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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like a lamb,” I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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