WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
It was at the house of G. P. R. James that we first became acquainted—that mutual friend of whom Landor thus speaks in one of his earliest letters to me:—
“You cannot overvalue James. There is not on God’s earth (I like this expression, vulgar or not) any better creature of His hand, any one more devoted to His high service—the office of improving us through our passions.”
The close friendship between these two men was to me inexpressively touching, inasmuch as it would be almost impossible to conceive a more striking contrast than they presented in every respect. Mr James, although a man of romance and sentiment, and by nature of an ardent temperament, had a quiet and staid demeanour, self-disciplined and self-contained; whereas all those who peruse any records of Landor must be well aware that none of the above epithets can in any way be applicable to him—such records, for instance, as Forster’s Life, the admirable sketch given by Mr Lowell of his first and only visit to that remarkable man at Bath, or the almost miraculous likeness of his moral portraiture by Mr Sidney Colvin, which caused me to ask the biographer if Landor had ever visited him in dreams. The pet name which I and my sister had for him was the “gentle savage.” Gentle and loving he was to those he loved, especially to women, both young and old; so much so indeed, as sometimes to be blinded in his discrimination of their worth, and which was unfortunately proved in his declining years when he became the dupe for a time of two designing women. The story is a well-known and most distressing one, for, when his eyes were opened, he did indeed become “savage,” and poured out the vials of his wrath in such violent and uncompromising language as legally to entitle his persecutors to heavy damages.
Gentle and pitiful he was to animals of all kinds, but dogs were his constant companions, and a large greyhound belonging to my sister was one of his special favourites. He told me once, quite in confidence, his discovery that dogs, whatever their nationality, understood Italian better than any other language; and in that soft tongue he always addressed a new canine acquaintance. In some letters written to me, which have been published in the Century Magazine, he thus speaks of “Pomero,” a dear little Pomeranian Spitz, and a great chum of my own when I used to go and pass a couple of days or so at Bath in a room hung with doubtful paintings of angels by Beato or Granacci, as he used laughingly to say, “an angel among angels”:[66]—
“Alas, I have lost my poor dear Pomero! He died after a long illness, apparently from a kick he received during my absence. The whole house grieved for him. I buried him in a coffin in the garden. I would rather have lost everything else I possessed in the world. Seven years we lived together in more than amity. He loved me with all his heart; and what a heart it was! mine beats audibly while I write about him. Pray for me and Pomero; some people are so wicked as to believe we shall never meet again.”
Charles Dickens was one of Landor’s warmest admirers; he loved him dearly, and, as the saying goes, “all round.” He understood, and was even amused, by his outbursts of eloquent vituperation, and the character he has drawn of Boythorn in “Bleak House” is true to the very life.
A school-fellow thus describes him: “In those days he was the most impetuous of schoolboys, now he is the most impetuous of men; then the loudest boy in the world, now the loudest of men; then the sturdiest boy in the world, now the sturdiest man; then the heartiest boy in the world, now the heartiest man. Talking or laughing he makes the very house shake. But it is the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man. His language is as astounding as his voice. He is always in extremes, frequently in the superlative degree. He talks sometimes like an ogre, which some people believe him to be. No one could be more aware of his irascibility than Landor himself, who told me, amid shouts of laughter, how he had overheard a peasant at his own Florentine villa describing him in these terms: ‘Oh, he’s a capital good fellow, but—— he’s a real devil when the fit’s upon him.’”[67]
Dear “gentle savage,” our whole household loved him—mother, son, daughters, and every dog in the house and yard. He would often come over to see us from Bath at our little woodland home at Millard’s Hill, and he erected at his own expense a large stone cross on the banks of Marston lake (the estate of my uncle, Lord Cork). The pedestal bore the inscription: “This symbol of safety was intended to mark the spot where Carolina Boyle[68] fell into the water, whence her sister’s courage rescued her.” Sooth to say, my exertions were rather a sign of strength than courage, for, walking by the side of the lake, I heard the terrible cry, “Help!” and coming up to the place, I leaped into the boat, and succeeded with much difficulty in lifting “Caddy”[69] into the same. I say with difficulty, as she was much bigger and taller than myself, and her clothes were entirely full of water, hanging for more than half an hour by the frail support of a willow branch, by which she was enabled to keep her head above water; the time was marked by the chimes of the clock at Marston House, which were distinctly audible on the lake. I have learned since, to my surprise and regret, that this interesting relic, namely the cross, has been removed.
Dear “gentle savage!” It is true that his voice was powerful enough to shake the house, but how tender, how musical, when he chose to modulate it! There is nothing I love more than to hear a poet read his own poems aloud, a favour in which the dear Laureate[70] has often indulged me. One day I brought two books to Landor, accompanied by a petition for the same boon. Two precious volumes, inasmuch as they were the respective gifts of our friend, G. P. R. James, and himself. In “Pericles and Aspasia” I requested him to read me the touching letter beginning “There is a gloom in deep love as in deep water,” which has ever struck me as one of the most exquisite passages in English prose, and in the “Pentameron” the book opened of itself at “Boccaccio’s Dream,” when he is blessed by the lovely vision of his lost “Fiammietta.”
More than half a century has passed away since that lecture under the shade of the sycamore in our little garden, but the tones of that voice that is gone still vibrate in my memory.
VISCOUNT STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE[71]
My first acquaintance with this eminent man, who was known to his contemporaries as the great “Elchee,” was during his residence at Westbrook Hayes, within a few miles’ distance of Ashridge where I was then staying, and while there, and on his return to his house in Grosvenor Square, I always met with great kindness, and was encouraged to be a constant visitor; that, not only by the great “Elchee” himself, but by the gentle and courteous Lady Stratford,[72] whose rare fate it had been to be a wife and an ambassadress at twenty. Between their second daughter and myself there sprung up a close intimacy, and our meetings were frequent beneath the roof of dear Lady Marian Alford, where both in London and at Ashridge we were often fellow-guests, and earnestly did I share the grief of her two surviving sisters, when dear “Catty”[73] passed away.
Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, even in his advanced years, was a man of magnificent presence, extreme personal beauty, with features which would kindle at a moment’s notice from deep calm to an expression of varied excitement. I have seldom seen a face that answered more faithfully to the feelings within, and although in his conversations with me he was ever kind and gentle, I could well imagine that it would be in no way difficult to rouse that British lion.
I was much amused by an anecdote I heard respecting him, at a time when the Eastern question was the universal theme of conversation.
One day a visitor, calling at his door, met Gladstone coming out. “How did you find Lord Stratford?” was the question addressed to the G.O.M. “Wonderfully well,” was the reply, “but quite cracked on the subject of Turkey.” The visitor entered. “I have just met Gladstone on the doorstep,” he said. “Yes,” answered Lord Stratford, “he is in great force and most agreeable, but, between ourselves, the Eastern question has sent him off his head.”
I hope I may be excused in concluding this short sketch, if I insert the following lines which he one day addressed to me, on my asking him for his autograph.
“To meet your wish I fain would write,
But doubtful how to please,
My words are flat, my notions trite,
In short, I’m ill at ease.
“What may be done in such a fix
Your wit alone can tell;
Do you find straw to make the bricks,
Be sure I’ll not rebel.
“I ask not wheat, I won’t take chaff,
Between them lies an art
Whereby to make the gravest laugh,
Yet somehow touch the heart.
“If one there be who has the skill,
To hit so nice a law,
’Tis she who prompts the tuneful quill,
And gives the golden straw.”
CARLYLE
It was on the death of his wife that Carlyle’s attached friend, Louisa, Lady Ashburton,[74] knowing the state of grief into which he was plunged by the sudden blow, persuaded him to come out to Mentone to pass some weeks with her in a charming villa not far from the hotel, La Grande Bretagne, where I was staying with Lady Marian Alford, and her son, the late Lord Brownlow. During the early part of the winter there had been daily intercourse between the Villa and the Hotel, and Lady Ashburton, anxious to distract the mourner’s mind, and give a new turn to his thoughts, induced him with herself to become a constant associate in our walks and drives, and to dine and pass the evening very frequently at the Hotel, and while away the hours in delightful conversation with the mother and son to whom I have before alluded. It was thus I learned to know and love Carlyle, of whose genius I had so long been an ardent admirer, that it was an easy transition from mere acquaintance to intimate friendship.
Our visit to Mentone came to a sad and abrupt close through the sudden death of Lord Brownlow, one of the most gifted, single-minded, unselfish beings it was ever my privilege to meet. On the day previous to his death he rode, as was his wont, his favourite cob through the pretty woods of Cap St Martin, accompanied by myself, two other lady friends, and Carlyle, on foot. It was a beautiful scene, and a beautiful calm evening, and Carlyle wrote a most touching account of that last ride, which he said was a beautiful close to a beautiful life.
I met him afterwards in more than one country house in England, and when we were together in London I was in the constant habit of knocking at the door in Cheyne Row at the hour when I knew I should have the chance of enjoying the society which I prized so highly.
In one respect, and one alone, he reminded me of Walter Savage Landor, and that was the violent invectives in which he not infrequently indulged against persons, places, and opinions—a habit with which the readers of his life have become alas! too familiar. I say alas! because I think the injudicious publication of such exaggerated expressions through the cold medium of printed words, conveys a most erroneous impression of the man himself. It is true that, even while talking with me, Carlyle would launch forth into the most unwarrantable philippics, but then he would break off suddenly, and all the venom and bitterness be drowned in a burst of ringing laughter, and his handsome, though naturally grim, face would ripple all over with good-humoured smiles, so that no one who saw or heard him could doubt for a moment the kindly nature and the tender heart.
In the printed pages no friendly look is there, no tones of genial laughter, to counteract and soften down the words that look hard and uncompromising in black and white; and as I read the interesting record of his life, I earnestly desired that many passages might have been omitted.
At this charming Hertfordshire home I was a constant guest, and I look back with gratitude and pleasure to the “many good times” and varied social enjoyments which the very name of The Grove awakens in my mind.
It seems almost presumptuous in me to speak of the late Lord Clarendon,[76] whose fame was European, yet it is impossible for me to refrain from paying a tribute, however humble, to a man I have had every reason to love and honour.
As a statesman and a diplomatist his character belongs to the annals of his country; but I can speak of him as I knew him at home, where he reigned supreme in the hearts of his wife and children, his friends, his guests, and his household. As a host he was perhaps the most genial I ever knew. In conversation I have never found any one to surpass him in brilliancy and playfulness of wit, and all without effort, without self-consciousness, and withal skilled in the profound art of nonsense. Neither did he reserve his bright sallies or his more serious views for the learned and superior, or for such men as the erudite Sir George Cornwall Lewis,[77] his brother-in-law, or his own brother, Charles Villiers,[78] although they met him on more equal grounds than the majority of his companions. Lord Clarendon, in fact, did not demand to be tried by his social peers, for in the society of the women who surrounded him—his own wife, his own daughters, and nieces, and, I may add, of myself—he shone as brightly, and took as great a delight in captivating his listeners as he could possibly have done had his audience been one of the largest and most distinguished, as it certainly was the most loving, in the world. How sociable (to use a common but expressive epithet), how snug were those domestic evenings, when one of his daughters, making herself the mouthpiece of the little circle, entreated him to read aloud to us! and how appreciative were the listeners who clustered round him as he read some scenes of MoliÈre or some pages by Macaulay! And what a laugh he had!—what a ringing, silvery laugh, which we all, the actresses of the Grove Theatre, considered our highest guerdon, to whosesoever share it fell on the night of a dramatic performance.
His sister, Lady Theresa Lewis, resembled Lord Clarendon in many points; in intellectual gifts, in character and disposition, they were as nearly allied as in blood, and no two human beings surely ever understood each other better. Lady Theresa had been very beautiful in her youth, and in more advanced years still retained a charming smile and an expression in her blue eyes which in her earlier days might have been called “playful mischief.” By nature she had the most joyous spirits, a perfectly sunny temperament such, as was once remarked to me, “God generally gave to those for whom great sorrows were in store:” and assuredly such a fate was hers in the premature death of the husband and brother she adored. I remember that dear friend once saying to me, “happiness is so natural to me, I cannot live without it, and if grief comes, either I shall kill it or it will kill me.” Alas! that brave spirit was in the end forced to yield.
Before the marriage of Lord Clarendon’s daughters[79] and nieces,[80] who were more like sisters than cousins, we had frequent theatrical performances, and were very rich in jeunes premiÈres and ingÉnues, while I generally took the part of the soubrette, “maid-of-all-work,” or lower comedian. Lord Skelmersdale[81] was stage manager as well as actor, Sir Spencer Ponsonby Fane[82] the leading comedian, and Sir Villiers Lister[83] most versatile in the parts of first lover, principal juvenile and special artist, whether as scene-painter, drop-painter, or the more delicate metier of make-up-artist to the corps dramatique. He and Lord Sefton[84] distinguished themselves one night in a splendid pas-de-deux, a tarantella in Neapolitan costume, Lord Sefton figuring as the ballerina on the occasion, with very short petticoats. One of the costumiers who had come down on duty suggested to his lordship the advisability of having a “female turned leg,” offering him the tempting option of models of the calves and ankles of those two world-renowned dancers, Cerito and Elsler.
The present Lord Clarendon and his two brothers[85] had also their names almost nightly in our bills.
In these theatrical sports we often had by-days, when the drama assumed a most illegitimate form, and one night the late Mr Bidwell,[86] so well known as an eminent amateur, appeared in an acrobatic costume as the manager of a strolling company, whose varied talents he utilised as “the strong man,” “the dancer on the tight rope” (a rather broad but very elastic deal plank), “a rapid act on a hobby-horse,” with clown and riding-master in the true circus fashion, etc., all of which fantastic tricks appeared to amuse the audience as much as they did the actors, which was all that could be expected.
From the walls of the principal apartments, which served us in our festive hours for ball- or supper-rooms, looked down upon us many a cavalier immortalised by Vandyck, and at the upper end of the dining-room one of that great Fleming’s chef-d’oeuvres. This was the splendid portrait of the famous Earl of Derby and his heroic Countess, Charlotte de-la-Tremouille. It was strange and interesting to think that of two of Lord Clarendon’s daughters, who feasted and danced beneath that picture, one[87] was destined to bear the title and inhabit the house which the lady above their heads had so gallantly defended, and the other[88] to become the wife of that noble pair’s lineal descendant.
And thus ends the record of those happy days, which I hope will not prove distasteful to any of the dear companions whose eyes may fall on these pages. Happy days they were, and varied in enjoyment. For in winter there were torch dances and skating on the water; in summer paper-chases all over the beautiful woods, with rides and walks in sweet Cassiobury Park and its environs, with joyous balls and merry suppers, with young, blooming life and cheerful companionship.
HINCHINGBROOKE
The name had been familiar to me from my earliest childhood as the home of my mother’s uncle and that of her contemporaries and favourite companions, George[89] and Mary[90]; but it was not till after my dear mother’s death that I became a frequent guest at the house she loved so well. For in the days of which I am speaking, the master[91] and mistress[92] were both friends of my own, and I had known them both before their marriage, and the cordial welcome they jointly gave me was gladly accepted and appreciated, particularly when the schoolboys came home for the holidays, for of schoolboys, I am proud to say, I have ever been a chum and crony.
Hinchingbrooke is an interesting old house, and was originally a nunnery; some parts of the religious building are still standing. It was at one time the property of the Cromwell family, and was purchased by Sir Sydney Montagu, grandfather of the first Earl of Sandwich, from the uncle of the Protector.
There is a tradition of Oliver having met King Charles I., when they were both boys, in the garden of Hinchingbrooke, when the two who were destined to be future foes engaged in a juvenile encounter, but the story requires proof.
The present structure is irregular and picturesque, having been altered and added to at intervals during the last two hundred years by succeeding owners. The entrance is through the archway of a fine gate-house, where it is said the third Earl of Sandwich, a man of feeble intellect, was confined for some time by his unscrupulous wife, the daughter of the witty but unprincipled Earl of Rochester. It is surrounded by pretty grounds rich in evergreens, situated in a small park, and presents a very imposing aspect to the railway traveller as he passes the town of Huntingdon.
The ancestors of few families however noble appear to me to have more interest for outsiders than the house of Montagu. Edward, the first Earl of Sandwich, who was so instrumental in the restoration of Charles II., is familiar to all readers of Pepys’s Diary, being the god of that amusing gossip’s idolatry. Samuel prided himself on his relationship and intimacy with Lord and Lady Hinchingbrooke, of whom he was certainly the confidant and adviser. Indeed, he lived hard by in a little cottage at Brampton, within a stone’s throw of his patron’s house, where he would often go and confer with him or “with my Lady Countess” in her husband’s absence. That noble housewife was often “put to it” to make two ends meet, in consequence of her lord’s open-handedness and the too frequent card-playing with His Majesty and the Castle men. Brave, generous, noble-hearted and affectionate, we cannot but share in his kinsman Pepys’s partiality for a man whose faults and shortcomings may in some measure be condoned by the times he lived in and the society he frequented. As an Admiral his sailors adored him; as a courtier he was reckoned good—perhaps too good—company, and at home he was tenderly loved by his wife and children and dependants. We know that his lordship was comely in feature and of a commanding presence, and there is little doubt that he himself agreed in the universal opinion, as we have innumerable portraits of him at all ages. He died a hero’s death at the engagement at Southwolds Bay in 1672, a Dutch fire-ship having set his own vessel in a blaze. The gallant Admiral, after sending off his surviving officers and crew in the boats, remained on his own quarter-deck until his good ship, The Royal James, burned to the water’s edge. There is a splendid painting of this desperate fight by Vanderweldt in what is fondly called the “ship room” at Hinchingbrooke, and on the opposite wall hangs a frame containing two fine miniatures by Cooper of the first Earl and Countess, together with a small pocket compass and a piece of the blue ribbon of the garter, discoloured by sea-water, which were found on the Admiral’s body when it floated into Harwich Harbour.
Another prominent figure in the annals of the house and its portrait gallery is John, fourth Earl, a contrast in every way to the ancestor of whom we have been treating, yet a celebrity whose name is very conspicuous in the records of George III.’s reign. He was a man of eccentric habits but undoubted talent. An amusing anecdote is told of him when acting as plenipotentiary at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1746. It was at this time, during an international dinner when toasts were passing, that the different envoys became poetical as well as loyal in their phraseology. For instance, the Frenchman gave “His Royal master, the Sun, who illuminates the whole world;” the Spaniard “His master, the Moon, scarcely inferior in brilliancy or influence,” when Lord Sandwich rose, doubtless with the twinkle in his eye and the laughing curl round the corners of his mouth we see in most of his portraits, and toasted with all the honours “His master Joshua, who made both the sun and moon to stand still.”
This remarkable man was known in social circles by the nickname of “Jemmy Twitcher,” from the following incident. He had at one time been intimate with the notorious Wilkes, the so-called champion of liberty, but disgusted by a scurrilous and disloyal poem which his quondam friend had written, Sandwich read it aloud in the House of Lords, thus gaining for it deserved obloquy. A few nights afterwards, at the representation of The Beggar’s Opera, then much in vogue, Macheath exclaimed: “But that Jemmy Twitcher should preach I own surprises me.” The greater part of the audience, who were partisans of “Wilkes and Liberty,” burst into a round of applause, applying the passage to Lord Sandwich, who never afterwards lost the sobriquet.
There is a charming picture by Gainsborough[93] of the unfortunate Miss Ray, whose romantic story tempts me into a further digression. She was serving in a haberdasher’s shop in Covent Garden when she first attracted the notice of Lord Sandwich, who was so smitten by her charms, that he took her under his protection, and she resided with him for many years both in London and the country, where her gentle, unassuming manners and remarkable talent for singing made her a great favourite. One evening Lord Sandwich brought home with him to dinner a Captain Hackman, who was on a recruiting party at the time at Huntingdon; he fell in love with Miss Ray, and proposed to her several times, until Lord Sandwich with judicious kindness secured him an appointment in Ireland, thinking it safest to place St George’s channel between him and the object of his admiration. But Hackman’s passion was strong and lasting; he left the army, entered holy orders, repaired to London where Lord Sandwich and Miss Ray then were, frequently waylaid the latter, renewed his offers of marriage, and even promised to adopt the children she had by Lord Sandwich. The refusal he received to this proposition was so decided and uncompromising as to drive him to the verge of madness. He watched Margaret Ray enter Covent Garden with some musical friends, rushed out, bought a brace of loaded pistols, and returned to the door of the theatre to await the appearance of his victim. Her coach was called in the name of Lady Sandwich, and while proceeding to it on the arm of a gentleman Hackman aimed one pistol at her and the other at himself; she fell dead, he fell wounded, and they were both conveyed to the Shakespeare Tavern. Lord Sandwich was deeply distressed at the tragic end of his fair friend; yet he wrote a letter to the murderer in Newgate, offering to intercede on his behalf, signing himself, “the man you have most injured.” But Hackman’s reply, couched in grateful terms, assured his “lordship that his only wish was to die,” and he met his death with firmness and courage.
But to return to more modern times. Many were the delightful social gatherings, many the gay dances, tableaux vivants, private theatricals, and other festive doings in which I took a willing part. How well I remember the night of the 8th of September, 1855! We had had an unusually merry evening; our theatricals had gone off brilliantly, and we had danced ourselves in to the next morning, when Lord Sandwich proposed that all his guests staying in the house should adjourn to the smoking-room to finish up what we had already made “a night of.” We presented a most motley appearance, most of the actors, male and female, having retained their dramatic costumes, some of which were especially grotesque. The ladies were laughing and talking, the gentlemen smoking and sipping, when we were all alike startled by the sound of the door-bell at that unearthly hour. Lord Sandwich rose, and said he would answer the summons himself, and a moment of suspense, not unmingled with fear, ensued. The door re-opened, our host re-entered, his handsome face illuminated with joy and triumph. Glorious news! Sevastopol was taken! the war was at an end! How we all shouted, while some clapped their hands, and leaped on chairs, and one and all drank to the health of our brave soldiers, and to their safe return.
It was in January 1859 that a very large party was assembled at Hinchingbrooke in honour of the visit of H.R.H. the Duchess of Cambridge[94] and Princess Mary Adelaide.[95] One evening, in hopes of amusing the company, I imagined to array myself in the costume of a hundred years before, and stepping from a frame which had been set up for that purpose, I spoke an address in the character of the Countess of Sandwich of 1759, which concluded with the following tribute to our much-loved Royal guests:
“It does rejoice my heart the time was mine
To come among you all in Fifty-nine,
To see with living eyes the fair array
Of noble, gentle company to-day;
It proves you keep the spirit of your race,
When guests like these our ancient dwelling grace.
Those who esteem the will beyond the deed,
Who no stiff forms or rigid customs need,
Who claim respect, yet kindle love the while,
Reward the smallest service with a smile,
Meet all half-way, accept each proffered part,
And draw the court we pay them from the heart.”
This was a feeble but honest expression of the affection we all bore to that noble lady whose loss we are mourning in this present year of 1889, and who, although she had outlived by far the generally allotted span, was so much beloved that England was unwilling to spare her.
Often after this time I saw a great deal of the Duchess of Cambridge in different country houses, and on different occasions, and the unceasing kindness I have met with for years from Princess Mary is repaid by all I have to offer, “the grateful homage of a loving heart.” I took the deepest interest in her marriage with the Duke of Teck, to whom at that period we gave the name of “Prince Charming.” But I am once more wandering from my subject and indulging in the flittings of a butterfly.
The party to which I have alluded, as I said before, was in the opening of the New Year of 1859, but alas! the good wishes and happy auguries which that merry company had interchanged were not destined to be fulfilled. Before the month of March was over Hinchingbrooke was hung with black, and the sudden death of Lady Sandwich plunged us all in the deepest mourning. Her bright blue eyes were closed, the tones of her bird-like voice were hushed, and in her I lost one of the truest and most indulgent of friends. But my visits to that dear old house were not discontinued, for, on Lord Sandwich’s second marriage to Lady Blanche Egerton[96] I found one willing to keep up the old traditions and retain the old friendships of the family, and ever ready to reinstate me in the place I had so long looked upon as a home. Nor is my case altered with passing years and changed circumstances, for the present owner,[97] whom I have known and loved since he was an Eton boy, is continually reminding me that the doors of Hinchingbrooke are ever open to his own and his mother’s friend.
OSSINGTON
It had been a long promise that I should pay a summer visit to Ossington in Nottinghamshire, the residence of my good friends, Evelyn Denison, Speaker of the House of Commons, and his wife, Lady Charlotte, nÉe Bentinck.[98] Shortly after my return from Madeira, I proceeded on my way thither with the delightful prospect of meeting Lady Waterford,[99] the Duc and Duchesse d’Aumale, their son,[100] and my old friend Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford.
98.Daughter of the fourth Duke of Portland.
It was proposed that this should essentially be a riding party, and the chief aim and object of our excursions was devoted to showing their Royal Highnesses the sylvan beauties of Sherwood. Accordingly, one morning after breakfast, we repaired, in a carriage and four, equipped for riding, to a wayside inn, on the precincts of the forest, and mounting our horses, took our way through the beautiful glades, where Robin Hood disported himself of old. My especial cavalier on that occasion was the Prince de CondÉ, a youth of rare promise, of intellectual gifts and gentle courtesy, whom I dubbed my preux chevalier, and whose untimely death we were all ere long called upon to mourn. The Duke and Duchess rode chiefly with our host, while Lord Stanley[101] and the Bishop joined first one and then the other group of our cavalcade. We halted at the door of Earl Manvers, and did ample justice to the mid-day banquet, which he and his amiable Countess had prepared for the visitors from Ossington. Then remounting, we prosecuted our pilgrimage through the forest to all the haunts (according to legendary law) of the noble outlaw; during the whole of our ride, having galloped over a wide expanse of turf, we had scarcely heard the sound of our horses hoofs, as the dear Speaker proudly remarked to us, till we once more reached the inn and re-entered our carriage.
Will the Duc d’Aumale, if ever he honours these pages with a perusal, accept this lowly acknowledgment of one, on whose memory the delights of his conversation and the graciousness of his manner are indelibly impressed; and who recalls with gratitude the time of waiting at that wayside inn, which was whiled away by pleasant narratives from the lips of the good Duchess.
Ashridge is one of the finest parks in England, rich in magnificent timber trees, more especially tall and stately beech, which are the glory of the surrounding country. The estate originally belonged to the Duke of Bridgwater, and was brought into the possession of the Cust family by the paternal grandmother of the present owner, the daughter and heiress of Sir Abraham Home. It was nearly passing out of the family some years ago, when a complicated lawsuit took place, and would almost inevitably have done so, had it not been for the untiring zeal, clear head and sound judgment of the young Earl’s mother,[102] who supplied all the leading lawyers of the day with the requisite information in a most puzzling and entangled case.
The description of most garden parties is likely to bear much similarity, but certainly this was a most brilliant scene, for London was in the height of the season, though not sufficiently advanced to interfere with the freshness and fashion of the ladies’ toilettes. There was a great preponderance of beauty, amongst whom little Florence Paget[106] looked especially lovely, flitting in and out among the flower-beds, whose brightness she seemed to have borrowed in the hues of her costume and the brilliancy of her whole aspect. That was my first introduction to stately Ashridge, which was henceforth destined to become a real home to me.
I know not how, at this moment, when my loss is so recent, to attempt the slightest record of the friend[107]—the word is an old-fashioned one, but is there another to supersede it?—the benefactress, the confidante, of so long a period. She was undoubtedly one of the most gifted beings I ever encountered. “What she did still bettered what was done....”
This magnificent dwelling, now in possession of Earl Cowper, K.G., but at the time of which I am writing, was the residence of his mother,[108] who inherited it from Earl de Grey,[109] her father. The estate of Wrest, together with the fine mansion in St James’s Square, London, devolved on the above-mentioned nobleman on the death of his aunt, Countess de Grey. This house of Wrest in Bedfordshire he pulled down and rebuilt according to his own designs in the style of a French chateau. The pictures which adorn the walls were painted expressly for him; the tapestry which lends so rich a colouring to the interior of Wrest was woven under Lord de Grey’s immediate direction in the atÉliers of the Gobelins; while the rich gilding, cornices, and ceilings were all executed under his supervision, and do the greatest credit to his taste and ingenuity. He also supplemented the plans and enlarged the ornamentation of the already beautiful gardens and pleasure-grounds which surround the house. It was also from the ingenious design of Lord de Grey that the charming little theatre was constructed, the stage of which rolled backwards and forwards at will, while two splendid portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds ornamented the proscenium.
It was my good fortune on several occasions at Wrest to form one of a pleasant company, both dramatic and social. Our hostess was one of the most agreeable and distinguished members of society, and I scarcely think I can do better than transcribe her moral portraiture, traced by the hand of one who knew her and loved her well.
“I think I can sum up Lady Cowper’s leading attributes in three words—wit, wisdom, and goodness. In the relationship of daughter, wife, and mother, she left nothing to be desired; as a hostess she was pre-eminently agreeable, being a most delightful companion; she had lived with all that was politically and socially distinguished in her day, and had read all that was worth reading in modern literature. She derived keen enjoyment from the ‘give and take’ of discussion; her opinions were decided, and their expression fresh and spontaneous; into whatever well it was lowered the bucket invariably came up full.” In her later days, even under the pressure of failing health, her conversational powers never flagged; she was most brilliant in the freshness of morning, and shone conspicuously at the breakfast table, thereby rendering that repast far more animated than is usually the case. Her sallies, though never ill-natured, were often unexpected and startling, which added a zest to her conversation.
