It was, indeed, a very good time that we passed under the roof of Havilland Hall. We were a happy band of friends, and our daily rides, pleasant excursions, and joyous evenings will long be remembered.
It was a fair group that clustered round the magnificent old “warrior”—that was the name he bore among us—to whose remarkable beauty a portrait in my possession, painted expressly for me by Sir William Boxall, R.A., bears undoubted testimony, as does a painting by that eminent artist, George Watts, taken during the General’s last illness, of which I have a splendid engraving. Sir William Napier was tall and commanding of stature, a soldier every inch of him, with black eyebrows and snowy hair, which grew as hair used to grow in Classic times, with eyes all alive and full of fire, with an eager, penetrating look, and though, alas! for some time before his death he could not move quickly, yet it was easy to perceive that in youth quickness of all kinds must have been his especial characteristic. You felt sure that in earlier days his movements must have kept pace with the eager flashing of his eye and the varied intonations of his powerful but melodious voice. To his proficiency in military tactics, and his splendid style in literature (I used to tell him that his descriptions of battles read as if cut into the pages with a naked sword) Sir William added the gentler arts of painting and poesie; neither did he disdain the science of Nonsense in its higher branches. Without this common link, could we have sympathised, so profoundly? Had he not descended from his high estate, to tread this neutral ground, how could he have found time or inclination to sport with his “tamed fairy”?—the name by which he ever called me.
On the occasion of my visit to Guernsey, I made a slight attempt to describe the hero’s leading characteristics in verse.
SIR WILLIAM NAPIER
“O’er the forehead’s high expanse,
Waves the silver crown of hair,
And the keen eyes’ eagle glance,
Eyes to love and eyes to dare—
Beaming now in playful wit,
Flashing now in scornful fit.