In speaking of Althorp, the home of my dear cousin, Lord Spencer, I place no dates at head of the chapter, as my constant visits there embraced the period of many years, and I am grateful to say that, even at this present writing, I am still welcome in that resort of former happy days. It is a place of so much interest as to claim some description from my pen. Althorp has been the home of the Spencer family since the reign of Henry VIII. The Library consisted of seven rooms, the very walls composed of books, 50,000 in number, one room containing the rarest editions—Block books, the first book ever printed in movable type, the largest collection of Caxton and his pupils, and the early Venetian printers, the famous Boccaccio, which produced at the sale of the Duke of Roxburgh, in 1812, the largest sum which had ever been paid for a single book up to that date. The competitors for this prize were the Marquess of Blandford, and George John, second Earl Spencer; it was knocked down to the former for £2,260, but being in difficulties some time afterwards, he was fain to sell it to the owner of the Althorp Library for the comparative small sum of £750. The mention of this volume reminds me of an incident which occurred to me at Ferrara while travelling with my dear mother, when we paid a visit to the Public Library in that town. The custode showed me a rare edition of Ariosto’s “Orlando Furioso,” telling me at the same time that there was a duplicate in the possession of an English Count; and I can well recall the pride with which I informed him that that Count was my cousin. During the remainder of my visit, which lasted another ten minutes, I was treated with increased respect as the kinswoman of the Count in question.

But to return to Althorp. The staircase occupying the centre of the house, originally an open court, is supposed to have been enclosed by the first Countess of Sunderland (Sacharissa). The avenues were planted by Le Notre, who laid out Versailles for Louis XIV. The heronry was planted in the year of the Spanish Armada, as is shown by the date carved on the memorial stone. From the heronry Whyte Melville, in his charming novel of “Holmby House” (Holdenby), describes the hawking party galloping across the park, past the Hawking Tower, a small lodge with open galleries, in which the ladies sat to observe the sport. This lodge, now modernised in aspect and inhabited by the keeper, was built to commemorate the visit of Queen Anne of Denmark and her son on their road from Scotland, when Ben Jonson’s masque was played, the poet being an intimate friend of the Lord Spencer of the time.

The Portrait Gallery is very remarkable, running nearly the whole length of the house, and honourable mention is made of the contents by Evelyn in his Diary, while the later treasures contributed by Sir Joshua Reynolds and Gainsborough have been frequently eulogised by more modern chroniclers. John Spencer, the second son of the third Earl of Sunderland, inherited the estate of Althorp on the succession of his elder brother to the Dukedom of Marlborough. John, or Jack, as he was familiarly called, was the scapegrace of the family, in spite, or perhaps on account of which, he was the favourite of his maternal grandmother, Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough. He was always in debt, or in some scrape or another, and many were the lovers’ quarrels which passed between them. On one occasion “Jack” was in such disgrace with Her Grace that she ordered him out of the room, and desired him never to darken her doors again. The first part of her command was obeyed, but the room being on the ground floor, and the window open at the time, scarcely five minutes had elapsed before the culprit had jumped in again and, kneeling humbly at his grandmother’s feet, easily obtained the pardon which he had so often forfeited. After the death of the third Earl Spencer, better known under his ministerial appellation of Viscount Althorp, the title and estates devolved on his brother, the Honourable Frederic Spencer, my second cousin by birth, my first cousin by marriage, his wife being Elizabeth Poyntz. From that time my family and I became frequent guests at this Northamptonshire home.

Lord Spencer, who was known to his contemporaries as “Fritz,” was in the Navy, and distinguished himself at the Battle of Navarino. He was a sailor every inch of him, with a downright and almost abrupt manner, contrasting with his kind and sympathetic nature, after a fashion by no means displeasing to those who knew him intimately. “There he goes,” was the description given of him one day, “with his rough bear’s coat buttoned lightly over his tender heart.” The speaker was my brother Cavendish, whose appointment as Governor of the Military Prison at Weedon (only six miles from Althorp) brought him into the neighbourhood, and, what was better, into constant contact with a man whom he admired and loved, and of whom he became the frequent and confidential companion. Thus it came about that we were intimately connected with the joys and sorrows of the Spencer household. How many hours of intellectual and social delight have I passed under Althorp’s hospitable roof! During the course of the visits here alluded to, which spread over several years, many were the festivities and pleasant gatherings we enjoyed at the time-honoured old house.

One evening we gave a theatrical performance consisting of the pretty little comedietta of “The Rough Diamond,” in which Frederic Ponsonby,^[61] Cavendish, and I took the principal parts, and another time we arranged some tableaux vivants, which were among the best I have ever seen. We took two or three of the Sir Joshua’s which embellished the walls; one, a picture of his grandfather, was impersonated by the present lord, whose likeness to the original painting was most striking. Another most beautiful tableau was that of Lady Waldegrave and her two sisters, from the famous group at Strawberry Hill. Lady Spencer and her two sisters^[62] represented the three ladies in this exquisite portrait; and once more the family likeness they bore to the picture in question made it appear rather a replica than a living representation. The magnificent Vandyke of the two brothers-in-law, Lords Bristol and Bedford, which have been the glory of many later exhibitions, formed another successful specimen of our skill, and was entered in the programme as a miniature copy. The two noblemen above mentioned were personated by Horace Seymour^[63] and Courtenay Boyle, the one dark, the other fair, but both comely youths at the time of which I am speaking. In this slight record of the annals of Althorp during my time, I cannot resist making some allusions to more than one member of the household whose doings and sayings caused us no slight amusement.

Prominent among these was the house-steward, Thorpe, a man of great importance in his own estimation, as well as in that of others. His tastes were ultra-aristocratic, his manners in accordance with his tastes, and his language choice, very flowery, and sometimes quite original. One day, soon after his return from Cambridge, Lord Althorp thus addressed the worthy major-domo: “I think you understand that I wish my servant, Lennard, to go out of livery and become an upper servant.” “My lord,” was the pompous reply, “I have already given him his statu quo.”

One afternoon when the reception-rooms were being decorated for a ball, to which the whole neighbourhood was invited, Lady Spencer (the present) asked Thorpe if the gardener had finished arranging the ornamental monogram over the door. “Well, my Lady,” was the reply, in a hesitating tone of voice, “I believe he has done so, but I wish your Ladyship would cast an eye over it.” Lady Spencer saw by the speaker’s manner that there was something he found fault with. “I am very busy,” she said; “is it not all right?” “I am sorry to say, my Lady,” the words pronounced in a tone of deep regret, “they have placed over your Ladyship’s monogram a paltry baron’s coronet.”

Another remarkable member of the community was Mrs Chouler, the wife of the aged gamekeeper, whose conjugal indignation was aroused one evening by the following incident. The order of the day, or rather night, had been charades, and finding that the hour was not late, we determined to eke out our performance with a word which had a local and limited interest. The day had been memorable to the family circle, on account of our young lord having made his first appearance in full and regular costume of the Pytchley Hunt. To commemorate so auspicious an event, we chose the word “Althorp.” First scene—the whole of the Dramatic Company assembled on the stage. Second scene—the great “Thorpe,” the stately house-steward before mentioned in solitary splendour. Third scene—Viscount Althorp in full hunting garb. The curtain fell amid deafening plaudits. Next day we called on Mrs Chouler, in her pretty house at the end of the avenue, and inquired her opinion of last night’s performance. “Well, Miss Mary,” she said, “of course if my lord thought proper, it was all right, but I think it struck most people as very odd that Thorpe should be bowing and scraping on the stage, when Chouler has lived in the family years and years before him.” Our expostulations were useless, it was in vain we tried to point out that “all Chouler” would not have answered, and I feel that to her dying day the memory of that evening’s festivity rankled in the mind of that faithful retainer.

Another time I paid Mrs Chouler a visit in company with what she used to call “The two Captains,” my brother Cavendish, and Captain Quin, R.N., Lord Spencer’s nephew. Says the latter: “You have a very good memory—can you tell me the name of the vessel my uncle Bob^[64] had, in such and such a year? Neither Lord Spencer nor I can remember?” After a little discussion on the subject, Captain Quin suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, yes, by-the-by, I know now; it was the Owen Glendower.” “To be sure, sir, to be sure, that is it; I knew it was something of a sea-nymph.”

The Choulers were an estimable couple, the old husband survived his wife many years, and when I last saw him, shortly before his death, still wearing his velveteen shooting-coat, with his long white hair falling on his shoulders, he looked like a figure out of one of Rembrandt’s beautiful pictures which had stepped out of its frame. He lived to the age of ninety-six.

Lord Spencer was very fond of frequenting his well-filled stables and conversing with his stud-groom as to the names and qualifications of their inmates. One day he remarked to him: “I have been thinking over the selection of a name for the new mare, but I cannot please myself yet.” “Well, my lord,” was the answer, “you bought her on the 29th of May; why not call her the ‘Merry Monarch?’” “Well,” said his master, striving to conceal a smile, “I think that will scarcely do; perhaps we had better call her ‘Empress,’ in honour of the Empress EugÉnie.” “Very good, my lord, then I shall have nothing to do but to change the tablet over Emperor’s stall by adding an ‘s’ to it!” What an easy solution to a difficulty.

The library was also rich in characters. One of its keepers, Mr Jakeman, knew the position of every single book in its seven rooms. He was an excellent and eccentric-looking man, whom we named “Dominie Sampson.” His predecessor was a short, thick-set little man, who complained once to my brother that the then Lord Spencer did not keep up the honour of the library sufficiently, as he had discontinued some of the principal works. “Well, now, Captain,” he would say, “for instance, my lord has never taken in the last numbers of the ‘Newgate Calendar.’” Read was his name, but not his nature; he was very deaf, and even I, who flattered myself I knew how to make the deaf hear, found a difficulty in his case. He told us that some years before, he had had a heavy cold and it had fallen on his hearing; it must indeed have been very heavy.

It was in the Christmas of the year 1857 that a large party was assembled at Althorp, including my brother Cavendish, his wife, their eldest boy and myself; but alas! the chief part of the guests were obliged to disperse, and the happy season was turned into mourning by the sudden death of our noble host, Frederic, Lord Spencer, leaving a whole household, a large tenantry, and a wide circle of friends to mourn his premature death. We remained on for some days to share in the common grief of his widow and children. But his successor never slackened in kindness and hospitality to the inmates of the Weedon prison, and the “Gaoler,” as he was familiarly called, was still welcome in the old home, and still continued the charge he had undertaken of the precious Library, finding in Sarah Spencer^[65] an invaluable colleague in this labour of love.

I trust I have not been led into too long a digression in this record of the days which are no more, bound up as they are with fond memories of beloved companions, concerning whom it is a sad delight to converse with the dear cousin to whom I have dedicated these pages.