WHITTLEBURY
In passing in review before my mind the different country houses which I
have frequented at different periods of my life, I am forcibly struck by
the difference in the characteristics of each. I will devote this
chapter to Whittlebury Lodge in Northamptonshire, situated on the skirts
of the beautiful forest of the same name, where, for many months at a
time, I was the guest of kind friends to whom I have alluded in an
earlier chapter.
Lord Southampton[42] was the Master of the Hounds, in which capacity he
had succeeded his aged kinsman, the Duke of Grafton. Sport, therefore,
was the chief characteristic and the ruling passion at Whittlebury, and
I, in my small way, was one of its most zealous votaries.
Footnote 42:
Charles, third Lord Southampton; born 1804; married, 1826, Harriet,
daughter of Hon. Henry Fitzroy Stanhope.
During the whole of the winter our noble master kept open house, and
although, as I have said before, sport and sporting men formed the chief
components of that society, yet there was scarcely a leading member of
the London World who was not represented at the hunting-lodge. There I
met and became acquainted with the well-known Count D’Orsay, the witty
Lord Alvanley, and the eccentric Colonel Leigh, brother-in-law to Lord
Byron, and many others. I was an especial favourite of the last-named,
and he on his side was a source of great amusement to me. I used
sometimes to say to him: “So-and-So have invited me to their house in
the country,” and his retort courteous was, “Did they name the day?” If
I remarked that such a person had a most agreeable house, he would ask:
“What sort of a cook?” If I complained that the Whittlebury servants had
made an enormous fire, he would rejoin: “May I ask, do you pay for the
coals?” One day he insisted on my walking round the garden with him, and
begged me to tell him the name of every flower as we passed. I am no
botanist, and my only knowledge of flowers consists in knowing when they
are sweet and beautiful; but that morning I was bent on mischief, and,
one after another, I invented in succession what appeared to me the most
plausible names with Latinised terminations. So far my deceit prospered,
but a trial was in store for me.
The next day I was sitting at my little open window, which looked out on
a picturesque portion of forest scenery, with a magnificent oak in the
foreground, when my old friend came under the window and called out to
me to come downstairs, a summons which I immediately obeyed. When I
stepped out on the lawn, he presented his friend, Mr Elwes, to me, who
had a splendid garden of his own on the other side of the county.
[Sidenote: “YOU SCORED”]
“We will show you over the grounds,” said Colonel Leigh, “together. As
you well know, I am a perfect ignoramus where flowers are concerned, but
Miss Boyle will tell you the names of every one in the whole garden.”
Here was a dilemma, but I was not unequal to the occasion.
“My dear Colonel,” I said, “it is all very well when I pronounce the
names in your hearing, but I am not going to show off my bad Latin
before so great a connoisseur as your friend.”
The next day I confessed my crime, and received absolution because the
trick had been successful; failure of any kind was unpardonable in the
eyes of Colonel Leigh. “You scored,” he said, “so I forgive you.”
Poor Colonel Leigh! I was very sorry when I heard of his death, and very
grateful to him for the present he made me of the last riding-whip which
Byron had used at Missolonghi.
A fellow-guest of mine was Lady S——, a woman nobly born, and of
exceeding beauty, hair, complexion, eyes, features, in every way
remarkable, and although not unusually tall, of stature naturally far
exceeding mine. She went up to Colonel Leigh one day and reproached him
for never paying her a single compliment (which she might well have felt
her due), “yet you are always saying flattering things to Miss Boyle!”
Colonel Leigh was not in a very good humour that morning. Looking at the
beautiful speaker with a supercilious expression, he hit the only blot
he could find in that fair apparition: “No, no,” he said, “it won’t do;
you sit too high and stand too low.”
Lord Southampton, the M.F.H., was most kind and generous to me in
respect to “mounts,” and would apportion to me a fast hack or an easy
jumper, frequently giving me a place in his phaeton, or letting me ride
beside him to the place of meeting. Dear old friend! For how many days
of intense enjoyment, of healthful exercise, of genial companionship,
have I not been indebted to you!
He laughed when I told him that I considered it one of the proudest
moments of my life when, riding quietly with him and another young lady,
who complained that her horse was too fresh, he came up to me and asked
the question, “How does Blanco carry you?”
“Like a lamb,” I replied.
“Then jump off directly, and I will change the saddles,” a compliment
very flattering to my powers of horsemanship.
My ambition was always to be in the first flight, and the means I took
to attain this end was as follows—
[Sidenote: A SPORTING ECCLESIASTIC]
At the first whimper of the first hound breaking the covert, I looked to
see who rode beside me. I knew which were the best men, and one of those
I chose as my guide, following as near as I could on his horse’s
steps—most frequently Lord Charles Fitzroy, or the Reverend William
Smith, rector of the parish—a sporting parson indeed, but one who never
allowed his love for the chase to interfere with the fulfilment of more
serious duties, or the constant care he bestowed on the poor and
suffering. A very different personage was the Reverend Mr D—— E—— who
had a living on the other side of the county, but who hunted with us one
day. Both he and his curate were in the field, and coming to a blind
bullfinch, at which several horsemen came to a dead stop, the curate in
question gallantly offered to go and make a gap in the fence. His Rector
called after him in his usual loud voice, “Hallo, I say, if you break
your neck, who is to preach my second sermon next Sunday?”
Another sporting ecclesiastic who frequented our meets was the Reverend
Loraine Smith. He hunted in a purple coat, alleging as his reason that
it was an episcopal colour—but I cannot tell what authority he could
adduce for wearing bright yellow gloves embroidered in every tint. His
Reverence was always well mounted, and was a keen sportsman. He had a
pretty living and a good church in the neighbourhood, but he surprised
his parishioners very much by altering the whole disposition of the
tombstones; he thought they looked awkward and untidy in their actual
position, so he had them all taken up and re-arranged according to his
fancy in lines, crosses, squares, etc. One Sunday morning, a very cold
winter’s day, he had performed the service to a scanty congregation, and
on going up into the pulpit, instead of opening his sermon book, he
pronounced the following address:
“My dear friends, if you require it, I will preach you the sermon which
I have brought with me, but if you are as cold and hungry as I am, I
think you will prefer going with me to the Rectory, where you will find
some cold beef and some good ale.”
I leave the result of his hearers’ decision to the imagination of the
reader.
One of our favourite places of meeting, although one of the most
distant, was Cowper’s Oak, on the confines of Salcey Forest. There, one
proud day, I proceeded on a small hack, which I exchanged for a splendid
black hunter glorying in the name of “Midnight,” and thence, after a
quick find, we had a magnificent run extending almost to the town of
Higham Ferrers.
How many years have passed since that eventful day, eventful at least in
my annals, when Lord Alford, beside whom I rode, invited me to luncheon
at Castle Ashby, and offered himself as my guide across country.
I gladly accepted with my two companions, Lord Charles Fitzroy and Mr
Smith, and then for the first time I saw that beautiful house whose
golden gates have so often since that day been opened to afford me a
hearty welcome. My beloved friend, Lady Marian Alford, was then doing
the honours of her father’s home, and many and many a laugh have we had
in later days, respecting the wild and dishevelled appearance which a
very high wind and very strong exercise had wrought in my person. Nay, I
remember well that she made on the spot a slight sketch of the scanty
portion of my habit which I had been able to rescue from the
encroachments of numerous fences. We were twenty-two miles from home,
and my kind hosts pressed the loan of their brougham upon me, an offer
which I indignantly and ungratefully refused, scorning to abandon my two
fellow-sportsmen on their homeward journey. The next day we three traced
our long ride on the ordnance maps, and some amusement was excited in
the household when it was announced that the groom, whom Lord
Southampton had lent me for the occasion, sent word to enquire, the next
morning, after the small lady who had ridden sixty-seven miles between
breakfast and dinner.
[Sidenote: MUSICAL EVENINGS]
Before concluding this slight sketch of the happy days I passed at
Whittlebury Lodge, which extended over many years, I am tempted to
insert a short anecdote, proving how easily fame may be established in
some cases. My maid told me that the housekeeper had informed her that
Mr Jones, the valet, was so excellent a musician that he was constantly
sent for into the drawing-room to perform before the company. His
proficiency consisted in pumping the organ for the lady of the house,
who was a very good performer on that instrument. We had indeed some
excellent musicians and superior vocalists in our society, and the
following is a slight record of the way we passed our time—
SONG
“Call back the days that fled too fast
In mellow autumn’s prime,
Like our own light skiff they glided past
Upon the waves of time.
“Call back the hours, those gladsome hours,
The song, the jest, the glee,
The perfume of the lingering flowers,
Sweet summer’s legacy.
“The hunter’s horn at early morn,
Proclaimed its welcome sound,
And each forest glade an answer made,
With joyous echo round.
“And when the shades of evening fell,
And day’s glad toil was o’er,
Then music with its genial spell,
The senses captive bore.
“While every breast the charm confessed,
That bound the willing ear,
And eyes now bright in beauty’s light
Were glistening with a tear.
“Call back those hours, thou hast the art,
Thy melody can raise,
And for a time beguile the heart
With thoughts of other days.”
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