In old days no one would have dreamt of riding in the Row in country costume; but now, I fancy, no rule whatever prevails about this, and people ride in anything they like, whilst the brilliant and eccentric figures which at times used to make their appearance have now totally disappeared, having given way to a dull and monotonous uniformity of costume.

During the season white duck trousers used to be much worn by gentlemen in the park, and the extreme tightness which fashion at one time prescribed for these occasionally led to some ludicrous incidents. A former Duchess of Beaufort, I remember, used to relate a story of such a mishap having happened to one of her admirers. Years ago there was a good deal more romance surrounding the love-making and engagements of young people than prevails to-day, and young men would often send a little present to the lady of their choice with the message that its acceptance would signify that their suit had proved successful, and its return the opposite. At the time before the Duchess’s marriage, when she was Lady Georgiana Curzon, a certain peer who was very much in love with her at last determined to learn his fate, and so sent her a beautiful little riding-whip, together with an impassioned note, in which he said that he should be in the park the next morning, when he would expect to discover her decision. This would be indicated by her riding-whip; that is to say, the presence of one he had sent her would mean acceptance, and its absence refusal.

The next morning the young lady duly rode in the park, but, to his extreme disgust, her expectant swain saw that the riding-whip she carried was not the previous day’s gift, whereupon, overcome with rage and mortification, he at once put his horse into a gallop, with the result (at the recollection of which the Duchess could never help laughing) that his tight white trousers burst right up the side.

BARON DE GÉRAMB

In Rotten Row Lady Diana Beauclerk was once wont to ride in a green velvet riding habit, whilst the Prince of Orange caracoled by her side. Here also used to canter the dashing Baron de Géramb, whose plumed kalpack and furred pelisse made such an impression upon the British military authorities as to cause the creation of certain cavalry regiments dressed as hussars, which are still part of the English army. This Baron, who ended his days as the chief of a Trappist monastery, was an extraordinary and somewhat mysterious character, who, after having offered to raise 24,000 Croatian troops to assist in the overthrow of Buonaparte, was denounced as an impostor and ordered out of England. Upon this he barricaded himself in his house, hanging out a board on which was written, “My house is my castle,” and announced that he would sustain a long siege whilst awaiting the arrival of his Croatians, and at the last extremity would blow up his house and all Bayswater rather than yield. His resistance, however, did not last long, for that very evening he was captured, taken to Harwich, and sent out of the country. In later life Géramb, becoming a monk, rose, as has been said, to a very high position in the Trappist community. Indeed, when he went to Rome in 1837 he created such a sensation that Pope Gregory XVI. said, “There are two popes now—Pope Géramb and myself.” The favourite motto of Géramb, in his later years, when he had become a pattern of simple devotion and zeal, was “se taire, souffrir et mourir,” words which he caused to be inscribed on the walls of his modest cell. This Procureur-Général of the Trappist Order, who was the creator of the English hussar, died at Rome on the 15th of March 1848.

The era of the dandies has long since passed away, and were he to return to the scene of his sartorial triumphs, D’Orsay,

would find that his well-thought-out costume, far from evoking admiration, would be regarded only with ridicule and contempt. The days of the gorgeous equipages which at one time formed one of the principal sights in Hyde Park during the season are also over; there seems a strong probability, indeed, that in the not very distant future horsed carriages in London will become something very like curiosities, being supplanted by motors, which, notwithstanding certain inconveniences, are essentially suited to a modern city.

Probably the only person now living who used a vis-à-vis, a form of carriage once very fashionable but now totally obsolete, is the present Lady Cardigan, who now, I believe, seldom leaves Deene Park, her lovely place in Northamptonshire. I remember my brother once being very much amused, after having been on a visit there, at a little incident of which he was the hero. Met at the station by a dogcart, he observed that the driver treated his attempts at conversation with a somewhat tolerant familiarity. On coming up to the house and finding that no stop was made at the front door, he proceeded to inquire the reason, when he was told that the servants’ entrance was elsewhere. He then found that he had been taken for a French cook, whose arrival had been eagerly looked for—a discovery which caused him the greatest amusement and delight, for there was nothing that he liked more than telling a joke against himself.

DUELLING

At the east end of Hyde Park once stood a fine avenue of walnut trees, but these were destroyed in the early part of the nineteenth century, when the wood was sold to be made into gunstocks.

Duelling, though practically obsolete in England after the first quarter of the nineteenth century, lingered on up to about the middle of the ’forties, when an encounter between Lieutenant-Colonel Fawcett and Lieutenant Munro, in which the former was shot dead, led to a debate in the House of Commons owing to the wife of the former being refused a pension. On this occasion Sir Charles Napier declared that but one way existed of effectually putting an end to duelling. No duel should be allowed which was not fought across a table. Of the two pistols used only one should be loaded with ball, lots being drawn to see who should have the loaded one. If this produced no result, then both pistols should be loaded with ball, and the survivor, should there be one, hanged. The last duel actually fought in Hyde Park is believed to have taken place in April 1817, when two gentlemen exchanged shots, both of them being wounded. As late, however, as 1822 a duel was fought in Kensington Gardens between the Dukes of Buckingham and Bedford.

At one time a perfect mania prevailed for fighting duels, and this was by no means confined to the well-to-do classes. In 1780 two negro servants fought a duel in Hyde Park, neither of the combatants, however, being seriously hurt; but an encounter which occurred some three years later between two footmen in the same place was of a much more serious character, both being severely wounded. Towards the beginning of the nineteenth century, however, duels began to be much fewer in number.

At my old home in Norfolk—Wolterton Hall—my nephew, the present Lord Orford, recently came upon a number of curious old documents, amongst them a copy of the codicil to the will of the eccentric Lord Camelford, drawn up by him two days before his fatal duel with Mr. Best. The reasons for this codicil being at Wolterton was no doubt that Lord Camelford’s mother had been a Miss Wilkinson, a family connected with Burnham, a property which for generations has belonged to the Walpoles.

LORD CAMELFORD

Lord Camelford, it will be remembered, was called out by Mr. Best under great provocation, of which an officious person was the cause. This individual had represented to Lord Camelford that Mr. Best had spoken slightingly of him to a Mrs. Simmons, a lady with whom Lord Camelford was on terms of considerable intimacy, whilst Mr. Best had formerly been her lover. The latter, who was noted as a deadly shot, did everything he could to avoid a conflict, and others also attempted to use their influence, but their efforts were all in vain, Lord Camelford declaring that the thing must go on. Accordingly a duel was fought in the fields behind Holland House, with the result that Lord Camelford was mortally wounded, expiring some four days after the fatal meeting.

A CURIOUS CODICIL

The codicil, drawn up in the very face of impending death and containing, as it does, a manly reference to Lord Camelford’s adversary, is a dignified and interesting document, the full contents of which, I believe, have never before been made public. For this reason I now venture to give a copy of it here:—

After Lord Camelford’s death an inquest was duly held and a verdict of wilful murder returned against some person or persons unknown. A bill of indictment was then prepared against Mr. Best and his friend, which was ignored by the Grand Jury, who thus carried out the desire expressed in the codicil. Lord Camelford’s other wish was also respected, and his body was duly removed to Switzerland, where in a secluded spot near the Lake of St. Lampierre this eccentric but dignified nobleman of another age sleeps his last sleep. According to his instructions, no monument or stone marks his resting-place.

This Lord Camelford was the second and last of the name, his father, Thomas Pitt, a nephew of the great Lord Chatham, having received the Barony. The first Lord Camelford was a cultivated man and something of a poet, for when Lord Hervey stayed with him at Boconnoc in 1775 he wrote the following pretty lines (which are not, I think, generally known) in memory of his visitor’s mother, Lady Hervey, who had been the beautiful Molly Lepell:—

Possessing a certain number of family pictures, the majority of which are portraits of Walpoles, I have for many years past seized every opportunity of adding to their number.

Many years ago I was fortunate enough to secure at a sale a fine miniature of Horace Walpole as a child, dressed in a fanciful costume—the work of Nathaniel Hone. Owing to people being out of town and to its being a wet day, the bidding was very feeble, and this little gem, which I have several times lent for exhibitions, became my property for the insignificant sum of two pounds. Besides this I have also a small portrait of Horace Walpole which had become the property of Lady Blessington, at whose sale I bought it.

Amongst other family pictures I have also four pastels by Rosalba, representing different members of the Walpole family. One of them is an excellent portrait of the owner of Strawberry Hill, whilst another represents Sir Robert’s brother, the Admiral Galfridus, whose sword was one of Nelson’s most valued possessions. Galfridus Walpole himself had a not undistinguished naval career, losing his right arm in a sea fight in the Mediterranean, on which occasion he was in command of the Lion, a ship of eighty guns which, single-handed, fought four French ships mounting sixty guns apiece. When the Rev. Maurice Suckling married the grand-daughter of Sir Robert Walpole’s sister, Captain Suckling presented him with this sword, the recipient in course of time bequeathing it to his grandson, Horatio Nelson, who always wore it, and was grasping it in his hand when so severely wounded at the battle of Teneriffe.

Always particularly interested in memorials of Nelson, I have managed to collect a few things connected with the great admiral, amongst others some curious pieces of a dessert service owned by him.

It is, I believe, a well-authenticated fact that Wellington and Nelson only met once. On this occasion Wellington was going upstairs at Downing Street and met a man coming down. He afterwards found, on making inquiries, that this man was Nelson, who, on his side, told some one that he had met a most remarkable-looking young man on the stairs at Downing Street. There exists, I have been told, a print depicting what is nothing but a purely imaginary interview between these two great men, for there is no record that any regular meeting ever took place between them.

A GROUP BY DEVIS

Another interesting picture which I possess is one representing the Vanneck family grouped on the lawn of their house at Fulham, with old Putney Bridge (destroyed only a few years ago) standing out in the background. This picture was the work of Arthur Devis, an eighteenth-century painter of portraits and also of what are known as “conversation pieces.” The work of Devis is not very much known to-day, but during his lifetime the painter in question attracted a good deal of attention owing to his very remarkable likeness to the Pretender; indeed, during a period of political excitement he was actually obliged to leave Preston in disguise. Appropriately enough he painted a picture of the “Pretender and his Friends.”

Two prominent figures in my picture are two ladies, daughters of Sir Joshua Vanneck, who both married Walpoles. One became the grandmother of my husband (I have also a miniature of her by Smart), and the other the great grandmother of my cousin, the late Sir Spencer Walpole. Her husband was the Hon. Thomas Walpole, Horace Walpole’s cousin, who lost his fortune owing to the capture of the West Indian Islands by the French, having had the bad luck to accept bills drawn by the Scotch firm of Alexander upon his real property in that quarter of the world. The French Government after this capture at once declared all debts due to English creditors to be annulled; but Mr. Walpole, betaking himself to Paris, after a protracted struggle in the French Courts, eventually obtained a judgment in his favour, and then very honourably handed over his recovered estates to the Bank of England in discharge of his obligations.

After the death of his first wife Mr. Walpole married in Paris Madame de Villegagnon, the widow of the Comte de Villegagnon, and Sir Spencer Walpole possessed the permission signed by the French King—the unfortunate Louis XVI.—which, under such circumstances, it was in those days necessary to obtain.

In addition to pictures I have also a certain number of Walpole relics, amongst them a fine marqueterie clock which formerly belonged to Horace Walpole at Strawberry Hill.

In former years, before the rage for collecting had reached its present pitch, and the extravagant prices of to-day were as yet undreamt of, French art occupied a very different position in the estimation of collectors from that which it does to-day, and occasionally fine old French pictures were to be found in very queer places.

In one of my scrap-books I have a photograph of an old French picture with some notes written at the side which recall to my mind a very kindly action which was performed by Mr. Cobden, and by which he greatly assisted a poor labourer and his family.

Mr. Cobden chanced to be one day walking in a Sussex village with his friend Mr. Robinson (afterwards Sir Charles), of the South Kensington Museum, and came across a child trailing what appeared to be a piece of old board by a string run through two roughly made holes. For some reason or other this board attracted his attention, and examining it, he discovered it to be an old picture evidently of considerable artistic merit.

A FINE OLD PICTURE SAVED

Conducted by the child to its home, Mr. Cobden interviewed the father—a poor labourer with a large family—to whom he suggested that as the picture might possibly be of some value he should allow it to be restored, and afterwards privately raffled amongst some friends; in this way a nice little sum would be brought in to the poor household. The labourer willingly gave his consent, and after careful restoration, the picture turned out to be a graceful and elegant portrait of Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne, a Princess of the House of Savoy and the mother of Louis XV. From the style and brilliant colouring of the painting it was declared to be the work of Largillière, and in all probability had once hung at Cowdray, the ancient home of the Brownes, the ruins of which stood not very far away.

The raffle was duly organised by Mr. Cobden, twenty-five tickets at a guinea apiece being disposed of amongst friends. Of course I took one, but, alas, I did not win the picture.

Since those days works of art of all kinds have largely increased in value, and realise sums which would have fairly staggered the collectors of the past.

It is said that the Bernal Collection, which in 1855 realised £69,000, would to-day fetch close on half a million. Many things, indeed, which were then sold have since changed hands at a profit of a thousand per cent, and even more. A Dutch picture, for instance, which was sold at the Bernal sale for eighty guineas, was bought by Mr. Wertheimer, when Mr. Adrian Hope’s pictures were sold, for no less a sum than £3200.

It is not, I think, generally known that before Mr. Bernal began his great collection he had already formed a small collection of pictures. These he sold on the death of his first wife, who met with such a tragic end, being burnt to death while dressing for a party. She was Mr. Bernal Osborne’s mother.

Many collectors are very careless of their treasures, and, once a coveted objet d’art is obtained, forget all about it. The Marquis of Hertford, who did so much to make the Wallace Collection what it now is, had a good deal of this tendency, and would keep some of his finest and most valuable pictures piled up in heaps against the wall, not troubling to have them hung, or indeed paying any attention to them at all.

LORD HERTFORD

Lord Hertford was in the habit of employing certain agents to buy for him, and on one occasion, it is said, sending for one of the most able of these men, bade him spare no expense or trouble in the effort to secure a certain picture, the details of which he minutely described. The collector accordingly set out, telling his lordship that his wishes should certainly be fulfilled; but in spite of the most strenuous exertions the much-sought-for picture could not be discovered, and Lord Hertford eventually received a letter from the man saying that, much to his regret, he was abandoning the search, feeling convinced that it was useless.

A year or two later, however, this very collector, whilst travelling on the Continent, chanced to come across a shrewd dealer whom he had not yet questioned about this picture. He accordingly asked the man whether he knew anything about it, to which the latter replied: “Know anything about it? Of course I do; but you need not trouble any further about it, for it has gone into a collection from which no money will cause it to emerge. Lord Hertford bought it of me three or four years ago, and, as you know, he never parts with anything.” The collector at once informed Lord Hertford of what he had been told, and on a search being made the picture was duly discovered, propped up behind several others with its face to the wall.

The splendid Wallace Collection, as is well known, was lost to France by the scant consideration which the French Government showed to Lady Wallace; but it is said that England, on the other hand, failed to secure another very interesting and valuable bequest entirely through a misunderstanding.

Dr. Schlieman, the famous excavator of Troy, had, it is said, quite made up his mind to leave his collection, which included many objects of great antiquarian value, to this country, but oddly enough his election as an honorary member of a very learned club caused him to alter his decision. On receiving the notification of this election the distinguished antiquarian (who did not understand that honorary members paid no subscription) sent £10 to the secretary of the club, thinking that he would at once acquit himself of his obligations as a new member.

The secretary, however, on receipt of this sum, interpreted it as being either an insult or a bribe, and a great fuss was made, which so disgusted Dr. Schlieman that he determined to reconsider his bequest, and did so, with the consequence that the whole of his collection went elsewhere at his death.

Lord Hertford, though a great connoisseur of French art, did not, I believe, make any great collection of French eighteenth-century books, such as the little almanacks, illustrated by good artists, which were produced in such abundance during the reign of Louis XV.

LORD CARNARVON’S BOOKS

Lord Carnarvon has a fine collection of these, amongst them being an Almanach des Muses bearing the arms of Marie Antoinette. Another of his treasures is Les bienfaits du sommeil, an exceptionally scarce and practically unknown almanack, embellished with four plates engraved by Delaunay after Moreau. He also possesses a perfect copy of the very rare Suite d’estampes pour servir à la mode—a reduction of the Monument de costume of Moreau le jeune. This, by great good fortune, he found whilst looking through a vast assortment of rubbish at a shop in Constantinople, one Turkish pound only being asked for two perfect copies. Other rarities in this most careful collection of scarce and beautiful books are the tallest known copy of that rarest of Elzevirs, Le pastissier François, and a first edition of the Art of Cookery, with H. Glasse, the autograph of Mrs. Glasse, written upon the title-page. The well-known remark, “First catch your hare,” does not occur in the first edition.

Lord Carnarvon also has many splendid bindings, as well as an ancient morocco box, covered with gold tooling and made to hold prayer-books, which once belonged to Gabrielle d’Estrées.

A collection of books of this kind, many of them containing sketches by great artists such as Fragonard and Moreau, is exceedingly difficult to get together—taste and knowledge being indispensable requisites as well as the possession of a well-filled purse.

At one time massive folio volumes were the delight of the bibliophile, but that day has long since passed: small and beautifully bound and illustrated volumes are now the collectors especial delight. Fashion, indeed, exercises her sway here as in other forms of art. I remember, for instance, a regular craze which was originated by Sir Francis Grant, a fashionable painter of other days, who was a great favourite in society. A portrait painted by him of his daughter (a singularly good-looking girl), wearing a red cloak, created a great sensation, and in consequence of the happy effect produced by the brilliant colouring of this picture, every one, old or young, ugly or beautiful, rushed to have their portrait painted in a similar costume. The result in most cases, however, was far from being as successful as in the case of Miss Grant. She afterwards became Lady Annesley.

Sir Francis painted a picture of my sister and myself which now hangs at Methley. This, in my opinion, was a great failure, for my sister looks like a murderess, whilst I am represented as apparently suffering from the effects of a narcotic which she has just administered. Nevertheless, many people said it was not at all a bad picture, but I never liked it. Sir Francis was an agreeable man, and we often used to go to his house in Regent’s Park to sit to him in the evenings. He was the only painter I ever heard of who painted by gas-light, a feat which has always lingered in my memory as a somewhat remarkable thing.

THE HON. HENRY GRAVES

The Hon. Henry Graves was another popular portrait-painter of the past. I think that in all probability the best thing he ever did was a miniature portrait of myself, which, on account of its beautiful execution, is quite a little gem. For some years Mr. Graves had no success at all, but a portrait of the late Lady Alexandra Lennox being very much admired, he leapt into popularity, and afterwards, I believe, regularly made several thousands every year. Thorburn also painted what I suppose would be called a miniature of me. His particular bent lay in painting portraits rather like miniatures, but covering a very much larger surface. Another fashionable painter was Buckner, who painted my portrait in what may be called the keepsake style (as a matter of fact, an engraving of it actually appeared in a number of the Keepsake). Though somewhat artificial in pose, this picture was not at all unpleasing, being far more graceful than any modern effort of the same sort. At the present time, alas, the art of portrait-painting, except in one or two cases, cannot be said to stand at anything but a very moderate level.

Buckner, it was said, invariably made his portraits more beautiful than the sitters really were, in order to please people and thus cause their friends to flock to his studio.

Lithographs after Count D’Orsay’s drawings of well-known people of his day, which were once so popular, are now seldom to be seen. I well remember Lord Beaconsfield telling me how anxious he was to secure a picture of Napoleon the Third done by D’Orsay; it was coming up for sale at Christie’s, and he feared that it would fetch at least two hundred pounds, a sum which he declared himself ill able to afford. However, when the day came, the bidding was very feeble, and he secured the picture for twenty pounds. I suppose it still hangs at Hughenden.

Sir John Millais I used to meet every year at the shooting parties given by that most delightful of hosts, Sir Henry (now Lord) James. I remember that, by a curious fatality, the weather during these shooting parties was always execrable, but the clever and pleasant guests, together with the most excellent of hosts, used to make us all forget the torrents of rain which fell most of the time.

Lord Leighton also for many years I regularly saw, for he always formed one of a party which came to us every Easter. Nevertheless I cannot say that I ever really knew Lord Leighton well, for there always seemed to be something mysterious about him—a sort of curious reticence, as it were, which prevented one becoming intimate with him. Perhaps this was but fancy; in any case we always remained the best of friends.

A newspaper once mentioned Lord Leighton’s picture of Cimabue finding Giotto at work on his sketches as the “Discovery of Grotto.”

Another criticism of the same sort which appeared in 1884 was the one which described Walker’s “Harbour of Refuge”—a representation of an almshouse, in the swarded quadrangle of which a mower plies his scythe—as a good sea-piece.

MR. HAMILTON AIDÉ

Mr. Hamilton Aidé—one of the last survivors of the little group of which I have just spoken—passed away only a few months ago. A man of singularly refined taste and literary culture, Mr. Aidé was also a very talented painter in water-colours. The most charitable of men, he would occasionally have little exhibitions of his works, and as they secured a ready sale, many poor people benefited by his artistic gifts. His works, principally landscapes in Italy and Sicily, always sold well; at the last exhibition of them in Bond Street, only a few months before his death, they were purchased with great rapidity, and the poor, I believe, benefited to the extent of four or five hundred pounds.

I used at one time to hear a good deal about various artists and their work from my dear governess, Miss Redgrave, whose family (one of which, Mr. Samuel Redgrave, wrote the invaluable Dictionary of Artists of the English School) was well known in artistic circles.

A great friend of the Redgraves was Webster, whose pictures were at one time very popular on account of their genial humour and gaiety. Many, indeed, were engraved. Among his best-known works were “The Smile and the Frown,” illustrating the two different moods of the schoolmaster in Goldsmith’s Deserted Village—“The Boy with many Friends”—“The Village Choir”—“The Dame School”—“Coming out of School,” and others depicting subjects of a similar kind. Mr. Webster was very lively and full of fun, and devoted to children, like many people who have none of their own. He would describe how, as a boy, he had once, by mistake, been locked into the village stocks by his brother, and kept there for some time, owing to the key having been mislaid. He would laugh very much over the recollection of the gibes levelled at him by the village boys whilst he was awaiting his release, adding, however, that the actual experience was anything but pleasant. Another great joke of his was that when he wanted to join the Civil Service Stores, at the time when they were first started, he was informed that only persons connected with the Civil Service could be admitted as members, but triumphantly obtained his ticket as the orphan of a Civil Servant, being then over seventy years of age. Up to about the year 1856 Mr. Webster resided in Kensington, but the rest of his life was spent at a charming old house at Cranbrook, in Kent. During a severe attack of gout, he went one winter’s day, wrapped up in blankets in a bath-chair, to the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, in order to note some ice and snow effects for his picture of “Boys at a Slide,” his reason being that he feared a thaw might set in and lose him the opportunity for observation. In his later years he suffered terribly from the same affection, and would constantly declare that it was only with the greatest difficulty he could put an eye to a small figure or a curl of hair in its proper place, as his poor fingers and trembling hands caused him to paint details, and even features, in quite wrong positions.

“RENT DAY”

The Redgrave family had also known Sir David Wilkie, whose picture “Rent Day” created such a sensation. By a veritable tour de force the painter contrived in this work to represent a man coughing. The figure in question is in the very centre of this picture. As a rule, attempts to depict people coughing, yawning, or the like, are far from successful.

There was, for instance, a picture I remember which was called “A Pinch of Snuff,” in which the artist had made an effort to represent a sneeze, and the result was not very satisfactory. Morland, however, in his “Connoisseur and Tired Boy,” has shown the latter gaping in a very realistic manner.

“The Long Sermon” (a picture by Hunt) also contained a study of gaping—a young man being depicted as being quite unable to repress this somewhat curious natural effect of being bored.

William Hunt, who died in 1864, was a fine painter of still life, and a sturdy and genial humorist in art as well as one of the greatest (if not the greatest) English flower painters in water-colours who ever lived. A loving painter of rustic life, he cared little for professional models, preferring to paint the real villagers whom he knew and understood. “The Blessing,” a countryman returning thanks for his humble meal, is probably Hunt’s masterpiece. Of this Ruskin said, “It is more than a sermon; it is a poem.”

Hunt being a cripple, he was, as his family said, “good for nothing,” so they made him an artist. In early life he assisted in the redecoration of the rebuilt Drury Lane Theatre, and painted part of a drop-scene. Curiously enough, a great many artists who have achieved success originally began their careers as scene-painters. Amongst them may be mentioned De Loutherbourg, the contemporary of Rowlandson, who was a scene-painter at Drury Lane Theatre; Stanfield and Roberts, as well as David Cox, who, in the early part of the nineteenth century, was assistant painter at the Birmingham Theatre. The late Mr. Thomas Sidney Cooper also, I believe, once did a little in this line. George Chambers, marine painter to William IV., was scene-painter at the Pavilion Theatre.

Amongst architects, Inigo Jones must not be forgotten as having practically been a scene-painter, for his genius largely contributed to the success of the masques which were so popular in his day.

A relative of Inigo Jones, who was also his pupil, attained some celebrity as a designer of the scenery and accessories used in these entertainments. This was John Webb, some of whose sketches and designs are still, I believe, in the Duke of Devonshire’s library.

The first piece of regular scenery used on the English stage is said to have figured in a play at the Duke’s Theatre, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in 1662. Evelyn, of course, mentions “sceanery” in his diary some three years before that date, but this in all probability merely consisted of hangings of figured tapestry.

STEWART RELICS

My eldest brother, the late Lord Orford, was an ardent collector of everything connected with the Stewarts and possessed a good many interesting portraits. Amongst these was a painting of Prince Charlie executed by Blanchet in 1730 for the Grand Duke of Tuscany; this formerly belonged to the Duchesse de Berri when she lived at Venice, and is now, together with a picture of Cardinal York, in the possession of Colonel Walpole of Heckfield Place, Hants, who has a considerable number of valuable Stewart relics, amongst them a gold snuff-box with a secret spring revealing a miniature of Prince Charlie, whilst outside are inscribed the names of those killed in 1745. Though there are many collectors of memorials of the Stewarts, portraits of members of that family are occasionally unrecognised at auctions. Such a case occurred quite recently when an excellent portrait of the old Pretender was labelled at the Duke of Fife’s sale as “the Comte d’Artois by Danloux”! This was the more extraordinary as the Pretender is shown wearing the Order of the Garter, a decoration which the Comte d’Artois never received. The portrait in question, being purchased by a friend of mine for a very moderate figure, was discovered by him to have been the work of Batoni, an Italian artist, who executed an almost precisely similar portrait of Prince Charlie, but of smaller size, which may be seen hanging in the National Portrait Gallery.

A younger brother of mine was also much interested in the Stewarts, and possessed some curious letters from the Pretender, certain of which are dealt with in the Appendix to this book.

I possess a number of the old silhouette portraits very skilfully cut out of black paper, amongst them one of George III. Silhouettes, in the days before photography, were given to relatives and friends just as photographs are to-day. At Eridge Castle there are several very good ones of unusual size. Everybody knows the small silhouette in a black frame so often seen in curiosity shops, but big ones are, I think, much less frequently to be met with. Elaborate coats of arms used also formerly to be cut out of white paper; these, when pasted upon a black background, produced a very good effect. Some little time ago I was fortunate enough to come across some Walpole arms done in this fashion, which I at once secured, as a specimen of really good work of this kind is by no means easy to procure. Silhouette cutting of every sort is now more or less a lost art; it belonged, indeed, to a period when people had plenty of time, and women were content to stay at home, beguiling the long winter evenings with simple work of one kind or another, which would be not at all to the taste of their more luxurious descendants.

SILHOUETTES

Princess Elizabeth, daughter of King George III., was an adept at cutting silhouettes and figures out of paper. I possess a little volume which is entirely filled with her work. Some of the designs, instead of being black, are white, and with each of these is a slip of green paper to serve as a background. This little portfolio was formerly in the possession of Lady Banks, to whom it was given by the Princess.

The best silhouette I have is one representing Mrs. Jordan—I think in the character of “Sir Harry Wildair”—the pretty features (immortalised by Chantrey in the monument at Père la Chaise) crowned by a profusely plumed cocked hat. Of her royal lover, William IV., in whose reign I lived, many stories used to be told illustrating his kindly nature and great devotion to children, in whose society he absolutely revelled. Lady Georgiana Curzon, for instance, well remembered how this kindly monarch kept a whole cupboard full of dolls to give to little girls.

This cupboard was under the care of a favourite Hanoverian servant, whose peculiar personal appearance had caused the King to nickname him “Ugly Mugs.” Lady Georgiana used to tell how, when she was taken to the palace, King William would say, “Now, little girl, you can go and ask Ugly Mugs for a doll,” upon which, running off to the individual in question, she made her request, “Please, Mr. Ugly Mugs, may I have a doll?” The Hanoverian invariably met this by pretending to be very angry, and by saying, “My name is not Ugly Mugs,” in a tone of simulated rage, but the doll was always produced, whilst the kindly King never failed to laugh at the description of Ugly Mugs’s rage.

As a child Lady Georgiana Curzon was present at the wedding of Lord de Ros’s sister to Lord Cowley, which, by the wish of King William, took place at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor—I rather think she was one of the bridesmaids. Anyhow, I know that she used to describe her great excitement on the occasion in question, and how much she looked forward to the ceremony, and especially to the wedding breakfast and other festivities which would come after its celebration.

Lord de Ros, however, who was fond of a joke, took her aside the day before the wedding, and addressed her very gravely. “My dear child,” said he, “I know you are looking forward very much to the breakfast and amusements which you imagine are going to follow this wedding, but don’t count too much upon them, for I may tell you in confidence that everything depends upon whether my sister can make up her mind or not, and I warn you that she is extremely unreliable. When you hear the Dean ask, ‘Will you have this man for your wedded husband?’ prick up your ears, for everything depends upon her answer. As a matter of fact I half believe she will say ‘No,’ in which case you may say good-bye to breakfast and everything else.”

Little Lady Georgiana was so upset at this that that night she hardly slept at all, and words could not describe her excitement in the chapel next day. The fateful moment, however, at last arrived, and when the bride repeated in a clear voice the words “I will,” Lady Georgiana, who could contain herself no longer, immediately shouted out, “You all heard her! You all heard her!” So great was her excitement that only the assurance that everything was all right could restore order.

WATCH-PAPERS

One occasionally comes across queer little paper circles elaborately ornamented and engraved. These are old watch-papers, which it was formerly the custom for watchmakers to put in the outside cases of old-fashioned watches which came to them to be repaired. These watch-papers generally bore the repairer’s name and address, surrounded with an appropriate design, and sometimes also contained a motto. William Teanby, a Lincolnshire schoolmaster, achieved a certain celebrity on account of his great skill in writing manuscript watch-papers with a crow-quill pen. There are still in existence some very pretty old watch-paper designs printed on white satin. One of the best of these shows a mass of coloured garlands enclosing a miniature silhouette of King George III.

These watch-papers, like engravings, are sometimes found in different states. I have the first state of a very quaint one issued by J. Woolett, watchmaker, Maidstone. On it is shown the figure of Time pointing to a dial, whilst his scythe is seen lying at his feet. Around the rim of this watch-paper are simple directions for regulating the watch.

I possess a good many engraved concert and ball tickets, the work of Bartolozzi, Smirke, Ibbetson, Legoux, and others. Legoux, in particular, executed a number of benefit tickets closely following the style of his master, Bartolozzi, whose own productions in this line, unlike most of his stippled work, were invariably engraved by his own hand. These tickets, generally designed in a spirit of fanciful allegory by his friend Cipriani, were, as a rule, intended for benefits and charitable entertainments, in which case Bartolozzi would engrave them for nothing. There is a splendid collection of them in the British Museum, presented in 1818 by Lady Banks.

Amongst other odds and ends which I have collected are a number of old bill-heads, several of which are prettily engraved in quite an elaborate fashion. The best of these dates from about the middle of the eighteenth century, and on it, within an elaborate border, is a representation of a merchant showing some elaborate wall-papers to a lady in a huge hooped skirt, who is accompanied by a richly dressed gallant. The whole composition is quite a work of art, and contrasts most favourably with the bill forms in use at the present day. Many bill-heads continued to have little engravings upon them till about the middle of the last century, when this pretty custom practically died out.

CHRISTMAS CARDS

Up to quite recent years an enormous number of valentines used to be sent on the 14th of February, St. Valentine’s day. Most of these, it must be confessed, were of a very inartistic and tawdry character, whilst in some cases ridiculous and even insulting pictures were sent to unpopular people. This custom, however, for some reason or other has now completely died out, though it is not so very many years ago that thousands of valentines must have passed through the post. On the other hand, many more Christmas cards are sent than was formerly the case. Sending Christmas cards, it may be added, is a custom of comparatively recent introduction, the first of these cards having been printed in England about the year 1846. This, I believe, was drawn by Mr. J. C. Horsley, R.A., at the suggestion of Mr. (afterwards Sir Henry) Cole, well known in his day as “King Cole.” The card in question was divided into three parts by a trellis-work design, and in the two side panels were designs representing “Feeding the hungry,” and “Clothing the naked,” whilst the centre panel contained a merry family group drinking the toast which was printed beneath—“A merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you.” About a thousand only of these cards were produced, and it was not until 1862 that Messrs. Goodall and Sons issued the first series of Christmas cards which came into general use. These had border designs of holly, mistletoe, and robins. Messrs. Goodall did not, however, continue to produce Christmas cards, but after a few years relinquished this portion of their business to Messrs. Marcus Ward and Co., under whose auspices the Christmas card attained the great vogue which shows no signs of abating.