LIFE AT HAMPTON COURT
Our apartments were situated in the older, or Wolseyan, portion of the
building, not in the square edifice which Sir Christopher Wren built for
Dutch William. The architect’s monogram may still be found over a small
door in Fountain Court, to mark where he lodged. Our windows looked out
on the Chapel Court on one side, and Tennis Court Lane on the other; and
under those windows I often listened of a summer’s night, with mingled
pride and rapture, to a quartette of serenaders, who sang there in
Mary’s honour. Those beautiful boyish voices which still echo in my
ears, and make sweet, sad music in my memory! Frank and Charlie
Sheridan, Cavendish Boyle and Alfred Montgomery.[13] Alas! only one of
that little band now remains to whom I can say, “Do you remember?” And
alas! once more, those dear old rooms, the scene of so many happy days;
they were totally destroyed by fire, through the wanton carelessness of
a housemaid, in 1886. The Sheridans were our dearest friends, and as
some of their windows faced some of ours, we invented a code of signals
for our own convenience. How many assignations were made, how many
fishing parties, how many boating expeditions, how many rehearsals! Yes,
I “have had playmates, I have had companions; all—all are gone, the old
familiar faces,” the forms have vanished and their voices hushed before
their time. One of that dear company passed away but a few short years
ago; she wrote to me just before her death, to say, “She felt as if the
daisy quiet were slowly stealing over her.” I am speaking now of
Georgina, Duchess of Somerset, in whose limpid blue eyes and matchless
smile I could trace, lingering to the last, the charms of the “Queen of
Love and Beauty,”[14] and wonder that her undoubted claim to that proud
title were ever questioned. Alas! of all the members of that generation
of two loving families, I alone remain!
Footnote 13:
Alas! to say, Alfred Montgomery—most genial of critics as of
playmates—died in 1896.
Footnote 14:
Jane Georgina, daughter of Thomas Sheridan, married, in 1830, Edward,
twelfth Duke of Somerset, and died in 1884. As Lady St Maur she was
the “Queen of Beauty” at the Eglinton tournament in 1839.
It was in the cloisters, coming out of chapel, that I first saw, in a
little brown frock, the future Governor-General of Canada and Viceroy of
India, now (1888) the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava, and since that time
every day of our re-meeting has been marked with a red-letter in my
calendar.
[Sidenote: QUEEN MARY’S GARDEN]
What a difference between the Hampton Court of those and these days. In
the gardens, when I first remember them, the beds were decked with the
sickly Michaelmas Daisy, and the flaunting Golden Rod, which made
unsightly and straggling borders—a pitiable contrast to the perfumed and
variegated flora of the present day. Yet I confess to a lingering regret
for the rich clusters of the Lilac, mingling with the golden drop of the
Laburnum, which then showed from out the gloomy, fantastic yews, and
made a charming group in early Spring. Queen Mary’s, or the Private
Garden, as it used to be called, now scarcely deserves that name, when
crowds of holiday folk flock to see the celebrated vine.
Not very long ago, I was enquiring of a porter at the railway station if
those gentry were not difficult to cope with. “Well, ma’am,” said he, in
a meek voice, “last Easter Monday there were twenty thousand of them,
and to be sure I was knocked down four times” (he was a man of inches
too); “but I don’t suppose they did it a’ purpose.”
In old days the visitors used to arrive in vans; but what we were wont
to call the incursions of the Vandals bore small proportion to the
numbers that now come down, like “wolves on the sheep-fold.” The gardens
were indeed most lovely, particularly during the season when the
Lime-trees were in blossom, and their perfume perceptible as far off as
the old Clock Court. Dearly did I love to sit by my mother’s side and
watch the moon rising slowly over the lofty elms in the Home Park, which
skirts the gardens. How often have I sat there since, with another dear
relative and inhabitant of the palace! How sweet it was to rest on the
old wooden bench in the spot irreverently called “Purr Corner.” How soft
was the chime of the church bells, as it came across the river from
Thames Ditton, recalling Byron’s melodious lines of “Music o’er the
waters.”
Hampton Court, in my childish days, had its peculiar characters. There
was an old Dutchman, who had come over with the Stadtholder,[15] and had
long survived his royal master. He was a source of great amusement to us
children, from his quaint, old-fashioned appearance, but our chief
delight was to hear him speak of his wife, whom he invariably designated
as his “loaf.” There were two old women, of a most shrivelled
appearance, christened by my sister “Annie Winnie” and “Ailsie Gourley”
(after Walter Scott), who used to sit on hassocks, with a basket between
them, the while they, in lack of male gardeners, weeded the broad
terrace walk. I blush to confess that my youngest brother and I found it
a cherished pastime to dash headlong between these two guardians of the
terrace, as in an impetuous race, upsetting the basket and scattering
the contents far and wide. This proceeding entailed a severe reprimand
from the poor old ladies, whose work had all to begin again, and
terrible were the threats made use of on the occasion, that they would
write immediately and complain of us to His Majesty.
Footnote 15:
This is evidently an error on the part of the Authoress.
Another juvenile enormity in which we indulged was to warn the tourists,
whom we saw approaching the precincts of the labyrinth or maze, _not_ to
follow the directions of the gardener, whose aim it was to mislead them,
but to listen to our advice, and take the course we prescribed for them.
Our delight was unmingled when we heard the gardener, raised aloft on a
high seat, feebly attempting to arrest their steps, while our misguided
victims steadily pursued the road which led to obstruction.
[Sidenote: MR BEER]
At that period, the office of Housekeeper was a very important one in
the palace—in fact, two privileged persons enjoyed this title. One was a
lady, almost invariably a member of the aristocracy, who occupied the
apartments, or rather house, now inhabited by H.R.H. Princess Frederica
of Hanover.[16] This lady had the appointment of the Under-Housekeeper,
a certain Mrs Beer, whose husband, indeed, was a very great official,
and, if I might be excused a vulgarism, thought anything but _small_
beer of himself; he was a dignitary, in every sense of the word, and one
of the last of the pig-tails. Between this illustrious character and
myself there existed some rivalry and a slight feeling of irritation. I
think I may assert without vain-glory, that I knew more about the
pictures, their subjects, and their painters, than the presiding spirit;
but I am prone to confess that I was one of that troublesome class, a
child of an enquiring mind, and I was very fond of “knowing all about
it.” Unlike most children, and even many uneducated people, I was a
great admirer and lover of the cartoons of Raphael. Of these, Mr Beer
never varied in his daily description. He would stand opposite the
“Death of Ananias and Sapphira,” and, pointing to the picture, exclaim
in a strident voice: “Observe—horror! remorse! fear! drapery!” as an
incentive to admiration of what he considered the salient points. When
he described the “Charge to Peter,” in tones which he did not intend to
be irreverent, but which were undoubtedly threatening, he would cry:
“Feed my sheep, feed my lambs,” the terror-inspiring voice according but
ill with the sublime calm of the speaker.
Footnote 16:
Now Viscountess Wolseley’s apartments.
Perhaps my favourite of the collection was that of “Paul and Barnabas,”
when the people propose to offer them sacrifice as Jupiter and Mercury.
There were some figures in this group that puzzled my young wits; and
one day, going round at the same time as a very large party, I addressed
Mr Beer before them all.
“Will you please tell me,” I said, in what I hoped was a very
conciliatory voice, “who are those men behind the Apostles, in blue and
red mantles?”
Never shall I forget the tones of thunder with which Mr Beer turned upon
me. That anything so small and insignificant should arrest him in his
career of graphic description, and ask him a question which, if the
truth be spoken, he was as unable to answer as I was, was unpardonable.
With a glance which I ought never to have survived, he exclaimed:
“_Sirs, we be not gods but men_.” The reply was far from satisfactory,
but it was Gospel truth, and as such I was obliged to receive it.
Another incident connected with my early days at Hampton Court appears
to me to deserve a place here. It is a little romance, of which the hero
is a butcher boy. In those bygone times, the butcher formed a prominent
feature in the annals of the palace. There was very little competition
in trade, and the butcher in particular was usually bound to make a
rapid fortune.
One day I went with my mother (who by the way was an excellent
housewife) to speak to the butcher, who had just arrived and set up
shop. After a few preliminary arrangements as to future custom, my
mother looked at the man for some time in a scrutinising manner, and
then said to him: “It is very extraordinary, but I have an impression
that I have seen your face before, and yet I cannot recall to mind where
and when.” “I think you must be mistaken, madam,” he replied, “for I
seldom forget a face; and yet, now you mention it, I have a sort of
misty recollection that your features are familiar to me”; and so the
lady and the butcher looked at each other for some time, but without
clearing up the mystery.
[Sidenote: THE HEROIC BUTCHER’S BOY]
A day or two afterwards, my mother paid Mr Ives a second visit, and this
time she was accompanied by my sister. “I am come,” she said, “to ask
you one or two questions. Did you ever, many years ago—say ten or
twelve—stop the carriage of a lady, in Oxford Street, when her horses
ran away and the coachman was thrown off the box?” “Certainly,” answered
the butcher; “I remember it all as if it were yesterday. I was but a lad
then, and was sauntering along, with my tray on my shoulder, when I
heard a great hallooing and screaming, and people rushing about. I
turned round and saw a yellow chariot, drawn by a splendid pair of young
black roans, dashing down the street at a furious pace, and at the
window a beautiful lady with a little girl, calling distractedly for
help. Nobody seemed inclined to make any effort to assist them. I was so
sorry for the poor things, and I thought I would try my best, so I ran
forward, and thrusting my tray before the horses’ eyes, made them stop
quite suddenly.” “Quite right, quite right,” said my mother, “and here
are the two ladies whose lives you saved. I was a witness of your brave
action, and the moment I recovered myself I looked round for my
preserver, but you were gone. I enquired of some of the bystanders what
had become of you, but they could not tell me; you had disappeared, and
in spite of all my endeavours to discover you, we never met again till
the day before yesterday.”
The man smiled. “Well, ma’am,” he said, “there was no more for me to do;
there were plenty of people too ready to help you, and I should only
have been in the way.” He then finished his speech with no mean
compliment to the beautiful girl who stood before him (the little child
of that eventful day). “And what a pity it would have been, to be sure,
if she had not lived!”—which conversation and conduct go to prove, in my
opinion, that the butcher was not only a hero, but a gentleman.
My mother told the story right and left, and secured her friend, not
only the custom, but visits from many of the inmates of the palace, and
she related the incident so graphically to the Duke and Duchess of
Clarence, that the custom of Bushey House, where H.R.H. resided as
Ranger of the Park, was assured to him. So that in fact this early act
of heroism helped to make the fortune of John Ives and of his son after
him.
I naturally make frequent allusions to friends of all kinds and classes,
and am therefore tempted to insert an anecdote about a feathered
acquaintance of mine, which will not try the reader’s patience long.
[Sidenote: “JOHN ANDERSON” AND THE THRUSH]
One day during our residence in the palace, I was walking with my mother
over Molesey Bridge, when we were attracted to a small, poor-looking
cottage, in aspect like an Irish cabin, by the exquisite singing of a
thrush. The spot is now covered by houses and shops, but at that time
the cottage of which I speak was isolated. It contained but one room,
and was inhabited by an aged pair, I might well say, of lovers, for,
with the exception of their garb, they were the most complete
representatives of “John Anderson” and his wife. They were very poor,
and their richest possession was the thrush which hung outside the door
in a wicker cage, and sent forth a perfect burst of melody. In the
wilderness connected with the palace gardens there were choirs of
thrushes, blackbirds, and others, but not one of those free warblers
could be compared in fulness of song to that captive bird.
We remained listening for some moments, and then my mother entered the
cottage, made acquaintance with the old couple, and asked if they would
be willing to part with the thrush to her. At first rather a blank look
came over the old man’s countenance, but he was poor and ailing, and was
persuaded by the arguments of the “Missus,” who was doubtless thinking
the price of their favourite would enable her to get some little dainty
for her good man. So the bargain began, a sum was named, the double of
which was paid by my mother, who sent a servant the next morning to
claim her purchase. Then resulted a disappointment. The cage was placed
in a large and cheerful window in our drawing-room, but not a sound, not
a note, came from the melancholy bird, who drooped and hung its head as
if moulting; we fed, we coaxed, we whistled, but it remained silent,
motionless, and moping. My mother felt as much indignation as was
consistent with her gentle nature. She had not pressed the old people to
sell the bird, she had only asked the question, “Were they willing to do
so?” She had given them double the sum they asked, and now—it was not in
her nature to be suspicious—but it looked as if another bird had been
palmed off upon her, in place of the magnificent songster. She gave the
thrush several days’ trial, but at length her patience was exhausted,
and she sent for its late owner to expostulate.
The door opened and in he came, hat in hand, and my mother advanced to
meet him, armed with some mild rebuke. But neither of them was allowed
to speak, for no sooner did the old man make his appearance in the room
than the bird leaped down from its perch, spread its wings, and broke
out into so triumphant a song of joy, that it seemed as if the whole
room vibrated with that burst of melody.
“What, pretty Speckledy,” said the man, approaching the cage, “you know
me then, do you?” and the thrush kept flapping his wings, and moving
from side to side, one might almost say, dancing with joy.
There was no doubt about it; it was the same bird that had charmed our
ears in the lane at Molesey, but, like the Hebrew captives, it could not
sing its songs in a strange land.
“Take it back,” my mother said, “I would not part such friends for all
the world,” and off together went that loving pair, “Pretty Speckledy”
still in full song, which he continued all the way down our turret
stairs.
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