OUR EXTRA HOMES
I must now make a break in the regular line of narrative, to interpolate
a chapter, without specifying any particular dates, as the visits of
which this portion of my story treats were spread over a large space of
time, and intersected many of the different passages of the life I have
hitherto recorded.
To begin with Marston, the property of my uncle Lord Cork, and the early
home of my dear father. Marston Bigot was a pretty place and had been
purchased by our direct ancestor, Richard Boyle (surnamed the “great
Earl of Cork”) from Sir John Ippisley, the representative of an old
Somersetshire family in the neighbourhood. This ancestor of ours had a
very large family, of whom four were sons, and every one created a peer,
with the exception of the youngest, Robert, who declined the honour, and
whose name is immortalised as the “Divine Philosopher of the World.” To
Roger Boyle, his second son, Lord Cork gave an estate in Somersetshire;
this gallant soldier and loyalist was first created Baron Broghill and
afterwards Earl of Orrery. He was much attached to the royal cause, but
during the Protectorate, Oliver Cromwell, who had a great admiration for
his military genius, sent for him one day and placed two alternatives
before him, namely, the command of an expedition against the Irish
rebels, or a lodging in the Tower of London. “The choice is open to
you,” he said; “in serving in this campaign you will be acting the part
of a patriot, but if you prefer the walls of a prison, I have no more to
say.”
A long discussion ensued. Lord Broghill demurred, Cromwell insisted, and
at length the former acquiesced in the Protector’s offer, with the
proviso that he would never be called upon to lift his sword against his
sovereign master. It is a matter of history what a distinguished part
Lord Broghill played in this Irish campaign.
In the pleasure ground not far from Marston there stood a quaint little
cottage, one room of which had been fitted up by my uncle for his
favourite daughter, Louisa, a beautiful, blooming girl, and my chosen
friend, who was cut off by smallpox a few years later, at the early age
of nineteen. The little cot served as a summer, or pleasure, house; we
children were allowed to have tea in it, and to dig and delve in the
small garden before it to our heart’s content. There was an historical
interest connected with this small dwelling which enhanced its merit in
my eyes.
[Illustration:
HONBLE. EDMUND BOYLE, AFTERWARDS EIGHTH EARL OF CORK, BORN 1787.
HONBLE. RICHARD BOYLE, ELDER BROTHER OF ABOVE, DIED YOUNG.
HONBLE. COURTENAY BOYLE, BORN 1770, AFTERWARDS VICE-ADMIRAL, K.C.B.
]
On quitting the service of the Parliament, Lord Orrery, as he then was,
retired to his seat at Marston Bigot, and went on Sunday, as was his
custom, to the small church adjoining the house. There he sat for some
time awaiting the arrival of the usual clergyman, and his patience being
exhausted, he rose to return home. His steward, who was in the
congregation, told him there was a minister present who offered his
services both as reader and preacher. Lord Orrery expressed his
gratitude, “and was never more edified than he was on that day by the
sense, learning and piety of the discourse.” He waylaid the clergyman,
complimented him on his sermon, and invited him to dinner at the house.
When seated at table, his lordship enquired of his new friend every
particular of his life and fortune.
[Sidenote: THE ROMANCE OF A COTTAGE]
“My lord,” was the reply, “my name is Asberry. I am a clergyman of the
Church of England, and a devoted subject to the king. I and my son have
lived for a long time within a few paces of your lordship’s house, in
fact, under the garden wall, in a poor cottage. I have a little money,
and some few books, and my boy and I dig and read by turns, submitting
ourselves cheerfully to the will of Providence.”
Lord Orrery was much pleased with the conversation and manner of this
learned and worthy man, and obtained for him a small annual income
without the obligation of taking the Covenant, and was in other ways
beneficial to him. Mr Asberry lived for some years longer at Marston,
and died, worthily lamented. It is easy to believe that this historical
incident made Asberry Cottage doubly interesting to our young
imaginations. Marston, which has been much enlarged and improved by the
present owner, did not lay claim to the title of a fine house and
property, more especially when placed in contrast with the “most august
house in England”—for Longleat[17] could be seen from the windows, and
is within a walk. The park also is but small, though, in my eyes,
remarkable for containing a Glastonbury Thorn. The legend is well
known—that Joseph of Arimathæa (how he came to England it would be
difficult to imagine) planted the staff which he held in his hand in the
soil (ever afterwards considered sacred) of Glastonbury, and the staff
blossomed. Certain it is that when every other tree in the surrounding
woods is bare at Christmas, the hawthorn at the entrance of Marston park
is oftentime in flower! I have seen it with my own eyes, and always
looked upon it as a real miracle. The house is charmingly situated on a
slope, and commands a beautiful view, with hills in the distance, and
the tower of Stourhead, where King Alfred unfurled his standard against
the Danes. Stourhead was once the property of the ancient family of the
Stourtons, who bear as their coat-of-arms six fountains, in remembrance
of the six springs which rise thereabouts in the valley of the Stour—a
fact in heraldry that I doubt not is well known to the head of that
noble house.
Footnote 17:
Residence of the Marquis of Bath.
The house at Marston is a perfect sun-trap, and although the building
could lay no claim to architectural beauty, yet as the birthplace of my
father and of many of my ancestors, whose portraits adorn the walls, I
dearly loved the place, where so many of our Christmasses were spent
with innumerable cousins of different ages. Cousins we were indeed, for
the master and mistress of that house were cousins themselves, and my
father’s brother had married my mother’s sister.
[Illustration:
LONGLEAT.
]
The country round Marston affords a charming type of home English
scenery, being almost entirely pasture land, embellished with very
pretty woodlands and several country seats of great beauty, especially
Longleat and Mells Park. Walks, rides, and drives are all varied in
their character, and the road to Bath (in those days there was no
short-cut by rail) was essentially picturesque, and as full of ups and
downs as life itself!
[Sidenote: LORD JOHN TOWNSHEND]
Another house[18] was in Hertfordshire, close, indeed, to the town of
Hertford itself. It is a quaint, old, red brick building with charming
rooms, and a gallery that in my early childhood I considered
interminable as to length; it was the property of my uncle by marriage,
Lord John Townshend. He was indeed a link with the past, having been the
friend of Fox and Sheridan, and having sat to Sir Joshua Reynolds. His
wife[19] was my mother’s sister (her elder by nearly twenty years), who
retained till an advanced age the traces of that beauty which was
immortalised by Hoppner in one of his most delightful portraits, still
hanging on the walls in the dear old dwelling. When very young, she had
united herself to a man whose cruelty and immorality made her life
miserable. The marriage was dissolved, and Lord John Townshend, as her
second husband, did all in his power to make her forget the sorrows
which had clouded her early years. But long before I knew of this sad
passage in her history, I had observed the shade of melancholy and
mystery which hung over my dear aunt’s aspect and manner.
Footnote 18:
Balls Park.
Footnote 19:
Georgiana Anne, daughter of William Poyntz, Esq.
Balls Park was a typical English house, birds, bees, butterflies,
honeysuckle, roses. Our visits there were almost always in the “sweete
season that budde and blossom brings,” and my remembrance of the place
is invariably connected with summer. Here were cousins too, and many of
them to whom I was very much attached, though they were greatly my
seniors; no one ever was so rich in cousins. I remember once meeting the
late Lord Carlisle at dinner at Charles Dickens’. “Mary Boyle is a
cousin of mine,” said Lord Carlisle. “I suppose so,” replied Dickens; “I
have never yet met any one who was _not_ her cousin.”
[Sidenote: TAMING A WOLF-DOG]
Another house was Wigan Rectory, in Lancashire, a very different
locality indeed. A frightful, black, manufacturing town, but we loved to
go there, for my uncle George Bridgeman and his wife were most indulgent
to us children.[20] Mr Bridgeman had first married my father’s, and
after her death my mother’s, sister, and both husband and wife were our
kind playfellows, taking an interest in all our little pastimes, and
rich in that quality, so dear to childish hearts, of genuine fun. My
aunt Louisa was devoted to gardening, and although her pleasure grounds
were circumscribed, she took the greatest delight therein. I fear I
wounded her horticultural nature on one occasion, when I complained that
the rose I had just picked smelt of soot, and blacked my nose when
raised thereto! In the backyard of the Rectory a magnificent wolf-dog
lived in the kennel, the object of universal terror among the servants
and gardeners. But I believed in and trusted dogs, and my firm
conviction was that Lupus was misunderstood. I bribed the servants to
let me feed him, which I did first at a respectful distance, advancing
nearer and nearer each day as I presented him with his dinner. At length
I deemed him tamed, and, not without slight trepidation, I approached,
let slip his collar, and opened the garden gate. Never shall I forget
the consternation which the apparition of girl and dog caused in my
aunt’s little sitting-room which opened on the lawn. She was talking to
my mother in this sanctum when she saw Lupus bounding over the grass,
and standing on the threshold of her boudoir. With a loud cry the
Rector’s wife jumped upon the chair, gathering her skirts around her,
and summoning her juvenile protectress to call off the dog! But Lupus
did no harm; he was only elated by his new-born freedom, and he became
from that day the constant companion of the daily walks I took with my
youngest brother and our nurse.
Footnote 20:
Rev. George Bridgeman married, in 1792, Lady Lucy Boyle, only daughter
of Edmund, seventh Earl of Cork. She died in 1801, and he married in
1809, Charlotte Louisa, daughter of William Poyntz of Midgham.
But the most beautiful and the favourite of our many homes was Cowdray
Park, close to Midhurst in Sussex, which had come into possession of my
mother’s only surviving brother, William Poyntz, by his marriage with
Elizabeth Browne, sister and sole heiress of Viscount Montague of that
name. Respecting this family and property, there is a most tragical
history. To the best of my belief, it was the father of Mrs Poyntz,
_née_ Browne, who seceded from the Roman Catholic Church, and was in
consequence excommunicated. The ban included fire and water, and the
fulfilment was most terrible. My aunt’s brother—of whom I have spoken as
the last Lord Montague—was travelling on the Continent with his friend
Major Burdett, when the two travellers meditated the mad scheme of
shooting the falls of Schaffhausen. In vain did Lord Montague’s old
servant expostulate and implore; in vain did the innkeeper assure the
English gentlemen that the enterprise would be one of simple insanity;
in vain was every obstacle thrown in their way by boatmen in the
neighbourhood, none of whom cared to venture his life in so wild an
undertaking. Obstinate and persevering, they secured the services of two
boatmen, and achieved the result anticipated by all. The boat capsized,
and all the men were drowned. The catastrophe happened in 1800, and I
believe it to have been the next day, or at least within the space of a
very few days afterwards, that an express arrived from England, stating
that Lord Montague’s magnificent house of Cowdray was almost entirely
destroyed by fire. This fine structure was a splendid example of
Elizabethan architecture. Even now, partially covered as it is by ivy,
the ruins present a most picturesque aspect, and attract numbers of
visitors in the summer season from all quarters of the county.
[Sidenote: COWDRAY—THE POYNTZ FAMILY]
My uncle and aunt lived about a mile from the ruins, in a house which
had originally been the gamekeeper’s lodge, with low, small rooms in the
cottage style, but constant additions and improvements had converted it
into a pretty dwelling-house. A beautiful wood, with winding paths and
natural terraces, skirted the lodge on one side. In my eye that wood was
a primeval forest, and in the summer and autumn, when the leaves were
still on the trees, I used to snatch a fearful joy by losing myself in
its depths. In those, as it appeared to me, vast recesses, was pointed
out the “Priest’s Walk,” named after that stern ecclesiastic who,
according to tradition, had been instrumental in bringing about the
curse pronounced upon the family. There is, indeed, an earlier tradition
of a curse overhanging the fortunes of the possessors of Cowdray, on
which I never laid much stress, as the malediction never appeared to
have been carried out until after the secession from the Roman Catholic
faith of the last Lord Montague but one. On the other side of the house
the park stretched away for many miles with broken ground, swelling
uplands and large clumps of timber trees of all kinds, one of the most
beautiful parks in England. Close to the ruined house are some Spanish
chestnuts, among the loftiest I have ever seen, and I believe they were
the first that were planted in this country.
Mr and Mrs Poyntz had originally a family of five children, but in the
year 1815 the catastrophe occurred which carried out to the full the
anathema already alluded to.
The family were spending some time at Bognor, during the bathing season,
and one fatal day Mr Poyntz, accompanied by his two sons, two young lady
visitors, and three boatmen, went out in a so-called pleasure boat,
leaving the youngest daughter, Isabella Poyntz,[21] in tears because she
was not permitted to accompany them. From the windows, which gave upon
the beach, the agonised mother saw that boat capsize, and as far as I
remember what I have been told, one boatman and my uncle were the only
survivors. The latter was brought to shore in an insensible state, and
it was some time before he recovered consciousness. By these two
accidents of drowning, both families of Browne-Montague and Poyntz
became extinct in the male line.
Footnote 21:
Afterwards wife of second Marquess of Exeter.
The tragedy occurred when I was a child, and while we were yet at
Sheerness, but I can still recall my mother’s piercing shriek when the
awful intelligence was broken to her. By this means Mr Poyntz’s
daughters became co-heiresses, and at the death of their father his
property and estates were sold, and Cowdray passed into the hands of
strangers.
I cannot refrain from mentioning a circumstance which interested me at
the time very much, having always entertained a great predilection for
“ghost stories.” I had a pretty, quaint, low-roofed room at Cowdray,
opening into the common passage on one side, and to a narrow little
winding staircase, leading to the garden, on the other. I was constantly
attracted by knocks at that door, and in the frequent practice of saying
“Come in” to some imaginary person. I had not the slightest fear, but
was, of course, laughed at for my ridiculous fancies. I therefore found
some consolation (although I was very wrong to do so) when informed that
on certain improvements being made, and the little staircase done away
with, the skeleton of a child was discovered lying at the bottom of the
steps leading from my room; but who does not love to exclaim “I told you
so!”
[Sidenote: COWDRAY—THE POYNTZ FAMILY]
Beautiful Cowdray! How many happy days rise before me as I write the
name! How many delightful walks in that enchanted wood, especially when
escorted by “Courage,” the gigantic St Bernard. Him I was allowed to
take with me in my walks abroad, on condition that I led him by a chain,
as he was a decidedly sporting character. Well do I remember one such
walk with him. I had fastened his chain round my waist, to leave my
hands free, when lo! the game was afoot, and off started Courage,
carrying me with him in a wild and impetuous course. Every moment I
expected to be dashed to pieces against a root, or to be thrown down and
dragged at his heels; but gathering up my strength, and calling up all
the presence of mind that was left me, I encircled the trunk of one of
the smaller trees in a frenzied embrace, and contrived to arrest the
headlong career of Courage, in time to avoid a catastrophe to both of
us.
I revelled in the gallops in the park with my uncle (whom I simply
adored), my sister, and our cousins, for we one and all loved horses and
rode well, and to some extent justified an answer made to me by a
farmer’s wife, when I asked her one day for the loan of her horse for a
ride.
“Certainly, Miss Mary,” she said, “with great pleasure. The farmer will
always lend you or your sister his best horse, for he well knows what
capital _horse-ladies_ you are.”
I would fain make my readers acquainted with some of the characteristics
of a beloved member of our family, who exercised a wonderful influence
on all who surrounded him. Yet when I say that my uncle Poyntz was of a
genial humour, a man of the world, a citizen of the world popular among
all classes, all ages and both sexes, ever welcome abroad and adored at
home, I am but too well aware that I fail in conveying any idea of his
especial individuality.
[Sidenote: POLITICS]
Possessed with deep feeling and deep thought, there was a constant
ripple on the surface. What in those days was called “persiflage,” and
bears but a faint resemblance to the modern “chaff,” was in him a
science, and no way like the constrained attempt at wit, from which
every _point_ is excluded, that but too often makes the “fun” of the
practised joker. How often he put the respect and reticence of his
servants to the test. I have seen them compelled to busy themselves with
the plate on the sideboard, turning their backs on the dinner-table,
while their shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. For us young
ones there was usually a challenge for some playful encounter, and we
were obliged to keep our wits sharpened in order to meet the attack and
reply to the sally. He was a Liberal in politics, as were all the men of
our family on both sides. The term Liberal was then accepted in its
literal sense, and did not mean blind devotion to a revolutionary ideal.
My father’s views, as far as I can remember them, were inclined to be
ultra, but I am grateful to record that in so burning a question as that
of Catholic Emancipation, both my uncles and my father strongly
advocated the redress of grievances which had long been a blot on our
nation. For myself, I scarcely troubled my little head about politics,
and when election time came round, I always voted in my heart for the
man who was my friend, and up to a very late period in my existence,
“men and not measures,” was my shibboleth. But, like many others, in my
late years “J’ai changé tout cela,” and the man I love best in the
world, whomsoever that might be, would carry my worst wishes with him to
the poll, if he assisted the Gladstonians in undermining the
constitution of England and imperilling the safety of the throne; for I
can never forget that in the times of the Civil Wars my great ancestor,
Lord Cork, with his four sons fought at the battle of Bandon Bridge, on
the side of the Cavaliers, and that one of the gallant brothers sealed
his loyalty with his blood and left his life upon the field.
------------------------------------------------------------------------