Leaves from the Note-Books

of

Lady Dorothy Nevill

EDITED BY

RALPH NEVILL

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON

1907

PREFACE

When, some time ago, a collection of my mother’s reminiscences was given to the public, we received a large number of suggestions that a second similar volume would be certain of the same cordial welcome as was extended to the first. The following pages, containing memories and observations extending over a long period of years, are the result of these kindly exhortations.

The task of arrangement and of selection from my mother’s scrap-books and note-books has been carried out by me under her supervision; and I have also included as many recollections, hitherto unpublished, as her very excellent memory was able to furnish. Of the many anecdotes which are given, the majority, it is hoped, are here told for the first time in print; most of them, indeed, recount personal experiences of her own or of some of the well-known people with whom during a long life it has been her privilege to meet. In preparing the volume valuable assistance, which it is our desire here gratefully to acknowledge, has been rendered by many well-wishers, some of them old friends, some of them unknown to us except by their encouraging and helpful letters.

It may be added that my only aim in the pages which follow has been to arrange a mass of material—some of it no doubt old, but a great deal, I hope, new—in such a form as may interest and amuse the reader and thus serve to occupy a few leisure hours. If failure be the result, the blame must be laid entirely at my door; while should the book in any measure achieve its aim, the whole credit belongs properly to my mother.

RALPH NEVILL.

CONTENTS

PHOTOGRAVURE PLATES

I

My scrap-books—A female politician of other days—Souvenirs of past elections—The Nottingham Lamb—Bernal Osborne and his Irish friend—Taxes—Political caricatures—Sir F. Carruthers Gould—Sir Frank Lockwood—Lord Vernon and the Pope—Old menus—Weddings of the past—Some anecdotes—Mrs. Norton—The Duchess of Somerset—The Owl—The Fourth Party—Sir Henry Drummond Wolff—The Comte de Paris and the Primrose League—Lord Randolph Churchill and his resignation of office.

It has always been a passion with me to collect odds and ends of every sort and put them into scrap-books and note-books. Consequently I now have many volumes filled with old squibs, cuttings, photographs, scraps of verse, menus of banquets, and other trifles which, together with notes scribbled at the side, recall many pleasant and amusing days now long vanished into the past. In many of my books, I must confess, the contents are arranged in the most haphazard fashion, which now and then produces some rather amusing contrasts; for instance, opening one at hazard I came upon an old broadside of 1832 entitled “The Great Battle for Reform,” side by side with a picture post-card dealing with the Suffragette agitation,—a combination which brought into my mind the following little anecdote. Long before the days of advanced female politicians, in the year 1832, an elderly couple, peacefully sleeping in their four-poster, were one morning roughly aroused at an early hour by their excited maid-servant who, bursting into the bedroom, bawled out, “It’s passed! It’s passed!” Extremely annoyed, the old lady called out from inside the bed-curtains, “What’s passed, you fool?” “The Reform Bill,” shouted the girl, “and we’re all equal now”; after which she marched out of the room, purposely leaving the door wide open to show her equality.

I possess many mementoes of old elections; amongst them an election favour or ribband on which is embroidered “Disraeli,” a souvenir sent me by Lord Beaconsfield in the early days of his political career.

Mr. Bernal Osborne, amongst others, also used to remember my passion for collecting, and, consequently, I have a good many old election addresses and squibs which are now beginning to possess some slight antiquarian interest.

In 1868, at Nottingham, there was a tremendous electoral struggle, in which no less than five candidates took part. Mr. Bernal Osborne, who eventually found himself at the bottom of the poll, was one of these, and sent me a curious little paper which was published during the progress of what was a very acrimonious contest. This was an ephemeral sheet, called The Nottingham Lamb, a copy of which I still retain, issued apparently for the sole purpose of chaffing all five candidates.

MR. BERNAL OSBORNE

As has been said, Mr. Osborne was defeated at this election; he did not indeed succeed in again entering the House of Commons till 1870, when he was returned for Waterford, the Irish constituency which, after his Nottingham defeat, he had unsuccessfully wooed in 1869. Subsequent to this election party feeling ran so high that Mr. Osborne had to be smuggled out of the town in a covered car, some of his opponent’s supporters having announced their intention of lynching him. A few days afterwards he wrote to a friend: “I am slowly recovering from the success of an Irish election.” Mr. Bernal Osborne, as is well known, possessed the derisive faculty in an abnormal degree, and this he could not help exercising everywhere, even in the House of Commons. He was, indeed, the hero of many amusing incidents which convulsed that august assembly, and even to-day tales are told of his readiness in banter and repartee. I do not, however, know whether the following little story is generally known.

Mr. Osborne had a great friend, an Irishman, and also a Member of Parliament, though of quite opposite political views. This gentleman, whose name was Tom Corrigan, was not by any means a teetotaller; indeed, malicious people said that he never addressed the House except when under the inspiration of sherry. On a certain night “Tom” chanced to follow Bernal Osborne in a debate upon some Irish question or other, and at once began: “What does my honourable friend know of Ireland? I answer, nothing, or less than nothing. We all know the lines of the poet—

A little learning is a dangerous thing” . . .

“Go on, Tom,” interjected his friend across the House; “go on, and quote the next line!”

“And why should I be after quoting the next line, Mr. Speaker, sorr?”

“Because, Tom,” again interrupted Bernal Osborne, “the next line should particularly suit you, for it runs: ‘Drink deep,’ Tom, ‘Drink deep.’ ”

Mr. Osborne was always very severe upon those who spoke above their own capacity and other people’s comprehension. His favourite butts in the House of Commons, indeed, were those pompous and Pharisaical members whose doctrinaire views he was ever ready to deride.

Amongst the political squibs in my scrap-book there is one directed against the over-taxation which in long-past days certainly did press very heavily upon the people of England. Exceedingly well written, it is, I believe, an extract from an article by Sydney Smith, published in the Edinburgh Review about 1820. In the form of what we should to-day call a political leaflet, it is rendered all the more effective by the manner in which the words are arranged, and also by the very adroit use made of capital letters:—

ELECTIONEERING LITERATURE

TAXES

upon every Article which enters into the Mouth, or covers the

Back, or is placed under the Foot;

TAXES

upon every thing which is pleasant to See, Hear, Feel, Smell,

and Taste;

TAXES

upon Warmth, Light, and Locomotion;

TAXES

on every thing on Earth and the Waters under the Earth;

on every thing that comes from abroad, or is grown at home;

TAXES

on the raw Material;

TAXES

on every value that is added to it by the industry of Man;

TAXES

on the Sauce which pampers Man’s appetite, and the Drug that

restores him to health; on the Ermine which decorates the

Judge, and the Rope which hangs the Criminal; on the

Brass Nails of the Coffin, and the Ribbands of the Bride.

At Bed or At Board, Couchant or Levant,

WE MUST PAY.

The School Boy whips his Taxed Top;

The Beardless Youth manages his Taxed Horse with a Taxed

Bridle on a Taxed Road; and the dying Englishman,

pouring his Medicine which has paid 7 Per Cent,

into a Spoon which has paid 30 Per Cent,

throws himself back upon his

Chintz Bed which has paid 22 Per Cent,

MAKES HIS WILL,

and expires in the arms of an Apothecary who has paid

£100

for the privilege of putting him to death.

HIS WHOLE PROPERTY IS THEN TAXED FROM

2 to 10 PER CENT;

Besides the Probate, large Fees are demanded for burying

him in the Chancel;

his virtues are handed down to posterity on Taxed Marble;

and he is then gathered to his Fathers to be

TAXED

NO MORE.

The old broadsides are now represented by the leaflets and posters which so plentifully abound during modern elections. Within the last thirty years election posters have assumed many different developments, though, as a rule, it must be said that they are lacking in the incisive if rather brutal force which characterised the cartoons and caricatures of other days. The attempt once made by the late Mr. Lowe, afterwards Lord Sherbrooke, to put a tax upon lucifer matches, called forth, I remember, a perfect flood of ephemeral literature, as well as a quantity of derisive illustrations, which no doubt played some part in causing the abandonment of what was regarded as a very unpopular tax. A terra-cotta statuette of Mr. Lowe standing upon a match-box is one of my treasures, and another is a match-box crowned with the bust of the politician in question.

Mr. Gladstone—his pastime of tree-felling, his habit of sending post-cards, and his collars—afforded the caricaturist a very congenial subject to work upon. I still have a very malicious cartoon entitled “Khartoum v. Criterion,” in which the Grand Old Man is pictured holding his sides with laughter in a box at the play, whilst above is shown the death of General Gordon at Khartoum. As a matter of fact, by no possibility could Mr. Gladstone have known that the very evening on which he was going to the Criterion, Gordon was being done to death in the far-off Soudan; and whatever may have been his faults, callousness or inhumanity was most certainly not numbered amongst them.

A political caricaturist of modern days, whose works I collect, is Sir F. Carruthers Gould. His wit, indeed, always of the most good-natured description, is one of the most valuable assets of the Liberal party, whilst the very moderation of his sarcasm, combined with an almost preternatural aptitude for hitting off a situation, makes the work of this talented caricaturist tell in a quite unusual degree.

SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD

The best amateur caricaturist I ever knew was the late Sir Frank Lockwood, who used every year to send his friends some whimsical design of his own composition. Among the New Year’s cards which he sent me—souvenirs I still cherish—the best of a clever series is, I think, the one I received at the end of 1893. In this Old Father Time is pictured as a butler holding out a champagne bottle labelled 1894, whilst another, 1893 sec, lies empty on the ground. Underneath is written, “A fine wine, and not so dry as the last.” On another, Time—as a sportsman carrying a dead pheasant, 1895—is shown keenly eyeing an astonished young bird (1896) perched upon a milestone, the while he murmurs, “I’ll have a shot at you next, my little man.” Sir Frank Lockwood was a great loss to all his friends, for a more agreeable, clever, and cheery companion never lived.

Looking over an old scrap-book of mine I came upon some Italian caricatures of the carnival at Rome in the old days, when the Pope was still an independent sovereign. These had been collected when I was travelling in Italy with my mother about the year 1842. The carnival, I remember, was not particularly gay. There were immense crowds, and a perpetual rain of confetti and dead battered flowers, which increased to a perfect storm when our carriage passed any house inhabited by our friends. The people of Rome, however, enjoyed it all immensely, and a young lady said to me, “If Paradise be half as delightful as the carnival, what can be so happy?” Some English people, however, said it was more like Purgatory!

During our travels at that time, when going by sea on a Tuscan vessel from Genoa to Naples, we met Lord Vernon, who was our fellow-passenger as far as Leghorn. He talked a great deal about Dante, the study of whose works was his hobby, and also gave us a very lively description of his interview with the Pope.

LORD VERNON AND THE POPE

His Holiness, he said, after some very complimentary remarks, had inquired of him how he translated the passage at the beginning of Canto vii. of the “Inferno”—

“Papé Satan, Papé Satan, aleppé.”[^[1]]

The difficulty, Lord Vernon told us, was overcome by his telling the Pope that a great diversity of opinion existed as to the passage in question, and he would therefore be especially grateful to his Holiness if he, the highest authority possible, would tell him what the exact meaning of it might be. The Pope, however, who was just as quick at parrying home-thrusts as Lord Vernon, changed the subject, and pounced upon another passage, describing the effect of sunshine upon a rock, which he said he had been able to verify one day near his convent when he was a Carmelite monk. Lord Vernon then said to him, “Your Holiness’s observation is most valuable, and, with permission, I will put it in a note to the translation I am making.” “No, no!” exclaimed the Pope; “non bisogna mai nominare il Papa,”—“There is no need whatever to mention the Pope at all.”

Anything which recalls the past becomes of interest as time goes on, and some of the mementoes of other days which I have carefully preserved bring vividly back to one’s mind scenes now almost historical, as well as the people who figured in them.

Programmes of public meetings and menus of banquets are amongst the trifles which I have collected and kept, and of these I have a considerable number. The menus I sought for with the greatest eagerness were those of public lunches or dinners attended by some great orator or politician, and when I got them I generally managed also to obtain the signature of the guest or guests of the evening, which naturally adds very greatly to their interest. Of these souvenirs recalling great social functions of the past, I have in particular a quantity of the time of the Jubilee of 1887, which has now become almost an historic memory. Besides their interest as souvenirs, these menus may one day be interesting as illustrating the way in which the people of our time dined. As a matter of fact, there has been very little change in the number and nature of the dishes served at public dinners and banquets during the last thirty-five years, as can be seen from some menus I still retain as a remembrance of the entertainments given to the late Shah of Persia (that is the one before the last), on his first visit to this country in 1873.

Other relics which I treasure are certain old cards of invitation to parties, weddings, and other social functions, which recall to my mind friends for the most part, alas, long since passed away.

WEDDINGS OF THE PAST

There was a good deal of robust joviality about the weddings of old days, and the bride and bridegroom always drove away in a chariot drawn by postillions resplendent in blue jackets and white breeches, and wearing enormous white favours at their breasts. These, as a rule, were mounted on what were generally known as “Newman’s Greys”—horses supplied by Newman, the job-master. A team of four was by no means uncommon, and very smart and appropriate such an equipage looked. What astonishment would it not create at a wedding to-day! But the post-boys and postillions of my youth in their quaint attire, together with “Newman’s Greys,” have long ago journeyed their last great stage and left no successors behind them. Their calling has now long been obsolete, and were they once more to reappear they would attract about as much attention as men in armour. Lord Lonsdale (I believe, almost alone) still makes use of postillions, who in yellow jackets and white beaver hats strike a picturesque note at Ascot and some other race-meetings which he attends in old-fashioned style.

I remember some amusing stories told in connection with marriages of the past. There was, for instance, the old peer who, though very proud of his family, tempered his pride with a considerable sense of humour. One day he was very much surprised to be told by his sister that she had conceived a great affection for a well-known though somewhat eccentric savant who, although generally esteemed, was of very humble Semitic extraction.

Not quite determined as to what course of action he should take, he sent for the prospective bridegroom with the intention of talking matters over, and after some conversation said,—

“And now, sir, I should like to know something about your family?”

“I think it will be sufficient,” was the reply, “to say that I descend from the illustrious blood of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”

“Oh,” said the peer, “of course our family has nothing to compare with that! Therefore, if my sister really likes you, you had better take her.”

The bridegroom became a Christian; but his brother-in-law always expressed very sceptical views as to this conversion, and would often say, “Christian—fine Christian, indeed—why, the fellow has phylacteries sewn into the ends of his trousers.” Nevertheless the marriage did not turn out at all badly, and proved anything but an unhappy one.

Another rather amusing story is the one told about an East Anglian clergyman of the past who was one day considerably embarrassed at receiving a visit from a lady parishioner who, on entering the room, at once said that she had come to ask his opinion, as her spiritual guide, upon a subject about which she felt quite unable to make up her mind—did he think that it could ever, under any circumstances, be right for a woman to propose to a man?

“THOU ART THE MAN”

Much taken aback, the poor rector replied that he certainly thought there might be circumstances which would make such a proposal justifiable; upon which, without the slightest hesitation, the lady exclaimed, as Nathan said unto David, “Thou art the man!” And, seeing no possibility of escape, he was.

Norfolk in past times produced many strange types. I remember an old parson who lived near my brother’s place—a landowner as well as a clergyman, and one who farmed his own land, thus being what was known as a “Squarson.” One Sunday his parishioners found affixed to the church door a notice which said, “In consequence of domestic affliction there will be no service to-day.” Everybody being naturally much concerned, sympathetic inquiries were at once made, when it was ascertained that the domestic affliction was an accident which had happened to a fine bullock, in consequence of which it had been destroyed, after which the rector had decided personally to superintend its being cut up. Another old parson, at one of whose churches service was usually a mere form on account of the lack of worshippers, found himself deprived of the services of his ancient clerk, who was well used to his ways. On his arrival at the church the following Sunday the new one set vigorously to work at ringing the solitary bell, an innovation which was anything but to the rector’s liking, as he quickly showed by shouting, “What on earth are you doing, you fool, you? Don’t you know that if you go on ringing like that some one is sure to come?”

My brother himself was something of a character, and could give an apt enough reply when he chose. Two old ladies, cousins of ours, once pestered him to let them see his country retreat, where he lived a very solitary existence. Thinking at last to end their importunities, he wrote saying that they might come and stay for a few days, in reply to which he was informed that they hoped he would see that some one was present as chaperon, as it would be hardly proper for them to be all alone with him. Further correspondence (and their visit also, I must add) was, however, checked by the brief note which he returned, in which he said that as, according to computation, their ages and his own amounted to about two hundred years, he thought that the voice of scandal was not much to be feared.

People of original character and brilliant intellect were undoubtedly more frequently to be met with some thirty or forty years ago than is now the case, when almost every one seems to be cast in a mould of a more or less mediocre kind.

There was, for instance, Mrs. Norton (who is still remembered on account of her remarkable cleverness and graceful gift of versification), and her sister, the beautiful Duchess of Somerset, who had been Queen of Beauty at the Eglinton Tournament. I knew the latter very well, a most original woman, possessed of a great deal of the Sheridan cleverness and wit. Meeting her one day at an exhibition of pictures, one of the principal features of which was a portrait of Mr. Gladstone, she led me up to it and, pointing to the picture, a most execrable piece of painting, said, “At last we Conservatives are avenged.” At one time she was very much taken with the idea of utilising guinea-pigs as a new sort of dish, declaring that they were most excellent when cooked, and actually induced me to try them. I must candidly admit that they really were not at all bad; she got me a little cookery book entirely filled with recipes for preparing the curious little creatures for the table.

“THE SOULS”

There does not now exist, I fancy, any brilliant little circle of people such as in the ’sixties started that curious sheet the Owl, though from time to time attempts at something of the sort have been made. There was, for instance, the little coterie the members of which called themselves “the Souls.”

These, I believe, had more or less regular meetings for mental communion and improvement, and at one time they attracted a good deal of attention. There were certainly several clever people amongst them, as well as some exceedingly attractive and good-looking ladies, whose mental aspirations (so they declared) lay in the direction of a higher intellectual life than the one led by ordinary mortals.

The late Sir William Harcourt, whose keen and incisive wit was ever very quick at summing up things at a true valuation, is said, when asked what he thought of “the Souls,” to have replied, “All I know about ‘the Souls’ is that some of them have very beautiful bodies.”

I often regret that I did not keep a complete set of the Owl; it was a very clever little publication, and for a time created a considerable sensation in London society. Originally started by Mr. Evelyn Ashley, Mr. James Stuart Wortley, and the present Lord Glenesk, it was published in a small shop in Catherine Street, the first number consisting of but a single page containing some clever political comments, a little light and satirical verse, as well as a good deal of amusing chit-chat. The price was high, sixpence, for it was in no way intended for the general public, being indeed, at its inception, sent gratuitously to many of the best known people in London. Its success, however, was so enormous that the scope of the paper was very considerably enlarged, many celebrated people becoming contributors, including Laurence Oliphant, and an Owl dinner being held every Monday, at which the forthcoming number of the paper was discussed. By the public the Owl was regarded more as an aristocratic literary plaything than as anything else, but whenever it appeared (for it was published or not according to the inclinations of its editors) every copy would be sure to be snapped up. The political information, in particular, contributed by those in the best position to know, was especially good, and it used to be said, indeed, that the Times itself was occasionally anything but averse to drawing upon the notes printed on the Owl’s front sheet, which invariably contained a good deal of novel and accurate information as to forthcoming events, both in the parliamentary and diplomatic worlds.

Lord Wharncliffe used frequently to entertain the staff of the Owl at dinner at Wharncliffe House, occasionally contributing acrostics (for which he had a natural bent) to the columns of the paper, whilst Lady Wharncliffe would sometimes send notes as to any current event which might be of interest to the fashionable world.

“THE OWLS IN THE IVY BUSH”

In the copy of the Owl published on June 22, 1864, is an amusing account of a meeting of the staff held at the Star and Garter, Richmond; it is entitled “The Owls in the Ivy Bush.” On this occasion there were present the Hon. Mrs. Norton, the Bishop of Oxford (Wilberforce), Lord Houghton, Mr. Bernal Osborne, Laurence Oliphant, Sir William (then Mr.) Vernon Harcourt, Abraham Hayward, and some others. A very brilliant assemblage of wit and intellect, which, I fear, the London society of to-day (or rather what passes for London society) would be totally unable to equal.

Some of the jokes and scraps of verse which appeared in different numbers of the Owl were exceedingly brilliant and amusing, whilst fads and fancies of the day were dealt with in a very humorous fashion.

The following lines, for instance, were published in the Owl at the time when Mr. Banting’s system of reducing fat was a general subject of discussion:—

“Banting in Infernis”

Here lies the bones of him whose strife

Was how to drop the staff of life:

Falstaff he was; survivors he has shown ’em

How “nil” to leave “de mortuis nisi bonum.”

In another number is a witty riddle also dealing with the eminent upholsterer in whose instructions for producing a reduction of weight the fat people of 1864 placed so much trust:—

“Why is Lord Palmerston like Mr. Banting?” “Because his present measures are far smaller than the clothes (close) of last session would warrant.”

My cousin, Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, is one of the few survivors of that brilliant band who were contributors to the Owl, and no doubt will have much that is amusing and interesting to say about it in the volume of Memoirs which he has at last been persuaded to prepare for publication. Unrivalled as a raconteur, Sir Henry was a constant guest at my luncheon-table in the ’eighties, when almost every Sunday three-fourths of the Fourth Party, that is to say, Lord Randolph Churchill, Mr., now Sir John, Gorst, and Sir Henry used to give me the pleasure of their company, to the delight of all who chanced to be present.

THE WHITE ROSE LEAGUE

Those were the early days of the Primrose League, the immediate success of which put us all in very good spirits. A little later on, at the time when the League as a political force was beginning to make its influence felt, the late Comte de Paris became much interested in its methods, conceiving the idea that some organisation of a similar kind might be formed to promote Orleanist interests in France. He questioned me a good deal about the League, I remember, and I referred him to my daughter, who, ever an ardent worker on the Conservative side, thoroughly understood its machinery. As a result of his inquiries, a French “White Rose League” was soon afterwards formed, the badges being in the form of a gilt rose, specimens of which we received and still retain. France, however, manifested little enthusiasm at this attempt to breathe new life into Royalist circles, and after a short time nothing more was heard of the White Rose League, which soon relapsed into an obscurity from which indeed it can hardly be said to have ever really emerged.

The originator of the Primrose League, as is well known, was Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, who from the first received enthusiastic encouragement from Lord Randolph Churchill, then a brilliant pillar of the Conservative party, and full of political energy and intellectual strength. An audacious conversationalist when in a good mood, few were able to excel him in quickness and facility of expression, whilst he would at times exhibit a gaiety which was very contagious. Nevertheless Lord Randolph would never allow the tone of the conversation thus engendered to degenerate into familiarity, and would be quick to resent any approach to it. He always seemed to me as being a man who was secretly conscious that he must make his mark quickly. Who can tell that some foreboding of his premature end did not loom before him? Socially his personality was a very striking one, and that personality he managed to impress upon the electorate within a very short time of his entry upon a political career. He realised, as it were, I think, that advertisement (I am not speaking in a sense derogatory to his memory) was necessary in a democratic age, and well advertised he was. The newspapers were filled with his portraits and doings, whilst his twirling moustache proved a never-ending subject of amusement to the caricaturists. Theatres and music halls rang with references to “Randy-Pandy,” who at one time was certainly the best known figure in England. Then came the fall, brought on, I believe, by his conviction that the Conservative Government were absolutely unable to do without him. Bismarck it was, I think, who said, “no man is indispensable, every man can be replaced,” or words to that effect, but Lord Randolph held a different opinion.

Considering himself absolutely necessary to the very existence of the Conservative party, the selection of Mr. Goschen to fill his place came upon him as a complete surprise, for he had left that politician quite out of the calculations which he had made.

“I FORGOT GOSCHEN”

Lord Randolph’s exclamation on learning that his resignation as Chancellor of the Exchequer had been accepted is well known to everybody, but the words “I forgot Goschen” were not the only ones which were used by him.

Mr. Walter Long (who may now be called the chief hope of the Conservative party) chanced to be present when Lord Randolph received the first intimation of what was practically his political doom, and the following is the true version of what occurred.

Mr. Long was that day in the smoking-room of the Carlton Club, sitting with Lord Randolph, when the latter, who had just heard the news that Lord Goschen (then, of course, Mr. Goschen, and not an M.P.) had accepted the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, exclaimed: “All great men make mistakes. Napoleon forgot Blücher, I forgot Goschen.”

I may add that it is with Mr. Long’s consent that I publish the true version of a somewhat dramatic historical episode.

II

Society—Conversation and the lack of it—Miss Gordon Cumming and Munro of Novar—The Duke of Wellington’s hatred of publicity—Sir Robert Peel’s wedding at Apsley House—Mr. Delane—An eccentric patron—A curate’s wit—The Stock Exchange and the West End—Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar’s drive home—American influence—Lions—Mr. Watts and the crinolette—Matchmaking—Lady Beaconsfield—Some anecdotes—Lord Henry Lennox and the Duchess of Cleveland—Maria, Marchioness of Ailesbury—Frances, Lady Waldegrave.

Society in old days cannot in any way be compared with the motley crowd which calls itself society to-day. A witty Frenchman of the eighteenth century once said that in perusing the memoirs of the time of Louis XIV. one discovered, even in the bad company of that age, something which was lacking in the good of his own day—a remark which with but slight alteration might, with justice, I think, be applied to the society of to-day as compared with that of fifty or sixty years ago. To-day it would be difficult to discover accurately who is in or who out of society, or, for the matter of that, whether society itself exists—though, of course, many little coteries of people think that they, and they only, are the leaders of the fashionable world.

DECAY OF CONVERSATION

In old days society was led by certain recognised rulers who framed its ordinances, against which there was no appeal; whilst it was entertained by men whose capacity for wit and brilliant conversation was universally admitted—individuals, indeed, who ruled with almost undisputed sway and retained their power even when age had somewhat dulled their wits. Society was quite content to listen, and it was not considered good manners to resent being told things one knew perfectly well even by people who did not sometimes know them at all. Now, however, everybody chatters; it is not talkers that are wanted, far from it; but listening is almost a lost art. The general tone of modern conversation is, without doubt, much lower than it was in the days of the great talkers of the past—inane flippancy being treated in much too lenient a manner. The general impression given by those who habitually indulge in it always seems to me to be that they are not quite sure that they are ladies and gentlemen, and are therefore perpetually engaged in trying to laugh it off.

On the other hand, the conversational autocrats of other days were far too dictatorial, and, in many cases, undoubtedly checked general conversation owing to a secret fear of incurring their displeasure and evoking some verbal castigation not at all conducive to social enjoyment.

The professional conversationalist, who in former days did really exist, has now long since passed away. To-day he would be voted a bore, for his social qualifications were not such as would render him popular in the modern world, in which every one likes to share in the conversation, which for the most part deals with trivialities.

The great talkers of old days, bold of speech and ruthlessly outspoken at times, were especially deft in making use of banter, a weapon of which, when necessary, they availed themselves with terrible effect. This banter, let it be understood, was quite a different thing from the chaff of to-day, which in most cases is little more than silly comment on personal peculiarities, or criticism of a very primitive and obvious kind which sometimes sinks to the level of childish teasing. A good maxim which should never be forgotten is that to chaff any one up to such a point that the victim loses his temper, places the assailant in a very awkward and uncomfortable position, whilst demonstrating his complete mental inefficiency in that particular line in which he has been attempting to indulge.

It should never be forgotten that one angry or even irritated individual will completely spoil a dinner-party. The difference between a clever talker and one who delights in saying things which embarrass and annoy is much the same as that which exists between a first-class fencer and a bungling assassin.

MUNRO OF NOVAR

In these days, when the art of conversation is little understood, it is no infrequent thing to encounter hosts and hostesses who wilfully check conversation by remarks, in many cases well meant, such as, “Now we will talk of something else,” “Don’t you think we have heard enough about that?” and other verbal stupidities which affect the good talker like an icy blast.

The necessity for such crude methods can never really exist, for it is perfectly easy to lead a conversation away from one topic to another by almost imperceptible gradations which do not entail that awful silence which is the solemn requiem of social enjoyment. After a pause of this kind general conversation is difficult to revive, and then it is that a bold and even an assertive talker is especially valuable in order to put every one at their ease. In connection with this subject I cannot help telling a little story which will exemplify what I mean.

Miss Gordon Cumming, a lady noted for her independence of speech, would at times make very apposite and amusing remarks. Years ago there was a certain Scotch gentleman, Munro of Novar, who was well known for his carelessness as to dress, which indeed amounted almost to eccentricity. He was, by the way, the possessor of a very fine collection of pictures, which were sold in order to help the Turks in their struggle against Russia in 1878, by his successor and heir, Mr. Butler Johnston, M.P., who was a warm and generous supporter of the Ottoman Empire. This gentleman, I remember, created a great sensation by making a most admirable speech in the House of Commons, which at the time caused people to predict a great political future for him. His health, however, broke down and nothing more was heard of him, for, becoming an invalid, he withdrew from public life and died not very long afterwards of consumption. Munro of Novar was, as I have said, very unconventional in his attire, and usually managed to display a considerable amount of shirt between the ending of his waistcoat and the beginning of his trousers. This snowy space was one evening especially noticeable. During dinner, for some reason or other, an awful pause in the conversation, amounting practically to a dead silence, occurred, when Miss Gordon Cumming, raising her voice, suddenly remarked, “I beg to call the attention of the company to the very lucid interval between Novar’s waistcoat and his trousers.” This utterance, naturally provoking uproarious laughter, caused the chieftain in question to make the necessary adjustment in his dress, and put every one into a good humour.

The general level of conversation in the so-called society of modern days must, of necessity, be low, for society, or what passes for it, is now very large, whilst wealth is more welcome than intellect. Good conversation, therefore, is practically non-existent. The majority of people, indeed, would, I think, quite frankly admit their incompetence in this respect, perhaps adding that serious conversation is a bore, which is true enough when an attempt is made to indulge in it by those who have never learned anything and never wish to learn. To such the world appears much as it does to that species of lizard which, from having lived for ages in dark caves, has no power of sight.

SOCIETY AND THE PRESS

In former days the love of publicity, which is such a conspicuous feature of modern life, had little or no existence, and people, for the most part, disliked the chronicling of their doings by the Press—an aversion which can hardly be said to flourish at the present time. The second Duke of Wellington, in particular, was especially averse to attracting public notice of this kind, and was once very angry at a full account of a social function which had taken place at Apsley House appearing in a daily newspaper—one, I may add, of the very highest class.

When the late Sir Robert Peel was married to Lady Emily Hay (the Duchess’s sister), the wedding breakfast took place at Apsley House, to which, as usual, no Press representatives had been invited. What was the Duke’s horror, therefore, to read the next day in his morning newspaper, a full account of the proceedings, together with a report of such speeches as had been delivered! He was absolutely furious, and knowing that I was a friend of the proprietor of the paper, came round to see me, in a towering rage, to try to get me to discover the culprit. “I am sure,” said he, “one of these newspaper fellows smuggled himself in and lay under the table whilst the breakfast was going on.” In spite, however, of my strenuous efforts, the miscreant was never discovered, much to the annoyance of the Duke, who for years would never speak to the owner of the paper—a dear friend of mine, who happily is still alive.

Some time after this the latter told me that, to avoid any other incident of this kind occurring, he had given strict orders that no report of any social festivities whatever should appear unless accompanied by the written permission of the hosts, and I rather fancy that the rule in question still holds good.

At that time, of course, the Press was not regarded quite in the same light as it is to-day, and the majority of its representatives were viewed with a good deal of suspicion. Mr. Delane, however, was an exception to this, and was everywhere warmly welcomed in society. I often went down to parties which he gave for Ascot races at a house which I believe is now tenanted by the Jockey Club, and also used to see a certain amount of him in London. Well do I remember his once saying to me in connection with some troubles which he was describing: “Ah! you have no worries; your path is strewn with rose-leaves, and those carefully ironed out.”

AN ECCENTRIC PATRON

The fear of public opinion which now exists had little influence upon certain people in old days. There were many who held very tenaciously to the doctrine that with their own they could do absolutely what they liked. Such a one was the peer who, when thwarted, would occasionally display an almost injudicious independence of action which gave rise to many stories, of which the following is one. He had several livings in his gift, but having become a Catholic found that owing to his change of faith the law prohibited him from presenting any one to them. This, for some reason or other, particularly annoyed him, and he determined to have the matter thoroughly investigated, when he found that this prohibition only applied to Catholics: a Buddhist, Mahometan, or even an avowed Agnostic could present—a Catholic patron alone could not do so. More angry than ever at this discovery, he then conceived the idea of advertising these livings for sale, giving especial instructions that a proviso should be inserted that “no Christian need apply,” the consequence of which was that, as he used gleefully to narrate, he eventually sold the rights of presentation to a Jew.

Whilst on the subject of presentations to livings, I remember an old story of a bishop and his chaplain which may possibly bear repetition.

A bishop was once having a discussion with his chaplain as to the exact nature of wit, and defied him to explain it. The chaplain in reply said, “Your Lordship will see that I can easily do that. The rectory of —— is vacant, give it to me. That will be wit.” “If you can prove it,” answered the bishop, “the living shall be yours.” “It would be a good thing well applied,” rejoined the chaplain, and by his nimbleness of mind gained the coveted appointment.

NEW FORCES IN SOCIETY

It was in the ’seventies that two new and powerful forces began to make their influence felt in society, for about that time Americans—of whom formerly comparatively little had been seen—began to come to London in considerable numbers, and then began those Anglo-American marriages which are now quite common. About this time also the Stock Exchange began to make itself felt as a social power outside the City, whilst several young men—pioneers of that vast body who now every morning migrate from the West End to their various offices—declared their intention of adopting the City as a regular career. Before that time hardly any one in the West End of London understood anything about stocks and shares. Whether, on the whole, London society has gained much by this departure seems a somewhat doubtful question. Many younger sons, it is true, have found a means of making a livelihood; but, on the other hand, many elder ones have, in consequence of unsuccessful speculations, been compelled to look about for one. Directly the City mania obtained a firm grip upon what was practically virgin soil, people began to make much of every one whom they thought capable of pointing out an easy path to wealth; and many shrewd business men, who hitherto had never dreamt of forcing the strongly guarded portals of society, were not slow in taking advantage of such a state of affairs. In almost every case they obtained more than they gave, and the ample hospitality which they dispensed brought in a rich harvest of speculators, who, with childlike confidence, eagerly rushed into any and every venture. They fondly dreamt that with the advice of their new-found advisers wealth beyond the dreams of avarice was now really within their grasp; but the hopes of only a very few were realised, and the large majority burnt their fingers very severely by over-indulgence in speculation.

At the time when rich aliens were first beginning to be admitted into society a little incident was the cause of much amusement to the late Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar. One wet evening during the season Prince Edward, coming out from the opera and just about to step into his carriage, spied a foreigner of very humble extraction, who had amassed a considerable fortune in the City and was noted for his hospitality, vainly searching for his brougham. The poor man was in a state of despair bordering on distraction, and as the financier in question lived, like Prince Edward, in Portland Place, the latter, who was the kindest of men, very courteously offered him a lift home.

The offer was accepted with many expressions of the most profuse thanks; but as the carriage rolled on Prince Edward gradually began to be somewhat alarmed at the behaviour of his companion, who began carrying on a long conversation with himself of a solemn and prayer-like nature. Listening more attentively, the Prince at last was able to make some meaning out of the broken sentences, which, uttered in a sort of Dutch-English, produced a sort of weird, wailing effect.

“A broud tay indeed,” the man was saying, “a broud tay for me and mine. Oh dat my boor mother had been sbared to see me dis night, triving side by side with a Brince of the blood!”

Now, I fancy, Anglicised foreign financiers take these sort of things more or less as a matter of course. No one, indeed, is at all surprised at meeting people of uncertain nationality, one or two at least being certain to be included in every fashionable party. To do these individuals justice, most of them, after a mysterious process of Anglicisation, become public-spirited men, whilst the great majority yield to no one in vaunting the superiority of the Englishman over the foreigner.

At the same time, with the influx of the rich foreign element into English society has come a new conception of life altogether, and wealth as the ultimate end of existence has been placed upon a pinnacle which it never occupied before. In one respect, however, there can be no doubt but that the new English have deserved well of their newly adopted country: this is in their magnificent gifts and bequests to hospitals and charities, acts of generosity which must silence much criticism.

AMERICAN INFLUENCE

On the whole, I think the influx of the American element into English society has done good rather than harm, whilst there are many old families which, both in mind and pocket, have been completely revivified by prudent marriages with American brides. At the present day, so close has the union between ourselves and the United States become that Americans are hardly looked upon as foreigners at all, so many people having American relatives; but in old days things were quite different, and we rather dreaded the social influence of a people whom we did not know. Bright and vivacious, it may with justice be said that it is by the American girl that we have been conquered, for she it is in reality who has brought about the excellent understanding which now exists with the great people beyond the Atlantic.

In the late ’seventies and early ’eighties society was very fond of “lions”—a taste which, I fancy, has rather decreased during recent years. People vied with one another in getting celebrities of different kinds to come to their lunches, dinners, and parties, and I fear that I must plead guilty to having joined in the prevailing craze, which, as a matter of fact, was no new one as regards myself, for I have always liked to meet out-of-the-way or remarkable people. On one occasion, however, I received what I must confess was a well-merited reproof. I had arranged a luncheon-party, one of the guests being a well-known lady—well-known on account of her beauty,—and it suddenly struck me that my old friend Mr. Watts, a great admirer of perfection in the human form divine, might like to meet her. So I sent him an invitation, to which the following was the reply:—

Little Holland House,

28th March 1884.

Dear Lady Dorothy—Many thousand thanks. I am pleased to meet remarkable people, especially those from whom I can profit, and I delight in beauty, but I have little interest in those who become famous from accident, so I should prefer to come and see you and a few old (or new) friends such as I had the pleasure of finding at your house the day when I enjoyed myself very much. The amusement you so kindly offer me in this case would be in the indulgence of curiosity, not a nice feeling to be encouraged towards any one who wears a crinolette; so please give me another opportunity of so pleasantly paying my respects to you,—And believe me to be, dear Lady Dorothy, yours sincerely,

G. F. Watts.

Possessing a mind which was essentially of a very high and elevated type, Mr. Watts could not bear the thought of a lady being, as he thought, “trotted out” as a curiosity, which I fancy my letter had led him to believe was the object of the lunch, though, of course, such was not really the case. The reference to the crinolette—that monstrosity which seemed to be designed in emulation of the Hottentot form—sounds strange to modern ears. It is to be hoped that this artificial protuberance—hideous, uncomfortable, and supremely ridiculous—has now for ever disappeared.

MATCHMAKING MAMMAS

The crinoline, a much worse monstrosity, once nearly cost me my life owing to the one I wore catching fire. It was, of course, nothing but a revival of the hooped petticoat of the eighteenth century, and was introduced, as far as I remember, by the Empress Eugénie. The name originated, I think, from the crin or horsehair of which the crinoline was made; though it is also said to have arisen from a milliner who invented it and was called Madame Crinoline; but such a story is, I think, based upon no solid foundation.

Matchmaking mammas, perhaps, existed in greater numbers formerly than to-day, when young ladies are so advanced that they are well able to do their own matchmaking.

Many were the stories told of a certain lady who, clever, shrewd, and good-natured withal, yet made little secret of her intense desire to marry off her daughters, a feat which she duly succeeded in performing. Once at a ball given in a very beautiful mansion, at which, however, the decorations were more select than the company, a gentleman whom she knew came up to her and said, “Ah, Lady ——, what a beautiful house this is.” “It is, indeed,” was her reply; “but remember my daughters don’t dance with the house.” On one occasion, however, it was declared her matchmaking schemes had been thoroughly baffled by a certain young peer who, rich and extremely nervous, seemed likely to succumb easily before her attacks. His very nervousness, however, proved his salvation. The lady one evening met him at a party, and, dragging the unfortunate youth into an adjoining boudoir, opened fire with, “I must tell you that I have frequently remarked your attentions to . . .”; but she was not allowed to proceed further, for, breaking into her speech with a sudden and extremely nervous rush, her would-be victim, with the words “Pardon me, but I promised my dear mother never to flirt with a married woman,” made for the door, and thus unwittingly escaped from confirming the proposal which he had never made.

In after-years, when all her daughters were satisfactorily married, this lady used to say, “Only give a sensible woman three wet days in a country house, and she’ll marry her daughters to any one.”

Formerly, of course, English society was not nearly so cosmopolitan as it is to-day, and there were many people quite ignorant of foreign manners and customs, which were looked upon with a certain amount of contempt.

The late Lord Clarendon used to tell a story about Lady Beaconsfield. Her husband had introduced her to a distinguished Frenchman, and the latter, wishing to be very civil to the Prime Minister’s wife, made an attempt to kiss her hand as she advanced to shake hands with him, upon which, not caring for this foreign mode of salutation, she drew her hand away, at the same time saying, “Monsieur, ce n’est pas propre.”

This rather amusing incident has, I fancy, been more than once described as having happened to other ladies, but as a matter of fact Lady Beaconsfield was really the perpetrator of the blunder in question.

MRS. MALAPROPS

In former days there was generally some one person in London society who was credited with saying the most ridiculous things and making absurd mistakes in conversation. Mrs. Hudson, the wife of the famous railway king, was, I believe, the Mrs. Malaprop of her day, but I never met her. Another lady, however, who flourished during the ’seventies and ’eighties, when she entertained very largely, undoubtedly did occasionally say things which were ludicrous in the extreme, and in consequence caused other similar things which she had not said to be attributed to her. It was positively asserted, for instance (and perhaps with truth), that at the beginning of one season she had made the somewhat startling announcement that she was going to give two big balls—one for the beau-monde, the other for the demi-monde, by which somewhat doubtful appellation she merely meant to indicate the people who were not quite at the very top of the social tree. Many stories also used to be told of what this poor lady had said at a dinner at the British Embassy in Paris. Seated next to a Frenchman, who was freely talking in his own language on a subject which she deemed better unheard by the footman behind her chair, she is supposed to have pointed at the servant, who she knew understood French, whilst she murmured in a low voice, “Prenez garde, le derrière de ma chaise comprend le français.”

Another lady, newly admitted into society, having sent a card to Lord Cassillis (whose name is pronounced “Cassells”) for a ball she was giving, was afterwards very indignant at some one remarking, “Cassillis seems getting on very well with your daughter,” and at once went round the ballroom saying, “I never asked that publisher to come at all.”

Then there was the gushing lady who, after a dinner-party where the Chinese Ambassador and his wife were amongst the guests, found herself, as she thought, sitting next the Ambassadress, over whose gorgeous robes she went into an ecstasy of admiration, at first evoking nothing but a mysterious smile from the object of her praise. When, however, she proceeded to even greater lengths in the way of caressing gush, the supposed Ambassadress at last significantly placed a finger upon her lips, and, pointing with the other hand to where another quaint Chinese figure was sitting, quietly murmured, “Takee care, my wife velly jealous.”

The old Duchess of Cleveland—not the one who lived at Battle Abbey; she had been Lady William Paulet—was a great character in her way, very stiff and precise in her manner of talking, as well as abominating all familiarity, such as calling people by their Christian names. Lord Henry Lennox, I recollect, used to delight in irritating the old Duchess by making use of slang expressions, which never failed to call forth from her the remark, “May I inquire, Lord Henry, whether, when you have completely mastered the language of the servants’ hall, you mean to adopt its manners as well?”

MARCHIONESS OF AILESBURY

Another lady, whose straight upstanding figure, deep voice, and striking appearance can never be forgotten by those who knew her, was Maria, Marchioness of Ailesbury, who, to the end of her life, sported a mass of corkscrew ringlets, which fell in abundant masses around her somewhat aquiline and commanding profile. In great request in society, she frankly declared that she would go to no country house unless she could stay a fortnight, as otherwise “it would not pay her.” She lunched and dined out to such an extent that it was currently, and, I believe, truthfully, reported that she herself kept no cook. Her only extravagance was engaging tall footmen—any man about six feet high who attracted her attention being promptly engaged, no matter what his character might be. These footmen she herself used to put through a sort of military drill, with a view to imparting to their actions that grace and dignity to which she attached so much importance.

Frances, Lady Waldegrave, who was the daughter of old Braham, the singer, was a woman of very determined character, and not a bit ashamed of her origin. She would often jokingly say, when present at a party at which any curious or unknown people were amongst the guests, “I am sure every one will say they are some of my vulgar relatives.” It is rather a strange thing that in days when society was still somewhat aristocratic and exclusive. Lady Waldegrave and Lady Molesworth, both with no pretensions to good birth, should have been rivals in leading it.

Lady Waldegrave expended huge sums on the decoration, or rather destruction, of Strawberry Hill, which she filled with heavy gilt furniture literally crowned with coronets. She also employed a very indifferent painter to paint pictures of her friends. These works of art were totally out of place at Strawberry Hill, where they produced the worst effect imaginable. Art indeed was not at a very high level during the Victorian era, for though there were some good artists, there were many very bad ones as well.

III

Country houses—Letter from Lord Beaconsfield—Political influence of landowners—Guests down with the fish—Longleat—Hinchingbrooke—Goodwood—Old-time country visitors—Colonel Nelthorpe and “Wulliam”—the Norfolk Militia in the ’fifties—My father and Casanova—A good-natured giant—Old Lady Suffield—Lord George Bentinck—Admiral Rous—George Payne and Lord Alexander Lennox—Religion of the former—The Duchess of Cleveland and Battle Abbey—Anecdotes—Duke William of Normandy.

The country houses in England may be said to be a unique national possession, for in no other land does the same sort of mansion exist—that is to say, a more or less commodious dwelling for the most part of considerable antiquity, surrounded by an estate which affords, or rather did afford, the owner sufficient and congenial occupation in the form of sport. France has her historic châteaux, and before the Revolution had a certain number of country houses with parks approximating somewhat to those existing in the England of to-day; but few have survived the great upheaval of 1789, and little land remains attached to most of those that have.

The old houses and stately mansions of England form a valuable artistic possession, and many of them have been utilised as the scene of their work by our authors and novelists. Who can forget Brambletye House and the Mistletoe Bough of Harrison Ainsworth? Thackeray also drew his picture of the palace of the Marquis of Carabas from some stately, though it must be admitted, cheerless country mansion; whilst, as the following letter shows, the grounds of Bulstrode furnished Lord Beaconsfield with his description of Armine in Henrietta Temple:—

Hughenden Manor, April 17, 1865.

Dear Dorothy—We came down here with our own horses; the first time for many years. How delightful after railroads! We baited at Gerrard’s Cross, twenty miles from town, and then strolled into Bulstrode Park to see the new house the Duke of Somerset is building in that long-neglected but enchanting spot. There, though they told us we should find nobody but the clerk of the works, we found the Duke and Duchess, who had come down for a couple of hours by rail from Slough, and so they lionised us over all their new creation, which is a happy and successful one—a Tudor pile, very seemly and convenient, and built amid the old pleasance which I described thirty years ago in Henrietta Temple; for Bulstrode, then mansionless and deserted, was the origin of Armine. Excuse this egotism, the characteristic of scribblers even when they had left off work. Adieu, dear Dorothy.

D.

OLD COUNTRY LIFE

In the days when landlords were able to live upon their estates and were content with a more or less simple country life, enlivened only by an occasional party of their friends, the country house was no inconsiderable political force. The views of its possessor, indeed, greatly influenced the neighbourhood, whilst as a rule a fairly contented tenantry followed their landlord—Whig or Tory—and voted according to his lead; besides this they took a genuine interest in everything which concerned him or his family. To-day this has ceased to be, for the rich city men or American millionaires are but seldom in touch with those living around their mansions, hired either for sport or pleasure. The modern standpoint as regards country life is well demonstrated by the remark of a lady whose husband had bought a country house, and was told that some pleasant people lived in the country-side near by. “Pleasant or not, it matters little to us,” was the retort; “we shan’t see anything of them,—we shall get our friends down from London with the fish.” Nor is such a standpoint to be wondered at when it is remembered how little a permanent resident in the country can be in touch with those whose whole life is a rush for pleasure and amusement, a habit of which they not unnaturally cannot divest themselves even when far away from town. Formerly country-house life was very quiet, perhaps even humdrum, but within the last thirty or forty years it has undergone a complete transformation.

In old days the possessors were wont to reside upon their estates for the greater portion of the year, whilst the people who hire country houses merely run down for week-ends in the summer and shooting parties in the winter.

The modern practice of letting one’s country house would have appalled the landed proprietors of other days when such a thing was yet undreamt of. There was then, of course, a real bond of connection (very often one of respectful sympathy) between a landlord and his tenants, which, except on a very few estates, has now quite ceased to exist.

At present the majority of country squires are far too poor to resist letting their places, which are naturally regarded much in the light of a commercial asset, their sale-value for the most part consisting in their capacity for affording some city magnate or American millionaire the shooting or hunting necessary to amuse him in the intervals of a life of business and speculation. Country life, or rather short spells of it, has now become a sort of luxury of the rich; but few of any considerable means care to reside for long periods in the country, as was the case in old days when people regularly settled down there.

In the late Lord Bath’s time I used to go a great deal to Longleat, the beautiful palace—for it is little less—built by Sir John Thynne, the favourite of Somerset, some of whose letters beginning “Edward, Protector by the Grace of God,” are still preserved in the house. The fourth Lord Bath was very much interested in politics, and many interesting people used to assemble under his hospitable roof. I well remember being at Longleat on the occasion of an election at which the present Lord Bath was standing as a candidate. His successful election was greatly assisted, every one in the house believed, by a canvasser of a race which has always been prominently to the front in political matters—a donkey—over whose back two panniers were slung, in each of which reclined one of Lord Weymouth’s children, whilst the legend, “Vote for Papa,” was prominently displayed.

Lady Bath and her husband were the very perfection of what a host and hostess should be, and besides the social pleasures of these visits there was always the beautiful park to drive about in, a veritable feast to the eye in itself, especially the picturesque spot very appropriately known as “Heaven’s Gate.”

HINCHINGBROOKE

It was only the other day that I was once more at Hinchingbrooke, the lovely old place where many years ago I used to go and stay with a most delightful friend of mine—the mother of the present Lord Sandwich. Besides being a charming conversationalist, she had a most unusually lovely voice—indeed the famous Costa used to say that he had hardly ever heard a finer. The house is a wonderful old place, filled with magnificent pictures, whilst there is a quantity of marvellous old letters and manuscripts in the library. I remember going there to meet the present Duchess of Devonshire just about the time that she made her first appearance in England. She was then in the full radiance of youth and beauty, creating a sensation wherever she went.

Another country place of which I have many pleasant memories is Goodwood House. Especially well do I remember the elaborate and splendid festivities which took place at the coming of age of the present Duke of Richmond, on which occasion the old English custom of roasting an entire ox was observed. The rejoicings lasted an entire week.

OLD COLONEL NELTHORPE

It was no uncommon thing before the days of easy railway travelling for a friend of the family to reside almost permanently in a country house. I remember such a one at my father’s house in Norfolk—Colonel Nelthorpe by name—an old bachelor who might well have stepped out of one of Fielding’s novels. This old colonel had a room known as Colonel Nelthorpe’s room, and a stall for his horse in the stables, both of which were always kept vacant and ready in view of his arrival during such brief periods as he might choose not to reside at Wolterton. His servant, whom he addressed in tones such as we might fancy Squire Western would have employed, he called “Wulliam,” and to “Wulliam” went the whole of Colonel Nelthorpe’s not inconsiderable fortune, a bequest which somewhat staggered my poor mother, who, though as a rule a most unworldly woman, had in this instance conceived an idea that the old colonel would be sure to leave his fortune to her two little girls (my sister and myself), for whom she declared he had always shown a distinct partiality. When we were alone with this old veteran in the country all the tit-bits were for him; but her attentions were lavished in vain, for, as I have said, nothing came to us, and all went to “Wulliam.”

My father’s friendship with Colonel Nelthorpe (one of the ugliest men, by the way, I ever remember) had been in a great measure caused by their being jointly associated for a very long time in the command of the West Norfolk Regiment of Militia, now the 4th Battalion Norfolk Regiment.

My father commanded this battalion for years, whilst Colonel Nelthorpe was its lieutenant-colonel right up to his death, at a great age, in 1854, having served in that capacity for about forty years. In 1815 he had commanded a detachment of the regiment which had been sent to Ireland, and the year before he died, at the age of eighty-two, he took part in the annual training, on which occasion, the Peace Society having circulated much anti-military literature, the militiamen were openly reproached, hooted, and ridiculed in the streets of Norwich. It was to this battalion of militia that Captain Borrow, the father of the celebrated author of Lavengro, acted as adjutant for forty-two years, whilst one of George Borrow’s brothers, who died in Mexico, also served in it as a lieutenant.

Colonel Nelthorpe belonged to another age, and my father also had a wide experience of a world the ways of which are now almost totally forgotten. As a very young man, in the first years of the nineteenth century, he had met Casanova at Vienna, where he had a prolonged interview with him—an interview which impressed him unfavourably and gave him but an unpleasant opinion of that prince of adventurers, whom he declared to be testy and disagreeable. In justice to Casanova, however, it must be added that my father would fly into a rage upon the slightest opportunity, and in addition nurtured a supreme contempt for all foreigners. The meeting, therefore, between the diminutive and irritable English peer and the gigantic Venetian (who, in his last years, as is well known, was in the habit of constantly getting into tempers on account of imaginary insults) could hardly have been expected to pass off in perfect peace.

The sight of a foreigner, indeed, as a rule sent my father into a rage, for he seemed almost to resent the presence on earth of any other nationality except the British. Notwithstanding this, however, he for some years had a Russian valet—an importation from St. Petersburg, where he had been chargé d’affaires three years before the battle of Waterloo. This valet, of colossal height and formidable appearance, was by nature the mildest of men, as was shown by the sweet and almost caressing smile which he would oppose to the storms of abuse which were wont to rage around him when anything had gone wrong. Never, perhaps, were his looks sweeter than when, as a finale to a tirade of unusual vehemence, my father would say, “Let it happen again, and as sure as I stand here I will throw you out of the window.”

THE “DOUBLE DOW”

My father was well known as a character in that part of Norfolk in which he lived, and his friend, old Lady Suffield, known as the “Double Dow,” who resided not far away, was another. This old lady had most aristocratic ideas,—quite those of another age, indeed, for she simply could not bear to think of people of inferior birth being allowed to break down the social barriers, which, according to her, should rigidly fence in the aristocracy, and more especially the person of herself.

On one occasion, when present at an assembly at the county town (Aylsham), she was horrified to discover that two local men, sons of a successful miller and merchant in that place, had obtained admission, and it was not long before she gave a very pointed demonstration of her resentment by exclaiming in a loud voice, “It is most unpleasant here. I can hardly see across the room for the flour dust.”

She herself at her advent into this world had been the victim of great resentment on the part of her father, the Earl of Buckinghamshire, who, when he was apprised of her birth by his butler, is said to have somewhat gloomily replied, “Then you had better go and drag the baby through the horse-pond.” He was, it must be added, not unnaturally very much annoyed at the birth of a girl, instead of a male heir who should succeed to his estates.

Old Lady Suffield, besides presenting my father with her picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence, also gave him a mat or rug which she herself had worked. In old days ladies spent a good deal of time in making carpets and the like. At Wolterton was a carpet, cross-stitch, worked all in one piece, by my great-grandmother, Lady Walpole; whilst a tablecloth and twelve dinner napkins were reverently preserved on account of having been spun by her.

Needlework carpets were much valued by the families to whom they belonged. There is still, I believe, at Croome a portion of such a carpet which once covered the floor of a boudoir in the family mansion in Piccadilly, now long since passed into other hands; whilst at Apethorpe, in Northamptonshire, there used to be a very large needlework carpet which had been presented to that Lord Westmoreland who was Ambassador in Vienna, having been worked by the ladies of that city by way of especial compliment.

The “Double Dow” and her ways carried one right back to the eighteenth century, to which she in reality belonged, having been married in 1792. Nevertheless she lived well into comparatively modern days, dying only in 1850.

Living at Blickling in stately splendour, old Lady Suffield always drove up to London, despising the railroad as being a vulgar innovation. In my youth the post-chaise still flourished, and my father constantly travelled in one.

Well do I remember seeing Lord George Bentinck waiting for him in a post-chaise standing outside our house in London. He had come to fetch my father, as they were both going to drive down to Newmarket together. This, I think, was the only occasion on which I got a good look at this handsome pillar of the Turf, as he was in those days, and the two things I remember about him were his voluminous cravat and the delicate moulding of his hands, one of which (the very perfection of form, I thought) rested on the ledge of the open window of the chaise.

In 1846 a great dinner was given to Lord George at Lynn, at which my father, who was then High Steward of the town, presided. Mr. Disraeli was present, and made a speech which received a most enthusiastic reception.

ADMIRAL ROUS

Two great friends of my father were Admiral Rous and George Payne, both staunch supporters of the Turf, and therefore in complete sympathy with his desire to win the Derby.

Admiral Rous, who died in June 1877, had left the Navy some forty years before, principally, I believe, on account of the scant recognition which a considerable feat of seamanship performed by him, under the very greatest difficulties, had received from the authorities at Whitehall.

Setting sail from Quebec in command of the Pique, his ship struck upon a reef off the coast of Labrador, and was only got off in a terribly damaged condition, the rudder being practically torn away. Notwithstanding this, Captain Rous ran three thousand miles to Spithead in twenty days, the vessel making about two feet of water an hour the whole time, which entailed tremendous exertions at the pumps on the part of the crew, who would undoubtedly have abandoned hope had it not been for the indomitable spirit of their commander.

Admiral Rous was a great opponent of high betting, which he always declared meant ruin to the Turf. Like many of his contemporaries he hated tobacco, the smoking of which he considered almost an ungentlemanly act. Besides being devoted to racing, the old Admiral would never acquiesce in the modern view of cock-fighting, which he defended to the end in the most uncompromising manner. To-day the race of men of whom he was a type has totally disappeared, for modern England does not breed them; but whether such a state of affairs is for the country’s good seems to me a very doubtful question. Bluff and straightforward, totally devoid of superficial sentimentality, such men expressed the very spirit which has made that British Empire which a feebler and more sentimental generation, prone to much prattle of humanitarian and socialistic fads, would seem desirous of destroying.

George Payne, who lived not far away from us in Queen Street, Mayfair, was another man whose whole existence may be said to have centred in the Turf, though, unlike Admiral Rous, the attraction with him lay a good deal in the betting. Nevertheless, unflinchingly honourable and high-minded, Mr. Payne was a great deal more than a mere gambler.

GEORGE PAYNE’S RELIGION

Many are the stories that have been told of his distaste for going to church; yet at heart he was anything but an irreligious man, as the following anecdote will show. The late Lord Alexander Gordon Lennox was one night returning from some party with Mr. Payne; it was very late, and both were very tired. Reaching the latter’s house, Lord Alexander said, “Now, old fellow, you will be in bed in five minutes”; to which the answer was “No.” “Why,” continued the original speaker, “whatever are you going to do?” To which George Payne replied, “I am going to say my prayers. I always have a bucket of cold water in my room, and if I am very tired, put my head in it to waken me up to say my prayers.”

Lord Alexander also used to say that George Payne would never stand any young fellow saying anything against religion at the club, but would at once flare out at the offender.

There are, indeed, many people like George Payne, who, whilst they may not be regular churchgoers, are yet at heart religious in the best sense of the word. A certain gallant officer, for instance, who commanded a battalion of the Guards, though not very fond of going to church, used, when in the country, to make a practice of going for a long walk alone, during which he would indulge in meditation. On one occasion he was attacked by some one who, in the course of his oration, said, “Why, one would think you soldiers had no souls to save!” The author of this somewhat impertinent homily was, however, completely routed by the good-humoured answer which the Colonel in question made. He calmly looked the lecturer in the face, and merely remarked, “Mayn’t a man save his soul by the way he likes best?”

As a matter of fact Satan is willing enough to let men go to church on Sunday provided they work for him the rest of the week, as I fear many outwardly religious people do!

In his career upon the Turf George Payne was peculiarly unfortunate from a financial point of view; as is well known, he completely dissipated two fortunes. By no means really astute, he would back a number of horses in a race in the—usually delusive—hope of making sure of the winner, a mania which cost him much.

It used to be computed by those well able to judge that Mr. Payne had spent a fortune alone in the hire of chaises and horses in the time previous to the introduction of railways, for it was his practice to spare no expense in order to get from one place to the other with the greatest speed possible.

My father himself was never particularly successful at racing, though he won the Two Thousand Guineas and once ran second for the Derby. When he did win a race, however, every one on the estate knew it, for he would at once set to work upon his favourite project of enlarging the lake in the Park. On the other hand, whenever fortune chanced to show herself in an especially unkind mood, which was very often the case, all the men employed at this work would be at once dismissed, whilst the most rigid economy would prevail till such time as another horse managed to get first past the post.

By no means an uncultivated man, fond of pictures and of art generally, racing and its attendant betting was, nevertheless, my father’s master passion. To him Newmarket was a very Mecca and, wherever he chanced to be, at home or abroad, the loadstone towards which his thoughts were perpetually directed.

THE DUCHESS OF CLEVELAND

The old Duchess of Cleveland (mother of Lord Rosebery), a lady dowered with no mean intellectual gifts, lived to a very great age, being well over ninety at her death. She was possessed of a considerable sense of humour, and used to tell several entertaining stories of the many visitors who were always coming over from Hastings to see Battle Abbey. When the Duke of Cleveland first took possession, he naturally acceded to the request of the Hastings Corporation that the Abbey ruins should be open to the public once every week, and on the first public day eight hundred people arrived, swarmed all over the place, and were only prevented from entering the Duchess’s own boudoir by the determined attitude which she assumed, advancing against the intruders with the fury of her eye rendered doubly formidable by the huge pair of spectacles which she habitually wore. The notes she used to receive from visitors were sometimes very curious; one individual, for instance, wrote saying that he considered he had a right to go over the Abbey at all times, as one of his ancestors had fought at Hastings, and he himself had been christened “Norman”! Another, a lady, wanted to know if anything very pretty had been found at the spot where Harold fell, as in Rome she had seen such lovely ornaments found in the tombs there. This rather reminds me of another lady whom I once heard saying that her favourite study was the history of the Moors in Mexico, and the relics they had left behind there.

People used to be very fond of boasting to the Duke and Duchess of their Norman descent, amongst others Mrs. Grote, who, when at Battle in 1867 with her aunt and the celebrated historian, declared that she was a lineal descendant of Harold’s younger brother, “Earl Leofwine,”—a name which in the course of time had been transformed into Lewin.

At one time, over the fireplace in the Abbots’ Hall was a stuffed black horse, which used to be pointed out to visitors as the identical animal which had carried William the Conqueror at the battle of Hastings. In reality the horse in question had never carried any one more celebrated than Sir Godfrey Webster, and then only at a review.

BATTLE ABBEY

The arrangements at Battle Abbey in the time of the Duke and Duchess did not err in the direction of excess of comfort. The Duke was inclined to economy, and the Duchess, an extremely clever woman, was so much immersed in various intellectual interests, mostly of an archæological kind, that she did not trouble to give much attention to household management. Matters were allowed to take their own course more or less, with the result that on one occasion the French Ambassador, on his way from the station to the Abbey, was delayed by the breaking of the carriage pole, which collapsed owing to extreme and untended old age. It was, certainly, no place for sybarites, who generally agreed with the quotation from the Litany which a witty and luxurious member of the Foreign Office once wrote in the visitors’ book—

From Battle, murder, and sudden death, Good Lord deliver us.

At the same time great care was devoted to the remains of the old buildings, which, wherever possible, were as judiciously restored as the taste of that day permitted.

There is something singularly attractive in the country-side around Battle Abbey, by reason of its having been the site of that great struggle which really created England—the battle of Hastings. It was on Caldbeck Hill, on the evening of the 14th of October 1066, that the Norman trumpets blared forth their pæan of victory.

The right of power, as an old historian says, had been tried by the great assize of God’s judgment in battle. England had been beaten, but by the very fact of her defeat was to develop into a greater England than ever any of Harold’s Saxon thanes would have dreamed possible.

Here on this hill Duke William, having caused his standard to be set up, stood amongst his Barons and Knights “solemnly rendering thanks to the King of Glory, through whom he had the victory—mourning also frequently for the dead.” An appropriate place, indeed, would this be for a statue to the great Norman whose memory as the real maker of England deserves a recognition which it has never obtained. Underneath might well be inscribed the words which he addressed after the battle to his faithful old follower, Walter Giffard, Lord of Longueville, near Dieppe—

I thank God we have done well hitherto, and if such be God’s will, we will go on and do well henceforward.

IV

Lady Holland’s girlhood at Battle Abbey—Her “court” at Holland House—Her relationship to myself—Her ways—Her insolence—Anecdotes—Lady Palmerston—Cobden and Lord Palmerston—Lord John Russell—Lady Jersey and Lady Londonderry—Their social inluence exerted in favour of Mr. Disraeli—Letters from Lady Beaconsfield—Her dinners—Lord Lyndhurst and Mr. Disraeli—Interesting letter from the latter—His difficulties in early life—His opinion of Mr. Gladstone—An ingenuous diplomatist.

Battle Abbey was purchased by the Duke of Cleveland, then Sir Harry Vane, in 1857, but within the last few years it has once more become the property of the Webster family, the present Sir Augustus Webster, with admirable devotion to the traditions of his line, having repurchased it when it was put up for sale.

At Battle Abbey once lived the celebrated Lady Holland, who, as Elizabeth Vassall, daughter of a rich Jamaica planter, became the wife of Sir Godfrey Webster, the fourth baronet. As a matter of fact, young Lady Webster was prevented from living in the Abbey itself by Sir Godfrey’s mother, the Dowager, being made to reside with her husband in a little house close by; and with the intention of driving away her mother-in-law, the bride, it is said, attempted to frighten the old lady by arranging ghostly manifestations and sounds in the Abbey. These, however, proved of no avail, and merely increased the quarrel between the old and the young Lady Webster. In the end, indeed, matters reached such a pitch that Sir Godfrey took his wife abroad, with the result that at Florence she met Henry Fox, third Lord Holland and the nephew of Charles James Fox, with whom she eventually eloped.

LADY HOLLAND

Old Lady Holland at one time held a sort of “court” at Holland House. Owing to her elopement, as may well be understood, she was never received at St. James’s; nevertheless, she was made a great deal of by the leading ladies of the Whig party, who used to crowd to her evening receptions, and her youthful escapade was in latter years almost totally forgotten or overlooked. I well remember being taken to see her, and, on the occasion of these visits, though imbued with great awe, I did not find her the terrible old woman of whose sternness I had heard so much; she was, as a matter of fact, very nice to me. The old Duchess of Cleveland used, very amusingly, to tell how, as a girl, she once paid a visit to Holland House, and was treated with the greatest sternness by its mistress, who cross-examined her (so she would declare) exactly as if she had come straight out of a charity school, and expressed the strongest disapproval on learning that her young visitor was allowed a sitting-room as well as a bedroom in her father’s house. “I think it the greatest of mistakes,” said Lady Holland, “to allow girls so many luxuries—unless you marry well you will feel the difference.” In after-years the Minerva of Holland House sent a message to the Duchess to come and see her “as an old acquaintance,” but the latter, mindful of the snubs she had received as a young girl, bluntly refused to go. To me, as I have said, Lady Holland was most affable; my sister and myself, however, it should be added, had gone to see her at her special request, my brother being just engaged to marry Lady Holland’s grand-daughter, Miss Pellew, whose mother, Harriet, was the daughter born of her first marriage with Sir Godfrey Webster. In order to prevent her child from being claimed by its father after her divorce, Lady Webster, as Lady Holland then was, had caused it to be hidden away; she then pretended it was dead, and actually had a funeral service performed over the body of a kid, after which Harriet Webster returned to her mother’s house as an adopted child. The sham burial is alluded to by Byron, who wrote:—

Have you heard what a lady in Italy did,

When to spite a cross husband she buried a kid?

Many were the stories of her dictatorial ways and passion for interfering with and upsetting everybody. At times, indeed, she was positively insolent. She was declared, for instance, on one occasion when a very shy young man was sitting next her at dinner, to have plunged her hand into his pocket, drawn out his handkerchief, and, with a sniff of disgust, given it to the servant behind her chair, with the words, “Take that to the wash!” In Count D’Orsay, however, Lady Holland met her match, for, seated next him at dinner during the early days of his residence in England, she kept letting her napkin slip from her lap, expecting that the awestruck young foreigner would continue to keep picking it up, as a commanding motion of the hand on each occasion directly indicated. Polite at first, he soon wearied of what he discerned to be no accident but a mere piece of impertinence, which was effectually checked by the words, “Should I not do better, Madam, to sit under the table in order to keep passing you your napkin more quickly?” Lady Holland’s passage-of-arms with the Belgian minister, M. Van de Weyer, is probably better known. With characteristic bad taste she jeered him about the Belgians, saying, “Les Belges! Qu’est ce que les Belges? I never heard of them.” “Madam,” was his grave reply, “it was some one called Julius Cæsar, a pretty clever fellow, as you may have heard, who called them by that name.”

HOLLAND HOUSE

Lady Holland could not brook the slightest opposition to her wishes, and would ever attempt to overcome any obstacles which might stand in the way of her will. On one occasion, whilst at Tunbridge Wells, she heard that no stranger was ever allowed to visit Eridge Castle—which, I believe, up to my cousin’s father’s day was actually the case. Accordingly, she never rested till she obtained leave to inspect it, and when this was accorded, marched through the place in triumph with a large party, in which her maid was even included. Her behaviour, indeed, even when staying at other people’s houses, was dictatorial in the extreme. Once, when at Brocket on a self-given invitation to a party with old Lord Melbourne, she completely upset the household and installed herself exactly as if she were at home. Her room, as it happened, chanced to be on the first floor, the windows completely surrounded by the magnificent flowers of a splendid magnolia. Lady Holland, however, did not appreciate their scent, which, as she afterwards casually told Lord Melbourne, was too strong; and, without asking permission, ordered every blossom to be cut off within twenty-four hours of her arrival.

In spite of these very unlovable traits of character old Lady Holland, I believe, had many good points, the chief of which was that she never bore malice against those who refused to submit to her iron rule. Indeed, the contrary rather was the case, and those who firmly stood up to her in no way fell into her bad graces. A staunch and faithful friend, she was long remembered with gratitude and regret by those who had known her well, and, in spite of all her faults and her dictatorial ways, she contrived to make Holland House the resort of the most cultivated, learned, and clever society of her day.

Although Lady Holland did not owe her position as presiding genius at Holland House to any especial distinction as a brilliant conversationalist or wit, she occasionally made some very trenchant and clever criticisms. Of two old people (a devoted couple who, it was notorious, had been lovers for many years whilst the wife’s first husband was yet alive) she said: “Is it not pretty to watch them—they almost make adultery respectable!”

Lord Holland—a mere cypher in the household—was a man of great geniality and charm, and no doubt this largely contributed to the attraction of his wife’s parties. He, poor man, would as soon have thought of asking any one to dinner without first consulting her as of attempting to fly. This, perhaps, was no bad thing, for he was so good-natured that had he been allowed to invite people as the fancy seized him, Holland House would have been perpetually suffering from a very invasion; as it was, the dinners there were far too crowded, many of the guests having to find places at a side-table. Lady Holland, who liked to do out-of-the-way things, very often chose to dine about two hours earlier than any one else, alleging her weak health as an excuse, but, as Talleyrand said, there was probably another reason—to upset everybody; this she loved to do, not from caprice, but in order to show her power.

Wielding great social influence, though of a totally different kind from that exercised by Lady Holland, Lady Palmerston is still remembered by those who knew her as the most admirable hostess possible to conceive. At Cambridge House in old days she used to give the most charming parties imaginable—indeed, I liked them best of all those which I remember. There is no doubt that her tact and her advice were often of great political service to her husband.

LORD PALMERSTON

Lord Palmerston himself was a most adroit man of the world, and besides this there was in his character a certain not unpleasant mixture of French levity combined with English familiarity. His social qualities served him in excellent stead in his political life, for he had a manner of speaking to people, even to those he did not know, which conveyed the impression that their name, constituency, and even their family were perfectly well known to him. By these tactics, and also by asking the wives of M.P.’s to his parties, he was able to do a great deal in the way of retarding the passage of any measures which, for a time at least, he might not be anxious to see pressed forward.

Mr. Bernal Osborne was often a terrible thorn in the flesh to Lord Palmerston, although nominally a strong supporter of that statesman, under whom he served as Secretary of the Admiralty in 1857. Towards the close of his tenure of this office Mr. Osborne, however, became very dissatisfied, and used to complain that his post had been reduced to something very like a mere head-clerkship, his duties being limited to registering minutes of the Board by day and furnishing silent notes by night. Mr. Osborne, of course, was by nature opposed to control of any sort, and being, above all, a political free-lance, the holding of office in any form was quite unsuitable to his disposition, interfering as it did with those onslaughts for which he was so well known in the House of Commons. Later on in life he became a trifle more restrained in his utterances, age causing him to regard everything with more patience. His long experience of politics, he once said, had sobered him so much that he could spy good qualities in every one—even in bishops.

Lord Palmerston was a politician in whom the country, as a whole, reposed the utmost confidence. Though a Liberal, he was a regular John Bull, and neither “retrenchment” nor “reform” was, I think, particularly dear to him; whilst, as was well known, any slight to England would be met with very spirited remonstrances during his tenure of office. There were those indeed who assailed his Government as not being Liberal at all. Bernal Osborne, for instance, roundly attacked the Army Estimates in 1860, when he was particularly severe upon Aldershot, which he described as “an indifferent preparatory school for forming indifferent generals.” Later on, when the House had gone into Committee, Osborne declared that Lord Palmerston (who had characterised his assailant’s remarks as light and violent) was suffering from the effects of the Mansion House dinner, combined with the larger doses of colchicum taken to combat them. Lord Palmerston received this attack in a perfectly bland manner, merely retorting that colchicum was sedative rather than exciting, and consequently more suitable to the Honourable Member than to himself. On another occasion Mr. Osborne applied to Lord Palmerston the lines—

He frolics with the burden of four score,

adding that the Prime Minister’s fault, nevertheless, was not age but youth, as was shown by his extravagance—a youthful folly. “He is indeed,” added he, “never satisfied unless he is squandering the public money.” This was a pleasantry which Lord Palmerston did not relish at all, and, it was said, never forgot.

Mr. Cobden disliked Lord Palmerston as a politician, and would often say to me, “Whatever I may do the old rascal will always insist upon calling me his honourable friend.” As a matter of fact, Lord Palmerston once offered the great Free Trader a baronetcy, an offer which was without hesitation declined.

LORD JOHN RUSSELL

Lord John Russell was a totally different man, both in manner and appearance, from Lord Palmerston—short, stumpy, and not at all good-looking. I only recollect having met him once, on which occasion, I must say, he was most agreeable. This was at a time when he had taken Tennyson’s house near us in the country. A great friend of Lord John’s happening to be one of our guests, it was suggested that we should all go over in a party, which we did, and were most kindly received. I especially remember some one pointing out to me a writing-table in the library with two enormous stains of ink splashed on each side of the blotting-book. “They are rather remarkable ink-stains,” said my guide; “the Poet Laureate made one, and the Prime Minister has made the other.”

Bernal Osborne was always giving Lord John nicknames in the House of Commons. One of these was “a political Mrs. Harris,” another “Dr. Sagrado.” His Irish policy in particular provoked some extremely sarcastic attacks from Mr. Osborne, who once declared that it differed as little from that of the Conservatives as Tweedledum differed from Tweedledee. “Drainage seemed to him the only thing upon which the Liberal Cabinet was agreed—a set of Commissioners of Sewers was what it really was.”

LADY LONDONDERRY

As a girl I was much at Lady Jersey’s house in Berkeley Square, having been a great friend of her daughter’s. The great lady of her day, she wielded considerable social influence, which she used, whenever possible, in favour of Lord Beaconsfield, then plain Benjamin Disraeli, and not particularly favoured by society in general. As a matter of fact, Mr. Disraeli had rendered Lady Jersey an important service, having taken great trouble to assist one of her relatives under peculiarly delicate circumstances. This she never forgot, and did everything she could to help him. Another great lady who also lent her aid to the young politician was Lady Londonderry, who used to hold a sort of court at Holdernesse House (now Londonderry House). Here she would receive her guests sitting on a daïs under a canopy. To me she was always most affable, but I could not with truth say that, as a general rule, she took much trouble to entertain those who came to her receptions; indeed, she exhibited great hauteur, and sometimes took little notice of them. Some great ladies in old days (but not the very clever ones) gave themselves great airs; small wonder, when they were brought up to think they were the very salt of the earth. One there was whose behaviour at her parties was so frigidly condescending that people used to ask one another, “Are you going to see Lady —— insult her guests to-night?”

Nevertheless, as I have said, Lady Londonderry joined with Lady Jersey in doing everything possible to assist and push on Benjamin Disraeli, with the result that their efforts were eventually crowned with success. I remember Lady Chesterfield (who, after Lady Beaconsfield’s death, was a devoted friend of the great statesman; indeed he wanted, and I think actually proposed, to marry her) saying to me how strange that she should not have known Dizzy in old days. But it was not so strange after all; for at the beginning of his career there were many who fought shy of him, and later on certain people disliked his wife. Lady Beaconsfield was, however, a dear friend of mine, and I was much grieved at her death. Her handwriting was, I think I may say, the worst I ever saw, so different from her husband’s, which was firm, clear, and easy to read. Nevertheless, she wrote bright little letters, which gave one excitement as well as pleasure, for to discover their meaning was much like deciphering a cuneiform inscription. The following is a specimen of her style:—

Grosvenor Gate,

May 9, 1859.

My Dear Dorothy—I have a portrait same as yours. Under mine is written in old English letters: “Forti nihil difficile”—nothing difficult to the brave—which I put because it is Dizzy’s motto, and I think he has earned it. At the back of the portrait—“Dizzy, 1859.” It stands on my table in one of the new sort of frames. He will write his name on the portrait if you prefer it. Town is going to be very gay, at least the Palace. Comte Persigny comes here as Ambassador very soon, to our party’s great dismay. Duc de Malakoff very sorry to go—kiss’d Lord Malmesbury on each cheek! When are you coming to town? Dizzy begs his love to you, and kind regards to Mr. Nevill.—Affectionately yours,

Mary Anne Disraeli.

She wrote to me frequently with regard to politics, in which she took great interest:

Grosvenor Gate,

February 15, 1860.

Dearest Dorothy—I was so glad to see you bright and strong this morning, and I hope you will come to town very soon. You have no idea of the excitement about this unpopular budget—a great meeting at Lord Salisbury’s—Lord Derby spoke beautifully.

The Government consider themselves in danger; your young friend, Dizzy, is in fine fighting form.

Most affectionately yours,

M. A. Disraeli.

MY HANDWRITING

I have said that Lady Beaconsfield’s handwriting was the worst I ever saw; but, on reflection, I think such a statement is inaccurate—my own is worse.

When I lived in the country, in Sussex, I used at one time to educate a few poor girls at a school which I had built for their benefit. When their education had gone on as far as seemed necessary, I used to try and find good places for them; many turned out treasures, a few did not do me much credit. One, a very nice girl, I thought was likely to suit the person to whom I sent her—a famous doctor. He asked her several questions which she answered satisfactorily, but when she produced her character, written by me, it was returned to her, after a brief perusal, with these ominous words: “I cannot take you now, for I am sure this letter must be a forgery—no lady could have written it.” The poor girl came back to me crying, and not knowing quite what to do. By means, however, of a personal interview, I was able to convince the doctor that the letter was no forgery, and everything was put right.

At the dinners given by Lord and Lady Beaconsfield, the guests were for the most part either politicians, or people connected with politics, to which one might say the host devoted his whole life. Most of these dinners, Lady Beaconsfield told me, were furnished by a caterer at a fixed price of so much per head, and I well remember her declaring how annoyed she was with my brother (who always accepted every invitation, and invariably excused himself at the last moment on the grounds of impending death) at his having, after the most solemn assurances, played her his usual trick. “He might,” said she, “just as well have made me throw a sovereign into the Thames,” for this was the price per head at which her contract was made. They were not at all bad dinners from a gastronomic point of view, though in these luxurious days I suspect they would not be thought very much of. The Beaconsfields were in no way luxurious people, nor did they care for art, which did not then excite as much attention as to-day, when every one appears to be more or less interested in house decoration, collecting, and the like.

MR. DISRAELI’S MARRIAGE

Mr. Disraeli’s marriage to Mrs. Wyndham Lewis was of great use to him in his political career, for, his own means being anything but considerable, the fortune which was thus at his disposal saved him from much trouble and worry; whilst Mrs. Disraeli, being absolutely devoted to her husband, was always delighted to assist him in every possible way. I well remember, however, his being very much annoyed at a remark made by Mr. Bernal Osborne, which somehow got round to his ears. “After all, Dizzy only likes his wife out of gratitude.” As a matter of fact this was far from being the case, for, though fully appreciative of what he owed to his wife, the great statesman was also completely devoted to her. As a proof of Dizzy’s carelessness about money, and almost culpable lack of mercenary precaution, I may add that to the best of my belief (though he well knew that Lady Beaconsfield’s fortune must return to her husband’s family after her death) he never took the trouble to insure her life. He was indeed absolutely devoid of all calculating financial instinct, though shrewd and clever enough in all matters which might in any way assist his political career. I have already told how he contrived to secure Lady Jersey’s support; in another way he managed to conciliate Lord Lyndhurst, for, recognising how valuable the latter’s aid would be, Dizzy, who stood high in a certain lady’s graces, forbore from paying his court to her on perceiving that he was regarded as an unwelcome intruder by his older rival. By this self-sacrificing behaviour, he secured a most valuable political patron and ally.