
Otway, the poet, his birthplace and career, 285;
his death and tomb, 286
Over-taxation, clever squib on, 4-6
_Owl, The_, its staff and supporters, 15;
its dinners, 16, 17;
its jokes, verse, and riddles, 17-18
Oxford, Edward, attempt of, to kill Queen Victoria, 165

Paas, Mr., his murderer, the last man hanged in chains, 276
_Pall Mall Gazette_, 304
Palmerston, Lord, his social qualities, 65;
as a politician, 66;
Bernal Osborne’s attitude to, 65, 66-67;
Cobden’s dislike for, 67
Parham Park, a smuggler’s haunt, 274
Paris, Napoleonic relics in, 89;
noted English residents in, 309
Paris, the Comte de, and the French “White Rose League,” 18, 19
Paris Exhibition, 1878, 308
Parliament, changes in, 300
Parr’s steam carriage, 293
Parrot story, the, of Bernal Osborne, 234
Payne, George, his racing experiences, 51-52, 54;
his religious feeling, 53
Peel, Sir Robert, and the Holbein painting of the Barbers’ Company, 124,
125;
his scheme for adorning Hyde Park, 163
Pekinese dogs, 231
Pelletan, Dr., and the heart of the alleged Dauphin (Louis XVII.), 119
Pellew, Lady, daughter of Lady Holland’s first marriage, her sham funeral,
Byron on, 61; 261
Pellew, Miss, grand-daughter of Lady Holland, her connection with the
author, 61
Pender, Sir John, famous party of, to celebrate the telegraph cable to
India, 155
Penny postage introduced, 296
Perceval, Mr., the assassinated statesman, letter to, from Mrs. Atkyns,
113-114
— Rev. Mr., and Naundorff, 115
Petit Trianon, and its associations, 101-102
Petworth, the last of the smugglers at, 275
Piccadilly, origin of the name discussed, 154
Pictures, needlework, 204
Pigeons in London, 162
Piombino, Princess Elise of, sister of Napoleon, 87
Police, modern, established, 291
Ponsonby, Hon. Gerald, 221
Poole, the Custom-House murders at (1749), a relic of, 275-276
Pope, the (Gregory XVI.), Lord Vernon’s interview with, a discussion on
Dante, 8-9
Post-chaises, 50
Posy-rings, 270-272
Poyntz family, connection of, with Cowdray, and its curse, 284
Pressing to death (_peine forte et dure_), last instance of, 278-279
Pretender, the, a strange likeness to, 101;
portrait of, 195-196;
secret negotiations of, with Sir R. Walpole, 317
Primrose League, the, its originator, 19;
interest in, of the Comte de Paris, 18, 19
Print-collecting, French prints, 205-206;
military prints, 295
Public execution, the last, in England, 276
Publicity, modern love of, 27

Queen Anne furniture, 216, 218
Queensberry, Duke of (“Old Q.”), his running footmen, 146

Races won by the author’s father, 54
Raffet’s lithograph of “The Midnight Review,” 95
Railways and the railway mania, 292-293
Ratton Row, a common name for streets, 167
Récamier, Dr., 99
Redgrave, Miss, her artistic gifts, her friends, 191-193
— Mr. Samuel, artistic knowledge of, 191
Reform Bill, changes following, 295 _et seq._
— Disraeli’s, 75-76
Religion, attitude towards, of some non-churchgoers, 53-54
Resurrection men, 280
Richmond, Duke of, coming of age festivities of, 46
— Duke of (the late), rare dogs bred by, 230
Ritchie, Mr. Leitch, his translation of “The Midnight Review,” 95 _et
seq._
Robinson, Sir Charles, 183
Roller skating, vogue of, 248-249
Rome, carnival in (1842), 8;
a theatrical performance at (1845), 261
Ros, Lord de, 198-199
Rosalba, pastels by, of Walpoles, 180
Rothschild, Miss Alice, French art treasures of, 208
— Mr. Alfred, his French art treasures, 207
Rotten Row, past and present, question of its name, 167-169;
some former _habitués_, 170
Rougeville, Chevalier de, his devotion to Marie Antoinette, 101
Rous, Admiral, why he left the navy, 51;
his dislikes, 52
Russell, John Scott, his steam car, 295
— Lord John, appearance and manner of, 67;
Bernal Osborne’s nicknames for, 68
Rutland, a former Duke of, and his hunting accidents, 273

Sackville, Lord, treasures of, at Knole, 223-225
St. Clement Danes church, tomb of Otway in, 286
St. Helena, Napoleon I. at, 85, 87
St. James’s Park, otter hunt in, 160-161
— Square, memories concerning, 151-152
— Street and its clubs, Locker’s verses on, 158-159
Sala, George Augustus, on Paris, 308-309
Samplers, 204
Sancroft, Archbishop, 319
Sandringham, 232-233
Sandwich, Lady, 45
Sardou, Monsieur, his views on the fate of the Dauphin (Louis XVII.), 118
Satan and the church-goer, 54
_Saturday Review_, 304
Savarin, Brillat, on the truffle, 131
Saxe-Weimar, late Prince Edward of, and the financier, 31
Scene-painters afterwards otherwise famous, 194
Scenery in theatres, first use of, in England, 195
Schlieman, Dr., his collections, 186
Scrap-books of the author, 1
Sedan-chair, a, used at Cheltenham in the ’sixties, 128
Seidlitz, Baron von, author of “The Midnight Review,” 94
Selwyn, George, 151
Serjeants’ rings, 271
Sèvres-china, some splendid specimens, 210-211;
a famous commode and its adventures, 210
Seymour, Lady, and Lady Shuckburgh, amusing letters between, about a cook,
305
— Lord Henry, in Paris, 309
Shepherd’s Market, 153
Sheppard, Jack, the highwayman, in Mayfair, 153
Sheraton, 212 _et seq._;
his opinion of Chippendale, 214;
features of his work, 215
Sherbrooke, Lord, lines by, on the “Garden of Friendship,” Cortachy, 245;
squibs on his proposed match tax, 6
Sheridan, his suggestion for building in Hyde Park, 168
Sheriffs and Judges, running footmen of, as late as 1851, 147
Shirts, clean, one way of wearing, 126-127
Siamese cats of the author, 226-229
Silhouettes owned by the author, 196-197
Silkworm culture, successful, of the author, 242-243
’Sixties, ways and customs of the, 155-156 _et seq._
Skin, human, put to gruesome use, 279-280
Smirke, engraved tickets by, 200
Smith, Rev. Sydney, once minister of Berkeley Chapel, 150;
political squib attributed to, 4-6
— Sergeant, deserter, execution of, in Hyde Park, 164
Smithurst, the smuggler, 275
Smoking, past and present, 52, 137-138
Smuggling stories, 274-276
Snuff-boxes, Mr. Hawkins’s, 211
Socialism, causes leading up to, 297
Society, modern, 22
— moral status of, 297-298
— of the past, 22;
its leaders and noted conversationalists, 23
— pleasures of, 297 _et seq._
Somerset, Duchess of (_née_ Sheridan), her wit and beauty, 14;
her use of guinea-pigs as food, 15
— the Protector, letters to, at Longleat, 44
“Souls, The,” Sir W. Harcourt on, 15
Southhill Park, 152
Soyer, famous cook, his artistic wife, their grave and its inscription,
135
Spencer House and its designer, 164
Squarsons, stories of, 13
Stanfield, J. C, as scene-painter, 194
Stanhope, Lady Hester, 163
Steam carriages, 293-295
Stock Exchange, the, as a social power, 30-31, 299
Straight, Sir Douglas, 304
Strawberry Hill, Lady Waldegrave’s “decorations” at, 40
Stuart memorials and portraits collected by Earl of Orford (the late), 195
— papers found by the present Earl, 317 _et seq._
— period, furniture of, 222, 223
Suckling, owners of Nelson’s sword, 180
Suffield, Countess (the “Double Dow”), aristocratic insolence of, her
carpet work, 49;
an eighteenth-century dame, 50
Sussex, customs, songs, and superstitions, 265-266, 277-278;
ironwork, 281-282;
roads, eighteenth century, 280;
smuggling in, 274 _et seq._
Sutherland, Duke of (the late), 137
Sutton, Miss, marriage of, with the Chevalier de Bardelin, 80

Taglioni, 254;
on modern dancing, 255
Talleyrand, Charles Maurice, on Lady Holland’s caprices, 64
Teanby, William, watch-papers by, 199
Tennyson, Lord (the late), 67, 68
Testina, author’s mare, a long ride on, 233
Thackeray, W. M., 42
Theatres, 254;
foreign, 260-262
Thorburn, portrait by, of the author, 189
Thurgar’s school, Norwich, 80
Thynne, Sir John, builder of Longleat, 44
Tickets, engraved for balls and concerts, author’s collections, 200
Tides, Norfolk superstition about, 313
Tilsit, Treaty of, a relic of, 80, 208-210
_Times_, the, and the _Owl_, 16;
an odd advertisement in, 305
Tokens issued by towns, 288
Toole, Mr., the late, cause of his success, 256;
his love of joking, 258
Töplitz, a Jewish wedding at, 262-263
Torrington, Lord, 253
Trafalgar Square riots, 166
Trotton church, “restoration” of, 286, 287
— Place, 284;
association of, with Otway, 285
Truffles, English, excellence of, 131-132
Turkish ambassador, a story of a, 157
Turko-Russian affairs, 1878, 25;
Lord Beaconsfield on, in 1876, 74
Tyburn, executions at, 164;
one useful result of, 125
— stream, extant traces of its course, 167

“Ugly Mugs,” 197-198
_Undaunted_, vessel which took Napoleon to Elba, 88
Unemployed processions, a story of, 167
Valentines, 201
Van der Weyer, M., Belgian Minister, his reply to Lady Holland, 62
Vanneck family, “conversation” group of, by Devis, 181;
their connection with the Walpoles, 181-182
Vardy, architect, 164
Vauxhall Gardens, in old days, fate of, 246-247
Vernon, Lord, his Dante discussion with Pope Gregory XVI., 8, 9
Versailles, alleged buried treasure at, 102
Vestris, Madame, in Curzon Street, 154
Vicenza, a glimpse of the Comte de Chambord at, 99
Victoria, Queen, attempts on her life, 165;
libellous description of her habits, 263-264
Victoria and Albert Museum, 211
Victorian era, art of, 40
— furniture, its ugliness, 216
Vienna, ladies of, carpet made by, for Lord Westmoreland, 50
Village life, changes in, 312 _et seq._
Villegagnon, Madame de, and her husbands, 182
Visitors “down with the fish,” 43

Waddesdon, art treasures at, 208
Waldegrave, Frances, Countess of (_née_ Braham), her character, her place
in society, her doings at Strawberry Hill, 39, 40
Wallace, Lady, 186
— Sir Richard, 309
Wallace Collection, the, and its founder, 184;
why not left to France, 185;
treasures of French art, 80, 208, 211
Walpole, characteristics, 315-316
— portraits and relics owned by the author, 179 _et seq._
— Admiral Galfridus, his portrait and his sword, 180
— Colonel Walpole of Heckfield Place, Stuart relics owned by, 195
— Colonel John, and his crest, 110
— Hon. Thomas, his wife and misfortunes, 181;
his honesty, 182;
his second wife, _ib._
— Horace, 109, 163;
as a child, miniature of, by Hone, 179;
another portrait, _ib._;
a relic of, 182;
his old Opera Pass, 253-254
— Lady, author’s great grandmother, her carpet work and spinning, 50
— Madame, her garden, 110
— The Hon. Frederick, father of present Lord Orford, 317
— Sir Spencer, 113;
his great-grandmother, 181;
a “serious” Walpole, 315
— Sir Robert, connection of, with Nelson, 180;
his otter hounds, in St. James’s Park (1739), 161;
some secret negotiations of the Pretender with, 317 _et seq._
— Robert, father of Mrs. Atkyns, 110
Walpole Street, Chelsea, 318
Ward, Messrs. Marcus, and Co., and Christmas cards, 202
Wassailing, 265-266
Watch-papers owned by the author, 199-200
Watch-stands, old, 203-204
Watts, G. F., the late, letter from, 34;
interest of, in Zazel, 251
Wealth, modern dominance of, 32
Webb, John, designer of scenery, etc., 194
Webster, an artist, his pictures, 191-193
— Sir Augustus, present owner of Battle Abbey, 59
— Sir Godfrey, first husband of Lady Holland, 59
Weddings, former-day, stories of, 10-13;
a Jewish, 262-263;
rural (Norfolk), customs at, 313
Weir, Mr. Harrison, 226
Wellington, 1st Duke of, French residence of (1817), 85;
his meeting with Nelson, 180
— 2nd Duke of, his dislike of press publicity, 27
West, Colonel and Mrs. Sackville, and the Knole art treasures, 224, 225
Westminster, Duke of, 140
Westminster Aquarium, Zazel’s cannon feat at, 250-251
West Norfolk Regiment of Militia, some names associated with, 47
Wharncliffe, Lord and Lady, and the _Owl_, 17
“White Rose League,” origin and fate of, 19
White’s Club, its bow windows, 158
Wilberforce, Rt. Rev. S., Bishop of Oxford, and the _Owl_, 17
Wilkie, Sir David, 193
William the Conqueror and the Battle of Hastings, 56-58
William IV., 194;
and Mrs. Jordan, his love for children, a story of, 197-198
Williams, Eleazar, the American pretended Dauphin (Louis XVII.), 115 _et
seq._
Wimborne House, Arlington Street, its names and occupants, 155
Windham, Mr., 168
Wine-drinking, past and present, 136-137
Wolff, Sir Henry Drummond, and the _Owl_, 18;
his powers as _raconteur_, 18;
one of the Fourth Party, 18;
the originator of the Primrose League, 19;
stories of Napoleon I. told to, at Elba, 84 _et seq._
Wolterton Hall, and its treasures, 81, 174, 195, 317;
a permanent guest at, 46
Woolett J., watch-paper by, 200
_Worcester Journal_, antiquity of, 304
Wortley, Mr. James Stuart, and the _Owl_, 16

York, Duke of (eighteenth century), 148
— Cardinal, portrait of, at Heckfield Place, 195

Zamor, Madame du Barry’s black page, 107;
his latter days, 108
Zazel and her performance, 250-251
Zouche, Baroness de la, and the smugglers, 274

THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.

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*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Leaves from the Note-Books of Lady Dorothy Nevill" ***

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