1844. TRIP TO THE CHANNEL ISLANDS
It was during the summer of 1844 that my dear father, who had been in
failing health for some time, breathed his last at the small wayside
hotel at Salt-Hill, near Slough. It has since been burned down, but was
well known in former years as the resort of the Eton scholars, at the
time of Montem. My father had gone thither for change of air, in company
with his life-long friend and favourite messmate, Sir Willoughby Lake,
who did not long survive him.
[Sidenote: SIR WILLIAM NAPIER]
In the first days of that beautiful autumn I embarked at Southampton
with my cousin, Richard Boyle,[41] and my brothers Charles and
Cavendish, to pay visits to the Governors of Guernsey and Alderney.
After a prosperous but rather rough voyage towards those “iron-bound”
coasts, we arrived at Havilland Hall, the Government House of Guernsey,
then inhabited by Sir William Napier (one of the chief heroes of the
Peninsular War, and also the historian of it) with his delightful wife
and beautiful daughters. Cavendish, indeed, did not remain with us long,
for, much as he esteemed the Napier family, his regiment, the 48th,
being quartered in Guernsey, yet at that moment the less fertile and
picturesque island of Alderney possessed greater attractions for him.
Footnote 41:
The Reverend the Honourable Richard Boyle, youngest son of Edmund,
eighth Earl of Cork and Orrery; married, 1845, Eleanor Vere, daughter
of Alexander Gordon, Esq., of Ellon, N.B.
It was, indeed, a very good time that we passed under the roof of
Havilland Hall. We were a happy band of friends, and our daily rides,
pleasant excursions, and joyous evenings will long be remembered.
It was a fair group that clustered round the magnificent old
“warrior”—that was the name he bore among us—to whose remarkable beauty
a portrait in my possession, painted expressly for me by Sir William
Boxall, R.A., bears undoubted testimony, as does a painting by that
eminent artist, George Watts, taken during the General’s last illness,
of which I have a splendid engraving. Sir William Napier was tall and
commanding of stature, a soldier every inch of him, with black eyebrows
and snowy hair, which grew as hair used to grow in Classic times, with
eyes all alive and full of fire, with an eager, penetrating look, and
though, alas! for some time before his death he could not move quickly,
yet it was easy to perceive that in youth quickness of all kinds must
have been his especial characteristic. You felt sure that in earlier
days his movements must have kept pace with the eager flashing of his
eye and the varied intonations of his powerful but melodious voice. To
his proficiency in military tactics, and his splendid style in
literature (I used to tell him that his descriptions of battles read as
if cut into the pages with a naked sword) Sir William added the gentler
arts of painting and poesie; neither did he disdain the science of
Nonsense in its higher branches. Without this common link, could we have
sympathised, so profoundly? Had he not descended from his high estate,
to tread this neutral ground, how could he have found time or
inclination to sport with his “tamed fairy”?—the name by which he ever
called me.
On the occasion of my visit to Guernsey, I made a slight attempt to
describe the hero’s leading characteristics in verse.
SIR WILLIAM NAPIER
“O’er the forehead’s high expanse,
Waves the silver crown of hair,
And the keen eyes’ eagle glance,
Eyes to love and eyes to dare—
Beaming now in playful wit,
Flashing now in scornful fit.
From their jet-black brows in turn,
Fierce or tender, gentle, stern,
See the nostrils’ eager line,
Nose of purest aquiline,
And the mouth that scarce concealed—
Though the beard be dark and long
(Forms so marked must be revealed)—
High resolve and purpose strong,
With a spirit bold and free
To impetuosity!
Aye, without that corselet bright,
Or the good sword by his side,
You would read him for a knight,
For a soldier brave and tried;
You would know that form to be
A lingering light of chivalry.”
[Sidenote: MR AND MRS KEAN]
During our visit at Guernsey, the Charles Keans came over with a
Dramatic Company, and gave several performances at the theatre, at each
of which the Governor, his family and suite, regularly attended.
The plays selected were for the most part genteel comedies, in which
branch of the Drama I, for one, considered that these two clever
_artistes_ shone most conspicuously. They were our constant guests at
dinner, the hour of which our courteous host always arranged with a view
to the convenience of Mr and Mrs Kean.
They were cheerful and delightful companions, and from that day we
contracted habits of friendship which ended only with their lives. I had
an especial admiration for Mrs Kean, and took a deep interest in her
love story—of how she and her husband had trodden the same stage in her
early youth, when, as he himself informed me, she was the most beautiful
girl he had ever seen; of how he flirted, and she loved; of how they
parted, and did not meet again for many years; of how destiny once more
brought them together in the respective characters of the hero and
heroine of _The Honeymoon_. Was not that a prophetic title? The joy, the
uncertainty, the excitement, the brilliant acting on both sides, in
which nature was so closely entwined with art, all combined to throw
Ellen Tree into a state of nervous agitation, and brought on an attack
of brain-fever, so that her life was despaired of. But she recovered,
and while still in the first stage of convalescence, the one most deeply
interested in her restoration to health came to assist in that work.
During the course of their conversation he told her playfully that she
was one of the best friends he had ever had, and as such he had come to
ask her advice, with regard to a subject whereon his whole future
happiness depended. “Do you consider,” he said, “that if I could gain
her consent, Ellen Tree would make me a good wife?” “I know,” was the
reply, “that she has long loved you better than any one else in the
world, and I do not believe that any one else could love you better.”
And so it was settled, and a happier or more suitable union could
scarcely be imagined. They were helpmeets for each other, in
professional, in domestic, and in social life, and this is the verdict
of one, who never lost any opportunity she had of enjoying their
society, whether at their pleasant little home in Hampshire, or in any
part of the world where it was possible to meet them.
But I must return from a long digression to report our further
movements. In a flying visit to the queer little island of Sark, we
explored its curious caves, and were shown the churchyard, “where the
women and children were all buried.” “And the men?” I enquired. “Ah!
mademoiselle, they are always drowned.” Added to this encouraging
intelligence, I was assured that the “Seigneur of Sark” (the chief man
in the island bears this title) would consider it a degradation to die
in his bed, as it was looked upon as a hereditary privilege to find a
grave in the ocean; and certainly on those terrible coasts, with their
perpendicular cliffs, shoals and quicksands, such a contingency was not
to be wondered at.
We then proceeded to Alderney, where we were received, on disembarking,
by the Lieutenant-Governor, Captain Alexander, and his daughter Rose,
the betrothed of my brother Cavendish. He placed my hand in hers, and
since that day, now so many years ago, she and I have walked
hand-in-hand through many a chequered path of life, through gloom and
sunshine, and, blessed be God, at this present time of which I am
writing, are still spared to speak together of the days that are no
more. The projected marriage was one that could give nothing but
satisfaction to the members of both families, with the single drawback
of slender means. In circumstances of this nature, there arises usually
much discussion as to _pros_ and _cons_, even among outsiders, and we
often hear the question asked “What will they make up?” On this point
Cavendish was beforehand with the world, when he said to me one day: “If
any one asks you what _we_ make up, be so good as to say, we have made
up—our minds,” and I can safely affirm that, from the day of their
marriage, no one who loved either had ever cause to regret the step.
Moreover, between Cavendish and his father-in-law there existed a great
similarity of tastes, pursuits, and moral qualities—both soldiers in
heart, as well as calling, both men of cultivated and refined taste,
with a keen appreciation of all that was good, beautiful, and humorous
in life.
[Sidenote: COLONEL ALEXANDER]
Captain, afterwards Colonel, Alexander amused me one day with an
anecdote he told me of himself. He was in Paris with his wife and
children at the time of the Revolution in 1830, when the English were
very unpopular among the lower classes. Captain Alexander had occasion
one day to pass a guard-house, round which some ill-conditioned soldiers
were lounging and idling; the passer-by attracted their attention. One
of the men said to the others in an irritable and irritating tone:
“Voilà Monsieur Goddam.” “Qui s’en va,” retorted our Englishman, “Au
diable,” says another soldier. Captain Alexander turned round, and
taking off his hat with a sweeping bow, said “Donc, Monsieur, au plaisir
de vous revoir!”
The Channel Islands appeared to me to be peopled with lovers. One of Sir
William Napier’s beautiful daughters had just married that gallant
soldier, Colonel MacDougall. At Guernsey, I had left the General’s only
son engaging himself to pretty Bessie Alexander, whom we called the
“white-heart cherry,” on account of her pink and white, rarely-blent
complexion, and here, at Alderney, I found her sister preparing to
become mine. We spent a short but pleasant time with Captain Alexander
and his wife. Before leaving Alderney, let me say a complimentary word
in favour of the garden which surrounded the house, and confess that,
even at the interval of forty years, the recollection of its peaches,
apricots, and, above all, its pears, makes the “mouth of my memory”
water.
[Sidenote: ELEANOR’S WELL]
Rose became an inmate of Millard’s Hill, paying occasional visits to the
pretty Rectory of our cousin, Richard Boyle, the Incumbent of Marston,
whose unbounded hospitality became a proverb with all who knew him. The
year after Cavendish’s marriage this favourite cousin of ours followed
the example thus set him, and gave a charming mistress to his charming
home. Eleanor Gordon, known in the literary and artistic world as E. V.
B., was young, lovely, and loveable. Her great talent for drawing had
already attracted much admiration whilst she was still a girl, and,
after her marriage, the beautiful illustrations which she designed of
“Nursery Rhymes,” “A Children’s Summer,” “The Story Without an End,” and
many others too numerous to mention, acquired for her the fame she
deserved. She put out her talents, indeed, to interest in a good cause,
realising by the sale of her works sufficient sums to enable her to do
good work in the parish. “Eleanor’s Well,” for that was the grateful
name bestowed on it, supplied the “water,” of which the villagers had
long stood in need; while two beautiful windows—designed by
herself—embellished her husband’s lately-restored church, without
mentioning the complete new roofing and a new set of Sacramental
Plate—all were the proceeds of her labour. It is not often that talents
are turned to so good and so unselfish account.
The erection of the little “Well” was commemorated by a friend and
neighbour in the following graceful lines:—
ELEANOR’S WELL
“Fair fields were ours, touched with a mellow glow
From gorgeous clouds at rise, at set of sun,
And shadowing trees, but no glad spring had run
Beside our homes, to bless the day and night.
But see! the water flows with gentle might,
In metal highway thro’ green pastures led;
And o’er the sculptured basin see it shed
A silver stream, a fall of sparkling light!
Thus with wise heart a gentle fancy wed,
Long summer morns, hath for our solace wrought;
So noble work succeeds to noble thought,
So the hand justifies the heart and head,
So the child’s play to earnest close is brought
So piety to poetry is wed.”
By W. M. W. CALL.
Eleanor is now the inmate of another home in a distant county, but her
name is still cherished and remembered, in connection with that of the
husband she mourns, among the survivors of the rural population of
Marston Bigot.
The poet in question was a near neighbour, and became a constant visitor
both at the Rectory and Millard’s Hill. On the marriage of my brother
Charles, and the prolonged absence of Cavendish and his wife in the West
Indies, this friend, whom we named “Alastor,” on account of his
predilection for solitude, became the almost daily companion in my long
walks. In the summer time we would usually take a volume of some
favourite author with us, Shelley, Goethe, or Jean Paul being often
selected; of the latter we were both ardent admirers. Then, choosing
some grassy knoll in one of the pretty fields which surrounded us, or
some tempting shade in one of our numerous wayside woods, we would rest
and read awhile. We had tastes and thoughts in common, and many were the
pleasant hours thus beguiled, which are, I am well assured, forgotten by
neither of us.
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