On the other hand, Lady Inglefield used to say that the punctuality with which she heard our wheels at night, when we returned from work, regulated her movements.
Sheridan's Granddaughter
At a garden party given by them we met the celebrated Mrs. Norton, the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, famous alike for her poetry and novels, and for her unhappy relations with her mean and cruel husband. She was still a beautiful woman in the sixties, and it was easy to believe that she was the granddaughter of the lovely Elizabeth Linley. Time had then all but obliterated the old and untrue scandal that she had sold to The Times the news of Peel's conversion to Free Trade, and his intention to get the Corn Laws repealed. George Meredith's novel, Diana of the Crossways, had (though wholly against the author's will) done something to revive the false report that, for her own financial ends, Caroline Norton had wormed the secret out of Sidney Herbert; the truth being that Delane had been told it by Lord Aberdeen himself, who intended him to publish it.
On one occasion, when Sir Edward was in command of one of our fleets, he condemned a man to receive so many strokes from the lash, and was on deck to see the sentence carried out. When the delinquent approached he made certain signs known to Freemasons. "Oh," said the Admiral, "a Mason, eh? Well, I doubt if you're better at that job than as a seaman. Go down and take your punishment."
Garnet Wolseley
Having written of Lord Fisher, a great sailor, I will now turn my attention to a great soldier, whom we first knew, fifty years ago, as Sir Garnet Wolseley. We became friends and later on were neighbours.
To my regret, I only had a club acquaintance with Lord Roberts, who was too true a gentleman ever to murmur: "I told you so—why did you not listen to me?" The same with Lord Kitchener; we only knew him as a fellow-guest at other people's tables. It was a Frenchman who wrote this tribute on his sad end, which staggered the country: "Great England's valiant soldier needed a nobler tomb than a hole in the ground, and he had the noblest of all tombs. God ordered his funeral; the waves sang his requiem; the organ-pipes were rocky cliffs; his pall was the black sky, foam the flowers, and the lightning his funeral torches."
Wolseley was, I repeat, a great soldier. One of those leaders whom men will follow—even unto death. These words were written before the powerful biography written by two friends of mine, Sir Frederick Maurice and Sir George Arthur, was published. I think he saw service even before the Crimean War, where, as little more than a boy, he became Captain, and was almost cut to pieces by bullets. Then came Lucknow and service in many lands. He was a Lieutenant-Colonel when twenty-six; and throughout his long career honours of all kinds poured on him. He became Commander-in-Chief, but was not destined to have realised the wish expressed to my wife—"I hope I shall never die in a bed." There was something about him, about that slight cheerful figure, and that glowing face, that outspoken talk, that was very helpful and strengthening: he seemed in some way to shed happiness round him.
Among the accumulated correspondence we found waiting after a holiday in 1882 was a cheery letter from Wolseley, postmark Alexandria, August 18th, in which he wrote: "The 'army' keeps arriving daily, and I hope very soon to be in a position to bring Mr. Arabi to book." The realisation of this prophecy, and the curious incident of an atmospheric phenomenon caused by the comet of that year, prompted some verses, that were sent to the hero of the achievement and thus acknowledged from the War Office: "I am very glad Bancroft induced you to send me your lines on Tel-el-Kebir, for I like them extremely. The word-painting is admirable, and the whole incident is told most feelingly and well. I shall put the little poem away among my treasures. Many, many thanks for it." I wonder where it is now. He was a shockingly bad speller—double pp's and double ll's were sure to be found where they were not wanted.
A rebuff