The London parks—Old prints—Rural London—Deer in Hyde Park—Its
Gates—Proposed railway station in the Park—Riots—Origin of
the name “Rotten Row”—An unlucky suitor and his trousers—Lady
Diana Beauclerk and the Baron de Géramb—Decadence of dress—The
_vis-à-vis_—The end of duelling—Lord Camelford’s will—His
burial-place—The first Lord Camelford—His Lines on Lady
Hervey.
The history of the London parks is a very interesting one, tinged, as it
is, with a certain amount of romance.
Of late a good deal of attention has been directed to prints of the
parks by reason of Mr. Charles Edward Jerningham, the clever “Marmaduke”
of _Truth_, having presented a collection of old prints, as well as of
park keys, passes, and the like, to the nation—an interesting gift
which, very appropriately, has now been permanently placed on view in a
room specially set apart at Kensington Palace. As may be observed from
those prints, the parks formerly had a much more rural air than is now
the case, when they have become little more than regulated pleasure
grounds for the people.
In the summer of 1739 an otter hunt took place in St. James’s Park. A
large dog otter, having taken up his abode there, played great havoc
with the fish in the ponds and canal, and eventually, as he would take
no notice of the traps set for his destruction, a regular otter hunt was
organised by the ranger, then Lord Essex. At nine o’clock in the morning
of a summer day, Sir Robert Walpole’s pack of otter hounds, which had
been borrowed for the occasion, appeared upon the scene, and after a
hunt which lasted two hours the otter, having left the water and tried
to run to the great canal, was speared by a Mr. Smith who hunted the
hounds.
At one time, of course, deer were regularly hunted in Hyde Park, and in
the seventeenth century several serious affrays took place between
poachers and the park gamekeepers, one at least of which led to
executions at Hyde Park Gate.
When I was a child there were still deer in Hyde Park, for they were
only finally removed in 1831. One of the chief reasons for their removal
was, it is said, that a great number of complaints were made concerning
the keeper, who was in the habit of shooting pet dogs which then, as
now, were taken to the park for exercise.
At the present time a vixen fox is said to have taken up her abode in
Richmond Park. Indeed, once again wild life is making its way into the
town, and of late years the advantages of the London parks as a haven of
refuge have gradually become recognised by many different kinds of
birds, which find in them a secure retreat. A kingfisher has, I believe,
been seen in St. James’s Park, whilst at the moment of writing these
lines a pair of magpies are busily engaged in building a nest in one of
the trees of the Green Park, quite close to the railings which skirt
Piccadilly. A curious fact in natural history is that pigeons which are
wild in the country are quite tame in London, apparently recognising
that once within the metropolis they have nothing to fear. So tame,
indeed, are they that their practice of building nests in all sorts of
places has of late begun to cause considerable inconvenience.
It was King Charles I. who threw open Hyde Park to the people, and this
he did, not owing to the force of circumstances, but quite of his own
free will. To-day the fact that this park was once the absolute property
of the Crown, and only thrown open by a royal concession, is more or
less forgotten, and, in common with other parks, it has long been
regarded as the property of the people, and is generally spoken of as
such. Some years ago a rather purse-proud millionaire was complaining at
a dinner-party of the worry that the two parks attached to his country
houses caused him, whereupon some one sitting at the other end of the
table said in a loud voice which every one could hear, “My parks don’t
worry me, though I have many more than that.” Somewhat humbled, the
millionaire, much taken aback at meeting some one, as he supposed, more
richly dowered than himself, immediately inquired where these properties
might be, and was completely silenced by the prompt reply: “Hyde Park,
St. James’s Park, the Green Park, and all the other parks.”
My eccentric ancestor, George Lord Orford, who once drove a four-in-hand
of stags, held the rangership of the parks from 1762 to 1791, it having
been offered to him through Horace Walpole by Henry Fox, first Lord
Holland, in the hope, as he said, that it would at least delay his ruin.
Previous to his receiving this sinecure, for it was little else, Lord
Orford had created some sensation in London when marching at the head of
the Norfolk Militia, 1100 strong, at a review in Hyde Park, his martial
appearance having much pleased the King. Pitt, in a letter to Lady
Hester Stanhope, wrote: “Nothing could have made a better appearance
than the two Norfolk battalions. Lord Orford, with the port of Mars
himself, and really the genteelest figure under arms I ever saw, was the
theme of every tongue.”
The old Ranger’s Lodge in the Green Park was removed in the spring of
1842 by Lord Duncannon (afterwards Earl of Bessborough), at which time
the gardens attached to the building were also thrown into the park. Sir
Robert Peel, who was then Prime Minister, wished other alterations to be
made in the shape of a terrace, adorned with fountains, statues, and
flower vases, from the gate at Hyde Park Corner to the houses at the
eastern end. These, however, were never begun. It may be mentioned that
the stags which formerly adorned the entrance to the Ranger’s Lodge were
removed to Albert Gate, where they still remain.
It is a curious fact that the principal gate of Hyde Park, which is
close to Apsley House, possesses no name whatever, being simply known as
Hyde Park Corner. The north-east entrance of the park, the Marble Arch,
was removed to its present position in 1851; before that date it stood
in front of Buckingham Palace. Near the gate, facing Great Cumberland
Place, was the place of execution known as Tyburn, and when a wall used
to enclose this corner military executions were carried out within it.
In this spot were erected the only gallows ever set up in Hyde Park;
this was for the purpose of hanging a Sergeant Smith who, two years
previously, in 1745, had deserted to the Scotch rebels.
In the Green Park the ancient course of the Tyburn has not entirely
disappeared, and may even be traced by the winding depression which
remains where it formerly flowed. There was formerly a pond in the
middle of this park, but this was filled up in 1842, at the same time
that the Ranger’s Lodge was razed to the ground. The design for Spencer
House, which looks into the Green Park, though known as having been the
work of Vardy, is also said to have in reality been taken from a drawing
by Inigo Jones, the pediment alone being purely original.
Probably few people have any idea that a serious proposal was once
actually made to erect a railway station in Hyde Park. This was to be
inside the park, on the left-hand side, not very far from the entrance
at Hyde Park Corner, and was to serve as terminus to a projected London
and Richmond railway.
At the upper end of the road skirting the garden wall of Buckingham
Palace, now called Constitution Hill, the great Sir Robert Peel met his
death on a June afternoon in 1850, when his horse, having shied at
something, threw its rider over his head, an accident which led to a
fatal termination a day or two later.
On Constitution Hill, by a somewhat strange coincidence, two attempts
were made upon the late Queen Victoria by individuals who were more or
less of deranged mind—Edward Oxford, on June 10, 1840, and John
Francis, on May 30, 1842. A little more than a month later a hunchbacked
youth also levelled a pistol at Her Majesty not very far away from the
same locality. His name was Bean, and the outrage occurred whilst the
Queen was proceeding from Buckingham Palace to the Chapel Royal. A
madman who entertained similar murderous designs also attempted to enter
Buckingham Palace in 1839, but was fortunately seized by a sentry before
he could do any harm. In former days lunatics were not kept under such
strict observation and control as is at present the case. In the early
’forties, for instance, a regular panic was produced in Kensington
Gardens by the appearance of a half-clad lunatic on horseback, who
created a great deal of confusion amongst the people listening to a
band.
The quaint old name of Constitution Hill was the “King’s coach-way” to
Kensington, whilst the Green Park was at one time known as Upper St.
James’s Park.
In old days there were occasional riots in Hyde Park, notably in 1855,
when a Bill to prevent Sunday trading aroused much irritation.
Frequenters of the park were a good deal molested by these disturbances,
which occurred several Sundays in succession. In 1862 there was also a
riot in the same park, which arose from a difference of opinion as to
the French occupation of Rome. A free fight took place, indeed, between
a number of working men and a body of Irish Catholics, in the course of
which a good many people were seriously injured. The breaking down of
the park railings during the Reform agitation was, however, a much more
serious affair, quiet being only restored by the arrival of the Life
Guards.
For the last forty years or so, with the exception of the Trafalgar
Square riots, the great demonstrations which are a regular feature of
London Sundays have passed off quite peaceably, those taking part in the
processions being drawn from a more orderly class than was formerly the
case. Even the demonstrations organised by the unemployed have been of a
law-abiding character. In connection with these I remember rather an
amusing little incident. A certain lady had been invited to view a
procession of the unemployed from the windows of a house belonging to a
hostess much interested in philanthropic endeavour. On that particular
occasion the unemployed had made but a sorry muster, and the lady in
question, with every desire to say the right thing, remarked on leaving,
“A most delightful afternoon, and I feel sure you are doing a great deal
of good; but it was disappointing, wasn’t it, that after all your
trouble there should have been so few unemployed?”
Whilst speaking of Hyde Park I am reminded of the various legends
prevailing as to the origin of the name Rotten Row, which some people
maintain is nothing else than a corruption of _Route du Roi_. I do not
believe there is any real authority for this derivation, which seems to
me somewhat speculative and fanciful, and rests upon no serious
foundation of historical evidence. There were formerly many streets in
England, and especially in Scotland, which were called Ratton Row,
either from alliteration, or allusion to the locality being infested
with rats. There was, for instance, a Ratones Lane or Rat Lane in the
parish of St. Michael, Greenhithe, as early as the 14th century, whilst
coming down to later times a portion of Old Street, just where it joined
with Goswell Street, was called Rotten Row in 1720, the houses being
appropriately enough in a bad state of decay; the name of this street
was afterwards changed to Russel Row. The most fanciful derivation of
Rotten Row is the one which declares it to have originated from
_Rattanreigh_, a Celtic term for a good mountain path or road as
contrasted with a bad one. Rotten Row in Hyde Park can, by no stretch of
imagination, be termed mountainous, and the name of this pleasant ride,
which is not an ancient one, in all probability actually arose from the
loose state of the mixture of sand and gravel of which its surface is
composed.
It was Sheridan who, in a debate in the House of Commons in 1808 on the
question of building houses on a part of Hyde Park, jokingly suggested
that both sides of Rotten Row might be built on, in order that gentlemen
taking their rides there might have the advantage of being gazed at by
ladies in the balcony.
Thanks to his efforts, and those of Sir Francis Burdett, Mr. Windham,
and Mr. Creevy, the scheme was abandoned and the park saved.
As has been said, the name of Rotten Row is not of any great antiquity,
the first printed mention of it being only found as recently as 1781,
though it is believed that the ride in question was known by that name
for some years anterior to that date. Though it is still much frequented
at certain hours. Rotten Row does not now evoke the idea of fashion and
pleasure, combined with a certain air of luxurious dissipation, which it
formerly did. People nowadays, I fancy, go there more to take a ride for
the benefit of their health than anything else, and the joking letter
written by a friend of mine in the early ’sixties would to-day be quite
meaningless. The writer was under the impression that I was out of town,
but, chancing to be taking a stroll in Hyde Park, caught sight of me
riding there, which prompted the following missive:—
DEAR LADY DOROTHY—I thought you were in innocence with your
flowers, but, instead, find you caracoling in the paradise of
the lost—in Rotten Row.
In old days no one would have dreamt of riding in the Row in country
costume; but now, I fancy, no rule whatever prevails about this, and
people ride in anything they like, whilst the brilliant and eccentric
figures which at times used to make their appearance have now totally
disappeared, having given way to a dull and monotonous uniformity of
costume.
During the season white duck trousers used to be much worn by gentlemen
in the park, and the extreme tightness which fashion at one time
prescribed for these occasionally led to some ludicrous incidents. A
former Duchess of Beaufort, I remember, used to relate a story of such a
mishap having happened to one of her admirers. Years ago there was a
good deal more romance surrounding the love-making and engagements of
young people than prevails to-day, and young men would often send a
little present to the lady of their choice with the message that its
acceptance would signify that their suit had proved successful, and its
return the opposite. At the time before the Duchess’s marriage, when she
was Lady Georgiana Curzon, a certain peer who was very much in love with
her at last determined to learn his fate, and so sent her a beautiful
little riding-whip, together with an impassioned note, in which he said
that he should be in the park the next morning, when he would expect to
discover her decision. This would be indicated by her riding-whip; that
is to say, the presence of one he had sent her would mean acceptance,
and its absence refusal.
The next morning the young lady duly rode in the park, but, to his
extreme disgust, her expectant swain saw that the riding-whip she
carried was not the previous day’s gift, whereupon, overcome with rage
and mortification, he at once put his horse into a gallop, with the
result (at the recollection of which the Duchess could never help
laughing) that his tight white trousers burst right up the side.
In Rotten Row Lady Diana Beauclerk was once wont to ride in a green
velvet riding habit, whilst the Prince of Orange caracoled by her side.
Here also used to canter the dashing Baron de Géramb, whose plumed
kalpack and furred pelisse made such an impression upon the British
military authorities as to cause the creation of certain cavalry
regiments dressed as hussars, which are still part of the English army.
This Baron, who ended his days as the chief of a Trappist monastery, was
an extraordinary and somewhat mysterious character, who, after having
offered to raise 24,000 Croatian troops to assist in the overthrow of
Buonaparte, was denounced as an impostor and ordered out of England.
Upon this he barricaded himself in his house, hanging out a board on
which was written, “My house is my castle,” and announced that he would
sustain a long siege whilst awaiting the arrival of his Croatians, and
at the last extremity would blow up his house and all Bayswater rather
than yield. His resistance, however, did not last long, for that very
evening he was captured, taken to Harwich, and sent out of the country.
In later life Géramb, becoming a monk, rose, as has been said, to a very
high position in the Trappist community. Indeed, when he went to Rome in
1837 he created such a sensation that Pope Gregory XVI. said, “There are
two popes now—Pope Géramb and myself.” The favourite motto of Géramb,
in his later years, when he had become a pattern of simple devotion and
zeal, was “_se taire, souffrir et mourir_,” words which he caused to be
inscribed on the walls of his modest cell. This Procureur-Général of the
Trappist Order, who was the creator of the English hussar, died at Rome
on the 15th of March 1848.
The era of the dandies has long since passed away, and were he to return
to the scene of his sartorial triumphs, D’Orsay,
Prince of unblemished boots and short napped hat,
would find that his well-thought-out costume, far from evoking
admiration, would be regarded only with ridicule and contempt. The days
of the gorgeous equipages which at one time formed one of the principal
sights in Hyde Park during the season are also over; there seems a
strong probability, indeed, that in the not very distant future horsed
carriages in London will become something very like curiosities, being
supplanted by motors, which, notwithstanding certain inconveniences, are
essentially suited to a modern city.
Probably the only person now living who used a _vis-à-vis_, a form of
carriage once very fashionable but now totally obsolete, is the present
Lady Cardigan, who now, I believe, seldom leaves Deene Park, her lovely
place in Northamptonshire. I remember my brother once being very much
amused, after having been on a visit there, at a little incident of
which he was the hero. Met at the station by a dogcart, he observed that
the driver treated his attempts at conversation with a somewhat tolerant
familiarity. On coming up to the house and finding that no stop was made
at the front door, he proceeded to inquire the reason, when he was told
that the servants’ entrance was elsewhere. He then found that he had
been taken for a French cook, whose arrival had been eagerly looked
for—a discovery which caused him the greatest amusement and delight,
for there was nothing that he liked more than telling a joke against
himself.
At the east end of Hyde Park once stood a fine avenue of walnut trees,
but these were destroyed in the early part of the nineteenth century,
when the wood was sold to be made into gunstocks.
Duelling, though practically obsolete in England after the first quarter
of the nineteenth century, lingered on up to about the middle of the
’forties, when an encounter between Lieutenant-Colonel Fawcett and
Lieutenant Munro, in which the former was shot dead, led to a debate in
the House of Commons owing to the wife of the former being refused a
pension. On this occasion Sir Charles Napier declared that but one way
existed of effectually putting an end to duelling. No duel should be
allowed which was not fought across a table. Of the two pistols used
only one should be loaded with ball, lots being drawn to see who should
have the loaded one. If this produced no result, then both pistols
should be loaded with ball, and the survivor, should there be one,
hanged. The last duel actually fought in Hyde Park is believed to have
taken place in April 1817, when two gentlemen exchanged shots, both of
them being wounded. As late, however, as 1822 a duel was fought in
Kensington Gardens between the Dukes of Buckingham and Bedford.
At one time a perfect mania prevailed for fighting duels, and this was
by no means confined to the well-to-do classes. In 1780 two negro
servants fought a duel in Hyde Park, neither of the combatants, however,
being seriously hurt; but an encounter which occurred some three years
later between two footmen in the same place was of a much more serious
character, both being severely wounded. Towards the beginning of the
nineteenth century, however, duels began to be much fewer in number.
At my old home in Norfolk—Wolterton Hall—my nephew, the present Lord
Orford, recently came upon a number of curious old documents, amongst
them a copy of the codicil to the will of the eccentric Lord Camelford,
drawn up by him two days before his fatal duel with Mr. Best. The
reasons for this codicil being at Wolterton was no doubt that Lord
Camelford’s mother had been a Miss Wilkinson, a family connected with
Burnham, a property which for generations has belonged to the Walpoles.
Lord Camelford, it will be remembered, was called out by Mr. Best under
great provocation, of which an officious person was the cause. This
individual had represented to Lord Camelford that Mr. Best had spoken
slightingly of him to a Mrs. Simmons, a lady with whom Lord Camelford
was on terms of considerable intimacy, whilst Mr. Best had formerly been
her lover. The latter, who was noted as a deadly shot, did everything he
could to avoid a conflict, and others also attempted to use their
influence, but their efforts were all in vain, Lord Camelford declaring
that the thing must go on. Accordingly a duel was fought in the fields
behind Holland House, with the result that Lord Camelford was mortally
wounded, expiring some four days after the fatal meeting.
The codicil, drawn up in the very face of impending death and
containing, as it does, a manly reference to Lord Camelford’s adversary,
is a dignified and interesting document, the full contents of which, I
believe, have never before been made public. For this reason I now
venture to give a copy of it here:—
I Thomas Lord Camelford of the Parish of Boconnoc in the County
of Cornwall deliver this paper as an explanatory note and
Codicil to my Will; There are certain Sums of money of mine in
the Hands of Mr. Colin de la Brunerie, who lives at No. 396, Rue
de L’Université at Paris, with this money he has purchased two
Estates the one in Picardy, the other near Lausanne, the whole
of these Lands, with whatever Money of mine may be in his Hands
I bequeath to the Grenvilles in the same manner as the rest of
my property described in my Will, after a settlement shall have
been upon him and his Wife (that is upon their joint lives) of a
salary equal to what he at present enjoys from me which I
believe is somewhere about 240£ a Year I likewise bequeath him
500£ as a proof of my esteem and respect for his talents and
integrity I have likewise certain Sums of money in the Hands of
Mr. Nicholson School Master of Soho Sq^{r}. greatest part of
which is vested in two Ships destined for the South Sea fishing,
these I likewise bequeath to the Grenvilles in the same way as
the other that is in the manner described in my Will, _fifteen
Hundred_ Pounds of this Money _is a loan_ to Mr. Nicholson made
on former occasion for the extending his establishment, this
Money (namely 1500£) I bequeath to him as a reward for his
private confidential Labours in my affairs, but the file patent
Machine will go to the Grenvilles. I likewise bequeath to my
good Friend and old Shipmate Capt^{n}. Burrie a full discharge
of all his debts to be paid by my Heirs as soon as may be
together with the redemption of his half pay, which I have
reason to fear he has sold, and I furthermore bequeath to him a
yearly Annuity of 200£ whenever he is not employed in Service,
on Condition that he does not reside in town or within one
hundred miles of it. To my friend Devereux I bequeath my little
Brown Hunter together with my Guns, Dogs and other sporting
apparatus which I think will amuse him, and tend to drive away
the recollection of the tedious Hours I have made him spend. He
will understand what that means, and I beg that the whole of
that business in every way may be forgot with me that is not
mentioned by him. Having now mentioned all those to whom I am
bound by sentiment of regard and esteem I will say a Word of
perhaps one of the worst men that ever disgraced humanity—I
mean my former Steward Berlingdon, he has got the command of a
Ship of mine called the Weldon, the particulars of which are in
the Hands of Mr. Nicholson part of her is his own as I allowed
him to vest somewhere about 500£ in her, the precise Sum is
mentioned in the paper at Mr. Nicholson’s, as there will be no
doubt, but that he will use every artifice in his power to
defraud my heirs. I hereby declare that except that share in the
vessel I do not owe him to my knowledge a single farthing and I
advise them to take the earliest opportunity of recovering their
own. There are many other matters at any other Time I might be
inclined to mention but I will say nothing more at present than
that in the present contest I am fully and entirely the
Aggressor as well in the spirit as in the letter of the Word,
should I therefore lose my life in a contest of my own seeking I
most solemnly forbid any of my friends or relations let them be
of whatsoever description they may be from instituting any
vexatious proceedings against my Antagonist, and should
notwithstanding the above declaration on my part the Law of the
Land be put in force against him I desire that this part of my
Will be made known to the King in order that his Royal breast
may be moved to extend his mercy towards him. With respect to
myself I have ever entertained an anxious desire that my remains
may be deposited in some _region of the Earth_ distant from the
place of my Nativity and where the surrounding scenery will
smile upon me, others adorn their abode while living and it is
my fancy to adorn mine when dead for this purpose I beseech most
earnestly that whenever the times will permit my body may be
removed in the cheapest manner to the Island of St. Pierre in
the Lake of Berne in Switzerland there to be deposited in the
Centre between the 3 trees that stand on the right of the
Tavillon a bush or some such thing may be planted over me but
without any Stone or Masonry in any shape or form whatever and
for the permission to have this my last wish carried into
execution I bequeath one thousand pounds to be paid to the
Hospital at Berne to whom the Island belongs I appoint Devereux
my Executor for all these things relating to my burial on which
I attach more importance than a sensible man perhaps ought to do
With respect to all my other friends and relations I beg that
they will not wear mourning on my account or shew any outward
mark of regret for my loss (signed) CAMELFORD [L.S. w/i circle]
Richard Wilson for _Lord Camelford_ by his express direction and
authority. Signed by Richard Wilson in the presence of and by
the express directions of the within named Thomas Lord Camelford
and sealed published and declared this eight day of March one
thousand Eight hundred and four as an explanatory Note and
Codicil to his Will referred to by him herein (he having written
and signed the Contents hereof on the sixth of this instant
March on two Sheets and a half of paper and being unable to
resign the same of this present Date) in the presence of us
whose names are hereunder written who in his presence and in the
presence of each other have subscribed our Names as Witnesses
attesting the same—P. E. OTTEY—H. U. THOMSON—S. NICHOLSON.
After Lord Camelford’s death an inquest was duly held and a verdict of
wilful murder returned against some person or persons unknown. A bill of
indictment was then prepared against Mr. Best and his friend, which was
ignored by the Grand Jury, who thus carried out the desire expressed in
the codicil. Lord Camelford’s other wish was also respected, and his
body was duly removed to Switzerland, where in a secluded spot near the
Lake of St. Lampierre this eccentric but dignified nobleman of another
age sleeps his last sleep. According to his instructions, no monument or
stone marks his resting-place.
This Lord Camelford was the second and last of the name, his father,
Thomas Pitt, a nephew of the great Lord Chatham, having received the
Barony. The first Lord Camelford was a cultivated man and something of a
poet, for when Lord Hervey stayed with him at Boconnoc in 1775 he wrote
the following pretty lines (which are not, I think, generally known) in
memory of his visitor’s mother, Lady Hervey, who had been the beautiful
Molly Lepell:—
Of manners gentle with strong sense combin’d,
All grace her form, all elegance her mind;
Thro’ every stage acquiring powers to please,
Wit without malice, dignity with ease;
Learn’d, tho’ no pedant, by reflection sage,
Smiling thro’ pain and beautiful in age.
Such Hervey was, but is, alas! no more—
All we once loved and all we now deplore.
X
Family pictures—Nelson and the Walpoles—A group by Devis—A fine
old French picture saved by Mr. Cobden—Eccentricity of Lord
Hertford—Dr. Schlieman’s bequest—Some beautiful books in Lord
Carnarvon’s collection—Fashion in art—Sir Patrick Grant and
the red cloak—Mr. Graves—Lord Leighton—Mr. Aidé—A genial
artist—Sir David Wilkie—Scene-painting and art—Stewart relics
—Silhouettes—Anecdotes of William IV.—Lady Georgiana Curzon
and “Ugly Mugs”—Watch-papers—The origin of Christmas cards.
Possessing a certain number of family pictures, the majority of which
are portraits of Walpoles, I have for many years past seized every
opportunity of adding to their number.
Many years ago I was fortunate enough to secure at a sale a fine
miniature of Horace Walpole as a child, dressed in a fanciful
costume—the work of Nathaniel Hone. Owing to people being out of town
and to its being a wet day, the bidding was very feeble, and this little
gem, which I have several times lent for exhibitions, became my property
for the insignificant sum of two pounds. Besides this I have also a
small portrait of Horace Walpole which had become the property of Lady
Blessington, at whose sale I bought it.
Amongst other family pictures I have also four pastels by Rosalba,
representing different members of the Walpole family. One of them is an
excellent portrait of the owner of Strawberry Hill, whilst another
represents Sir Robert’s brother, the Admiral Galfridus, whose sword was
one of Nelson’s most valued possessions. Galfridus Walpole himself had a
not undistinguished naval career, losing his right arm in a sea fight in
the Mediterranean, on which occasion he was in command of the _Lion_, a
ship of eighty guns which, single-handed, fought four French ships
mounting sixty guns apiece. When the Rev. Maurice Suckling married the
grand-daughter of Sir Robert Walpole’s sister, Captain Suckling
presented him with this sword, the recipient in course of time
bequeathing it to his grandson, Horatio Nelson, who always wore it, and
was grasping it in his hand when so severely wounded at the battle of
Teneriffe.
Always particularly interested in memorials of Nelson, I have managed to
collect a few things connected with the great admiral, amongst others
some curious pieces of a dessert service owned by him.
It is, I believe, a well-authenticated fact that Wellington and Nelson
only met once. On this occasion Wellington was going upstairs at Downing
Street and met a man coming down. He afterwards found, on making
inquiries, that this man was Nelson, who, on his side, told some one
that he had met a most remarkable-looking young man on the stairs at
Downing Street. There exists, I have been told, a print depicting what
is nothing but a purely imaginary interview between these two great men,
for there is no record that any regular meeting ever took place between
them.
Another interesting picture which I possess is one representing the
Vanneck family grouped on the lawn of their house at Fulham, with old
Putney Bridge (destroyed only a few years ago) standing out in the
background. This picture was the work of Arthur Devis, an
eighteenth-century painter of portraits and also of what are known as
“conversation pieces.” The work of Devis is not very much known to-day,
but during his lifetime the painter in question attracted a good deal of
attention owing to his very remarkable likeness to the Pretender;
indeed, during a period of political excitement he was actually obliged
to leave Preston in disguise. Appropriately enough he painted a picture
of the “Pretender and his Friends.”
Two prominent figures in my picture are two ladies, daughters of Sir
Joshua Vanneck, who both married Walpoles. One became the grandmother of
my husband (I have also a miniature of her by Smart), and the other the
great grandmother of my cousin, the late Sir Spencer Walpole. Her
husband was the Hon. Thomas Walpole, Horace Walpole’s cousin, who lost
his fortune owing to the capture of the West Indian Islands by the
French, having had the bad luck to accept bills drawn by the Scotch firm
of Alexander upon his real property in that quarter of the world. The
French Government after this capture at once declared all debts due to
English creditors to be annulled; but Mr. Walpole, betaking himself to
Paris, after a protracted struggle in the French Courts, eventually
obtained a judgment in his favour, and then very honourably handed over
his recovered estates to the Bank of England in discharge of his
obligations.
After the death of his first wife Mr. Walpole married in Paris Madame de
Villegagnon, the widow of the Comte de Villegagnon, and Sir Spencer
Walpole possessed the permission signed by the French King—the
unfortunate Louis XVI.—which, under such circumstances, it was in those
days necessary to obtain.
In addition to pictures I have also a certain number of Walpole relics,
amongst them a fine _marqueterie_ clock which formerly belonged to
Horace Walpole at Strawberry Hill.
In former years, before the rage for collecting had reached its present
pitch, and the extravagant prices of to-day were as yet undreamt of,
French art occupied a very different position in the estimation of
collectors from that which it does to-day, and occasionally fine old
French pictures were to be found in very queer places.
In one of my scrap-books I have a photograph of an old French picture
with some notes written at the side which recall to my mind a very
kindly action which was performed by Mr. Cobden, and by which he greatly
assisted a poor labourer and his family.
Mr. Cobden chanced to be one day walking in a Sussex village with his
friend Mr. Robinson (afterwards Sir Charles), of the South Kensington
Museum, and came across a child trailing what appeared to be a piece of
old board by a string run through two roughly made holes. For some
reason or other this board attracted his attention, and examining it, he
discovered it to be an old picture evidently of considerable artistic
merit.
Conducted by the child to its home, Mr. Cobden interviewed the father—a
poor labourer with a large family—to whom he suggested that as the
picture might possibly be of some value he should allow it to be
restored, and afterwards privately raffled amongst some friends; in this
way a nice little sum would be brought in to the poor household. The
labourer willingly gave his consent, and after careful restoration, the
picture turned out to be a graceful and elegant portrait of Madame la
Duchesse de Bourgogne, a Princess of the House of Savoy and the mother
of Louis XV. From the style and brilliant colouring of the painting it
was declared to be the work of Largillière, and in all probability had
once hung at Cowdray, the ancient home of the Brownes, the ruins of
which stood not very far away.
The raffle was duly organised by Mr. Cobden, twenty-five tickets at a
guinea apiece being disposed of amongst friends. Of course I took one,
but, alas, I did not win the picture.
Since those days works of art of all kinds have largely increased in
value, and realise sums which would have fairly staggered the collectors
of the past.
It is said that the Bernal Collection, which in 1855 realised £69,000,
would to-day fetch close on half a million. Many things, indeed, which
were then sold have since changed hands at a profit of a thousand per
cent, and even more. A Dutch picture, for instance, which was sold at
the Bernal sale for eighty guineas, was bought by Mr. Wertheimer, when
Mr. Adrian Hope’s pictures were sold, for no less a sum than £3200.
It is not, I think, generally known that before Mr. Bernal began his
great collection he had already formed a small collection of pictures.
These he sold on the death of his first wife, who met with such a tragic
end, being burnt to death while dressing for a party. She was Mr. Bernal
Osborne’s mother.
Many collectors are very careless of their treasures, and, once a
coveted _objet d’art_ is obtained, forget all about it. The Marquis of
Hertford, who did so much to make the Wallace Collection what it now is,
had a good deal of this tendency, and would keep some of his finest and
most valuable pictures piled up in heaps against the wall, not troubling
to have them hung, or indeed paying any attention to them at all.
Lord Hertford was in the habit of employing certain agents to buy for
him, and on one occasion, it is said, sending for one of the most able
of these men, bade him spare no expense or trouble in the effort to
secure a certain picture, the details of which he minutely described.
The collector accordingly set out, telling his lordship that his wishes
should certainly be fulfilled; but in spite of the most strenuous
exertions the much-sought-for picture could not be discovered, and Lord
Hertford eventually received a letter from the man saying that, much to
his regret, he was abandoning the search, feeling convinced that it was
useless.
A year or two later, however, this very collector, whilst travelling on
the Continent, chanced to come across a shrewd dealer whom he had not
yet questioned about this picture. He accordingly asked the man whether
he knew anything about it, to which the latter replied: “Know anything
about it? Of course I do; but you need not trouble any further about it,
for it has gone into a collection from which no money will cause it to
emerge. Lord Hertford bought it of me three or four years ago, and, as
you know, he never parts with anything.” The collector at once informed
Lord Hertford of what he had been told, and on a search being made the
picture was duly discovered, propped up behind several others with its
face to the wall.
The splendid Wallace Collection, as is well known, was lost to France by
the scant consideration which the French Government showed to Lady
Wallace; but it is said that England, on the other hand, failed to
secure another very interesting and valuable bequest entirely through a
misunderstanding.
Dr. Schlieman, the famous excavator of Troy, had, it is said, quite made
up his mind to leave his collection, which included many objects of
great antiquarian value, to this country, but oddly enough his election
as an honorary member of a very learned club caused him to alter his
decision. On receiving the notification of this election the
distinguished antiquarian (who did not understand that honorary members
paid no subscription) sent £10 to the secretary of the club, thinking
that he would at once acquit himself of his obligations as a new member.
The secretary, however, on receipt of this sum, interpreted it as being
either an insult or a bribe, and a great fuss was made, which so
disgusted Dr. Schlieman that he determined to reconsider his bequest,
and did so, with the consequence that the whole of his collection went
elsewhere at his death.
Lord Hertford, though a great connoisseur of French art, did not, I
believe, make any great collection of French eighteenth-century books,
such as the little almanacks, illustrated by good artists, which were
produced in such abundance during the reign of Louis XV.
Lord Carnarvon has a fine collection of these, amongst them being an
_Almanach des Muses_ bearing the arms of Marie Antoinette. Another of
his treasures is _Les bienfaits du sommeil_, an exceptionally scarce and
practically unknown almanack, embellished with four plates engraved by
Delaunay after Moreau. He also possesses a perfect copy of the very rare
_Suite d’estampes pour servir à la mode_—a reduction of the _Monument
de costume_ of Moreau le jeune. This, by great good fortune, he found
whilst looking through a vast assortment of rubbish at a shop in
Constantinople, one Turkish pound only being asked for two perfect
copies. Other rarities in this most careful collection of scarce and
beautiful books are the tallest known copy of that rarest of Elzevirs,
_Le pastissier François_, and a first edition of the _Art of Cookery_,
with H. Glasse, the autograph of Mrs. Glasse, written upon the
title-page. The well-known remark, “First catch your hare,” does not
occur in the first edition.
Lord Carnarvon also has many splendid bindings, as well as an ancient
morocco box, covered with gold tooling and made to hold prayer-books,
which once belonged to Gabrielle d’Estrées.
A collection of books of this kind, many of them containing sketches by
great artists such as Fragonard and Moreau, is exceedingly difficult to
get together—taste and knowledge being indispensable requisites as well
as the possession of a well-filled purse.
At one time massive folio volumes were the delight of the bibliophile,
but that day has long since passed: small and beautifully bound and
illustrated volumes are now the collectors especial delight. Fashion,
indeed, exercises her sway here as in other forms of art. I remember,
for instance, a regular craze which was originated by Sir Francis Grant,
a fashionable painter of other days, who was a great favourite in
society. A portrait painted by him of his daughter (a singularly
good-looking girl), wearing a red cloak, created a great sensation, and
in consequence of the happy effect produced by the brilliant colouring
of this picture, every one, old or young, ugly or beautiful, rushed to
have their portrait painted in a similar costume. The result in most
cases, however, was far from being as successful as in the case of Miss
Grant. She afterwards became Lady Annesley.
Sir Francis painted a picture of my sister and myself which now hangs at
Methley. This, in my opinion, was a great failure, for my sister looks
like a murderess, whilst I am represented as apparently suffering from
the effects of a narcotic which she has just administered. Nevertheless,
many people said it was not at all a bad picture, but I never liked it.
Sir Francis was an agreeable man, and we often used to go to his house
in Regent’s Park to sit to him in the evenings. He was the only painter
I ever heard of who painted by gas-light, a feat which has always
lingered in my memory as a somewhat remarkable thing.
[Illustration: _Emery Walker Ph. So._
_Lady Dorothy Nevill_
_from a portrait by the Hon. Henry Graves_ ]
The Hon. Henry Graves was another popular portrait-painter of the past.
I think that in all probability the best thing he ever did was a
miniature portrait of myself, which, on account of its beautiful
execution, is quite a little gem. For some years Mr. Graves had no
success at all, but a portrait of the late Lady Alexandra Lennox being
very much admired, he leapt into popularity, and afterwards, I believe,
regularly made several thousands every year. Thorburn also painted what
I suppose would be called a miniature of me. His particular bent lay in
painting portraits rather like miniatures, but covering a very much
larger surface. Another fashionable painter was Buckner, who painted my
portrait in what may be called the keepsake style (as a matter of fact,
an engraving of it actually appeared in a number of the _Keepsake_).
Though somewhat artificial in pose, this picture was not at all
unpleasing, being far more graceful than any modern effort of the same
sort. At the present time, alas, the art of portrait-painting, except in
one or two cases, cannot be said to stand at anything but a very
moderate level.
Buckner, it was said, invariably made his portraits more beautiful than
the sitters really were, in order to please people and thus cause their
friends to flock to his studio.
Lithographs after Count D’Orsay’s drawings of well-known people of his
day, which were once so popular, are now seldom to be seen. I well
remember Lord Beaconsfield telling me how anxious he was to secure a
picture of Napoleon the Third done by D’Orsay; it was coming up for sale
at Christie’s, and he feared that it would fetch at least two hundred
pounds, a sum which he declared himself ill able to afford. However,
when the day came, the bidding was very feeble, and he secured the
picture for twenty pounds. I suppose it still hangs at Hughenden.
Sir John Millais I used to meet every year at the shooting parties given
by that most delightful of hosts, Sir Henry (now Lord) James. I remember
that, by a curious fatality, the weather during these shooting parties
was always execrable, but the clever and pleasant guests, together with
the most excellent of hosts, used to make us all forget the torrents of
rain which fell most of the time.
Lord Leighton also for many years I regularly saw, for he always formed
one of a party which came to us every Easter. Nevertheless I cannot say
that I ever really knew Lord Leighton well, for there always seemed to
be something mysterious about him—a sort of curious reticence, as it
were, which prevented one becoming intimate with him. Perhaps this was
but fancy; in any case we always remained the best of friends.
A newspaper once mentioned Lord Leighton’s picture of Cimabue finding
Giotto at work on his sketches as the “Discovery of Grotto.”
Another criticism of the same sort which appeared in 1884 was the one
which described Walker’s “Harbour of Refuge”—a representation of an
almshouse, in the swarded quadrangle of which a mower plies his
scythe—as a good sea-piece.
Mr. Hamilton Aidé—one of the last survivors of the little group of
which I have just spoken—passed away only a few months ago. A man of
singularly refined taste and literary culture, Mr. Aidé was also a very
talented painter in water-colours. The most charitable of men, he would
occasionally have little exhibitions of his works, and as they secured a
ready sale, many poor people benefited by his artistic gifts. His works,
principally landscapes in Italy and Sicily, always sold well; at the
last exhibition of them in Bond Street, only a few months before his
death, they were purchased with great rapidity, and the poor, I believe,
benefited to the extent of four or five hundred pounds.
I used at one time to hear a good deal about various artists and their
work from my dear governess, Miss Redgrave, whose family (one of which,
Mr. Samuel Redgrave, wrote the invaluable _Dictionary of Artists of the
English School_) was well known in artistic circles.
A great friend of the Redgraves was Webster, whose pictures were at one
time very popular on account of their genial humour and gaiety. Many,
indeed, were engraved. Among his best-known works were “The Smile and
the Frown,” illustrating the two different moods of the schoolmaster in
Goldsmith’s _Deserted Village_—“The Boy with many Friends”—“The
Village Choir”—“The Dame School”—“Coming out of School,” and others
depicting subjects of a similar kind. Mr. Webster was very lively and
full of fun, and devoted to children, like many people who have none of
their own. He would describe how, as a boy, he had once, by mistake,
been locked into the village stocks by his brother, and kept there for
some time, owing to the key having been mislaid. He would laugh very
much over the recollection of the gibes levelled at him by the village
boys whilst he was awaiting his release, adding, however, that the
actual experience was anything but pleasant. Another great joke of his
was that when he wanted to join the Civil Service Stores, at the time
when they were first started, he was informed that only persons
connected with the Civil Service could be admitted as members, but
triumphantly obtained his ticket as the orphan of a Civil Servant, being
then over seventy years of age. Up to about the year 1856 Mr. Webster
resided in Kensington, but the rest of his life was spent at a charming
old house at Cranbrook, in Kent. During a severe attack of gout, he went
one winter’s day, wrapped up in blankets in a bath-chair, to the Round
Pond in Kensington Gardens, in order to note some ice and snow effects
for his picture of “Boys at a Slide,” his reason being that he feared a
thaw might set in and lose him the opportunity for observation. In his
later years he suffered terribly from the same affection, and would
constantly declare that it was only with the greatest difficulty he
could put an eye to a small figure or a curl of hair in its proper
place, as his poor fingers and trembling hands caused him to paint
details, and even features, in quite wrong positions.
The Redgrave family had also known Sir David Wilkie, whose picture “Rent
Day” created such a sensation. By a veritable _tour de force_ the
painter contrived in this work to represent a man coughing. The figure
in question is in the very centre of this picture. As a rule, attempts
to depict people coughing, yawning, or the like, are far from
successful.
There was, for instance, a picture I remember which was called “A Pinch
of Snuff,” in which the artist had made an effort to represent a sneeze,
and the result was not very satisfactory. Morland, however, in his
“Connoisseur and Tired Boy,” has shown the latter gaping in a very
realistic manner.
“The Long Sermon” (a picture by Hunt) also contained a study of
gaping—a young man being depicted as being quite unable to repress this
somewhat curious natural effect of being bored.
William Hunt, who died in 1864, was a fine painter of still life, and a
sturdy and genial humorist in art as well as one of the greatest (if not
the greatest) English flower painters in water-colours who ever lived. A
loving painter of rustic life, he cared little for professional models,
preferring to paint the real villagers whom he knew and understood. “The
Blessing,” a countryman returning thanks for his humble meal, is
probably Hunt’s masterpiece. Of this Ruskin said, “It is more than a
sermon; it is a poem.”
Hunt being a cripple, he was, as his family said, “good for nothing,” so
they made him an artist. In early life he assisted in the redecoration
of the rebuilt Drury Lane Theatre, and painted part of a drop-scene.
Curiously enough, a great many artists who have achieved success
originally began their careers as scene-painters. Amongst them may be
mentioned De Loutherbourg, the contemporary of Rowlandson, who was a
scene-painter at Drury Lane Theatre; Stanfield and Roberts, as well as
David Cox, who, in the early part of the nineteenth century, was
assistant painter at the Birmingham Theatre. The late Mr. Thomas Sidney
Cooper also, I believe, once did a little in this line. George Chambers,
marine painter to William IV., was scene-painter at the Pavilion
Theatre.
Amongst architects, Inigo Jones must not be forgotten as having
practically been a scene-painter, for his genius largely contributed to
the success of the masques which were so popular in his day.
A relative of Inigo Jones, who was also his pupil, attained some
celebrity as a designer of the scenery and accessories used in these
entertainments. This was John Webb, some of whose sketches and designs
are still, I believe, in the Duke of Devonshire’s library.
The first piece of regular scenery used on the English stage is said to
have figured in a play at the Duke’s Theatre, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in
1662. Evelyn, of course, mentions “sceanery” in his diary some three
years before that date, but this in all probability merely consisted of
hangings of figured tapestry.
My eldest brother, the late Lord Orford, was an ardent collector of
everything connected with the Stewarts and possessed a good many
interesting portraits. Amongst these was a painting of Prince Charlie
executed by Blanchet in 1730 for the Grand Duke of Tuscany; this
formerly belonged to the Duchesse de Berri when she lived at Venice, and
is now, together with a picture of Cardinal York, in the possession of
Colonel Walpole of Heckfield Place, Hants, who has a considerable number
of valuable Stewart relics, amongst them a gold snuff-box with a secret
spring revealing a miniature of Prince Charlie, whilst outside are
inscribed the names of those killed in 1745. Though there are many
collectors of memorials of the Stewarts, portraits of members of that
family are occasionally unrecognised at auctions. Such a case occurred
quite recently when an excellent portrait of the old Pretender was
labelled at the Duke of Fife’s sale as “the Comte d’Artois by Danloux”!
This was the more extraordinary as the Pretender is shown wearing the
Order of the Garter, a decoration which the Comte d’Artois never
received. The portrait in question, being purchased by a friend of mine
for a very moderate figure, was discovered by him to have been the work
of Batoni, an Italian artist, who executed an almost precisely similar
portrait of Prince Charlie, but of smaller size, which may be seen
hanging in the National Portrait Gallery.
A younger brother of mine was also much interested in the Stewarts, and
possessed some curious letters from the Pretender, certain of which are
dealt with in the Appendix to this book.
I possess a number of the old silhouette portraits very skilfully cut
out of black paper, amongst them one of George III. Silhouettes, in the
days before photography, were given to relatives and friends just as
photographs are to-day. At Eridge Castle there are several very good
ones of unusual size. Everybody knows the small silhouette in a black
frame so often seen in curiosity shops, but big ones are, I think, much
less frequently to be met with. Elaborate coats of arms used also
formerly to be cut out of white paper; these, when pasted upon a black
background, produced a very good effect. Some little time ago I was
fortunate enough to come across some Walpole arms done in this fashion,
which I at once secured, as a specimen of really good work of this kind
is by no means easy to procure. Silhouette cutting of every sort is now
more or less a lost art; it belonged, indeed, to a period when people
had plenty of time, and women were content to stay at home, beguiling
the long winter evenings with simple work of one kind or another, which
would be not at all to the taste of their more luxurious descendants.
Princess Elizabeth, daughter of King George III., was an adept at
cutting silhouettes and figures out of paper. I possess a little volume
which is entirely filled with her work. Some of the designs, instead of
being black, are white, and with each of these is a slip of green paper
to serve as a background. This little portfolio was formerly in the
possession of Lady Banks, to whom it was given by the Princess.
The best silhouette I have is one representing Mrs. Jordan—I think in
the character of “Sir Harry Wildair”—the pretty features (immortalised
by Chantrey in the monument at Père la Chaise) crowned by a profusely
plumed cocked hat. Of her royal lover, William IV., in whose reign I
lived, many stories used to be told illustrating his kindly nature and
great devotion to children, in whose society he absolutely revelled.
Lady Georgiana Curzon, for instance, well remembered how this kindly
monarch kept a whole cupboard full of dolls to give to little girls.
This cupboard was under the care of a favourite Hanoverian servant,
whose peculiar personal appearance had caused the King to nickname him
“Ugly Mugs.” Lady Georgiana used to tell how, when she was taken to the
palace, King William would say, “Now, little girl, you can go and ask
Ugly Mugs for a doll,” upon which, running off to the individual in
question, she made her request, “Please, Mr. Ugly Mugs, may I have a
doll?” The Hanoverian invariably met this by pretending to be very
angry, and by saying, “My name is not Ugly Mugs,” in a tone of simulated
rage, but the doll was always produced, whilst the kindly King never
failed to laugh at the description of Ugly Mugs’s rage.
As a child Lady Georgiana Curzon was present at the wedding of Lord de
Ros’s sister to Lord Cowley, which, by the wish of King William, took
place at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor—I rather think she was one of the
bridesmaids. Anyhow, I know that she used to describe her great
excitement on the occasion in question, and how much she looked forward
to the ceremony, and especially to the wedding breakfast and other
festivities which would come after its celebration.
Lord de Ros, however, who was fond of a joke, took her aside the day
before the wedding, and addressed her very gravely. “My dear child,”
said he, “I know you are looking forward very much to the breakfast and
amusements which you imagine are going to follow this wedding, but don’t
count too much upon them, for I may tell you in confidence that
everything depends upon whether my sister can make up her mind or not,
and I warn you that she is extremely unreliable. When you hear the Dean
ask, ‘Will you have this man for your wedded husband?’ prick up your
ears, for everything depends upon her answer. As a matter of fact I half
believe she will say ‘No,’ in which case you may say good-bye to
breakfast and everything else.”
Little Lady Georgiana was so upset at this that that night she hardly
slept at all, and words could not describe her excitement in the chapel
next day. The fateful moment, however, at last arrived, and when the
bride repeated in a clear voice the words “I will,” Lady Georgiana, who
could contain herself no longer, immediately shouted out, “You all heard
her! You all heard her!” So great was her excitement that only the
assurance that everything was all right could restore order.
One occasionally comes across queer little paper circles elaborately
ornamented and engraved. These are old watch-papers, which it was
formerly the custom for watchmakers to put in the outside cases of
old-fashioned watches which came to them to be repaired. These
watch-papers generally bore the repairer’s name and address, surrounded
with an appropriate design, and sometimes also contained a motto.
William Teanby, a Lincolnshire schoolmaster, achieved a certain
celebrity on account of his great skill in writing manuscript
watch-papers with a crow-quill pen. There are still in existence some
very pretty old watch-paper designs printed on white satin. One of the
best of these shows a mass of coloured garlands enclosing a miniature
silhouette of King George III.
These watch-papers, like engravings, are sometimes found in different
states. I have the first state of a very quaint one issued by J.
Woolett, watchmaker, Maidstone. On it is shown the figure of Time
pointing to a dial, whilst his scythe is seen lying at his feet. Around
the rim of this watch-paper are simple directions for regulating the
watch.
I possess a good many engraved concert and ball tickets, the work of
Bartolozzi, Smirke, Ibbetson, Legoux, and others. Legoux, in particular,
executed a number of benefit tickets closely following the style of his
master, Bartolozzi, whose own productions in this line, unlike most of
his stippled work, were invariably engraved by his own hand. These
tickets, generally designed in a spirit of fanciful allegory by his
friend Cipriani, were, as a rule, intended for benefits and charitable
entertainments, in which case Bartolozzi would engrave them for nothing.
There is a splendid collection of them in the British Museum, presented
in 1818 by Lady Banks.
Amongst other odds and ends which I have collected are a number of old
bill-heads, several of which are prettily engraved in quite an elaborate
fashion. The best of these dates from about the middle of the eighteenth
century, and on it, within an elaborate border, is a representation of a
merchant showing some elaborate wall-papers to a lady in a huge hooped
skirt, who is accompanied by a richly dressed gallant. The whole
composition is quite a work of art, and contrasts most favourably with
the bill forms in use at the present day. Many bill-heads continued to
have little engravings upon them till about the middle of the last
century, when this pretty custom practically died out.
Up to quite recent years an enormous number of valentines used to be
sent on the 14th of February, St. Valentine’s day. Most of these, it
must be confessed, were of a very inartistic and tawdry character,
whilst in some cases ridiculous and even insulting pictures were sent to
unpopular people. This custom, however, for some reason or other has now
completely died out, though it is not so very many years ago that
thousands of valentines must have passed through the post. On the other
hand, many more Christmas cards are sent than was formerly the case.
Sending Christmas cards, it may be added, is a custom of comparatively
recent introduction, the first of these cards having been printed in
England about the year 1846. This, I believe, was drawn by Mr. J. C.
Horsley, R.A., at the suggestion of Mr. (afterwards Sir Henry) Cole,
well known in his day as “King Cole.” The card in question was divided
into three parts by a trellis-work design, and in the two side panels
were designs representing “Feeding the hungry,” and “Clothing the
naked,” whilst the centre panel contained a merry family group drinking
the toast which was printed beneath—“A merry Christmas and a happy New
Year to you.” About a thousand only of these cards were produced, and it
was not until 1862 that Messrs. Goodall and Sons issued the first series
of Christmas cards which came into general use. These had border designs
of holly, mistletoe, and robins. Messrs. Goodall did not, however,
continue to produce Christmas cards, but after a few years relinquished
this portion of their business to Messrs. Marcus Ward and Co., under
whose auspices the Christmas card attained the great vogue which shows
no signs of abating.