EARLY DRAMATIC RECOLLECTIONS—RESIDENCE AT HAMPTON COURT
Some of our more fashionable friends in London complained of Somerset
House “being a long way off,” that ambiguous term which, I suppose in
those days, meant a long way from exclusive Mayfair. So indeed it was,
but it was not far from the theatres, which, in my estimation,
represented Elysium. We had two cousins, both influential in regard to
position and fortune, but whose grandeur came home to me as being part
proprietors of Drury Lane and the Lyceum. My father was a great lover of
the drama, and would often apply for one or other of our kinsmen’s
boxes. I can still recall the thrill of joy with which I used to see, on
our return from a walk or drive, the large silver ticket, looking more
like some official badge, which the Duke of Devonshire had sent us,
lying on the hall table, promising a night of rapture—for my father
generally stipulated that little Mary should be of the party. I well
believe that if I gave myself a little trouble I could bring back to my
mind the names of almost every play, and every actor and actress I ever
saw in those schoolroom days. One piece in particular captivated my
girlish fancy: it was called _The Cornish Miners_, and it is worth my
while to remember it, for in that play I first saw those matchless
_artistes_, the Keeleys (hear it, ye gods!) before their marriage. Yes,
Mrs Keeley, I venture to hope you will honour this poor tribute with a
perusal. It was there I saw Miss Howard, as the boy hero who volunteered
to go down the shaft and rescue his comrades, from what peril, and in
what manner, I cannot say. My father predicted the future success of the
charming young actress, and I can recall even now the delightful
comedian who ere long became her husband, with his laughter-provoking
face, and lackadaisical air, carrying a lighted candle in the band of
his miner’s cap.
[Sidenote: YOUNG, POWER, AND LEVER]
Of how many years of entertainment and genial amusement to me was that
night the forerunner. I can also remember one of the first performances
of the _Freischütz_, or, as it was then popularly called, the _Der
Freischütz_, in London. Likewise some kind of musical burlesque, in
which Madame Vestris sang all the favourite airs of that charming opera,
showing how the nurse lulled her bantling to sleep, how the footman
blacked the shoes, and how the housemaid trundled the mop, to the soft
strains of the various choruses of Weber’s beautiful masterpiece. In
those far-off days there was no elaborately-painted drop to give a
cheerful termination to the end of the entertainment, but a gloomy,
dark-green baize curtain, with which my spirits fell at the same moment,
betokening a termination to that night’s joy; and who could tell when
the delight-giving cousin would be again propitious. I amused my friend
Mr Irving[10] by telling him one day that I had been brought up in the
stage-box at his theatre, which was then the property of our cousin,
Lord Exeter. Yes, it was there I first saw dear Charles Young in _The
Stranger_, and cried so bitterly that my red and swollen eyes prevented
my appearing at the ball to which I had been looking forward for weeks;
it was then that I made acquaintance with Power, one of the best
Irishmen that ever trod or tripped the stage. I say this, not excepting
the inimitable Boucicault himself, or my true friend and fellow-actor,
Charles Lever. But I must pull up, or my dramatic hobby will take the
bit in his mouth, and convert every theatre into Astley’s. Adorable
Astley’s!—what a treat you were to me, and how I loved Mazeppa and his
horse, the friends of so many years, who continued to urge on his wild
career far beyond the allotted span of an equine life; how often have I
watched the dear old beast swimming across the mighty rushing river
after the tempting bin of corn, visible to my eyes from a side-box.
Footnote 10:
Now Sir Henry Irving.
I am perhaps a little more fastidious now, but the dramatic passion
exists in all its fervour, and will till the curtain drops and the
lights are extinguished.
But to turn once more to real life. The neighbourhood of Somerset House
had other advantages beside those of the theatres, for the Royal Academy
still existed under its roof, and almost every Monday morning during the
Exhibition, we young ones used to go with our governess to pay the
pictures a visit immediately on the opening of the doors, when the rooms
were empty, swept and garnished, before the crowd and its accompanying
dust had arrived. Then there was a walk with father in the early morning
to Covent Garden, when the alleys were all watered, the flowers all
fresh and fragrant, and the market uncrowded.
Cavendish and I had several governesses before the Miss Richardson of
whom I have spoken elsewhere, but the sad time arrived when my darling
companion was to betake himself to the Charterhouse, which our brother
Charles had lately left in the proud character of orator, a dignity
which was afterwards reached in the next generation by another
member[11] of our family. On the night ordained for Cavendish’s
departure, an upper boy came to our house, who was to be his master at
school. At that moment I half disliked good John Horner, because he
carried off my beloved brother; but the transient dislike soon changed
into a tender friendship, which lasted many years. To break the fall, as
it were, my father allowed me to accompany him and the two boys to the
old Carthusian edifice, and I proceeded thither with the heaviest of
hearts, my position rendered all the more cruel, because I had been
forbidden to shed one tear, and was desired to sit far back in the
carriage and not show myself. For the school-boy that was to be, assured
me that the fellows always chaffed a new arrival about his sister. This
was a terrible wound, but in the course of time I became a frequent
visitor at Charterhouse, was allowed to go on the green (cruel misnomer
for the black patch where they played cricket), and, if the truth be
told, made close friendships with some of the “fellows.” Alfred
Montgomery, Frank Sheridan, and John Horner often came to our house with
Cavendish from Saturday till Sunday night, to my inexpressible delight!
There are none left now to talk over old Charterhouse days with me!
Footnote 11:
The Editor of these Memoirs, Sir Courtenay Edmund Boyle, K.C.B.
[Sidenote: CORONATION OF GEORGE IV.]
As I have said in my preface, I have not a good head for dates, and I
may as well make a clean breast of it at once, and add, for figures of
any kind. It may be from want of practice, as far as pounds, shillings,
and pence are concerned, for I have never had much experience in
counting up thousands on my own account. In respect of dates, then
(which, I hope the reader will agree with me, are not of much importance
in a narrative of this kind), I do not pretend to the strict order of
succession, but I know it was in the year 1821 that George IV. was
crowned, and I can well remember the excitement I experienced in seeing
my father, mother and sister set off for the coronation. I looked from
the window with longing eyes, deeply regretting I was not allowed to be
of the party. My father was the most punctual of men—indeed he would
have come under the category of those who overdid the virtue. The Duke
of Wellington, it will be remembered, upon the Queen saying to him: “You
see how punctual I am, Duke, I am even before my time,” replied with
blunt veracity, “That, Your Majesty, is not punctuality.” My sister did
not inherit this trait in her father’s character. She was late, and in
answer to his vociferous summons from the carriage, ran downstairs, in
her hurry, without her white satin shoes, which were thrown after her
from the window. My father’s extreme anxiety to be early on the scene
may, however, be accounted for by the fact that he was to form part of
the procession, as train-bearer, or page of the coronation robes of his
brother, Lord Cork. His dress was not picturesque, being a scarlet and
gold frock-coat, or tunic, bound round the waist with a blue silk sash,
and I am free to confess that I did not consider his age, stature, or
costume in any way calculated to fulfil my ideal of a page; but then the
page of my imagination was naturally of a dramatic sort. I do not know
that I have yet recovered from the sorrow caused by my missing that
magnificent sight. It is true that I have assisted since, at two other
coronations, but in both of these there was no banquet, and worse than
all, no Champion! The rest of the pageant was doubtless splendid in
every sense of the word, but the idea of the Champion was so historical,
so romantic, and was I not the most romantic of small human beings?
Besides the description of the challenger, who flung down his gauntlet
in Westminster Hall, and dared any one to hazard a doubt on the claim of
the Sovereign to the throne, was there not a description, I say, of this
remnant of chivalry in the pages of Walter Scott’s “Red Gauntlet?”
Walter Scott! the god of my literary idolatry, with whose heroes I had
fallen in love, in succession—whose heroines I had envied and admired
one after another, encouraged thereto by our governess, who judged
rightly that children could scarcely be too young to appreciate the
beauties of that incomparable novelist. I must confess that several
alleviations were offered to my regret at not witnessing that
coronation. I had a beautiful toy given me of a kind which is now, I
believe, obsolete—a small wooden case containing a roll of a coloured
representation of the procession, several yards long, and commencing
with the figures of Miss “Herb Strewer Fellowes”—for so the lady was
designated on her visiting-card—and her maidens, and ending, as Royal
processions do, with the most exalted Personage. This was my delight,
and I was never tired of drawing it out and gazing at it; but better
than all, I went to the theatre with my father, and saw as near a
resemblance as could be produced on the stage, to the glories of that
day. I can perfectly recall the bow with which Elliston the actor gave
the very facsimile of that of His Majesty George IV., which was
universally upheld for its surpassing grace. Then, oh joy! There was the
Champion in complete armour, on a horse richly caparisoned, whose hoofs
sounded on the wooden floor of the stage with a hollow, almost terrible,
reverberation, as he backed—backed, and piaffed and caracoled and
curvetted, according to all the strict regulations of the _haute école_.
[Sidenote: CORONATION OF GEORGE IV.]
Dear reader, it was no idle boast about royal residences, for when it
came to pass that my father left his post at Somerset House, and,
preferring to live in London, took up his abode in Upper Berkeley
Street, where we often visited him, my mother and the rest of the family
settled at Hampton Court. This proved to be the home of the longest
standing I can remember, as with occasional, I may say frequent,
flittings, we remained there till 1840. The grant of apartments in those
days was in the gift of the Lord Chamberlain, and Lord John Thynne
(afterwards Lord Carteret) had bestowed a set of rooms, some years
before, on his friend and connection, Mrs Courtenay Boyle. Things
altogether were at that time on a very different footing to what they
are now, for the palace had gained the name of the Quality Alms House,
and, as regarded the quality part of the title, it was well named,
seeing that the inhabitants counted Seymours, Montagus, Pagets,
Walpoles, Ponsonbys, and other names connected with the Upper House,
many of them far from being bedesmen and bedeswomen, and for the most
part better off than the present inmates of the palace. Then, too, such
a minor detail as a husband did not disqualify a lady from being an
occupant. Things are entirely on a different footing now. Now the grant
of rooms is solely in the hands of the sovereign, and our beloved
Queen,[12] who cares for the fatherless, and befriends the cause of the
widow, takes more into consideration the needs of the candidates, and
the services and merits of the husband or relative they survive, than
any recommendation of family or of rank.
Footnote 12:
Her late Majesty Queen Victoria.
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