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

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

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

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

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

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

Another juvenile enormity in which we indulged was to warn the tourists, whom we saw approaching the precincts of the labyrinth or maze, not to follow the directions of the gardener, whose aim it was to mislead them, but to listen to our advice, and take the course we prescribed for them. Our delight was unmingled when we heard the gardener, raised aloft on a high seat, feebly attempting to arrest their steps, while our misguided victims steadily pursued the road which led to obstruction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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