One of the most shining lights of the dramatic company was Lady Anna Maria Elliot, daughter of Lord Minto, afterwards the wife of Sir Rufane Donkin. She was as kind-hearted as she was witty, a great friend of my mother’s, and the idol of us children. One evening the word acted was “champagne.” In the first syllable, “sham,” Lady Anna Maria out-did herself, and being a thorough artist, sacrificed all considerations of personal vanity to the requirements of her rôle. Never shall I forget her impersonation of Miss Rosina Falballa, returning from the ball—an elderly spinster, with a flaxen wig crowned by a wreath of roses and otherwise youthfully accoutred, calling her maid hastily, retiring into an adjoining room, leaving the door ajar, and from her hidingplace, handing out to the attendant abigail all those mysterious appendages of the toilet which gave the title to the first scene of the charade, sham of all kinds; the wig, the ratelier, the paddings, culminating in what is now familiarly termed a “dress improver,” but in those less genteel days, “a bustle.” It would be difficult to imagine the screams of laughter; suffice it to say her ladyship brought down the house.
TABLEAUX AT BRIGHTON
To my great delight, my services were enlisted when the tableaux began, and I appeared as Ishmael drinking water from the hand of Hagar (if I remember rightly, Mrs Dawson Damer); but more delightful still, because dramatic and historical, in the parting of Lord Russell with his wife and children. The representative of the patriot lord was one of the handsomest men of his time, Frederick Seymour, whose beauty proved hereditary in the case of his daughters, Lady Clifden and Lady Spencer. I was not a bad little historian, and had already shed early tears over the fate of the gentle Rachel’s husband; and when I was placed in the proper position, clinging round the knee of the parent from whom I was about to be separated for ever, I thought to myself, William Lord Russell must have really looked like that handsome and noble representative, so I called up my best look of sorrow and pathos, and threw an upward glance, such as I was sure would have been the expression of little Katey Russell on that melancholy occasion.
How wounded was I in my histrionic feelings when Mr Seymour exclaimed: “Oh, if you look at me in that ridiculous manner, I shall die of laughing.”
“Ridiculous!” Was that an epithet to apply to my highly conceived and, I believed, wonderfully carried out embodiment of filial anguish? It was most mortifying, and so I was condemned to throw all the concentrated expression on the calf of my father’s leg.
Only one more of that evening’s tableaux can I call to mind. It was that of the kneeling infant Samuel, personated by Miss Morier, afterwards Mrs Edward Grimston, then a lovely child. Mrs Fitzherbert, our hostess, though of course at that time far advanced in years, had a fresh, fair complexion and fine aquiline features, and had great remains of the beauty and charm which had captivated the fancy, although it could not ensure the constancy, of the fickle-hearted monarch, George IV.
In the course of time our favourite governess, as I have before-mentioned, left us, and my father announced his determination not to appoint a successor. Here was a dilemma, for my mother had pledged her word to me that I should never go to school, a resolution which she would not alter without my consent; but during her stay at Brighton, she had heard of an exceptional establishment, kept by a certain Miss Poggi, the daughter of an Italian emigrant. I was a student by nature, and loved learning for its own sake, so I easily acquiesced in my mother’s project, and I took up my abode at No. 10 Regency Square. But I did not calculate on the terrible home-sickness which would ensue, or the miserable first night I should pass under that roof; my pillow was literally deluged with my tears, and my sobbing brought the English teacher to my bedside, who did all in her power to comfort me, and became from that moment my tried and trusty friend. Poor Ellen!—she was very kind and very handsome, and long after I left school she was permitted, at my request, to come and pass some of her holidays with me at Hampton Court.
DISLIKE OF ARITHMETIC
I spent nearly four years under the care of Miss Poggi, with whom I became an especial favourite, perhaps because I feared her less than all the rest of the pupils. She was a most exemplary woman, but strict even to severity, and I can well remember the sudden hush which invariably announced her appearance in the schoolroom. The French teacher was also greatly feared by her scholars, but the gentle Ellen and the dear old lady who taught us Italian were beloved by all. In our plan of education, different days were apportioned for different lessons, and I still have a lingering love (the result of association) for Tuesdays and Thursdays, when dancing, poetry and parsing (which I always liked) were the order of the day; while Mondays and Fridays still convey a dreary idea to my mind of detested copy-books and smudged slates. Why did those dreadful pence, I asked myself, present a different total every time I added them up, and why, when I tried to prove a sum, did I only prove it was wrong? Then such groans and scrapings of the slate pencils, the whole aspect of things rendered more confused by the occasional dropping of a large tear. Very nearly the same was the story of my music lessons.
Pause, gentle reader!—do not accuse me hastily of having no music in my soul, and consequently being fit for “treasons, stratagems and spoils.” I loved music, but had no talent, and though I had sufficient ear to detect what was wrong, I found it most difficult to practise what was right—no uncommon case in matters of morality.