One day during our residence in the palace, I was walking with my mother over Molesey Bridge, when we were attracted to a small, poor-looking cottage, in aspect like an Irish cabin, by the exquisite singing of a thrush. The spot is now covered by houses and shops, but at that time the cottage of which I speak was isolated. It contained but one room, and was inhabited by an aged pair, I might well say, of lovers, for, with the exception of their garb, they were the most complete representatives of “John Anderson” and his wife. They were very poor, and their richest possession was the thrush which hung outside the door in a wicker cage, and sent forth a perfect burst of melody. In the wilderness connected with the palace gardens there were choirs of thrushes, blackbirds, and others, but not one of those free warblers could be compared in fulness of song to that captive bird.
We remained listening for some moments, and then my mother entered the cottage, made acquaintance with the old couple, and asked if they would be willing to part with the thrush to her. At first rather a blank look came over the old man’s countenance, but he was poor and ailing, and was persuaded by the arguments of the “Missus,” who was doubtless thinking the price of their favourite would enable her to get some little dainty for her good man. So the bargain began, a sum was named, the double of which was paid by my mother, who sent a servant the next morning to claim her purchase. Then resulted a disappointment. The cage was placed in a large and cheerful window in our drawing-room, but not a sound, not a note, came from the melancholy bird, who drooped and hung its head as if moulting; we fed, we coaxed, we whistled, but it remained silent, motionless, and moping. My mother felt as much indignation as was consistent with her gentle nature. She had not pressed the old people to sell the bird, she had only asked the question, “Were they willing to do so?” She had given them double the sum they asked, and now—it was not in her nature to be suspicious—but it looked as if another bird had been palmed off upon her, in place of the magnificent songster. She gave the thrush several days’ trial, but at length her patience was exhausted, and she sent for its late owner to expostulate.
The door opened and in he came, hat in hand, and my mother advanced to meet him, armed with some mild rebuke. But neither of them was allowed to speak, for no sooner did the old man make his appearance in the room than the bird leaped down from its perch, spread its wings, and broke out into so triumphant a song of joy, that it seemed as if the whole room vibrated with that burst of melody.
“What, pretty Speckledy,” said the man, approaching the cage, “you know me then, do you?” and the thrush kept flapping his wings, and moving from side to side, one might almost say, dancing with joy.
There was no doubt about it; it was the same bird that had charmed our ears in the lane at Molesey, but, like the Hebrew captives, it could not sing its songs in a strange land.
“Take it back,” my mother said, “I would not part such friends for all the world,” and off together went that loving pair, “Pretty Speckledy” still in full song, which he continued all the way down our turret stairs.
CHAPTER VI
OUR EXTRA HOMES
I must now make a break in the regular line of narrative, to interpolate a chapter, without specifying any particular dates, as the visits of which this portion of my story treats were spread over a large space of time, and intersected many of the different passages of the life I have hitherto recorded.
To begin with Marston, the property of my uncle Lord Cork, and the early home of my dear father. Marston Bigot was a pretty place and had been purchased by our direct ancestor, Richard Boyle (surnamed the “great Earl of Cork”) from Sir John Ippisley, the representative of an old Somersetshire family in the neighbourhood. This ancestor of ours had a very large family, of whom four were sons, and every one created a peer, with the exception of the youngest, Robert, who declined the honour, and whose name is immortalised as the “Divine Philosopher of the World.” To Roger Boyle, his second son, Lord Cork gave an estate in Somersetshire; this gallant soldier and loyalist was first created Baron Broghill and afterwards Earl of Orrery. He was much attached to the royal cause, but during the Protectorate, Oliver Cromwell, who had a great admiration for his military genius, sent for him one day and placed two alternatives before him, namely, the command of an expedition against the Irish rebels, or a lodging in the Tower of London. “The choice is open to you,” he said; “in serving in this campaign you will be acting the part of a patriot, but if you prefer the walls of a prison, I have no more to say.”