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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The housemaid was bewildered and humiliated, but

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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