In the year 1840, my mother gave up the apartments she had so long occupied at Hampton Court Palace—the place having become intolerable to her since the death of her beloved and only brother, Mr Poyntz, who had died suddenly at his house on the Green. This bereavement determined her to accept the offer of her brother-in-law, Lord Cork, to take possession of a small house on his property in Somersetshire, called Millard’s Hill, an unostentatious building, in a very picturesque part of the county. We took great delight in furnishing and decorating the empty rooms with our pictures and china and “treasures from many lands”—in fact, in storing our household gods, without which, no house can ever be a home. Uncomely as was the exterior of the building, the situation and surroundings were very pretty—a perfect specimen of English field and woodland, and the neighbouring walks, rides and drives were delightful. Added to these, there was another charm in my eyes, the possibility (which was very difficult for us at Hampton Court) of having domestic pets—ponies, dogs—of many different kinds, and last, though not least, a beautiful peacock of gorgeous plumage, the present of my dear friend and close neighbour, the Duchess of Somerset. “Narcissus” was as proud and jealous as he was beautiful, but very tame, and would come in at the open window, of a summer’s morning, while we were at breakfast, and eat out of my hand. On one occasion, finding my Scotch terrier sitting beside me, he flew spitefully at the interloper, and pecked him so furiously as to drive him from the field. “Chaillach,” my trusty Skye,—whom I once described as something between Lord Rochester’s wig and a door-mat; who was never out of temper, and never out of mischief—the dauntless Chaillach, whose spirit never quailed before a mastiff or a blood-hound—to be put to confusion by a mere bird!

Of Millard’s Hill and the days we passed there, I shall have to say more in a future page.^[38] In 1842 I accompanied my mother, my two younger brothers, and my sister to the prettiest sea-side town I know—Tenby, in South Wales, rich in beetling cliffs, venerable old castles, picturesque manor houses, the fields and woods of which boasted of a flora of such varied character as to attract the notice and admiration of botanists as unscientific as ourselves. Here we were joined, to the enhancement of every pleasure, by a beautiful girl and fast friend, who shared in all our pursuits inside the house and all our excursions abroad, whom I will designate here by the name of Fanny. I used to call her my damask-rose, on account of her brilliant colouring; she was at that time in the full bloom of early youth, and endowed with a high spirit, but scarcely seven years had passed from that time, ere I was called to shed bitter tears over her tragical and untimely end.

In one of our excursions from Tenby, we visited Stackpole, a charming residence of the Earl of Cawdor, where many years later I became a guest, to assist at the marriage of a dear nephew with one of the fair daughters of that noble house, and to contract a real friendship with the kind and genial representative of Shakespeare’s Thane.

Much as we all enjoyed our seaside walks and hair-breadth “‘scapes” from the sudden influx of the tide, a temptation to absent ourselves for a while came, at least to the two youngest members of the family, in the shape of an invitation (rather should I say a command) to a Court Ball. It certainly appeared a long way to go to a ball, even for me, with my dancing propensities, but, this was a bal costumÉ, and therefore doubly attractive in my eyes.

I must confess I never regretted the effort my brother Cavendish and I made on that occasion, for the memory of that night’s scene is one from which I should be loth to part.

I was to be escorted to the palace by two gentlemen of the time of William III., dressed in the garb which is so well-known in the pictures of the Prince of Orange’s landing in England. Their long square-cut coats, their costly lace cravats, and their long flowing wigs, made the two cousins (who bore a near resemblance to each other) look like twins, while I had selected the character, in nowise analogous, of “Sweet Anne Page.” The amusement found in arranging our costumes was greatly heightened by the assistance we derived from Charles Young, and the constant visits he paid us in consequence.

This eminent tragedian and delightful man, with winning voice, beautiful smile, and captivating manner, was ever most kind to me, whom he called his “wild child,” and did he not on that very night lend me his own magnificent pair of diamond shoe-buckles (the present of some great potentate) to “glitter and sparkle,” as he said, “on my little feet”?

The ball was given at St James’s,^[39] and caused great excitement in London, festivities of that kind having long fallen into disuse. It was a beautiful and deeply interesting scene, and, in my eyes, the most beautiful personage in the whole pageant was the Prince Consort! He had chosen the character of Edward III., wearing a surcoat richly embroidered with the arms of France and England, over a complete suit of armour, his open vizor and perfect profile surmounted by a kingly crown; he looked, indeed, as Tennyson has it, “A very perfect knight.”

By his side stood his faithful and loving wife, Philippa, in queenly robes, also rich in heraldic blazonry, displaying in her whole costume that adherence to historical correctness which did my dramatic heart good. The dress was rather a heavy one for our fair young Sovereign, but she bore it bravely, and her dignified and graceful dancing was the theme of universal praise.

I can vividly recall many of the different characters which were assumed for that night only. How well my dear cousin, Lady Exeter,^[40] looked as Queen Elizabeth of York; how Lord Cardigan, in a magnificent suit of elaborate armour, presented a very grand representation of the brave Bayard, the chevalier (who was at least, sans peur), and my eccentric friend, Lord Houghton, showed his poetical taste by appearing as the great Chaucer. But why enumerate a list of names, the greater part of which, alas! belong no more to the living.

Having connected Charles Young with the commencement of this chapter, I wish to make mention of some further circumstances which recur to my memory regarding him. It was during my stay in London at this period that the celebrated German actor, Emil Devrient, whose beauty rivalled his talent, was acting in London. I was anxious to study the manner in which Devrient would render some of the principal scenes, and I accordingly carried with me my well-thumbed and dog’s-eared volume of Goethe’s “Faust.” I did not intend, as many of my compatriots do, to concentrate my attention the whole evening on my book, but merely to observe the manner in which he gave some favourite passages; but my dear old friend would not allow of my doing so, in patience. He seized the volume, and in a tone of irritation unusual to him, exclaimed: “My dear child, do put down that dead book and look at that blessed man!” Charles Young was already old when I first knew him, but singularly handsome, looking like a hero of romance. Indeed his early life had a decidedly romantic colouring.

The heroine of his story was a beautiful Italian girl, of a noble family, which had given more than one Doge to Venice. She had come with her father at a time of political trouble to England, and, like many other Italian emigrants, they had supported themselves by teaching their beautiful language.

The daughter, indeed, had become a resident governess in the family of an English nobleman, where she was deservedly a favourite—so much so, indeed, as to make a deep impression on the susceptible heart of the young heir-apparent of the title. Amiable and accomplished as was the fair Venetian, the union was not calculated to obtain the parents’ approbation; and Giulia was not one to repay kindness by causing strife in the family. The young Englishman would have braved his father’s displeasure on this point, but the noble girl withstood the temptation which presented itself, and with a sad heart left the house where she had spent many happy days. Pondering how best to make use of her talents, which were considerable, and to gain a subsistence for herself, Giulia determined to go upon the stage, and it was in her capacity as an actress that she became acquainted with Charles Young, who was at that time playing the part of first lover (if I mistake not) in some provincial theatre. It was love at first sight, with the lover in question, and a beautiful young couple they must have been in those far-off days; but alas! within the year she died in giving birth to a son, named Julian, after his mother. During the time that I lived at Hampton Court, Julian Young was appointed Chaplain to the Palace, and he became the husband of my friend, Annie Willis. This favourite companion was a distinguished member of our dramatic corps, and shared in the laurels which the Sheridans, my two brothers and self, acquired in our amateur theatricals. She was deservedly admired, and I well remember Lord Normanby (the ambassador) whispering to me the night her engagement was announced: “What a pretty little edition of Young’s ‘Night Thoughts.’”