One’s memoirs never seem to end; the more one advances the more one seems
to remember. It is like living over again on somewhat easy terms, for a
repetition of the reality would by all, if offered it, be respectfully
declined, even by those who have passed through it the most smoothly. But
this revival of a long life in memory itself is a good; one can set aside
and suppress the bad feelings that have had their place in alternate
succession, and can so purify being, though too late, as one passes
through it over again. We have all had friends, and in thus reviving
their recollection we feel how far less stable within us are their
failings than their kindly deeds. The models of good men are those who
never speak ill of others; there are many such, and in passing once more
from childhood to old age we may imitate them at last.
The Duke of Norfolk was a friend of mine, for he sent me game at a time
when he did not even know me, with his compliments; the only man who
ever did so before or since. This good duke, this most high and puissant
prince, resided in a pleasant, not pretentious mansion near Bury, from
which he drove in an open carriage with one horse on a Sunday to his
Catholic Church. It was said that neither he nor his predecessor, known
as Jockey of Norfolk, were acquainted with their near relationship. The
duke whom he succeeded was said to have once determined to invite all
who were descendants of his house to a banquet at Arundel, but that when
the number of claimants reached two hundred, he paused and abandoned his
purpose. His next of kin, on whom I am now engaged, was a man of business
in the City; had his office, and responded to orders for wine. While thus
honourably occupied he had to be looked up, and was credibly informed
that he was wanted, not by the law only, but to take over the lordship
of Arundel Castle, together with the premier dukedom, besides earldoms
enough, and over a dozen baronies; a number of peerages sufficient to
constitute a full committee of the House of Lords.
This nobleman thus entered on many homes, but he preferred his own
country seat, to which he had been accustomed, to castle and palace, and
there, full of years and honours, he suddenly died. His heir had gone by
the historical name of the Earl of Surrey, and his grandson by that of
Lord Fitzalan; but the latter at the duke’s death assumed the earldom of
Arundel and Surrey.
Lord Fitzalan, travelling in the Mediterranean, had fallen ill. He was
the guest of Admiral Lyons, and became attached to the daughter of that
heroic seaman. This lady, who only died lately, was justly beloved; her
charity to the poor had no bounds. A priest at Lymington, who was one of
her almoners, told me he could ask her for whatever he saw needed by the
poor, and, no matter what the cost, it was given. The present duke is her
worthy son.
The residence of the old duke, who lived there now three generations
ago, was at Fornham All Saints, in a good park. After his death it was
purchased for a young man named Lord Manners, the son of an Irish lord
chancellor, and has been resold. This fortunate youth had all his work
done for him beforehand. I met him at dinner often at Culford Hall, and
I recall my amused state of mind at seeing him lean back in his chair
and play with a feather from the dress of a lady at his side, which he
peacefully blew up in the air.
In close vicinity to Fornham Park was another, where stood a mansion
which, if anything can do so, must last for ever, not because of its
strength, but its beauty. This is Hengrave Hall, a proud example,
almost unique, of our domestic architecture. It is very fully displayed
in Rookwood-Gage’s work, which I was once permitted to devour on the
premises. Sir Thomas Gage was the owner, but he was very little there,
preferring the society of Vienna to that of his eastern county home.
He was of a knightly family, and himself an elegant man of fashion;
he represented the elder branch of the Gages, the lord of that name
notwithstanding. His ancestor conferred a benefit on his country as
durable as sunshine and time, one that every Englishman profits by and
enjoys from childhood to old age; he introduced the greengage from Vienna
into this country, and it has ever since borne his name.
I was just now speaking of Culford Hall, which the press, no doubt on
intimate terms with its present proprietor, Lord Cadogan, and acquainted
with all his movements, calls Culford Abbey. It is a modern, monkless
building, and the parish was once a lordship of Bury Abbey; nothing
more. The place has an exemplary record; it was purchased more than
half of this century ago, of Lord Cornwallis’s daughters, by Mr. Benyon
de Beauvoir. For several years he spent the rental of the estate, some
eleven thousand acres, in rebuilding all its farmhouses and cottages,
which done he entailed it on his nephew, the Rev. Edward Benyon. It was,
like most of the great dwellings in the county, the home of good company,
hospitality, and sport: and for pheasant and partridge shooting Suffolk
is not unfamed.
Mr. Benyon had no heir, and the estate went, with another vast property
of sixty thousand acres, to the present Mr. Benyon, of Berkshire.