Ellman, of Glynde, was a knee-breeches man, with top-boots, tall, coated
for horseback, and with a characteristic farmer’s hat, not scanty of
brim. As such I remember him; but when alone, or even speaking to
another, there seemed something wanting to him, and this was a—Cattle
Show.
I recollect his daughter—an extremely pretty girl, sixty-five years ago.
I used to wonder how such a delicacy could come of so purely masculine a
breed of men.
The south-down sheep is no doubt fully kept on at Glynde; the late Earl
of Chichester, too, is said to have kept up the breed, but it is to be
feared that it is less profitable than the fat, or wool-growing sorts,
which yield the worst mutton to the market, and the best wool; matured
for the butcher within a year.
“Sic transit gloria brebis.”
Mr. Hodson took me with him to the funeral of the then last Lord Hampden,
who only enjoyed his estate for twelve months. I entered the vault; the
crimson velvet and gilt nails were as fresh on the coffin of the previous
lord as on the one now placed by its side. All the other red velvet
coffins had gone brown.
A gentleman, it was Mr. Cumberland, of the mint, who was related to
Lord Hampden, and used to stay with him at the old family seat in
Buckinghamshire, told me that there was always a table in the family pew
on Sunday morning, with wine glasses on it, and a bottle of port wine,
with which the friends regaled themselves during the weary service at
church, which, as a duty, they attended, so setting a good example to the
village folk.
It is a useless fashion to bury the dead in red velvet, as a finish off
to the oak, and the leaden coffins. However, all this cost is met out of
the pockets of the dead, who can no longer manage their own affairs, and
have all the appearance of bearing it with patient submission, whatever
their last wish might be!
Lewes stands on a spur of the downs, the river Ouse runs at its base.
Between this and the ascent, School Hill, a turning to the left leads to
an adjoining village, Southover, deserving of mention, as once the seat
of a monastery of historic interest. There, too, is what was Mr. Newton’s
residence, the Priory, a fine old Gothic structure, that is to say, if it
still is there.
In the parish of St. Anns, there are the remains of a castle, worthy the
attention only of antiquarians, and thence the road leads on to Brighton,
a journey of eight miles; but all this is sixty-five or sixty-six years
ago.
My uncle and aunt, Captain and Mrs. Wallinger, at this time left Seaford
and settled at Southover, where Mrs. Gwynne, having become a widow,
settled likewise. So there were three weird sisters who had never lived
in the same place since their marriage, once more grouped together.
I had acquired some anatomical knowledge, Mr. Hodson having recently
purchased a new skeleton, a very gentlemanly one, which gave one the idea
of its having been in very good society. I had induced it to yield me a
very substantial knowledge of its bones.
I had also fully mastered the “Pharmacopœia Collegii Regalis Medicorum
Londinensis,” not only the last but some preceding issues of the work. I
knew all the drugs, and the tinctures, and the spirits; so I was in some
measure prepared to study disease, and learn the uses of medicines. This
was in 1827, when I entered myself at St. George’s Hospital, and took a
room at 191, Sloane Street, over a hair-dresser’s shop. The name of my
landlord was Bloxup; of my landlady, Jones; from which it may be inferred
that it was Bloxup and Co., Limited.
I have noticed that happy couples who marry themselves to each other
often lead a more decent life than those who take the pledge. I never
lodged with a better conducted couple than the Bloxup-Joneses. Mrs. Jones
had all the ready ways of handling fronts for lady-customers, while Mr.
Bloxup attended to the hair-crop in a room behind.
Dr. Thomas Young, the illustrious inventor of the Undulatory Theory of
Light, was then a physician at St. George’s. I used to go round the wards
with him. He was thought to be very undecided in his opinions of a case;
the fact is, medicine is so uncertain a science, it was not good enough
for such an intellect as his to work on. Pupils learnt very little by
going round with the physicians; they heard nothing from them, and it
was regarded as a somewhat daring venture to put a question. The best
plan was to go round with the house-physician early in the day; he would
explain to the pupils the nature of the cases and what was being done
for their cure. A friend of mine told me that he asked Dr. Warren, while
going the round of the wards, what was the name of a skin-disease for
which he was prescribing; and that the doctor looked at him blandly, and
replied, “I am sure I don’t know, do you?”