AT HOME
[Sidenote: 1851. Aug. 7.]
While _Mæander_ was dismantling, I attended the wedding of my nephew,
Edward Coke, and Miss Agar-Ellis, daughter of Lord Dover, whose
house was close to the Admiralty, and into which I walked after the
breakfast, wearing my wedding favour.
I was shown into the First Sea Lord’s room, with whom I had been on
terms of intimacy some years.
Before many minutes the door was thrown open, and Sir Francis Beaufort,
head of the Hydrographical Department, attended by his staff, addressed
me--“Captain Keppel, before I hold out the hand of welcome, I come in
the name of myself and Board to thank you for the manner in which you
upheld the dignity of this branch of the service on the Australian
station.” After shaking hands they withdrew. Being alone with my friend
Admiral Deans Dundas, I ventured on a little chaff, asking him where
their Lordships’ reprimand was. He told me that they had given the
reprimand stronger to Erskine, on whose report they had acted. This
amused me.
The Admiral then led me into the presence of Sir Francis Baring, the
First Lord, saying, “Here’s this fellow Keppel. I can do nothing with
him,” and withdrew. A more straightforward, upright man than Sir
Francis there could not be. He invited me to go into the business,
which ended in his asking if there was anything that I wanted at the
Admiralty.
I replied that if he would kindly promote my First Lieutenant I
should not care a straw about the reprimands! He then said that if my
Lieutenant was in every way eligible he should be promoted. (Bowyear
shortly afterwards served as Commander in the _Vengeance_, 84, with
Captain Lord Edward Russell. He is now an Admiral, living in Guernsey,
and often comes across in the summer, when we talk over old times.)
My invalid wife and self moved into the pretty lodge in Hyde Park,
lent us by my brother-in-law, Harry Stephenson, Deputy Ranger. The
First Exhibition was in full force, in Hyde Park, the idea having been
originated by the Prince Consort. Weeks passed before I was tired of
the novel scene. Everything was there, except ships.
What seemed to astonish our foreign neighbours most were the size of
our bath-tubs, jugs, and basins. I found that great and good Rajah,
Sir James Brooke, still under the persecution of his former agent,
Mr. Wise, who was assisted by what we called “The Revenue Cutter,”
Mr. Hume! Sir James was a wreck of his former self. Among our Norfolk
friends and relations I had plenty of shooting.
[Sidenote: Sept.]
Near Quidenham was Edward Eyre, Rector of Larling. His was a charming
family, consisting of wife, four daughters, and a young son. Eyre
kindly offered to help me in a book I was perpetrating, with a view to
vindicate the character of Rajah Brooke. Norfolk is a genial county; in
spite of politics they all work together.
My father on his deathbed had said to his wife that she would be the
first lady who ever won the Derby. He had at the time a promising bay
colt, “Bolingbroke,” who had won the “Hopeful” stakes at Newmarket in
1849, also the “Prendergast” at the second October meeting of that
year. Edwards was his trainer. In 1850 Bolingbroke ran sixth in the
Derby stakes in Edwards’s name. Report was strong that he had been got
at. He won the Don stakes at Doncaster.
I frequently dined with Rous, and held the sovereigns when matches were
made. My brother-in-law, Joseph Hawley, was getting up a promising
racing stud. After Goodwood I went with the Rajah and Brierly for
the Cowes Regatta. There were rumours of old friend Schetky retiring
from the office of marine painter to the Royal Yacht Squadron: the
very thing for Brierly, at all events he might make friends among the
members.
Every one was anxious to see the clipper yacht _America_, which won the
R.Y.S. Cup. She had unusually taunt spars, and was sold for £4000.
In the match against _Titiana_ she beat her by four minutes, twelve
seconds. Heard of Tom Spring’s death--good fellow; he had “benefit of
clergy” too.
[Sidenote: Nov.]
Holyoake of 78th was now at home, and made me a kind offer of a mount
with the Pytchley. My hunting kit was always ready. I think the meet
was Cottesmore. We were riding down the slope of a turnip-field, a
stiffish hedge at the bottom, a gate in the left corner. A fox got up
in front, and was through the hedge in a moment.
There was a cry of “keep your line”; mine was to the right of the post.
Just as my horse sprang for his jump, some heavy farmer on my right
turned my horse into the bottom of the ditch, which held water.
Unluckily I was undermost, and my spur penetrated the left shoulder of
the horse, who was got out, lame as a tree. Friend Holyoake was near at
hand. We had then a walk of four miles. The next time with the Pytchley
I was known as the “Post Captain.”