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.
[74]. Louisa Caroline, daughter of the Right Honourable James A. Stewart-Mackenzie; married William, second Lord Ashburton.
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.
THE GROVE[[75]]
[75]. The seat of the Earl of Clarendon.
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.
[76]. George William Frederick, fourth Earl, K.G.; born 1800; died 1870.
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.
[77]. Sir George Cornwall Lewis married Lady Theresa Lister, daughter of third Earl of Clarendon, and widow of Thomas Henry Lister, Esq.
[78]. The Right Hon. Charles Pelham Villiers; born 1802; died 1898; represented Wolverhampton from 1825 till his death.
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.
THE GROVE.
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.
[79]. The daughters—afterwards the Countess of Lathom, the Countess of Derby, and Lady Ampthill.
[80]. The nieces—twin sisters, Lady Loch, wife of the late Lord Loch, and the Countess of Lytton, Mrs Earle and the late Lady Glenesk.
[81]. The late Earl of Lathom.
[82]. The Hon. Sir Spencer Ponsonby Fane, G.C.B., late Comptroller of Accounts in the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, son of the fourth Earl of Bessborough.
[83]. Sir Villiers Lister, K.C.M.G., son of Lady Theresa Villiers by her first husband, Mr Lister.
[84]. The late Earl Sefton.
The present Lord Clarendon and his two brothers[[85]] had also their names almost nightly in our bills.
[85]. Lieut.-Col. the Hon. George Villiers, Grenadier Guards; born 1847; died 1892. Hon. Francis Villiers, Under-Secretary to the Foreign Office; born 1852.
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.
[86]. Mr George Bidwell of the Foreign Office.
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’œuvres. 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.
[87]. Alice, Countess of Lathom.
[88]. Constance, wife of the fifteenth Earl of Derby.
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.