The Bullers, a political family, had a son who filled the rectory of
Troston, and were often on a visit to him there. They were the parents
of Charles Buller, Lord Durham’s secretary in Canada, afterwards member
for Liskeard, and the pet of the House.
These Bullers were much of the Lord John Russell set; were friends of
the Grotes, the Nussau Seniors, the Thackerays, the Sidney Smiths, the
Walshams, and their like, not to mention the Bunburys, all more or less
_philosophers_ of the advanced type.
I liked Charles Buller’s company. He was good-natured, moderate in his
views, the friend of the opinionated without being conceited himself. He
was a fine speaker, but afflicted with asthma, the greatest curse that
can befall a rising statesman.
I heard much about Whigism in this circle, and always with disgust; they
were too autocratic, too grasping, too well off to obtain the confidence
of those who, at a glance, could see behind their scenes.
There was Lord John, who began life as the fool of the family; and this
character in the Alabama business reached its highest pitch. He was a
sprig of the dukedom, so he did not like that Mr. Delane (the editor
of the _Times_), and would not invite him to his receptions. So _that
Mr. Delane_, who knew his own value, ordered the lord-John speeches in
Parliament to be only indicated in brief, not reported. On this Lord John
did like that Mr. Delane, and sent him invitations; so his speeches were
reported once more in full.
He, too, must be an earl, and what are these beggars on England-back
going to do with their titles after all? One would think that a true man
would shrink from being mylorded by his filthy valet; but they can bear
it!
Charles Buller was a man for every one to love, and he died too soon.
On the whole, Samuel Rickards’s parsonage was the most literary house
to be at, though his knowledge was a good deal confined. But he and
his wife were open to everything, botany especially, and antiquities.
I recollect their showing me an iron ring that had been dug up on the
glebe, which had an inscription on it that Rickards could not interpret.
It was _Bertus beriori_. I suggested that it was monkish latin, and might
signify _A greatest to a greater warrior_, assuming it to be derived from
_berus_, _berior_, _bertus_, and this pleased him much.
Who, belonging to the days of which I write, does not remember the
cheery voice and the bright, handsome face of Tom Thornhill, the son of
the first winner of the Derby, and the inheritor of the Norfolk estate,
Riddlesworth Hall! Who has forgotten his hospitality, and the famous
still champagne, the bountiful stock of which was left by the father, and
kept up by the son!
I often stayed at Riddlesworth with the Thornhills; they saw a good deal
of company there, both from Norfolk and from town. Lord Sandwich was very
fond of talking to doctors, so they said; and he often talked to me. I
recollect his saying that his father-in-law, Lord Anglesey, forgot, not
unfrequently, that he had only one leg (for the sensation of every part
of the body is cerebral), and he would sometimes jump out of bed in the
morning as if he had two, and fall on the floor.
I once accidentally met Colonel Keppel, the late Earl of Albemarle,
at the same house. I was then staying at Riddlesworth, but there was
no company there, when Colonel Keppel was announced. This caused some
perturbation, as only a family dinner was prepared. It appeared that the
colonel was to be of a party there on the morrow, but had mistaken the
day. All, however, went off well; and since, when I heard of the homage
paid him on his almost last birthday, as almost the last survivor of the
battle, on the field of Waterloo, it recalled to me the charm of his
manner and conversation.
At the time his father and brother were still alive, residing at
Quiddenham Hall.
What one missed in these great houses was the company of one’s own class,
men in the pursuit of literature or science; but such things are of
no use in the patrician circles, they would only be in the way. These
lords of the soil love horses, carriages, plate, all of which one can
see in great perfection in the parks, and at the silversmiths’, as well
as in private houses, and the pleasure in any case is but momentary.
In justice, however, it must be said that high-class people are often
capable of conversing with those who have little to show besides their
brains; and are not slow in eliciting information from them. Lord
Sandwich was a good example of such; but Lord Albemarle had a _naïveté_
and an intelligence so delightful as to need nothing at another’s hands.
Then, a rich aristocracy has opportunities which do not belong to the men
who have their money to make. The one class has not to consider in his
dealings with others how he can make the most out of them, but is able to
be generous; this alone has an ennobling influence. An American made the
remark that, many as are the faults of the English nobility, they always
kept their promise.
The reason why authors, deserving of encouragement from the intrinsic
value of their work, are no longer patronized and brought into notice by
the great, is that the influence of the nobility has wholly died out.
The literary leaders, great editors, and the like, play but a minor
part; they are not enough looked up to by the people at large, who do
not understand them. They can confer fame on men among their own select
class, but that fame cannot over-leap its boundary, and reach even the
intelligent vulgar.
Even the Royal Society, begun by a king, was long afraid to venture in
its career with anything less than a royal or noble president, and this
within the memory of man; but happily it now runs alone, as do all the
other learned bodies in its track.
The truth may lie here—though scientific men are not growing rich, rich
men are growing scientific.
I must not leave Riddlesworth without a tribute to Mrs. Thornhill, a lady
so conscientious; and that means gentle, kind and full of charity. She
was the daughter of Mr. Waddington, of Cavenham Hall, the county member;
a devoted mother, a constant friend.
I suppose, like everybody else, except myself, she is dead; that class of
people live too luxuriously to last very long.
Mrs. Thornhill’s mother, Mrs. Waddington, was a lady of extraordinary
beauty. She was of the Milnes family of which Moncton Milnes was the
recent head, a wit and writer who tried to legitimize bad grammar on the
liberal principle that every one had a right to do what he liked with
his own language. He, too, like the brewers, could not do without being
a lord, though already a patrician, which is greater, and which a king
cannot create. He was called the “Cool of the Evening,” which must imply
that he was a very pleasant guest on a hot summer’s night.
Our country parishes, with their resident squires, are really little
republics with the squire himself at their head as president, and
the clergyman acting as his prime minister. It is a form of paternal
government without the despotism. The parish clerk, humble as he is,
fills the office of a secretary of state, the rest are the people. Where
the squire lives on his estate, how many of these happy republics may be
seen! All the parishes, pretty much, that I have described are of this
category, and I hold it beyond human wit to improve them. All are free!
Mrs. Newton of Elvedon was the sister of Mrs. Waddington. The place of
that name has since become the property of Duleep Singh. In the time of
the Newtons it was no exception to the happily-governed squirearchies of
East Anglia.
Two or three places of mark remain to be mentioned, and as many to be
omitted, before quitting the subject. One is the seat of the Duke of
Grafton, Euston Hall, inherited by the family from Lord Arlington, in the
time of Charles II. The duke, who was Earl of Euston when I first knew
him, lived much on his Northamptonshire property, but was a good deal in
Norfolk too, where his interests were large. He showed me the principal
rooms in his fine mansion, which, though large, bespoke great comfort.
The drawing-room, which was very long, had bay-windows, with a daïs under
each for seats. There is a grand staircase; on one wall of this was hung
a portrait of the duchess, mother of the first duke, then seven or eight
generations ago, a lapse of time when the bar-sinister had ceased to
cross the shield; nevertheless, it was retained in the armorial bearings
of the house, and this may be regarded as a proper pride.
I was shown a picture of the hall as it was originally, with gilded
pinnacles, but these had disappeared.
The usual entrance was at the back of the building, flanked by the
stables; the front entrance was approached through the park gates,
which, as was an old custom, were never opened except to royalty.
The duke, regardless of the example set by his ancestors in contenting
themselves with a life interest in so fine a property, for the good of
those to come, was quite willing to sell Euston if he could have got his
price, but it did not change hands.
I was not acquainted with the duke in fashionable life, so I know little
of his character there; but I believe he was thought to be eccentric.
All I know is that he was a benevolent and kind-hearted president of
his village republic. He was married to the daughter of the last Earl
of Berkeley—a sister of the famed colonel of that name—a lady of great
worth. My acquaintance with the family was professional only; in this
way. I had to advise several members of the house, and this sufficed
to confirm me in the opinion that the higher you go the greater is the
amiability you encounter. It may be good breeding only, but whatever its
source may be, it is deserving of admiration.
One more place I will mention in Norfolk to which I was summoned, the
seat of Mr. Angerstein. In point of decoration, it was a gilded palace,
the most superb in its interior that I had ever seen. I remained there
for the night, and had a most agreeable conversation with the head of the
house and his two sons, the general and the member for Greenwich.
Some very fine pictures remain in the mansion. The one I was most
gratified in seeing was a Rembrandt, the finest almost of that artist’s
work; it was a Charles I., on horseback, under an archway. I never met
with the equal of this fine painting, except in the equestrian figure
of the Duke of Galiere,—Brignole Sale,—by the same hand, in the palazzo
Rosso at Genoa.
I remember being told by General Angerstein that his father had always
regretted the sale of the pictures to the nation, which was, however,
made compulsory by the terms of his predecessor’s will.