Mr. Edward Ellice, who constantly figures in the memoirs of the last century as ‘Bear Ellice’ (an outrageous misnomer, by the way), and who later on married my mother, was the chief controller of my youthful destiny. His first wife was a sister of the Lord Grey of Reform Bill fame, in whose Government he filled the office of War Minister. In many respects Mr. Ellice was a notable man. He possessed shrewd intelligence, much force of character, and an autocratic spirit—to which he owed his sobriquet. His kindness of heart, his powers of conversation, with striking personality and ample wealth, combined to make him popular. His house in Arlington Street, and his shooting lodge at Glen Quoich, were famous for the number of eminent men who were his frequent guests.

Mr. Ellice’s position as a minister, and his habitual residence in Paris, had brought him in touch with the leading statesmen of France. He was intimately acquainted with Louis Philippe, with Talleyrand, with Guizot, with Thiers, and most of the French men and French women whose names were bruited in the early part of the nineteenth century.

When I was taken from Temple Grove, I was placed, by the advice and arrangement of Mr. Ellice, under the charge of a French family, which had fallen into decay—through the change of dynasty. The Marquis de Coubrier had been Master of the Horse to Charles X. His widow—an old lady between seventy and eighty—with three maiden daughters, all advanced in years, lived upon the remnant of their estates in a small village called Larue, close to Bourg-la-Reine, which, it may be remembered, was occupied by the Prussians during the siege of Paris. There was a chÂteau, the former seat of the family; and, adjoining it, in the same grounds, a pretty and commodious cottage. The first was let as a country house to some wealthy Parisians; the cottage was occupied by the Marquise and her three daughters.

The personal appearances of each of these four elderly ladies, their distinct idiosyncrasies, and their former high position as members of a now moribund nobility, left a lasting impression on my memory. One might expect, perhaps, from such a prelude, to find in the old Marquise traces of stately demeanour, or a regretted superiority. Nothing of the kind. She herself was a short, square-built woman, with large head and strong features, framed in a mob cap, with a broad frill which flopped over her tortoise-shell spectacles. She wore a black bombazine gown, and list slippers. When in the garden, where she was always busy in the summer-time, she put on wooden sabots over her slippers.

Despite this homely exterior, she herself was a ‘lady’ in every sense of the word. Her manner was dignified and courteous to everyone. To her daughters and to myself she was gentle and affectionate. Her voice was sympathetic, almost musical. I never saw her temper ruffled. I never heard her allude to her antecedents.

The daughters were as unlike their mother as they were to one another. AdÈle, the eldest, was very stout, with a profusion of grey ringlets. She spoke English fluently. I gathered, from her mysterious nods and tosses of the head, (to be sure, her head wagged a little of its own accord, the ringlets too, like lambs’ tails,) that she had had an affaire de coeur with an Englishman, and that the perfidious islander had removed from the Continent with her misplaced affections. She was a trifle bitter, I thought—for I applied her insinuations to myself—against Englishmen generally. But, though cynical in theory, she was perfectly amiable in practice. She superintended the mÉnage and spent the rest of her life in making paper flowers. I should hardly have known they were flowers, never having seen their prototypes in nature. She assured me, however, that they were beautiful copies—undoubtedly she believed them to be so.

Henriette, the youngest, had been the beauty of the family. This I had to take her own word for, since here again there was much room for imagination and faith. She was a confirmed invalid, and, poor thing! showed every symptom of it. She rarely left her room except for meals; and although it was summer when I was there, she never moved without her chauffrette. She seemed to live for the sake of patent medicines and her chauffrette; she was always swallowing the one, and feeding the other.

The middle daughter was AglÄÉ. Mademoiselle AglÄÉ took charge—I may say, possession—of me. She was tall, gaunt, and bony, with a sharp aquiline nose, pomegranate cheek-bones, and large saffron teeth ever much in evidence. Her speciality, as I soon discovered, was sentiment. Like her sisters, she had had her ‘affaires’ in the plural. A Greek prince, so far as I could make out, was the last of her adorers. But I sometimes got into scrapes by mixing up the Greek prince with a Polish count, and then confounding either one or both with a Hungarian pianoforte player.

Without formulating my deductions, I came instinctively to the conclusion that ‘En fait d’amour,’ as Figaro puts it, ‘trop n’est pas mÊme assez.’ From Miss AglÄÉ’s point of view a lover was a lover. As to the superiority of one over another, this was—nay, is—purely subjective. ‘We receive but what we give.’ And, from what Mademoiselle then told me, I cannot but infer that she had given without stint.

Be that as it may, nothing could be more kind than her care of me. She tucked me up at night, and used to send for me in the morning before she rose, to partake of her cafÉ-au-lait. In return for her indulgences, I would ‘make eyes’ such as I had seen Auguste, the young man-servant, cast at Rose the cook. I would present her with little scraps which I copied in roundhand from a volume of French poems. Once I drew, and coloured with red ink, two hearts pierced with an arrow, a copious pool of red ink beneath, emblematic of both the quality and quantity of my passion. This work of art produced so deep a sigh that I abstained thenceforth from repeating such sanguinary endearments.

Not the least interesting part of the family was the servants. I say ‘family,’ for a French family, unlike an English one, includes its domestics; wherein our neighbours have the advantage over us. In the British establishment the household is but too often thought of and treated as furniture. I was as fond of Rose the cook and maid-of-all-work as I was of anyone in the house. She showed me how to peel potatoes, break eggs, and make pot-au-feu. She made me little delicacies in pastry—swans with split almonds for wings, comic little pigs with cloves in their eyes—for all of which my affection and my liver duly acknowledged receipt in full. She taught me more provincial pronunciation and bad grammar than ever I could unlearn. She was very intelligent, and radiant with good humour. One peculiarity especially took my fancy—the yellow bandana in which she enveloped her head. I was always wondering whether she was born without hair—there was none to be seen. This puzzled me so that one day I consulted Auguste, who was my chief companion. He was quite indignant, and declared with warmth that Mam’selle Rose had the most beautiful hair he had ever beheld. He flushed even with enthusiasm. If it hadn’t been for his manner, I should have asked him how he knew. But somehow I felt the subject was a delicate one.

How incessantly they worked, Auguste and Rose, and how cheerfully they worked! One could hear her singing, and him whistling, at it all day. Yet they seemed to have abundant leisure to exchange a deal of pleasantry and harmless banter. Auguste was a Swiss, and a bigoted Protestant, and never lost an opportunity of holding forth on the superiority of the reformed religion. If he thought the family were out of hearing, he would grow very animated and declamatory. But Rose, who also had hopes, though perhaps faint, for my salvation, would suddenly rush into the room with the carpet broom, and drive him out, with threats of Miss AglÄÉ, and the broomstick.

The gardener, Monsieur BenoÎt, was also a great favourite of mine, and I of his, for I was never tired of listening to his wonderful adventures. He had, so he informed me, been a soldier in the Grande ArmÉe. He enthralled me with hair-raising accounts of his exploits: how, when leading a storming party—he was always the leader—one dark and terrible night, the vivid and incessant lightning betrayed them by the flashing of their bayonets; and how in a few minutes they were mowed down by mitraille. He had led forlorn hopes, and performed deeds of astounding prowess. How many Life-guardsmen he had annihilated: ‘Ah! ben oui!’ he was afraid to say. He had been personally noticed by ‘Le p’tit caporal.’ There were many, whose deeds were not to compare with his, who had been made princes and mareschals. Parbleu! but his luck was bad. ‘Pas d’chance! pas d’chance! Mo’sieu Henri.’ As Monsieur BenoÎt recorded his feats, and witnessed my unbounded admiration, his voice would grow more and more sepulchral, till it dropped to a hoarse and scarcely audible whisper.

I was a little bewildered one day when, having breathlessly repeated some of his heroic deeds to the Marquise, she with a quiet smile assured me that ‘ce petit bon-homme,’ as she called him, had for a short time been a drummer in the National Guard, but had never been a soldier. This was a blow to me; moreover, I was troubled by the composure of the Marquise. Monsieur BenoÎt had actually been telling me what was not true. Was it, then, possible that grown-up people acquired the privilege of fibbing with impunity? I wondered whether this right would eventually become mine!

At Bourg-la-Reine there is, or was, a large school. Three days in the week I had to join one of the classes there; on the other three one of the ushers came up to Larue for a couple of hours of private tuition. At the school itself I did not learn very much, except that boys everywhere are pretty similar, especially in the badness of their manners. I also learnt that shrugging the shoulders while exhibiting the palms of the hands, and smiting oneself vehemently on the chest, are indispensable elements of the French idiom. The indiscriminate use of the word ‘parfaitement’ I also noticed to be essential when at a loss for either language or ideas, and have made valuable use of it ever since.

Monsieur Vincent, my tutor, was a most good-natured and patient teacher. I incline, however, to think that I taught him more English than he taught me French. He certainly worked hard at his lessons. He read English aloud to me, and made me correct his pronunciation. The mental agony this caused me makes me hot to think of still. I had never heard his kind of Franco-English before. To my ignorance it was the most comic language in the world. There were some words which, in spite of my endeavours, he persisted in pronouncing in his own way. I have since got quite used to the most of them, and their only effect is to remind me of my own rash ventures in a foreign tongue. There are one or two words which recall the pain it gave me to control my emotions. He would produce his penknife, for instance; and, contemplating it with a despondent air, would declare it to be the most difficult word in the English language to pronounce. ‘Ow you say ’im?’ ‘Penknife,’ I explained. He would bid me write it down; then having spelt it, he would, with much effort, and a sound like sneezing—oh! the pain I endured!—slowly repeat ‘Penkneef.’ I gave it up at last; and he was gratified with his success. As my explosion generally occurred about five minutes afterwards, Monsieur Vincent failed to connect cause and effect. When we parted he gave me a neatly bound copy of La BruyÈre as a prize—for his own proficiency, I presume. Many a pleasant half-hour have I since spent with the witty classic.

Except the controversial harangues of the zealot Auguste, my religious teaching was neglected on week days. On Sundays, if fine, I was taken to a Protestant church in Paris; not infrequently to the Embassy. I did not enjoy this at all. I could have done very well without it. I liked the drive, which took about an hour each way. Occasionally AglÄÉ and I went in the Bourg-la-Reine coucou. But Mr. Ellice had arranged that a carriage should be hired for me. Probably he was not unmindful of the convenience of the old ladies. They were not. The carriage was always filled. Even Mademoiselle Henriette managed to go sometimes—aided by a little patent medicine, and when it was too hot for the chauffrette. If she was unable, a friend in the neighbourhood was offered a seat; and I had to sit bodkin, or on Mademoiselle AglÄÉ’s lap. I hated the ‘friend’; for, secretly, I felt the carriage was mine, though of course I never had the bad taste to say so.

They went to Mass, and I was allowed to go with them, in addition to my church, as a special favour. I liked the music, the display of candles, the smell of the incense, and the dresses of the priests; and wondered whether when undressed—unrobed, that is—they were funny old gentlemen like Monsieur le CurÉ at Larue, and took such a prodigious quantity of snuff up their noses and under their finger-nails. The ladies did a good deal of shopping, and we finished off at the Flower Market by the Madeleine, where I, through the agency of Mademoiselle AglÄÉ, bought plants for ‘Maman.’ This gave ‘Maman’ un plaisir inouÏ, and me too; for the dear old lady always presented me with a stick of barley-sugar in return. As I never possessed a sou (Miss AglÄÉ kept account of all my expenses and disbursements) I was strongly in favour of buying plants for ‘Maman.’

I loved the garden. It was such a beautiful garden; so beautifully kept by Monsieur BenoÎt, and withered old MÈre MichÈle, who did the weeding and helped Rose once a week in the laundry. There were such pretty trellises, covered with roses and clematis; such masses of bright flowers and sweet mignonette; such tidy gravel walks and clipped box edges; such floods of sunshine; so many butterflies and lizards basking in it; the birds singing with excess of joy. I used to fancy they sang in gratitude to the dear old Marquise, who never forgot them in the winter snows.

What a quaint but charming picture she was amidst this quietude,—she who had lived through the Reign of Terror: her mob cap, garden apron, and big gloves; a trowel in one hand, a watering-pot in the other; potting and unpotting; so busy, seemingly so happy. She loved to have me with her, and let me do the watering. What a pleasure that was! The scores of little jets from the perforated rose, the gushing sound, the freshness and the sparkle, the gratitude of the plants, to say nothing of one’s own wet legs. ‘Maman’ did not approve of my watering my own legs. But if the watering-pot was too big for me how could I help it? By and by a small one painted red within and green outside was discovered in Bourg-la-Reine, and I was happy ever afterwards.

Much of my time was spent with the children and nurses of the family which occupied the chÂteau. The costume of the head nurse with her high Normandy cap (would that I had a female pen for details) invariably suggested to me that she would make any English showman’s fortune, if he could only exhibit her stuffed. At the cottage they called her ‘La Grosse Normande.’ Not knowing her by any other name, I always so addressed her. She was not very quick-witted, but I think she a little resented my familiarity, and retaliated by comparisons between her compatriots and mine, always in a tone derogatory to the latter. She informed me as a matter of history, patent to all nurses, that the English race were notoriously bow-legged; and that this was due to the vicious practice of allowing children to use their legs before the gristle had become bone. Being of an inquiring turn of mind, I listened with awe to this physiological revelation, and with chastened and depressed spirits made a mental note of our national calamity. Privately I fancied that the mottled and spasmodic legs of Achille—whom she carried in her arms—or at least so much of the infant Pelides’ legs as were not enveloped in a napkin, gave every promise of refuting her generalisation.

One of my amusements was to set brick traps for small birds. At Holkham in the winter time, by baiting with a few grains of corn, I and my brothers used, in this way, to capture robins, hedge-sparrows, and tits. Not far from the chÂteau was a large osier bed, resorted to by flocks of the common sparrow. Here I set my traps. But it being summer time, and (as I complained when twitted with want of success) French birds being too stupid to know what the traps were for, I never caught a feather. Now this osier bed was a favourite game covert for the sportsmen of the chÂteau; and what was my delight and astonishment when one morning I found a dead hare with its head under the fallen brick of my trap. How triumphantly I dragged it home, and showed it to Rose and Auguste,—who more than the rest had ‘mocked themselves’ of my traps, and then carried it in my arms, all bloody as it was (I could not make out how both its hind legs were broken) into the salon to show it to the old Marquise. Mademoiselle Henriette, who was there, gave a little scream (for effect) at sight of the blood. Everybody was pleased. But when I overheard Rose’s sotto voce to the Marquise: ‘Comme ils sont gentils!’ I indignantly retorted that ‘it wasn’t kind of the hare at all: it was entirely due to my skill in setting the traps. They would catch anything that put its head into them. Just you try.’

How severe are the shocks of early disillusionment! It was not until long after the hare was skinned, roasted, served as civet and as purÉe that I discovered the truth. I was not at all grateful to the gentlemen of the chÂteau whose dupe I had been; was even wrath with my dear old ‘Maman’ for treating them with extra courtesy for their kindness to her petit chÉri.

That was a happy summer. After it was ended, and it was time for me to return to England and begin my education for the Navy I never again set eyes on Larue, or that charming nest of old ladies who had done their utmost to spoil me. Many and many a time have I been to Paris, but nothing could tempt me to visit Larue. So it is with me. Often have I questioned the truth of the nessun maggior dolore than the memory of happy times in the midst of sorry ones. The thought of happiness, it would seem, should surely make us happier, and yet—not of happiness for ever lost. And are not the deepening shades of our declining sun deepened by youth’s contrast? Whatever our sweetest songs may tell us of, we are the sadder for our sweetest memories. The grass can never be as green again to eyes grown watery. The lambs that skipped when we did were long since served as mutton. And if

Die FÜsse tragen mich so muthig nicht empor
Die hohen Stufen die ich kindisch Übersprang,

why, I will take the fact for granted. My youth is fled, my friends are dead. The daisies and the snows whiten by turns the grave of him or her—the dearest I have loved. Shall I make a pilgrimage to that sepulchre? Drop futile tears upon it? Will they warm what is no more? I for one have not the heart for that. Happily life has something else for us to do. Happily ’tis best to do it.