Looking Back

by Sir Seymour John Fortescue

Lismore is very beautiful. The Castle itself is not a very genuine specimen of a castle, but it is so perfectly situated on some high ground on the banks of the Blackwater, that it looks most imposing, and the view from the windows, looking up and down the river, is quite lovely. During the stay of the Royal party, great dinners were given at the Castle, to which numbers of the gentry of the neighbourhood were invited. There is a fine dining-hall at the Castle, so the dinners were veritably banquets. By way of thoroughly carrying out the banquet scheme, the host and hostess—neither of whom cared in the least for music—had engaged the services of the band of the local Militia Regiment, which was very correctly stationed in the gallery. Never have I heard such appalling sounds as proceeded from that gallery; but, none the less, the Bandmaster was thoroughly enjoying himself, and conducted, much to his own satisfaction, a lengthy programme of the noisiest and most discordant music (?) from which I have ever suffered.

Talking of being at Lismore reminds me of the many times, and the many different places, in which I have been a guest of those two most hospitable people, the late Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. Probably no two people ever entertained to the extent that they did. At Chatsworth, in the winter, there were almost incessant large parties for the Derby November Race Meeting, which they always attended, and where the Duke always ran some horses; until past the New Year. They were at Lismore, generally, for three weeks in the spring, during which time, besides having friends to stay with them, the whole countryside was entertained at dinner. Then, at that charming place just outside Eastbourne, Compton Place, all through the summer they had a constant flow of visitors staying there for Sundays. At Newmarket, their little house in the High Street was always full for the Race Meetings, and, finally, what perhaps the Duke enjoyed most of all, there were the weeks spent at Bolton Abbey, from which, he and his guests daily cantered away on their ponies to shoot grouse on those famous moors. All of these houses were delightful to stay in, but I think, on the whole, I preferred my visits to Chatsworth, which was a veritable museum of beautiful things. The greater part of the wonderful collection there was formed by the sixth Duke, who was known in his time as the “Magnifico.” In reality, as regards art, he was less of a Patron and more of a Collector than the Medicean Potentate with whom he shared the appellation. The result, as seen at Chatsworth, eminently justified what must have been a combination of connoisseurship, good advice, and great wealth. Besides the family pictures, amongst which is that lovely Sir Joshua of the beautiful Duchess playing “hot codlins” with her baby daughter, there is a gallery of collected pictures amongst which there are some real treasures, such as the famous Van Eyck triptych. There is also a sculpture gallery containing some of the best work of Canova and Thorwalsden. Personally I do not greatly care for the work of either of these masters, but none the less the examples at Chatsworth were very good of their kind. Then the library was wonderful, containing as it did endless treasures, such as volumes of Van Dyck’s original drawings, the unique Liber Veritatis of Claude Lorraine, and, in addition, some beautiful illuminated missals and fine bindings. Finally, what appealed to me most of all, was the collection of drawings of the great Italian masters which, simply framed, were hung in a long well-lighted gallery where they could really be seen and studied in comfort.

So much—or, more correctly, so little—about the interior of Chatsworth, except a passing mention of the number of pleasant people of all sorts that made up the parties there. Outside the house, the gardens and shrubberies were on a magnificent scale: in the midst of the latter stood the miniature Crystal Palace, used as a palm and fern house, erected by Sir Joseph Paxton. The best of covert shooting, (for nowhere can high pheasants be better shown than on the steep-wooded hillsides of Derbyshire,) an excellent grouse moor on the high ground above the house, and an eighteen-hole golf-course in the park, combined to make up a really magnificent English home of the sort that is so rapidly disappearing, and that probably in another generation will have ceased to exist.

It used to be rather the fashion in those days to talk as if the Duke was only busily engaged in politics because greatness in that line had been thrust upon him, and because, from a keen sense of duty, he felt obliged to play his part as a constant Minister of the Crown. To my mind, this was an absolutely false conception of the man. I believe that, fond as he was of sport, and also of being surrounded by younger people, nevertheless, the constant love of his life was politics.

Talking of his liking for younger people, there was a famous story about him years ago at Newmarket. One of his guests had heard him returning to the house in the small hours, and at breakfast next morning asked him what had kept him up so late. He replied that he had been playing whist at the Jockey Club Rooms with some young men whose names he did not know. “They called each other,” he said, “‘Putty,’ ‘Tops,’ and the ‘Shaver,’ and had it not been that the ‘Shaver’ had to attend a prize fight at six in the morning, I probably should have been playing whist there still.”

But to return to the Duke as a politician. Though I have heard him groan at having to prepare a speech when he might otherwise have been out shooting with his guests, and probably be rather bored when he had to deliver it; yet, none the less, I think that he enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that his closely-reasoned utterances would be read in the Press next morning by thousands of his countrymen, who, on any important subject, were always glad to study the opinion of one of the wisest, and most perfectly honest of Englishmen. In his last years his position in this country was very remarkable. The public, in spite of the attractions of those who might possibly be described as “Headline Politicians,” have a great respect and belief in a man whom they know instinctively, as well as by reputation, to be honest, truthful, and absolutely disinterested. The cynical might remark that it is easy for a man with the late Duke’s position and possessions, to be the reverse of self-seeking, but I think those who knew him best will agree with me, that whatever had been his position, his character would have been the same.

In November 1904 I was in attendance on King Carlos of Portugal, when His Majesty and Queen Amelie arrived in England to return the King’s visit to Lisbon of the previous year.

At the conclusion of the official visit King Carlos remained for some weeks in England, which he spent principally in paying a series of visits to various country houses for shooting, about which sport he was extremely keen. He was a very fine shot, and for that reason alone would have been a welcome guest at any shooting party. He visited in succession Didlington Hall, then in the possession of the late Lord Amherst of Hackney; Elveden Hall, Lord Iveagh’s wonderful shooting manor, once tenanted by another great shot, the late Maharajah Duleep Singh; Bowood, Lord Lansdowne’s beautiful seat in Wiltshire, and finally Chatsworth. It was a bitterly cold winter, and both at Elveden and Chatsworth there was deep snow on the ground. I have never met a man so completely impervious to cold as was the late King of Portugal. He would stand outside a cover in a bitter wind with nothing on but the thinnest of shooting coats, as he found that thick clothes hampered his quickness with the gun, which was really very remarkable; he was not only very accurate as a shot, but quick,—phenomenally quick,—in getting on to his bird.

During the whole of this tour, the Marquis de Soveral, Lord Suffield and I were in attendance. It was an extremely pleasant round of visits, and the shooting at all of them was very good,—at Elveden, of course, particularly so. Queen Amelie had, meanwhile, been paying some visits on her own account; but she accompanied the King to Chatsworth, which was the last private visit he paid before returning to the Continent. King Carlos was the personification of good nature and kindness, and was also an extremely accomplished man, which made his brutal murder in the streets of Lisbon on February 2nd, 1908, seem to any of those who had the honour of knowing him personally, to be not only one of the foulest, but also one of the most meaningless murders in history.

Before the year 1904 ended, I was to take part in yet one more official visit, having been detailed to be in attendance on H.R.H. Prince Arthur of Connaught, when representing the King at the christening of the infant son and heir of the King and Queen of Italy. Prince Arthur and his suite, consisting of Field-Marshal Lord Grenfell, Captain Windham, then one of the Duke of Connaught’s Equerries, and myself, duly arrived in Rome during the first days of December. The actual christening took place in one of the drawing-rooms of the Quirinal Palace. It really was rather a pretty sight. A temporary altar had been set up, there was a procession of the Royal Families and their Representatives, headed by a bevy of priests, with a band in the gallery playing suitable music.