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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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