'Ever yours truly,
'TOM TAYLOR.'
* * * * *
In 1857 the Wimpole Theatre reopened with the same company and gave 'Sunshine through the Clouds' and 'Only a Halfpenny'; and in 1860 for the last time with 'The Jacobite' by Planche; a scene from 'King John'; and 'Helping Hands' by Tom Taylor. The last was a beautiful play, but too refined for the ordinary theatre, and consequently did not have the run it deserved.
All these performances were strictly confined to the family, including
the painting of the scenery and the composition of Prologues,
Epilogues, &c. As we said in one of those compositions, 'We are no
London stars; we're all of Yorke.'
While we were play-acting, my father would continue persistently the work of his estate and county. It was his habit to hire his own labourers for the estate and home farm, and these, well and carefully chosen, were secure in their posts from year to year, and loved him. He also made a rule every Saturday of passing elaborate accounts at the estate office with his steward. He dined at Cambridge once a year with all his tenants; never was a landlord more beloved. The old-fashioned harvest home was celebrated in the spacious coachhouse cleared for the occasion; my mother and 'all of us' went down to welcome the labourers and hear my father address them. He settled things in his own way, sometimes differing considerably from ordinary routine, but he was scrupulously just, liberal and kind, with a most attractive sense of humour.
My father had seen and felt acutely the harm raw spirits had done in the Navy. This made him very careful when at Wimpole. According to old custom, beer was brewed twice a year, and he kept the key of the cellar and punctually opened it every morning before breakfast to give out the 'measure' for daily consumption. I remember so well a new butler arriving with a pompous manner and very red nose. Shortly after arrival he was taken ill and retired to his bed for several days, the family doctor from Royston attending him. On his recovery, going into luncheon with us all, my father with his usual courtesy said, 'I hope you are better.' Answer: 'Oh yes, thank you, my Lord, it was only the Change of Beer!'
I remember the average doctor's bill for domestic servants at Wimpole was £100 a year. May I be allowed for once to speak of self? Mine, with a more or less teetotal home, comes on an average to £1; I give extra wages and no strong drink, and this system works admirably, except for the poor Doctors, whom I fear sometimes find their incomes sadly diminished by the Temperance movement!
My father made great additions and improvements at Wimpole House. He found it needing repair, and after releading the extensive roof, he built offices on the left side, and later restored the large conservatory on the right, besides entirely rebuilding the stables, and placing the handsome iron gates at the Arrington entrance. A group of sculpture by Foley in the pediment of the stone porch over the front door greatly improved the centre of the house, which was very flat. In round numbers he spent £100,000 in these improvements. There were twelve reception rooms en suite, including the beautiful chapel painted by Sir James Thornhill, and no sooner had No. 12 been done up than No. 1 began to call out! It was always beginning, never ending.
In 1867 came the first home bereavement, the first heart-breaking loss, from which my father never recovered; he kept to his daily work, but gaiety forsook him, and the trouble no doubt told upon his constitution, which was threatened with a serious form of rheumatic gout, and with gradual heart failure. His beloved third son, Victor Alexander, Queen Victoria's godson, died suddenly whilst assisting at a penny reading at Aston Clinton, the residence of Sir Anthony and Lady de Rothschild, to whom he was devoted. Victor was a lad of great promise; he was in the Horse Artillery, and a bad accident in Canada is supposed to have left some injury to the back of the head and spine. He had been suffering from pains in the head, but was in the highest of spirits the day before he died. An accomplished fellow, fond of music and poetry, he was reading 'The Grandmother' by Tennyson, and at verse three—