BRIGHTON—SCHOOLDAYS
Brighton was a favourite resort of my dear mother, both before and after
I went to school there; not only on account of its healthy and
invigorating air, but more especially because it was the home of her
elder sister, Lady John Townshend, Lord John being the proprietor of two
houses in the King’s Road, called Little and Great Bush. The smaller of
the two was often lent to my mother for the winter months: there was a
door of communication between the two houses, and the members of our
family were as often in the one as in the other, both at meal and at
other times.
We considered it great fun to be allowed to carry our dishes and plates
into Great Bush at dinner time, and to turn that usually solemn banquet
into a species of picnic, although the dinner in question could not
always be considered solemn.
My uncle Lord John, who was already advanced in years when I first
remember him, was a very peculiar person. As I have before said, he had
been the friend of Fox, and was a Whig of the whiggest, a man of talent
and education, a poet and a scholar. He was what of yore was called “a
testy old gentleman,” but the children entertained a great affection for
him, combined with a certain degree of dread. He approved of my love
(now genuine) of Shakespeare, and liked to hear me read or recite
passages, on which he would enlarge, criticising and correcting my
pronunciation of classical terms.
Lord John was a gourmet, and very particular in the matter of cuisine.
He would often call to the footman, in the middle of dinner, and say in
a querulous tone: “Tell the cook to come to me this moment,” which
occasioned rather an awkward pause. Then, on the entrance of the poor
_artiste_, with very red face from the combined effects of the kitchen
fire and mental confusion, he would address her in a voice of thunder:
“Pray have the goodness to taste that dish, and tell me if you do not
agree with me that it is beastly.”
[Sidenote: TOWNSHENDS, AND MRS FITZHERBERT]
In spite of all these eccentricities, I was very fond of my uncle, and
used to sit for hours talking to him by the side of his chair, for he
was a martyr to gout. Mrs Fitzherbert was a friend of the Townshends,
and lived at Brighton at the same time; she gave many parties, and when
charades and tableaux were the order of the day, or rather night, I was
allowed to be of the party, while still a child.
One of the most shining lights of the dramatic company was Lady Anna
Maria Elliot, daughter of Lord Minto, afterwards the wife of Sir Rufane
Donkin. She was as kind-hearted as she was witty, a great friend of my
mother’s, and the idol of us children. One evening the word acted was
“champagne.” In the first syllable, “sham,” Lady Anna Maria out-did
herself, and being a thorough artist, sacrificed all considerations of
personal vanity to the requirements of her _rôle_. Never shall I forget
her impersonation of Miss Rosina Falballa, returning from the ball—an
elderly spinster, with a flaxen wig crowned by a wreath of roses and
otherwise youthfully accoutred, calling her maid hastily, retiring into
an adjoining room, leaving the door ajar, and from her hidingplace,
handing out to the attendant abigail all those mysterious appendages of
the toilet which gave the title to the first scene of the charade, sham
of all kinds; the wig, the ratelier, the paddings, culminating in what
is now familiarly termed a “dress improver,” but in those less genteel
days, “a bustle.” It would be difficult to imagine the screams of
laughter; suffice it to say her ladyship brought down the house.
[Sidenote: TABLEAUX AT BRIGHTON]
To my great delight, my services were enlisted when the tableaux began,
and I appeared as Ishmael drinking water from the hand of Hagar (if I
remember rightly, Mrs Dawson Damer); but more delightful still, because
dramatic and historical, in the parting of Lord Russell with his wife
and children. The representative of the patriot lord was one of the
handsomest men of his time, Frederick Seymour, whose beauty proved
hereditary in the case of his daughters, Lady Clifden and Lady Spencer.
I was not a bad little historian, and had already shed early tears over
the fate of the gentle Rachel’s husband; and when I was placed in the
proper position, clinging round the knee of the parent from whom I was
about to be separated for ever, I thought to myself, William Lord
Russell must have really looked like that handsome and noble
representative, so I called up my best look of sorrow and pathos, and
threw an upward glance, such as I was sure would have been the
expression of little Katey Russell on that melancholy occasion.
How wounded was I in my histrionic feelings when Mr Seymour exclaimed:
“Oh, if you look at me in that ridiculous manner, I shall die of
laughing.”
“Ridiculous!” Was that an epithet to apply to my highly conceived and, I
believed, wonderfully carried out embodiment of filial anguish? It was
most mortifying, and so I was condemned to throw all the concentrated
expression on the calf of my father’s leg.
Only one more of that evening’s tableaux can I call to mind. It was that
of the kneeling infant Samuel, personated by Miss Morier, afterwards Mrs
Edward Grimston, then a lovely child. Mrs Fitzherbert, our hostess,
though of course at that time far advanced in years, had a fresh, fair
complexion and fine aquiline features, and had great remains of the
beauty and charm which had captivated the fancy, although it could not
ensure the constancy, of the fickle-hearted monarch, George IV.
In the course of time our favourite governess, as I have
before-mentioned, left us, and my father announced his determination not
to appoint a successor. Here was a dilemma, for my mother had pledged
her word to me that I should never go to school, a resolution which she
would not alter without my consent; but during her stay at Brighton, she
had heard of an exceptional establishment, kept by a certain Miss Poggi,
the daughter of an Italian emigrant. I was a student by nature, and
loved learning for its own sake, so I easily acquiesced in my mother’s
project, and I took up my abode at No. 10 Regency Square. But I did not
calculate on the terrible home-sickness which would ensue, or the
miserable first night I should pass under that roof; my pillow was
literally deluged with my tears, and my sobbing brought the English
teacher to my bedside, who did all in her power to comfort me, and
became from that moment my tried and trusty friend. Poor Ellen!—she was
very kind and very handsome, and long after I left school she was
permitted, at my request, to come and pass some of her holidays with me
at Hampton Court.
[Sidenote: DISLIKE OF ARITHMETIC]
I spent nearly four years under the care of Miss Poggi, with whom I
became an especial favourite, perhaps because I feared her less than all
the rest of the pupils. She was a most exemplary woman, but strict even
to severity, and I can well remember the sudden hush which invariably
announced her appearance in the schoolroom. The French teacher was also
greatly feared by her scholars, but the gentle Ellen and the dear old
lady who taught us Italian were beloved by all. In our plan of
education, different days were apportioned for different lessons, and I
still have a lingering love (the result of association) for Tuesdays and
Thursdays, when dancing, poetry and parsing (which I always liked) were
the order of the day; while Mondays and Fridays still convey a dreary
idea to my mind of detested copy-books and smudged slates. Why did those
dreadful pence, I asked myself, present a different total every time I
added them up, and why, when I tried to prove a sum, did I only prove it
was wrong? Then such groans and scrapings of the slate pencils, the
whole aspect of things rendered more confused by the occasional dropping
of a large tear. Very nearly the same was the story of my music lessons.
Pause, gentle reader!—do not accuse me hastily of having no music in my
soul, and consequently being fit for “treasons, stratagems and spoils.”
I loved music, but had no talent, and though I had sufficient ear to
detect what was wrong, I found it most difficult to _practise_ what was
right—no uncommon case in matters of morality.
In our competition for prizes, the greater number of “extremely well”
depended more on industry than proficiency, and I was diligent and
laboured at my oar; so one Prize Day the Silver Medal for Music was
awarded to me. When I look back on this startling incident, I blush to
confess that I attribute this decoration to the over-indulgence of our
little music mistress; but like many other _décorées_ I felt very proud
of the unmerited honour.
My dancing mistress, Madame Michau, had (if I may be allowed to say so)
better reason to be satisfied with me; for, with the exception of my
dear friend and namesake, Mary Broadwood, I was the best dancer in the
school, and my teacher was never tired of instructing her two model
pupils in boleros, cachucas, tambourine dances and the like, At that
time, dancing in Society was reckoned an accomplishment, and upheld as
an art, and it was not the fashion to slope and lounge through what is
termed in modern slang, “Square Dances.”
I can scarcely imagine a prettier sight than that presented by those
frequent children’s balls, given by the King and Queen at the Pavilion
at Brighton. The building, as we all know, was a ridiculous Cockney
erection of a Russo-Chinese character, still, few scenes could have been
prettier than the interior of the principal room when filled by groups
of gaily-dressed and, for the most part, lovely children; for I agree
with an R.A. of my acquaintance who said that there is nothing on earth
to compare with the beauty of a little “English Swell.”
Now, while I am treating of Monsieur and Madame Michau, I cannot omit to
insert an anecdote of the former. Some years after I had left school,
during a short stay in Brighton, I paid a visit to the dear old couple,
from whom I received an enthusiastic welcome. “Enchanté!” said Monsieur,
“de vous revoir, Mademoiselle—c’est à dire, sans doute, Madame?” I
replied in a tone of mock melancholy: “Hélas non! Monsieur Michau,
toujours Mademoiselle.” The good old man gazed at me with pity bordering
on contempt, then, shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed in a dejected,
though somewhat sarcastic, tone, “Ah! Mademoiselle, si ce n’était que
votre danse....”
[Sidenote: “HAVE THE HONOUR OF DANCING WITH ME?”]
While yet a school-girl, during the Christmas holidays there was a great
deal of juvenile dissipation in the way of balls, and so forth, the most
delightful of all, in my opinion, being those given by Dr Everard at his
celebrated establishment for young gentlemen, familiarly called the
“Young House of Lords,” from the aristocracy of the pupils. My partners
here were legion, including the late and the present Lords
Northampton,[24] Mr Frederick Leveson Gower,[25] and my cousins, the
sons of Sir Augustus Clifford. Willy Clifford, afterwards Admiral Sir
William Clifford, caused great laughter among his school-fellows, who
overheard him one night asking me to dance as follows: “Mary, will you
have the honour of dancing with me?” Many men, I doubt not—if they spake
their thoughts—might address a young lady in the same terms, but it is
decidedly not the custom: which reminds me of a quaint reply I received
once at a servants’ ball from a Somersetshire farmer, when in
consideration of the difference of our social position I asked him to
dance Sir Roger de Coverley with me. “Well, Miss Mary,” said honest
Farmer Ashby, “I can’t say as I see any objection.”
Footnote 24:
Charles, third Marquess of Northampton, died in 1877. William, fourth
Marquess, born in 1818, died in 1897.
Footnote 25:
Hon. Frederick Leveson Gower, second son of first Earl Granville.
I need not enlarge here on the subject of Dr Everard’s school, for every
reader of “Dombey and Son” must be intimately acquainted with the
interior of that establishment, where, as is recorded in the delightful
book just mentioned, the whole of the afternoon preceding the ball their
house was pervaded by a strong smell of singed hair and curling-tongs.
In those days, curly locks were considered an indispensable accessory to
full dress. Yes, I did enjoy those merry dances at Dr Everard’s, and I
was proud of my popularity among my school-boy friends; yet—and this
belongs surely to confessions of which I ought to be ashamed—the
eventful night came, still at Brighton, when I was to make my _début_,
as a grown-up young lady, at a real grown-up ball. There was rapture in
the idea, and yet, after the fashion of most earthly pleasures, there
was a drawback. I never had any secrets from my mother, and to her I
carried my fears and apprehensions.
“Dearest,” I said, “you see I am very small, and, I am afraid, look
dreadfully young (a fear that does not long survive in the female mind),
and now you know, although to-night is a grown-up ball, I have no doubt
some of these horrid boys will be coming up asking me to dance” (false
and fickle ingrate!). “I shall feel so dreadfully ashamed, and shall not
know what to do.” My mother, who ought, I think, to have read me a
homily, laughed outright, and promised to tell the lady of the house
that she was not to judge from appearances, for that I was really
“_out_.” The hostess was worthy of the confidence placed in her by the
mother of the _débutante_, for the first man she introduced to me was an
officer, quartered in the town, whose height was six feet six. Then did
I feel a certain degree of doubt, mingled with a natural feeling of
elation. Could I reach up to his shoulder, or he down to my waist, in
the waltz that was just beginning? I believe it was the first time I had
ever danced with a regular soldier, but in the course of my Hampton
Court life, where the only dancing men belonged to the regiments
stationed there, and at Hounslow, I have always maintained that I have
danced with the whole of the Army List, or at least with the Cavalry
portion thereof. In some localities the female community are in the
minority, and I remember a midshipman writing home from the West Indies:
“We went ashore last night to a very pleasant dance, to which they were
obliged to ask every girl in the place without distinction, or how else
could we have _manned_ our ball?”
[Sidenote: TWO FRENCH “LADIES”]
But I am anticipating events, for I have not yet left school. If all had
gone well with the studies, the pupils were permitted to celebrate their
birthdays by some festivity, and my favourite namesake, Mary Broadwood,
and I had for the last two years kept ours together, as they were within
a few days of each other. So we set to work, she and I, and made a very
free translation from the Italian of one of Alberto Nota’s celebrated
comedies, and having cast the company in our own minds, we gained Miss
Poggi’s permission to give a dramatic representation of _The Bachelor
Philosopher_, in which the two authors were to perform the two principal
male characters. My namesake appeared in what our German neighbours call
the “title-role,” and looked very bonnie in a dainty court dress, which
showed off her beautiful leg and foot to perfection. And here I must
pause to observe that Miss Poggi withstood the request which Madame
Michau made, that her husband might accompany her on the night of the
performance. “For, you see,” said Miss Poggi, “all our actors are
ladies.” But on the evening in question, Madame Michau arrived in
company with her _belle-mère_, a lady of rather a masculine appearance,
whose chin had a suspiciously blue colouring; but no questions were
asked, and the two French _ladies_ took the places reserved for them.
The character I had selected for myself was that of an Italian nobleman,
whose whole soul was entwined around his genealogical tree. My costume
consisted of—oh! pride and rapture!—a yellow tunic and blue satin cloak,
all glittering with spangles, and a _bonâ fide_ page’s dress, borrowed
from the wardrobe of Drury Lane Theatre, by the influence of Elizabeth
Richardson; while my fair locks were duly powdered and combed and put
into a black satin bag, so that I flattered myself I presented a manly
and venerable appearance.
The prettiest girl in the school, Emily Elves by name, was our _jeune
première_, while an elderly spinster was very well impersonated by
another member of the community. When the curtain dropped, dancing
began, and, in respect of my “noble birth and ancestral tendencies,” I
was permitted to lead out the charming daughter[26] of the reigning Duke
of Bedford. I wonder if she can recall that night as vividly as I can,
but if she should ever honour these pages by reading them so far, let me
take this opportunity of assuring her that I consider her one of the
most delightful partners I ever had, and I have had many since that day.
Footnote 26:
Lady Louisa Russell, afterwards wife of James, first Duke of Abercorn.
[Sidenote: SMUGGLERS AND COASTGUARD]
I have omitted to mention that our school, which was originally situated
in Regency Square, had been removed to the extreme end of Brunswick
Terrace. Indeed, Miss Poggi was one of the first to go so far away from
the frequented part of Brighton. I well remember once, in the dead of
night, being roused by hearing shots fired immediately under my window,
followed by shouts and cries. The next morning the mystery was solved.
There had been an encounter between smugglers and the coastguard; one
man had been severely wounded, and had only escaped death by hiding in
some miraculous manner. Then one of the officers of the coastguard
called upon Miss Poggi, and complained that to the best of his belief
the offender had been secreted in her house by one of the maidservants.
The reply to that complaint was a natural one: “I have not inquired into
the matter, but I should think it most probable that if a woman saw any
man flying for his life, she would do her best to save him, without
stopping to inquire into the cause of his flight.”
In those days, be it remembered, “smuggling” was considered but a venial
crime, and many, especially amongst the gentler sex, were found willing
to wink at it.
So wayward is human nature, that I believe I shed as many tears at
leaving school as I did on my first arrival, overjoyed though I was at
the prospect of returning home for good.
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