MARY BOYLE
HER BOOK
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[Illustration:
SVB SOLE VANITAS
]
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MARY BOYLE
HER BOOK
EDITED BY SIR COURTENAY BOYLE, K.C.B.
Publisher’s Logo
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1901
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
MY TWO WELL-BELOVED COUSINS
GERTRUDE (COUNTESS OF KENMARE)
AND
LADY SARAH SPENCER
WHOSE HEARTS, HANDS AND HOMES ARE EVER OPEN TO ME,
THESE PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
BY
MARY BOYLE
(“VANESSA”)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION
These sketches of my dear aunt’s life were begun by her only a few years
before she died. The discretion as to their publication was left to
those on whose judgment she relied, and at their request I have
undertaken to prepare the sketches for presentation to the public, and
to add to them here and there a few explanatory notes of my own.
I have left her chapters almost exactly as she wrote them. They are well
described in her Preface, and are very characteristic of herself. Like a
light-winged butterfly she flits from flower to flower, resting long on
none, nor caring to return to what she had apparently only quitted for a
moment. As is natural to one writing after a lapse of years, she refers
within the space of a page or two to events which happened at wide
intervals of time.
She dwells with pardonable pride on her love for the drama and the
dance. Those who knew well her proficiency in these will prefer to let
their memory rest on the brilliant wit and imperturbable good nature
which made her a welcome guest in many societies. As a girl she had many
opportunities of sharing in the Court life of her own country and more
than one continental state. Later she became intimate with literary men
of the highest position. All through her life she had the _entrée_ to
many pleasant country houses, in which were gathered men of influence in
affairs, and clever and amusing women full of knowledge of the events of
the society in which they moved. She was everywhere popular, and this
was not a little due to the fact that she hated scandal and eschewed
gossip. She could not be ill-natured if she chose. Probably the severest
thing she ever uttered was said of a young man who, seeking a greater
prominence than he deserved, had somehow trodden on her toes. “Well,
but, Mary, you must at any rate admit that he is a good mimic.” “Is he?
then I wish he would always imitate some one else.” I have reason to
believe she even repented this.
In my father’s house there was ever a room allotted to her and known by
her name. It was occasionally my privilege to occupy it, and to read her
collection of volumes of many sorts and many styles. It was there that I
read much of Landor, Browning and Mrs Browning, and all, or nearly all,
the novels of G. P. R. James, whom she called her literary godfather,
and whose influence is traceable in her novels of “A State Prisoner” and
“The Foresters.”
With my father’s children, when we were children, she was the object of
the keenest admiration and the warmest love. She joyed in our joys, and
soothed our sorrows with unfailing tact. In later years it was a source
of no little regret to us that her roving life and somewhat restless
disposition deprived us of some opportunities of returning the care she
lavished on us when we were young.
I am probably not alone in wishing that she had written more than she
did. The two novels to which I have referred have nothing to lose in
comparison with those of later writers, who have had a far wider
circulation than she. Graceful and graphic, they are marked by a purity
of plot and a delicacy of taste which make no attempt to season pleasure
with offence. She was not of those who consider it impossible to
interest or amuse without the introduction if not of that which is
unclean, at least of that which is bizarre. Later in life she produced a
short sketch of character called “Tangled Weft,” which probably would
have been more widely read had it been less refined.[1]
Footnote 1:
She also wrote a small volume of Poems, “My Portrait Gallery and other
Poems.” Dedicated to Walter Savage Landor. Privately printed in
London, 1849.
A kindly critic in the _Athenæum_ of April 1890, immediately after her
death, described her conversation as having a charm that was
indescribable and perhaps unique. This was probably so. In her, judgment
and good sense were as solid as her shafts of wit were keen. She never
was the victim, happily for her, of the unreasoning adulation, which so
cruelly affected the last years of the life of the most humorous as well
as the wittiest Irishman whom it has ever been my good fortune to meet.
I knew Father Healy when his life was spent among his friends. I knew
him also when he was the idol of a flattering throng, who knew not what
they worshipped. Often have I seen him crushed into silence by the
persistence of admirers who would never let him utter three words on any
subject without beginning to laugh before he could get out with the
fourth. Mary Boyle, perhaps because she frequented the society of only
those who were friends, was not expected to drop pearls whenever she
spoke.
In her letters it is possible that an equal charm might be found. But it
would require some patience in seeking; for her handwriting had
undoubted peculiarities. “We had a committee on your letter, dear Mary,”
once wrote an intimate friend. “We placed it on a table and sat round
it, and by dint of looking at it from every point of view we really made
out a good deal.” Notwithstanding the difficulty, however, some of those
who, like Charles Dickens, Lord Tennyson, and Browning, loved to
correspond with her, kept up an exchange of letters which ended only
with death.
If my aunt had lived to finish these chapters, the title she desired to
apply to them might have been appropriate. As it is, they can scarcely
be considered an autobiography. There are lacking, too, references to
several houses[2] where she was a frequent guest, and to many circles of
friends whose gatherings she helped to make merry. I miss, especially,
allusions to Ireland, and above all to that happy shore, “washed by the
farthest” lake, where to my knowledge she spent many days of unalloyed
enjoyment. Her close friendship with Lady Marian Alford, the “your
Marian” of Lord Tennyson’s verses, is not mentioned.[3] But of the
society which Lady Marian loved to gather around her Mary Boyle was a
welcome member. It was at Ashridge that some years before the present
Bishop of Ely put on Lawn there flashed forth one of those keen answers
with which she often delighted her hearers. They were discussing some
important point of High Church—Low Church—Moderate Church. As luncheon
was announced a prudent critic of the discussion said, “Well, after all,
it is very true that _via media securum iter_.” “You don’t know what
that means, Mary?” “Oh, yes, I do! that is what Lord Alwynne says,
‘caution is the way to secure a mitre.’”
Footnote 2:
_See_ Supplementary Chapter.
Footnote 3:
_See_ Supplementary Chapter.
After my father’s death in 1868 Mary Boyle established herself in a
small house in South Audley Street. James Russell Lowell, one of the
many brilliant men who both got and gave pleasure by a visit to her tiny
rooms, says of it: “No knock could surprise the modest door of what she
called her _bonbonnière_, for it opened and still opens to let in as
many distinguished persons, and what is better, as many devoted friends
as any in London.” This was written in 1888, the last year of her
occupancy, and two years before her death. “Miss Mary Boyle,” he goes on
to say, “bears no discoverable relation to dates. As nobody ever knew
how old the Countess of Desmond was, so nobody can tell how young Miss
Mary Boyle is. However long she may live, hers can never be that most
dismal of fates to outlive her friends while cheerfulness, kindliness,
cleverness, and all the other good nesses have anything to do with the
making of them.” She certainly had the faculty, a somewhat rare one, of
making as well as keeping friends. I have met in the wee chamber, which
she was wont to call a drawing-room, men of three generations all coming
within the category to which Mr Lowell refers.
[Illustration:
“THE BONBONNIÈRE”, 22 SOUTH AUDLEY STREET.
]
Nor were her guests all of one sex. Neither her cleverness nor her
kindliness alone would have sufficed to keep the friendship of the many
women who loved her till her death. Together they did. So her rooms were
filled with those who were lovely and brilliant as well as those who
were learned and clever. The friendship which Mary Boyle maintained with
men of distinction in many spheres of life lasted for a long period of
years. Mr Lowell in the passage I have quoted was preparing for
publication some letters which were written to her by Walter Savage
Landor.[4] Those who wish to read these letters in full may find them in
the _Century Magazine_ for February 1888. “They are most interesting,”
says Lowell, “and have more clearly the stamp of the writer’s character
than many of Goethe’s to the Frau von Stein. They give an amiable
picture of him without his armour and in an undress, though never a
careless or slovenly one.” They are too long to be set out at length
here, but I may cite a few brief passages. The opening sentence of the
first especially commends itself to me. Lowell thinks it was written in
1842:
“Your letter is a most delightful ramble. I believe I must come and be
your writing-master. Certainly if I did nothing else by drilling, I
should make rank and file stand closer.”... “You ask me if I have ever
seen Burleigh? Yes, nearly half a century ago. Nevertheless I have not
forgotten its magnificence. No place ever struck me so forcibly. And
then the grounds!”...
Footnote 4:
_See_ Supplementary Chapter.
“And so, Carissima, you want to know whether I shall be _glad_ to see
you or _sorry_ to see you on the twentieth. Well then—sorry—to _have_
seen you, glad, exultingly glad, to see you. And now I am resolved not
to tell you which I love best, Melcha or Mora.[5] Melcha colpisce
fortemente—Mora piu ancora s’innamora: I have broken my word to myself
all through you.”... “You see I have learnt to write from you—only I can
sometimes get three or four words into a line—which you can never do for
the life of you. But there are several in which I find two entire ones.
I do not like to spoil the context, otherwise I would order them to be
glazed and framed in gold.”...
Footnote 5:
Names of two characters in a poetical drama, which she wrote, called
the _Bridal of Melcha_.
“It is only this evening that I received the _Bridal of Melcha_. I do
not like to be an echo, but I am certain that I must be one in
expressing my admiration of it. To-night is our Fancy Ball. You should
be at it crowned with myrtle and bay. If I had opened the volume, but at
the very hour of meeting my friends there, I could not have refrained
from reading it through before I set out. It is indeed already late
enough, and I suspect past the post-office hour, adieu, Musa Grazia! and
call me in future anything but Dottissimo. Remember, you have a choice
of Issimi.”...
“It would grieve me to see religion and education taken out of the hands
of gentlemen and turned altogether, as it is in part, into those of the
uneducated and vulgar. I would rather see my own house pulled down than
a Cathedral. But if Bishops are to sit in the House of Lords as Barons,
voting against no corruption, against no cruelty, not even the
slave-trade, the people ere long will knock them on the head.
Conservative I am, but no less am I an _aristocratic radical_ like
yourself. I would eradicate all that vitiates our constitution in Church
and State, making room for the gradual growth of what altering times
require, but preserving the due ranks and orders of society, and even to
a much greater degree than most of the violent Tories are doing.”
... She was associated with Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Landor in a small
miscellany which Lord Northampton encouraged and edited in aid of the
surviving family of Edward Smedley. Her contribution, “My Father’s at
the Helm,” attracted a considerable amount of attention, and achieved
some popularity. Better judges than myself encourage me to reproduce it:
“The hurricane was at its worst,
The waves dashed mountains high,
When from a gallant ship there burst
A loud despairing cry.
The Captain’s son sat on the deck,
A young and lovely child,
And when the crew foreboded wreck,
He shook his head and smiled.
’Mid groans of care and deep despair
And manhood’s bitter tear,
That gentle boy, all hope and joy,
Betrayed no signs of fear.
A mariner, who strove in vain
To nerve his troubled soul,
Thought of his wife and babes with pain,
Nor could his fears control—
Approached the boy and with a loud
And rough defiant tone,
‘Tell me, and art thou then endowed
With courage all thine own?
Dar’st thou defy or doubt the sky
Hath power to overwhelm?’
The gentle child looked up and smiled
‘My father’s at the helm.’
Oh, could we think as that blest child,
Whilst wandering here below,
We should not dread the tempest wild,
The storm of human woe!
The waves of misery might dash
Above our little bark,
And human wrath like lightning flash
Then leave our life track dark!
His soul all calm, no thoughts of harm
The Christian overwhelm,
Firm in the thought with safety fraught
His Father’s at the helm.”
Later in life she printed, for a limited circulation only, Historical
and Biographical Catalogues of the Pictures at Longleat, Hinchingbrooke,
Panshanger and Westonbirt, to which Lowell was probably right in
attributing a serious value.
Of all her writings it may be said that their chief charm consists in
their reproduction of herself. Standing alone they would have stood
strongly. They were meant for her friends, and to her friends, who were
many, they conveyed a pleasure which was largely due to connection
easily traceable between what was written and her who wrote.
The marriage in 1884 of her niece Audrey, the only daughter of my uncle
Charles, with Hallam Tennyson, increased the already keen friendship
between her and our last great poet. How intimate it was and how much he
valued it, may be gathered even by him who runs, from the stanzas which
he sent to her with one of his latest poems. She received them in the
spring of 1888 when still mourning the death of her friend Lady Marian
Alford.
SPRING-FLOWERS.
“While you still delay to take
Your leave of town,
Our elm tree’s ruddy-hearted blossom-flake
Is fluttering down.
Be truer to your promise. There! I heard
One cuckoo call.
Be needle to the magnet of your word,
Nor wait, till all
Our vernal bloom from every vale and plain
And garden pass,
And all the gold from each laburnum chain
Drop to the grass.
Is memory with your Marian gone to rest,
Dead with the dead?
For ere she left us, when we met, you prest
My hand, and said
‘I come with your spring-flowers!’ You came not, friend;
My birds would sing,
You heard not. Take then this spring-flower I send,
This song of spring.
* * *
And you that now are lonely, and with grief
Sit face to face,
Might find a flickering glimmer of relief
In change of place.
What use to brood? This mingled life of pains
And joys to me,
Despite of every Faith and Creed, remains
The Mystery.
* * *
The silver year should cease to mourn and sigh—
Not long to wait—
So close are we, dear Mary, you and I
To that dim gate.”
Close indeed were they both “to that dim gate.” She died in April
1890—and in 1892 the great writer, and the still more kindly man,
answered the “one clear call,” and embarked to “meet his Pilot face to
face.”
* * * * *
Thus far Sir Courtenay Boyle had written his Introduction to the Memoirs
when to him also came the “one clear call,” and he too embarked to “meet
his Pilot face to face.”[6]
Footnote 6:
Sir Courtenay Boyle died 19th May 1901.
The papers which now form the Supplementary Chapter arrived too late. It
was his intention to have incorporated them in the book, and they would
doubtless have necessitated some slight modification in his
Introduction. I have preferred to leave his work as he left it, and keep
the supplementary papers separate.
MURIEL S. BOYLE.
_September 1901._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
_J. Russell & Sons, photo._
_Courtenay Boyle_
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
I hope my readers, whether gentle or simple, will do me the favour to
read this Preface, as I wish to explain a little, perhaps apologise a
little, after the usual fashion of people who write their reminiscences.
According to custom, I had better begin by stating that it was at the
instigation of many personal friends, some of them men of literary
tastes and distinction, that I overcame my cowardice to embark on what
appeared to me a most hazardous enterprise; but one in which I have
found so much pleasure and relaxation—during hours of failing health and
growing blindness—that I have often been tempted to say, “Oh that these
pages might amuse the reader half as much as they have done the writer.”
The choice of a title, which, as Mr Motley in one of his delightful
letters says, ought to be “selling and telling” occupied me for a very
short time, as far as I myself was concerned. The name of “Vanessa” was
endeared to me by old recollections, for I had gained that _sobriquet_
on one occasion, when a goodly troop of friends and relations was
assembled in the country house of a dear cousin.
These companions “who did converse and waste the time together,”
enrolled themselves into a band and gave each other fanciful, and as
they considered at the time, appropriate names, or nicknames, what the
Italians might call Ottias. For instance, a much-loved member of my
family, “who looked well to the ways of her household,” and “ate not the
bread of idleness,” was christened “Melissa,” or the working-bee;
another, whose short-sight was one of his only shortcomings, was dubbed
“Belisarius,” while I was unanimously hailed as “Vanessa,” or the
Butterfly.
This circumstance, coupled with the love I had for all that was bright,
variegated, motley, for bright colours, bright flowers, bright scenes,
bright sunshine, made me resolve on the “Autobiography of a Butterfly.”
More than one friend argued against my choice, saying it conveyed a
wrong impression of my character and ways of thinking, inasmuch as it
sounded frivolous and superficial, but I do not think so; it appears to
me that the joyous flittings of a butterfly through a summer garden give
rather a suitable notion of a wandering, chequered life, replete with
light and happiness, or to make use of another metaphor, broken up into
bits like an ancient mosaic pavement containing many particles of gold,
with an incomplete pattern, so I have stood by my original title and
chosen for my emblem a butterfly on the gnomon of that dial, “which only
counts the hours that are serene”; for although in recording the days of
a long life, the shadow of sorrow and bereavement must necessarily fall
on some of the pages, yet it has been my earnest desire to dwell on the
brighter side of things—to interest and amuse, rather than to sadden or
depress.
In this my chronicle I have striven as far as in me lies to avoid
tedium, for is not tedium, either in writing or conversing, “the
unpardonable sin”?—likewise the two faults which I have so often
detected in the autobiography of others, viz. the pride that “apes
humility,” and all the while calls out to the reader (if I may be
allowed the vulgarism) “Am I not a fine fellow?” and the more palpable
self-conceit and egotism that asserts the fact boldly. Another lesson I
have learned in the writings of some of my predecessors, is to refrain
from saying bitter things of those who can no longer take me to task for
so doing, and from wounding the feelings of survivors who loved them.
One of the chief pleas which was urged on me, and which encouraged me to
write the following pages, was the fact that I had been on terms of
close and tender friendship with many great men, any mention of whom
would be welcome to my readers. But it is one thing to appreciate and
remember the delightful companionship of such eminent friends as I may
enumerate in these pages, and another to convey to others the faintest
idea of their individuality.
During the course of writing I have hit upon what appeared to me a novel
expedient. After carrying on my narrative to a certain point, I have
inserted detached chapters, treating of people and places which are
calculated in my opinion to interest the general reader, and that
without much reference to dates; indeed, as far as those terrible
stumbling-blocks are concerned, I plead guilty in many cases to
inaccuracy, offering as my excuse that I have never kept a continuous
journal, but rather have written a few spasmodic pages at intervals. One
more excuse, and I have done. In my blindness, I have been helped by
more than one kind and patient secretary, but I have sadly missed the
power of myself looking over the manuscript and detecting fault in style
or frequent tautology. For all these shortcomings I humbly beg pardon,
and earnestly desire to be forgiven.
“VANESSA.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PAGE
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION ix
PREFACE xxi
CHAP.
I. BIRTH, PARENTAGE AND FAMILY 1
II. LIFE IN A DOCKYARD—FRIENDS, 15
FAVOURITES AND RETAINERS
III. MY FIRST PLAY—MARRIAGE OF THE 25
DUKE OF CLARENCE—DEPARTURE FOR
SHEERNESS
IV. EARLY DRAMATIC 33
RECOLLECTIONS—RESIDENCE AT
HAMPTON COURT
V. LIFE AT HAMPTON COURT 41
VI. OUR EXTRA HOMES 51
VII. MY GRANDMOTHER’S MAID 64
VIII. OUR HOUSEHOLD 73
IX. BRIGHTON—SCHOOLDAYS 80
X. VISITS IN CUMBERLAND AND 92
LEICESTERSHIRE—ACCESSION OF
WILLIAM IV.
XI. FIRST CONTINENTAL TRAVELS—TURIN 103
AND GENOA
XII. SUMMER AT THE BATHS OF LUCCA 115
XIII. SHORT SOJOURN IN FLORENCE 125
XIV. SUMMER AT NAPLES 134
XV. PISA AND FLORENCE 145
XVI. RETURN TO ENGLAND—ACCESSION OF 158
QUEEN VICTORIA—HER CORONATION
XVII. MILLARD’S HILL—TENBY—CHARLES 163
YOUNG AND A COURT BALL
XVIII. 1844. TRIP TO THE CHANNEL 170
ISLANDS
XIX. WHITTLEBURY 179
XX. MUNICH—SECOND VISIT TO ITALY 187
XXI. ARRIVAL IN ROME, 1846—OCTOBER 194
FESTIVALS AND “POSSESSO”
XXII. SUMMER OF 1847—FLORENCE, VILLA 201
CAREGGI
XXIII. RESIDENCE IN FLORENCE—CHARLES 210
LEVER—REVOLUTION, AND THE
BROWNINGS
XXIV. LAST DAYS AT FLORENCE—RETURN TO 221
ENGLAND—MILLARD’S HILL,
LONDON, 1848
XXV. ROCKINGHAM CASTLE—CHARLES 229
DICKENS
XXVI. PROTECTIONIST PARTY AT BURGHLEY 244
XXVII. ALTHORP 253
SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 262
VISCOUNT STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE 265
CARLYLE 267
THE GROVE 269
HINCHINGBROOKE 272
OSSINGTON 278
ASHRIDGE 279
WREST PARK 281
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_SUB SOLE VANITAS, from a drawing by E. _Frontispiece_
V. B._
“THE BONBONNIÈRE,” 22 SOUTH AUDLEY xiv
STREET
SIR COURTENAY BOYLE, _from a photograph xx
by J. Russell & Sons_
MARY BOYLE, _from a picture by Madame 2
Perugini_
VICE-ADMIRAL THE HON. SIR COURTENAY 8
BOYLE AND THE HON. LADY BOYLE
HON. EDMUND BOYLE, AFTERWARDS EIGHTH 52
EARL OF CORK, BORN 1787; HON. RICHARD
BOYLE, ELDER BROTHER OF ABOVE, DIED
YOUNG; HON. COURTENAY BOYLE, BORN
1770, AFTERWARDS VICE-ADMIRAL, K.C.B.
LONGLEAT 54
MILLARD’S HILL, WITH “NARCISSUS” IN THE 164
FOREGROUND, _from a drawing by E. V.
B._
GAD’S HILL 238
BURGHLEY 244
BOWOOD 250
ALTHORP 254
THE GROVE 270
HINCHINGBROOKE 272
ASHRIDGE 280
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MARY BOYLE
CHAPTER I
BIRTH, PARENTAGE AND FAMILY
The nineteenth century was still in its teens when I first saw the
light. Let me pause, lest I make an inaccurate assertion, for I was born
on the 12th November, the month of fogs, in Margaret Street, Cavendish
Square, London, the home of fogs. It was under the sign Sagittarius,
whose patronage, combined with the tastes inherited from two
grandfathers, both masters of hounds, made me a “mighty huntress.”
“Tuesday’s child,” says the old adage, “is full of grace,” hence my
vocation for, and proficiency in, dancing. The motto of my natal month
is “fidelity in friendship”; my patron plant, the ivy, which almost
invariably clings to things nobler and loftier than itself. And truly in
this respect I have been more than commonly blessed, for, through many
adverse circumstances, the coffers of my heart have overflowed with the
treasures of friendship, and good measure pressed down and running over
has been cast into my bosom. It is usual, at the commencement of a
story, to give the description of the heroine, but a few words will
suffice in the present instance. In complexion and colouring I am very
fair, and have often flippantly remarked—
“Angels were painted fair to look like me.”
Indeed, blondes have a great responsibility placed upon them, as in the
old story-books the fair women are very good and the brunettes very bad,
though I have not always found the distinction to be carried out in real
life. The other chief characteristic of my exterior is that I am very
diminutive, a subject on which I have been “chaffed” my life long. I
have often been induced to complain that as “Greenwich is the standard
for longitude, so Mary is the standard for shortitude.” In spite of
which, it has been a cherished vanity of mine that I have very long legs
in proportion to my height, and five feet and eight heads (_Anglice_) in
drawing, was the strange description I gave of myself to a friend, whose
natural rejoinder was, “What a very remarkable animal!”
One of my chief moral attributes was light-heartedness, and, as
Autolycus says:
“A merry heart goes many a league,
Your sad one tires in a mile”—
which is perhaps the reason of my having been an indefatigable walker.
From my earliest childhood I have had a decided predilection—I might
almost say passion—for all that is bright and brilliant, in garments,
furniture, decorations. The “sick turned up with sad” which a few years
ago held such universal sway in fashion, and which I devoutly hope is
now in the wane, never had any charms for me. Firmly believing as I do
that the colouring of our native island is not sufficiently cheering of
itself to dispense with cheerful adjuncts, I have wooed external
brightness, which does not seem unnatural to the tastes of a
“Butterfly.” But let me proceed with my narrative.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
_M Boyle_
]
[Sidenote: A NATIVE OF LONDON]
Being a native of London, I am an undoubted Cockney, a circumstance
which embittered many of my childish years, and although by no means of
an envious disposition, I assuredly envied my sister the privilege of
being born in a delightful old Queen Anne’s mansion, in a pretty room,
overhanging a broad gravel terrace, the windows of which were embowered
with roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle—Balls Park, the home of my uncle,
Lord John Townshend—and I have often upbraided my mother for not having
selected so delightful a spot for my entrance into the world.[7]
Footnote 7:
Mary Louisa Boyle, born November 1810, died April 1890.
At the time of my birth, we were in family three girls and two
boys—Courtenay, Caroline (Caddy as she was always called), Charles,
Charlotte, and myself. But one day, when I was between three and four,
my mother asked me if I should not like a live doll to play with? Oh,
rapture! Dolls were my passion, but a live doll!—the idea was ecstasy!
How well I can recall my first sight of my youngest brother, seated on
his nurse’s knee, crowned with one of those quilted contrivances of
white satin and rosy pink, that seemed a link between a baby hat of the
period and a pudding or bourlet of the olden time. Oh! how I then and
there loved my live doll, my brother Cavendish—the little Benjamin of
the family!—how I did love him with the love of more than half a
century. How I love him still, though we no longer tread the earth
together, and how fondly I cling to the hope of a reunion in that
region—
“Where those who left us dwell in joy sublime;
And those we leave will come in God’s good time.”
But to return to the members of our family.[8] My parents were Captain
(afterwards Admiral) Sir Courtenay Boyle, second surviving son of
Edmund, seventh Earl of Cork and Orrery, and Carolina Amelia, daughter
of William Poyntz, of Midgham House, Berkshire.
Footnote 8:
Vice-Admiral The Hon. Sir Courtenay Boyle, born 1770; married 1799
Carolina Amelia, daughter of William Poyntz, Esq., of Midgham, Co.
Berks; died May 1844.
ISSUE OF ABOVE:
Courtenay Edmund William, Capt. R.N., born 1800; married 1836 Mary,
daughter of W. Wallace Ogle, Esq.; died 1859.
Charles John, born 1806, died 1885; married 1849 Zacyntha Moore,
daughter of General Sir Lorenzo Moore.
Cavendish Spencer, born 1814; married 1844 Rose Susan, daughter of
Captain C. Alexander, Royal Engineers; died 1868.
Carolina, born 1803, died 1883.
Mary Louisa, born 1810, died 1890.
[Sidenote: “THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER”]
As this is a book of confessions as well as of reminiscences, I may as
well make a clean breast of it at once, and own that I take a pride in
ancestry, and love Heraldry and History, and many of the “ries,” even as
scientific people love the “ologies.” I am proud of my descent because
my forefathers were many of them great and good men; and I once boasted
that I could find five of them in Biographical Dictionaries, inclusive
of Robert Boyle, “the Divine Philosopher of the World,” who has been
described in one of the aforesaid books as “the Father of Chemistry and
the brother of the Earl of Cork.”
I certainly admit, “that it is better to have a glory of your own, not
borrowed of your fathers;” but surely it is better to have that than
“none at all.”
“I do not care about ancestry,” said my dear friend, Mayne Dickens, to
me one day.
“Well,” said I, “you are better off than any of us in that respect, for
your great ancestor is still alive; but will not his children’s children
glory in his name?”
On my mother’s side I claim collateral relationship with Rosamund
Clifford. Now this involves a moral question. May I be pardoned for
feeling any pride on that account? It is so romantic, so pathetic a
tale, the scandal, if there were any, dates so many centuries back! The
damsel was so fair. Besides, has not our beloved “Laureate” of late
wiped the blot from fair Rosamund’s escutcheon?
My father had served with great distinction in the Navy, into which he
had entered at the very early age of ten, and had been midshipman on
board Lord Nelson’s ship, with whom he was a great favourite. I have in
my possession two autograph letters of the Hero’s, one written with the
right, the other with the left hand, which I will insert here. The first
is addressed to Lord Cork; the second to my father.
_Lord Nelson to Lord Cork, written by the Right Hand._
PORTSMOUTH, _22nd July 1787_.
MY LORD,—I have received your letter of the 17th wherein you
seem to think that my advice in regard to Courtenay may be of
service to him. I wish it may, therefore will give it. In the
first place, it is necessary he should be made complete in his
navigation—and if this war continues, French is absolutely
necessary. Drawing is an accomplishment that possibly a
sea-officer may want. You will see almost the necessity of it
when employed in foreign countries. Indeed the honour of the
nation is so often entrusted to sea-officers, that there is no
accomplishment that will not shine with peculiar lustre in them.
He must nearly have served his time, therefore he cannot be so
well employed as gaining knowledge. If I can at any time be of
service to him, he may always call upon me. His charming
disposition will ever make him Friends, and he may as well join
the ship when his brother goes to the Continent.—I have the
honour to be, my Lord,—Your most obedient humble servant,
HORATIO NELSON,
EARL CORK.
_Nelson with the Left Hand._
“VICTORY,” _18th August 1803_.
MY DEAR BOYLE,—I am very happy to have you in so fine a frigate
under my command, for I am ever yours most faithfully,
NELSON and BRONTE.
Honble. C. BOYLE,
H.M.S. _Seahorse_,
Malta.
[Sidenote: MY FATHER SHIPWRECKED]
During the war with France in the year 1800, my father suffered
shipwreck on the coast of Egypt, and narrowly escaped with his life. He
sent all his crew ashore before he himself left the sinking vessel,
headed by an officer with a flag of truce, to make terms with a
detachment of French soldiers (the country being then in the occupation
of Napoleon’s army), and these soldiers stood on the beach, calmly
watching the dangers and struggles of the shipwrecked mariners, as they
endeavoured to gain the shore on hastily-constructed rafts, through surf
which threatened to swamp them. The sea was running very high, and many
of their provisions and possessions were floated off and lost to them
for ever. The locality was near Rosetta, and the Frenchmen, in spite of
promises of assistance and protection—which men of any chivalrous
feeling would surely have afforded to an enemy in such straits—plundered
the English sailors, ill-treated them, and threw them into prison, a
fate which also befell their commanding officer on landing.
The history of that portion of my father’s life is a long, and to me,
interesting one. Suffice it to say, that from all the officials with
whom he had to deal, both he and his men met with the harshest and most
unjust treatment. Many of his crew succumbed under the hardships to
which they were exposed in their dreary and noisome prison-houses. The
bright exception to these hard-hearted functionaries was Marshal Kléber,
one of Napoleon’s most distinguished generals, a man of high courage,
proverbial generosity, and great personal beauty. He was Governor of
Cairo at the time, and showed my father especial favour, allowing him
out of prison, “on parole,” and courting his society on every occasion.
He also presented him with a sword, which I grieve to say did not become
an heirloom in the family as my father made it an offering to the Prince
Regent.
There were many among those who surrounded the Governor, to whom my
father was an object of dislike and jealousy, and when General Kléber
was assassinated by a fanatic, my father was accused of being an
accomplice of the assassin, and condemned to death. His only companion
and comforter in those terrible hours being his favourite pointer,
“Malta,” who kept him warm by lying on his chest at night, and scaring
away the rats and scorpions which infested the cell. While awaiting the
completion of his sentence, the prisoner wrote a most pathetic and
eloquent farewell to his wife in England, then expecting her
confinement. I subjoin the letter, in order that my readers may judge if
the epithets I have bestowed on it be ill-chosen. I have read it over
and over again, at many periods of my life, and every time
“It did beguile me of my tears.”
[Illustration:
VICE-ADMIRAL THE HON. SIR COURTENAY BOYLE.
]
[Illustration:
THE HON. LADY BOYLE.
]
[Sidenote: LETTER OF CAPT. COURTENAY BOYLE]
FROM MY PRISON IN THE CITADEL OF CAIRO,
_19th June 1800_.
Should this ever come to the hands of my beloved wife, I shall
be no more. Torn from this world by a cruel enemy, I have been
bound to answer for the safety of another captive, a French
prisoner in the hands of the Turks, our allies. Should I,
however, innocent of the crime imputed to me, suffer this
unmerited death, I trust in God that I shall possess sufficient
fortitude to die as a man, and sufficient religion to die as
becomes a Christian.
My last prayer will be for the happiness and comfort of my
beloved wife, and of her child, should it have pleased God that
she has survived her lying-in. So high an opinion have I of her
devout mind and excellent heart, that I shall only recommend her
to instil into this dear infant its mother’s principles and
virtue.
Assure our friends, my loved Carolina, and particularly our dear
mother, that my soul—which will pray to God to receive it during
the last moments that it lingers here—will quit this world with
emotions of gratitude for kindness to us both, and with a
conviction of its continuance to you and to our child.... I
cannot write more in the wretched prison where I am confined.
Summon, dear Carolina, your utmost fortitude, and endeavour by
prayer to console yourself in this world of trial.
This is the tribute I ask to be paid to the memory of a husband,
who wished only to live to promote your happiness. Let my just
debts be paid; and give to John Stephens, an old and trusty
servant of my father, fifty pounds. Prove this my last
will—leaving and bequeathing everything I possess to my beloved
wife, Carolina Amelia Boyle.
Wrote in prison, in the citadel of Cairo, after having had an
audience with the French general-in-chief, Menou, who informed
me that he had determined on my death, and that no application
should make him move from his determination.
Adieu, for ever! My much-loved and esteemed wife, adieu!
COURTENAY BOYLE.
The cruel sentence would assuredly have been carried into execution, but
for the timely arrival in those waters of the gallant Admiral, Sir
Sydney Smith, whose influence effected an interchange of prisoners; and
so Captain Courtenay Boyle, with his faithful dog, “Malta,” returned in
safety to his native land.
My mother was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, in form,
feature and complexion, and remained so till old age, and even after
death. My eldest brother bore the name “Courtenay,” and, following the
profession of his father, he also went to sea when quite a boy. I can
well remember our sorrow at his departure, and how, shortly after, there
was some vague dread and anxiety respecting him, which I did not quite
understand at the time, till on his sudden re-appearance the mystery was
solved. He had gone on his first cruise in the (not good) ship
_Meander_, which proved unseaworthy, and narrowly escaped foundering. My
brother was asleep in his berth at the moment of extreme peril, and one
of the officers forbade that he should be disturbed. “Leave the poor
little chap in peace,” he said, “and let him awake in Heaven.”... But
our middy came back in safety and lived to be an admiral. He brought
home with him specimens of the _Meander_’s timber, which would have made
Mr Plimsoll’s hair stand on end, for they crumbled away in our hands
like so much touchwood.
Courtenay’s first cruise I commemorated in rather a peculiar manner, by
giving the name of “Meander” to my little bay mare, the first palfrey I
ever mounted; and I am glad to say the name brought no ill-luck either
to pony or rider. Courtenay was the very moral of a sailor—frank,
light-hearted, open-handed, impulsive, of a most impressionable and
susceptible heart, which he was in the constant habit of losing to every
pretty girl he met. He was frequently engaged (perhaps I had better say
entangled) before he had attained Post rank. His promotion came to him
early. One day he arrived at Hampton Court (before the days that
railroads made the old Palace little more than a suburb of London), when
his appearance in a yellow “po chay” called forth astonishment and
upbraidings at his extravagance. “How else,” was the proud reply,
“should a Post-captain travel?” After passing through many vicissitudes
in respect of affairs of the heart, Courtenay married one whose
remarkable personal charms were her chief recommendation.
[Sidenote: CAROLINE AND CHARLES BOYLE]
Next in succession came my sister Caroline (Caddy), who was often absent
from home, going abroad with our Uncle and Aunt Poyntz, whose three
daughters[9] were nearer her age and more fitted to be her companions
than myself, her junior by several years. Wherever she went, Caddy was
much admired. Her colouring was exceptionally bright, and even in her
eightieth year, her eyes literally sparkled, and her complexion was of
that red and white, so softly blent that it might have become an infant
in the cradle. Yet the real, surpassing gift of beauty was reserved for
my brother Charles. Ah! what a store of love and memory is connected
with that dear name, and how well did the Greek epithet “Kalos” become
him, which implies in its melodious sound both moral and physical
beauty. The term beautiful does not appear, perhaps, often applicable to
a man, but it certainly was to Charles. In feature, colouring and
expression he was the counterpart of our mother, the same soft brown
hair, the same sapphire blue eyes, the same faultless outline of
profile. I have a very fine painting of him by Samuel Reynolds, the son
of the celebrated engraver. I have also a sketch of his head, a crayon
drawing of great beauty, which is doubly valuable to me, as the work and
precious gift of our dear friend and world-famed painter, George Watts.
Footnote 9:
Frances, Lady Clinton; Elizabeth, Countess Spencer; Isabella,
Marchioness of Exeter.
“Blest be the hand, whose touch can give
The looks that last, the smiles that live!
Blest be the hand that gives us back
The looks we miss, the smiles we lack,
‘Mid time and absence, distance, space,
Recalls the one familiar face
With us to dwell, with us abide,
Which our own tears alone can hide!”
An earlier friend, John Hayter, brother of Sir George Hayter, some time
President of the Royal Academy, also made an equestrian sketch in
coloured crayons of Charles in a gorgeous Albanian costume, which he
brought with him from Greece, on his return from a cruise with our
sailor brother. I shall never forget the sensation caused at the fancy
ball at Brighton, when our young Albanian appeared with his sister
Caroline, also arrayed in a genuine Greek costume. They were indeed a
most beautiful pair, and looked the very embodiment of the hero and
heroine of one of Byron’s Eastern poems.
Fourth in succession came a little blue-eyed, fair-haired sister,
Charlotte by name, who died when only six years old. In what high relief
do such early records stand out on the tablet of a child’s memory. Never
shall I forget the tone of deep melancholy in which my mother would
exclaim: “No one knows what real sorrow is till they have lost a child.”
[Sidenote: EPITAPH ON CHARLOTTE BOYLE]
Charlotte’s burial-place is at Preston, in Kent, not far from Sheerness,
where we were then living, and was chosen not alone on account of
proximity. The church contains an elaborate monument erected by our
ancestor, the first Earl of Cork, after he had made his fortune, to the
memory of his parents, both natives of Kent. This monument has, I grieve
to say, been suffered to fall into decay, although I have frequently
raised my feeble voice in expostulation on the subject. My uncle, Lord
John Townshend, wrote my little sister’s epitaph, which is inscribed on
a marble tablet in Preston church. To me the lines have ever appeared
pathetic, although penned in the old-fashioned style of those days.
After recording the dates of her birth and death, they go on to say:—
“Scarce yet had smiled thy early dawn of day,
Youth’s roseate buds just opening into bloom,
When wintry winds, that chilled thy lovely May,
Shed all thy with’ring blossoms on the tomb.
“But blest, fair child, blest far above thy years,
With filial piety and duteous love,
Thy sure reward restrains our selfish tears
And lifts our hearts to Charlotte’s bliss above.”
Some years ago, when on a visit to my dear friend, Charles Dickens, I
made a pilgrimage to the tombs of my ancestors, and that of my little
sister. Knocking boldly at the door of the Rectory, I told my errand to
the clergyman, asking him at the same time for the key of the church. He
discreetly allowed me to remain alone for some time, and when he
followed me, naturally enquired to whom he was speaking. Now, I flatter
myself, that my mode of self-introduction was rather original. Pointing
to a portion of the monument in question, recording the early demise of
a certain Mary Boyle, who had died at least two hundred years before,
“That is my name,” I said, “and I am very much obliged to you for your
kindness.”
I came between Charlotte and Cavendish, and of the latter I shall make
constant mention, as being closely bound up with my life and
heartstrings.
------------------------------------------------------------------------