XV

Retrospection—The first train from Norwich—Disappearance of

coaches—Railway mania of the ’forties—Hudson and his house—

Steam carriages of the past—Letter franking—Society and its

love of pleasure—Bridge—Decrease of betting and increase of

speculation—Changes in Parliament—The late Mr. Bradlaugh—An

unfortunate speech—Growth of the Press—Lady Seymour and the

cook—Louis Napoleon—His witty criticism—The Franco-German War

—_Paris Herself Again_—Mr. Mackenzie Grieves—The overflow of

London—Disappearance of nursery gardens—Modern villagers—

Folklore—Friends who have passed away.

Looking back to old days in the ’thirties and ’forties, what gigantic

changes come into view! Nearly everything was on a different footing

from to-day, and things which are now permanent institutions were at

that time either at their very beginning or not dreamt of at all.

The majority of modern inventions were unknown, or in their infancy,

whilst life in general went on very much in the happy-go-lucky fashion

characteristic of another age. Law and order, it is true, exercised a

sort of sway, but the former, if just, was often terribly cruel, whilst

the latter was, by comparison with to-day, only indifferently

maintained. Three years after I was born our excellent modern police had

been established by Sir Robert Peel, but the county police in Norfolk

were only constituted some ten years later—a salutary innovation which,

strangely enough, was not greeted with universal approbation. In 1842,

indeed, when the new guardians of law and order had already done duty

for three years, my father, at a meeting of the county magistrates at

Norwich, presented a petition, signed by himself and a large number of

other landowners, praying for some reduction or even the abolition of

the police force, on the ground that it produced nothing but expense,

and caused people to be prosecuted for offences of a very trivial

nature.

My father, of course, disliked the new police force principally on

account of its being an innovation, for, a staunch Conservative, he

opposed changes of any kind whatever, including railroads, which were

his special abomination. The advent of the railway in Norfolk was, I

remember, a depressing blow to him, and he did all he could to keep the

line outside the borders of his property so that he might forget its

existence. Direct railway communication between London and Norwich was

not established till 1845, the first through train starting from Trowse

on the morning of June 30 of that year. In January 1846 all the coaches

between Norwich and London had ceased to run, the last of them to go

being the mail through Bury St. Edmunds.

In the ’forties came the railway mania, when many of a speculative

disposition were completely carried away by dreams of immediate and

colossal wealth. Within a year or two, however, a dreadful awakening was

the lot of those who had gambled in railway shares, which went down

faster than they had risen, a large number of people being completely

ruined, amongst them the great Hudson himself. During the time when

things were going well, flattery and praise were heaped upon him and he

was the recipient of several public testimonials; but after the

disastrous fall in railway shares he at once became the principal object

of an outburst of widespread popular indignation.

Hudson, to whom Carlyle once alluded as “the big swollen gambler,” lived

on to the early ’seventies, an annuity having been purchased for his

benefit by some friends only a few years before. In his prosperous days

the “railway king” used to entertain very lavishly at his house at

Albert Gate. This mansion, together with the one opposite to it, was

built by Cubitt, and the two houses used to be called the “two

Gibraltars,” it being prophesied that they never would or could be

taken; however, as has been said, Mr. Hudson soon falsified this

prediction. The house is now the French Embassy.

Previous to the construction of the railway between London and Norwich,

several experiments had been made in Norfolk with steam carriages to run

upon the roads—the precursors of our modern motor cars. As early,

indeed, as 1842, a Mr. Parr had patented a steam carriage to run for

hire between Norwich and Yarmouth, whilst in the following year a steam

coach was experimentally put upon the Yarmouth road. This vehicle,

however, did not answer its inventor’s expectations, as its wheels

refused to revolve unless lifted up from the road, when, as a

contemporary somewhat quaintly put it, they at once flew round with

alarming velocity.

As far back as 1831 a Parliamentary Committee had decided that carriages

weighing three tons, propelled by steam and carrying fourteen

passengers, could travel on the ordinary roads at an average speed of

ten miles an hour with perfect safety. The first steam omnibus,

constructed by Mr. Hancock, ran from the Bank at Paddington in April

1833; it could attain a speed of from ten to fifteen miles an hour,

carrying some twenty-five passengers, and consumed a sack of coke every

eight miles. Two years later Mr. Hancock ran what was called a

“steam-engine coach” between Whitechapel and his house at Stratford.

Colonel Macirone and Sir Charles Dance also ran steam cars, as did Mr.

Gurney, whose coaches averaged about nine miles an hour. Though these

early motor cars were by no means inefficient, they were for some reason

or other put down by legislative interference, and a great industry was

thus held in abeyance for some forty or fifty years.

Prints of the old steam carriages have now become difficult to obtain,

as they are eagerly snapped up by votaries of the motor car, many of

whom make a hobby of collecting the records connected with the early

infancy of their favourite sport. One of the most curious of these

prints represents an accident which happened to a Scotch steam carriage

in the summer of 1834. Designed by an eye-witness of the catastrophe, it

shows the unlucky passengers, several of whom were killed, being shot

into the air, the boiler of the car having burst owing to an overstrain.

It is said that this accident was really caused by the trustees of the

road between Paisley and Glasgow who were very much opposed to the new

method of locomotion, and therefore purposely kept the surface of the

highway in such a condition as to impede its progress as much as

possible. The remains of the wrecked steam carriage are still preserved

in a museum at Glasgow. Its maker was John Scott Russell, the builder of

the _Great Eastern_ steamship, which at the time it was launched was

considered one of the wonders of the world.

The spirit of what we call Progress made its influence felt in the

’thirties and ’forties, and in the course of a few years, after the

passing of the great Reform Bill, quite a new England began to come into

existence. Old customs and ways gradually lost their hold upon the

people and another order of things arose, whilst such privileges as the

upper classes enjoyed became subjects of comment and criticism, with the

eventual result that most of them were voluntarily relinquished.

Amongst minor changes of this sort was the abolition of the practice of

franking letters. Up to the year 1840, when uniform penny postage was

introduced, Peers and members of the House of Commons were entitled to

have their letters conveyed free of any charge, and I still treasure a

few of these frank-marked envelopes—faded souvenirs of a bygone age. In

the course of the same year appeared the artistic Mulready envelope,

which has now become somewhat scarce, specimens in good condition being

much prized by stamp collectors.

Many of the older people shook their heads at what they called

new-fangled schemes and inventions, and some, like my father,

indiscriminately denounced all reforms and reformers of every kind. My

father, as I have before said, hated all innovations, and would hardly

consider any merits which they might possess. He was, however, by no

means alone in taking up this standpoint, which to-day, when all the

world eagerly grasps at anything new, seems almost inconceivable. Men of

his generation viewed things from a curious point of view, being firmly

imbued with the idea that the acceptance of new methods would send

England to the dogs. Their outlook upon life was in reality that of the

eighteenth century, and in addition to this they would appear to have

vaguely realised that new ways meant the annihilation of their power as

a dominant class. Even at that time there were many who foresaw the rise

of democracy, a development which they regarded with feelings of the

utmost alarm, as tending to bring about the ruin of England. Nor did the

wonderful new inventions please pessimists of this sort, who declined to

welcome them with enthusiasm, and predicted that in the end they would

make for unhappiness and discontentment. As a matter of fact these

vaticinations, ridiculous as they seemed, have not proved so fallacious

after all, for modern inventions have produced the commercialism which

is undoubtedly one of the chief causes of that curious

creed—Socialism—which, deliberately ignoring the immutable instincts

of human nature, holds out the prospect of a visionary Utopia, and

promises everything to every one at somebody else’s expense.

In another chapter I have spoken of the great changes which have taken

place in the constitution of what is known as “Society,” but since I

first knew it there is one respect in which there has in reality been no

alteration at all—I refer to its love of amusement and pleasure. True

it is, perhaps, that in past days these were indulged in with a certain

reserve and dignity—qualities which to-day seem to be considered as

being of small account. True it is also that seldom did the passing

fancies and follies of its leaders find their way into the public Press.

Nevertheless they existed, though perhaps in a more modified form than

to-day, when publicity is too often welcomed rather than shunned.

Society, which is after all but a collection of quite ordinary

individuals—many with more money than brains,—naturally contains (as

it always has done) a certain number of people whose wealth prompts them

to gratify many a costly caprice. There is nothing very astonishing

about this, nor is it likely that any effect will be produced by the

fulminations of those critics whose ideal society would appear to

consist of a collection of prigs, faddists, and cranks, perpetually

interfering in other people’s business as well as lecturing and boring

the world in general. In all probability London society is no better or

worse than it was in the past, though certainly more stupid. Clever

people seem rarer than in former days, whilst an undue importance is

attached to wealth, no matter how uninteresting may be its possessor.

Nevertheless, considering all things, society might be a great deal

worse, and it certainly does not deserve the indiscriminate censure

which is frequently passed upon it, there being, after all, a large

measure of real kindliness and generous feeling to be found hidden

beneath its veneer of frivolity. Society, however, is always an easy and

attractive subject for attack, the British public being apparently never

tired of hearing of its crimes. Sometimes it is blamed for the vast sums

expended in entertaining, which, after all, circulates money and is good

for trade; nor is it clear why people in a position to do so should not

entertain their friends, or even their enemies for that matter. By the

austere it is upbraided for its bridge playing, and here, perhaps, is a

more legitimate reason for censure, the game in question (which I do not

play, disliking all card games) having utterly destroyed much pleasant

conversation. At the same time it seems to amuse a great number who

would otherwise be bored, and many people welcome the game as a pleasant

change from the exchange of empty and commonplace remarks.

The question of gambling is another and a graver matter, though I

personally have never heard of any young lady being dragged into playing

for stakes which she could ill afford, and, indeed, I wonder very much

what sort of host or hostess it could be who would allow such

proceedings under his or her roof. Society is to-day a very wide term,

covering as it does a great number of different sets which gradually

fade away into an almost imperceptible outer fringe; but even in the

most remote of its confines, surely any man who deliberately laid

himself out to win money from a young girl (as has been alleged) would

be visited with the censure he deserved. As a matter of fact good bridge

players, as is perfectly well known, dislike nothing more than the

intrusion of a novice whose errors must of necessity ruin their game.

Gambling on the Turf has without question decreased. Where are the

plungers of to-day? Non-existent. Modern youth, except in a few rare

instances, knows better than to risk a fortune on a racehorse—an act of

folly which in former days was very often committed. On the other hand,

the insidious craze for speculating in stocks and shares has an almost

unlimited number of votaries—women as well as men—whose one thought is

to obtain information (as a rule unreliable) as to the chances of a rise

or fall. This is an entirely new development. The great ladies of the

past would as soon have thought of dabbling in City matters as of

witnessing a prize fight; in fact, of the two I think they would have

given the preference to the latter as being the more select. Those,

however, were the days before the City had conquered the West End, and

when the jargon of the Stock Exchange was as yet unfamiliar to

aristocratic ears.

Finance in these latter days has become as much the appanage of society

as politics were in the past, whilst all doors fly open at the advent of

a successful speculator or financier. Politics, of course, which in old

days were something of an engrossing pastime for the leisured classes,

have now become a much more serious affair altogether.

Since the days of my childhood many and great changes have occurred in

Parliament in the method of electing its members, and in the admission

of others than Protestants to sit in the House of Commons. The first

Roman Catholic to take his seat since the downfall of the Stewarts was

Daniel O’Connell, who, elected member for Clare County in 1828, was

admitted to Westminster in the following year, when the Catholic

Emancipation Act having been passed, the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Dormer,

and Lord Clifford also took their seats in the House of Lords. The first

English Roman Catholic member of the House of Commons was Lord Surrey,

who was returned for Horsham at the same time.

Though Mr. Joseph Pease had been admitted as an M.P. on making an

affirmation in 1833, the objection of the late Mr. Bradlaugh as a

Freethinker to taking the Parliamentary oath created a very great

sensation some forty-seven years later. In May 1880 the member for

Northampton was refused permission to affirm, and it was only some two

months later that a resolution moved by Mr. Gladstone allowed him to do

so. Much acrimonious controversy ensued as to the legality of such an

act, Mr. Bradlaugh being on one occasion prevented from entering the

House of Commons by the police. Finally, in 1886, Mr. Bradlaugh was

permitted to take the oath, further intervention being stopped by the

Speaker. A thoroughly sincere man, the member for Northampton lived to

gain the goodwill and respect of the House of Commons, and when he died

in 1891, worn out by hard work and worry, universal regret was expressed

at his demise. A pronounced individualist, he was quite uncompromising

in his denunciation of anything which he deemed to be false or untrue,

and in the debates in which he indulged with certain ministers of

religion was very outspoken as to his views on the Christian faith. This

not unnaturally caused him to be regarded as a monster of iniquity by

many who had no opportunity of realising the splendid qualities which he

in reality possessed, and many were the absurd stories circulated about

him—generally, I fear, to his discredit.

It was declared, for instance, that on more than one occasion he had

defied Heaven itself, by taking out his watch at public meetings and

saying, “If there be a God, let Him strike me dead within the next five

minutes.”

I do not know what truth there may have been in this story, but some of

the Russian revolutionary agitators (so I hear) have actually uttered

this blasphemous challenge—their idea being to emancipate the peasants

from the thraldom of their priests. It is said that an agitator of this

sort came one day to an out-of-the-way village, and proceeded to address

the peasants thus: “The God whom you fear so much does not exist, and I

will prove it to you; for if I am not speaking the truth let Him kill me

within the next five minutes!” Four minutes passed and the orator, more

defiant than ever, jubilantly exclaimed, “You see I am right; there is

no God, for I am still alive.” The headman of the village, however,

stepping to the front, altogether changed the aspect of affairs. “You

have proved nothing,” said he. “God exists, and you are going to die.

God has not chosen to kill you, for He knew we should do so for Him,”

after which statement the unfortunate apostle of Atheism was duly

despatched.

One of the most striking features of the last seventy years is the

prodigious growth of the Press. In 1836 there were only about a hundred

and sixty newspapers published in England, whilst all the daily papers

put together had only an average of 12,000 copies a day. At that time

there were, I believe, but five hundred and fifty newspapers in the

United States, of which fifty were dailies. The London morning papers

were, of course, few in number, and as a rule not more than sixty to

eighty persons were employed upon their production. None of the

illustrated papers now issued were then in existence, the _Illustrated

London News_ only making its appearance in the ’forties. Newspapers were

considered quite precious things in old days, being frequently treasured

up to be sent on to friends—a very different state of affairs from

to-day, when edition succeeds edition with lightning rapidity, and a

paper a day old is never looked at again.

In the way of provincial journalism Norfolk was early in the field, for

the _Norfolk Chronicle_ was founded in 1761, whilst the _Norwich

Postman_ is said to have been the first local newspaper published in

England. It has frequently been stated that the oldest provincial

newspaper is the _Worcester Journal_, the first copy of which appeared

in 1709; but as a matter of fact, I believe that the _Norwich Postman_

appeared some three years earlier, being first published in 1706 by T.

Goddard, a bookseller of the town. It was sold for a penny, unless that

sum could not be obtained, when, it is rather amusing to learn, a

halfpenny would generally be accepted.

The _Newcastle-upon-Tyne Courant_ is another paper which can lay claim

to a very respectable antiquity, dating as it does from 1711. Many

people, in consequence, have stoutly declared that the organ in

question, and not the _Worcester Journal_ (or _Worcester Postman_, as it

was originally called), was in reality the first provincial newspaper;

but, as I have said, it is now pretty well authenticated that from

Norwich issued the first beginning of what has now become the great and

influential Provincial Press.

_John Bull_, a daily paper which has long ceased to exist, was a great

favourite with my father, and we children used to look upon its columns

with a sort of respectful awe. In 1855 began a new era in journalism

with the foundation of the _Daily Telegraph_ and the _Saturday Review_,

the latter of which for many years exercised such a remarkable influence

by reason of the able writers who at different times were members of its

staff. Ten years later, in 1865, was founded the _Pall Mall Gazette_,

which still flourishes under the very able editorship of my friend Sir

Douglas Straight. It may not, perhaps, be generally known that the word

“Gazette” is derived from the name of a small Venetian coin which was

the price asked for the first newspaper sold in the city of Venice.

One of the most curious advertisements which has ever appeared was that

inserted in the _Times_ of 10th March 1858. This stated that the

secretary of the Army and Navy Club would pay the sum of £50 on the due

conviction and punishment of the offender who had sent the _Punch_

cartoon of “The Crowing Colonel” (a picture very unflattering to the

French army, it is hardly necessary to say), accompanied by a forged

message from the club to an officer in command of a French regiment.

Notwithstanding this liberal reward, the culprit was, I believe, never

discovered.

Although so-called society journalism, as it exists to-day, was unheard

of, the newspapers of the past occasionally inserted scraps of gossip

dealing with well-known scandals and the like. In 1840 was published a

somewhat amusing correspondence between Lady Seymour, the Queen of

Beauty at the Eglinton tournament (to whom reference has before been

made—she was afterwards Duchess of Somerset), and Lady Shuckburgh. Lady

Seymour, having written to the latter to ask the character of a servant

named Stedman, and whether she was a good plain cook, received the reply

that Lady Shuckburgh, having a professed cook and housekeeper, knew

nothing about the under-servants. Upon this, Lady Seymour wrote again to

explain that she understood that Stedman, in addition to her other

talents, had had some practice in cooking for the little Shuckburghs.

Lady Shuckburgh instructed her house-maid to answer this as

follows:—“Stedman informs me that your ladyship does not keep either a

cook or a housekeeper, and that you only require a girl who can cook a

mutton chop; if so, Stedman or any other scullion will be found fully

equal to cook for or manage the establishment of the Queen of Beauty.”

At the Eglinton tournament, which had taken place just a year before,

Prince Louis Napoleon appeared in a broadsword encounter with a Mr.

Lamb, who enacted the part of the Knight of the White Rose.

Prince Napoleon’s pretensions to the throne of France were not at that

time regarded as being serious, though he himself ever entertained a

fixed idea that he would one day succeed in obtaining the Imperial

Crown. This conviction, which was firmly implanted in his mind, no doubt

had a good deal to do with his ultimate success.

I remember him perfectly well, and suppose that I am about the last

living of the partners who danced with him in the London ballrooms of

some sixty years ago. An agreeable and clever talker, he could be

amusing when he chose, and in later years, when Emperor, many stories

were current as to his witty sayings. Perhaps the most amusing of these

was the remark which he is supposed to have made at a fancy dress ball

at the Tuileries, to which a certain lady had come attired in a costume

which was an adornment rather than a covering. In the course of the

evening the Imperial host approached this lady and, congratulating her

upon her beautiful dress, at the same time inquired what it might be

intended to represent. “L’Afrique, Sire,” was the reply. “Très bien,”

said the Emperor, “I must then again congratulate you on the accuracy

with which you have followed the progress of geographical exploration;

for of your dress, as of the Dark Continent, it may truthfully be said

que c’est seulement la partie centrale qui n’est pas encore découverte.”

I was little in Paris during the second Empire, but after the disastrous

war of 1870 I paid a visit to France and collected a few relics of that

dreadful struggle. Amongst other things I purchased a number of very

amusing caricatures, some of them dealing with the humours of

underground life in the cellars during the siege of Paris; in others the

(very) irregular forces improvised by the so-called Government of the

Commune, such as the “Voltigeurs de la Villette” and the “Chasseurs de

Belleville,” were held up to ridicule.

English sympathies during the Franco-German war were very generally

given to the French, and a good deal of sarcastic comment was passed

upon the pious utterances of the old Emperor William, whose piety was

nevertheless quite sincere. Amongst other skits were published some very

ribald verses supposed to be written in imitation of the Prussian King’s

letters to his Queen after a victory. They began, as far as I

remember:—

By Heaven’s aid, my dear Augusta,

We’ve gone another awful buster;

Ten thousand Frenchmen gone below,

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

At the time of the French reverses it was thought that France could

scarcely recover from the effect of the terrible catastrophe which had

overtaken her, but to the astonishment of the world this gloomy estimate

was completely falsified, and in 1878 Europe, flocking to see the Great

Exhibition, found to its surprise and delight that Paris, but a few

years before bombarded and beleaguered, was, as the late George Augustus

Sala wrote, “comelier, richer, gayer, and more fascinating than ever.”

These words occurred in a very well written and interesting book which

Mr. Sala produced after a visit to the Exhibition. It was entitled

_Paris Herself Again_, and though it is now some twenty-nine years old

it may still be read with pleasure. Besides containing interesting

information about Paris and the ways of its inhabitants, the volume is

also full of amusing illustrations by clever artists and caricaturists

such as Bertall, Cham and Grévin,—names now but memories to survivors

of the generation which admired a verve almost amounting to genius.

Mr. Sala was a very clever draughtsman; I rather think that it was he

who drew a panoramic roll illustrating the funeral procession which

accompanied the Iron Duke to his grave; this has now become scarce, and

when in good condition is somewhat valuable. Mr. Sala’s knowledge of

Paris was very thorough, and he had seen the pleasure-loving city under

many different conditions—during the Revolution of 1848, the _coup

d’état_ of 1851 (when he was nearly shot), and in addition he was all

but murdered as a Prussian spy on the 4th of September 1870. Having

received his early education in France he spoke French just as well as

his native tongue, and was as much at home in that country as in

England.

In former days there were certain well-known Englishmen who made their

home in Paris, Lord Hertford and his brother, Lord Henry Seymour, and

later on Sir Richard Wallace, being conspicuous examples. The last of

those, however, whom I remember was Mr. Mackenzie Grieves, a gentleman

of the old school who in early life had been an officer in the “Blues,”

and who died not a great number of years ago. Whenever he came to

England he rarely failed to pay a visit to Strathfieldsaye, and there I

frequently used to meet this polished representative of all that was

best in the French society of the past. Possessing the most charming

manners, there was something about him which vividly recalled what one

had heard of the best days of the old régime; his costume, for instance,

though of extreme simplicity, had a particular note of distinction which

has now totally disappeared from men’s dress. A remarkable judge of

horse flesh, especially of the great Norman horses known as

_percherons_, he was also well known as a perfect master of the _haute

école_. His judgment in Turf matters was also held in very great respect

in Paris, and his immaculate frock-coat and voluminous tie were seldom

absent from Longchamps, where he had something to do with the direction

of the races.

One of the principal reasons given by Mr. Mackenzie Grieves for his love

of Paris was the delightful nature of its environs, as well as the charm

of the Bois de Boulogne, an ideal spot for a morning ride. London, alas!

has nothing to equal this, and in these days one has to go many miles

out before reaching the real country.

One of the greatest changes which I have witnessed, indeed, has been the

overflow of London into the pleasant fields which formerly lay quite

close to what are now the inner line of suburbs. Streets and streets of

uninteresting and depressing-looking little houses now cover districts

which not so very long ago were quite rural. About the time I was

married people used very often to drive out to the market gardens, which

were then quite close, and eat fruit there. The strawberry season was

the great time for these excursions. In 1840 quite large nursery gardens

existed at Paddington, whilst some hundreds of acres near what is now

Battersea Park were utilised for the same purpose up to much more recent

times. The gardens here were especially noted for the early fruit and

vegetables which they produced, as also for their asparagus, said to be

the best grown in the neighbourhood of London.

Hammersmith, on the other hand, was famous for its fruit,—strawberries,

raspberries, and the like, being grown in great perfection. Fulham also

formerly produced a great quantity of fruit and vegetables, and though

several acres of land which had previously served for this purpose were

put to other uses in 1865, the ground stretching towards Hammersmith and

North End was pretty well covered with market gardens as late as the

’seventies. In my childhood, of course, Chelsea and Hammersmith were

considered quite in the country. As an instance of this, it may be

mentioned that in the Royal Blue Book for 1826 Chelsea Farm is given as

the “country residence” of Lady Cremorne. The ground occupied by this

lady’s house, after being utilised for the celebrated Cremorne Gardens,

has now been covered with streets.

Every year London grows bigger and bigger, and the day now seems to be

not far distant when the road to southern watering-places, such as

Brighton, will run through an almost unbroken line of villas. Of late

there seems to be a tendency to live more and more out of London, City

men and others making a practice of travelling up and down every day,

journeys which can now be made in perfect comfort and convenience.

Luxury in travelling, as in most other things, has much increased.

Marvellous it is how, within my lifetime, the general standard of

comfort amongst all classes has been raised, though not, I fear, with

any particular increase of contentment. The so-called necessaries of

life have become very much multiplied, and there is now a universal

craving for amusement which was quite unknown in old days. Everything is

comparative, and the luxury of to-day becomes the necessity of

to-morrow. The life of the poorer classes living in the country,

notwithstanding the fact that wages were lower than at present, was

certainly not an unhappy one in old days, when there was a bond of

sympathy existing between landlord and tenantry which is now, except in

some few cases, a thing of the past. Classes were then more strictly

defined, and the farmers, the majority of them sturdy yeomen of far more

distinguished descent than most of the brand-new Peers of to-day, would

have laughed to scorn any idea of calling themselves gentlemen; now,

however, it would seem that every one is a gentleman or a lady.

Universal and, as many think, misdirected education has completely

destroyed the picturesque side of village life, and in the place of the

quaint old traditions and picturesque beliefs handed down by their

forefathers, modern villagers possess a rudimentary smattering of all

sorts of useless knowledge, which, imperfectly assimilated, serves but

to render them loutish copies of the townsmen whom it is their ambition

to imitate.

Students and archæologists, it is true, do their best to preserve some

record of the old country traditions and ways which have been so

ruthlessly destroyed. How dignified and spiritual was the idea which

many of them conveyed! Take, for instance, the old belief which formerly

prevailed amongst Norfolk fisher-folk, that deaths mostly occurred at

the falling of the tide. From this East Anglian legend was it that

Dickens drew his beautiful picture of the death of Barkis. “People can’t

die along the coast,” said Mr. Peggotty, “except when the tide’s pretty

nigh out. They can’t be born unless it’s pretty nigh in—not properly

born till flood. He’s agoing out with the tide—he’s agoing out with the

tide.” And so Peggotty and David Copperfield watched by Barkis’s bed

till, it being low water, the latter went out with the tide.

At rural weddings in some parts of Norfolk it was formerly the custom to

strew the path of the happy couple with fern leaves, and to greet them

on their exit from church with wedding peals rung on all the handbells

of the village, whilst in more remote times an elder sister was by an

old custom obliged to dance in a hog’s trough should her younger sister

marry before her. Country maidens in Norfolk who were desirous of a

swain used also to recite the following spell, “a clover of two”—that

is, a piece of clover with but two leaves—being supposed to possess

much magical power:—

A clover, a clover of two, put in your right shoe,

The first young man you meet in field, street, or lane

You’ll have him or one of his name.

As has been said, the advent of the school board rang the death-knell of

rural tradition and legend, and the rustic of to-day considers himself

far above any such superstitions. Strange old tales and folklore handed

down from long-dead generations have little interest for the villager of

to-day, who seems to spend a good part of his time lolling about the

village street, and flattening his nose against the shop windows, which

seem mostly to be filled with those brilliantly coloured tins of foreign

preserved meats and provisions which our ancestors, happily for

themselves, never knew. The countryman takes his pleasures more sadly

than of yore. His rough old amusements and sports are gone; about the

only excitement which penetrates into rural life being furnished by some

realistically dished-up tragedy or _cause célèbre_ imbibed through the

medium of a halfpenny paper.

The folklore of East Anglia has been very thoroughly recorded in various

publications, amongst them the _East Anglian Magazine_, which for some

time was edited by the late Miss Mary Henniker, who for so many years

lived in the little house in Berkeley Street, familiar to a large circle

as the residence of her universally popular younger sister. Her death,

which occurred but a few months ago, was the cause of much sincere and

genuine regret to all her friends. Miss Helen Henniker, though in latter

years labouring under considerable physical disability, ever retained an

extraordinary amount of good-natured vitality. She was, indeed, one of

those people whom it is difficult to realise as being dead. Bright,

vivacious, and good-natured to a quite unusual degree, “Helen,” as she

was affectionately called, possessed a most comprehensive knowledge of

all the different types which make up that motley crowd known as London

society. She was welcome everywhere, and the disappearance of this

kindly and original personality called forth many a sincere expression

of real grief.

Within the last few years death has robbed me of many valued friends,

some, like that most kindly of men, Lord Haliburton, dying after severe

illness, and others, like my dear cousin Sir Spencer Walpole, suddenly

struck down in the apparent fulness of health and strength. Sir Spencer,

who attained a position of some eminence as a painstaking and accurate

writer of contemporary history, was by nature a man of most judicial and

well-balanced mind, and was an almost unique instance, as he himself

would admit, of what I may call a serious Walpole, for the majority of

my family, since the days of Sir Robert, have never been conspicuous for

any particular mental stability. Mayhap some of the southern blood of

old Pierre Lombard, a native of Nîmes, whose daughter was our

ancestress, is the cause of this. Sir Spencer himself used to say that

this erratic and impulsive temperament had in his case been modified by

the marriage of his great-grandfather to a lady of Dutch nationality,

and his even temper and calm mental outlook would certainly seem to have

justified such a supposition.

Erratic, and sometimes lacking balance to the verge of eccentricity, the

Walpoles were ever a somewhat curious race, their chief characteristic,

perhaps, being an intense love of frivolity combined with a real liking

for literature and art. For music, however, few of us have cared at all,

whilst most have positively hated its more serious side. As a rule, too

indolent to grasp the political laurels which their intellects were in

several cases easily capable of winning, and not by nature fitted for a

public career, the Walpoles have now for many generations scarcely

attempted to emerge from the humdrum backwaters of private life, the

founder of our fortunes, Sir Robert, remaining the first and last great

politician which the family has produced. Nevertheless, there is a

compensation in that very nature which has rendered serious effort so

unattractive to us, for with something of the child’s dislike of order

and restraint, we have also the counterbalancing advantage of the

child’s buoyancy of disposition and easy forgetfulness of trouble,

retained in some cases to an age when others of more serious temperament

have long ceased to take an interest in anything at all. And now, with

these somewhat egotistical reflections, I will take leave of my readers,

only hoping that their patience will not have been overtaxed by the

perusal of these Notes, Memories, and Recollections.