Courtenay’s first cruise I commemorated in rather a peculiar manner, by giving the name of “Meander” to my little bay mare, the first palfrey I ever mounted; and I am glad to say the name brought no ill-luck either to pony or rider. Courtenay was the very moral of a sailor—frank, light-hearted, open-handed, impulsive, of a most impressionable and susceptible heart, which he was in the constant habit of losing to every pretty girl he met. He was frequently engaged (perhaps I had better say entangled) before he had attained Post rank. His promotion came to him early. One day he arrived at Hampton Court (before the days that railroads made the old Palace little more than a suburb of London), when his appearance in a yellow “po chay” called forth astonishment and upbraidings at his extravagance. “How else,” was the proud reply, “should a Post-captain travel?” After passing through many vicissitudes in respect of affairs of the heart, Courtenay married one whose remarkable personal charms were her chief recommendation.
CAROLINE AND CHARLES BOYLE
Next in succession came my sister Caroline (Caddy), who was often absent from home, going abroad with our Uncle and Aunt Poyntz, whose three daughters[[9]] were nearer her age and more fitted to be her companions than myself, her junior by several years. Wherever she went, Caddy was much admired. Her colouring was exceptionally bright, and even in her eightieth year, her eyes literally sparkled, and her complexion was of that red and white, so softly blent that it might have become an infant in the cradle. Yet the real, surpassing gift of beauty was reserved for my brother Charles. Ah! what a store of love and memory is connected with that dear name, and how well did the Greek epithet “Kalos” become him, which implies in its melodious sound both moral and physical beauty. The term beautiful does not appear, perhaps, often applicable to a man, but it certainly was to Charles. In feature, colouring and expression he was the counterpart of our mother, the same soft brown hair, the same sapphire blue eyes, the same faultless outline of profile. I have a very fine painting of him by Samuel Reynolds, the son of the celebrated engraver. I have also a sketch of his head, a crayon drawing of great beauty, which is doubly valuable to me, as the work and precious gift of our dear friend and world-famed painter, George Watts.
[9]. Frances, Lady Clinton; Elizabeth, Countess Spencer; Isabella, Marchioness of Exeter.
“Blest be the hand, whose touch can give
The looks that last, the smiles that live!
Blest be the hand that gives us back
The looks we miss, the smiles we lack,
‘Mid time and absence, distance, space,
Recalls the one familiar face