[3]
This long career as a Spectator of Events has resulted in a list of acquaintances which, like the immortal Sam Weller’s knowledge of public houses, is “extensive and peculiar.” I confess to a great love of the real Artist, be the artist a king or a prize-fighter, and I think that, on the whole, this world of ours is a pleasant enough place to live in, always assuming that you do not expect too much from your fellow-man. So perhaps I may claim to have had more opportunities than have most philosophical lookers-on of seeing the inside turn of life in general. Having now made my excuses, I may as well go back and begin at the beginning.
I was born at my father’s place, Castle Hill, in North Devon, in February 1856, so I may be said to have been a Crimean baby, as that expedition had not then arrived at its conclusion. My father, the third Earl Fortescue (who in those days was Viscount Ebrington), had always taken life seriously, and in his early years, before going into Parliament, where he sat as Member for Plymouth and Marylebone, had been appointed Private Secretary to Lord Melbourne, Queen Victoria’s first Prime Minister, and had also served in the same capacity to his uncle, Lord Harrowby, then Foreign Secretary. During the eighteen years that he was in Parliament he was for four years Secretary to the Poor Law Board, and he seemed to have quite a promising Parliamentary career before him, when, unfortunately for him, his health was broken down, so far as his official life was concerned, by a violent attack of ophthalmia contracted whilst visiting[4] a military hospital when serving on a Sanitary Commission. This unfortunate accident completely lost him one eye and much weakened the sight of the other; so for the rest of his life he confined his activities to the management of his estates, to which he had succeeded in 1861, and to general County work.
Photo: F. Frith & Co., Ltd.]
THE KEEP OF TATTERSALL CASTLE
These estates consist of small properties in Ireland, South Devon, Gloucester and Lincolnshire, and considerable property at Castle Hill in North Devon. The Lincolnshire property, which has since been sold (I believe to some speculative firm of land buyers), deserves a passing mention, for the Manor House of the property consists of the remains of the famous old brick castle of Tattersall. This Tattersall Estate came into the possession of my family about 1690, through the marriage of the Hugh Fortescue of that day with the heiress of the Earl of Lincoln, when it became her property (the male line of the Clinton family having died out), and has remained in our family until its recent sale. The Castle now only consists of a rectangular brick tower, and was built by the Lord Treasurer Cromwell about the year 1440, which would make it some few years more ancient than the other celebrated brick castle of Hurstmonceux. It was originally designed to be a place of defence and suffered severely during the Civil War, so much so that the then owner, Theophilus, fourth Earl of Lincoln, actually petitioned Parliament in 1649 for the damages sustained, but whether successfully or not I know not. The tower that still remains, which was probably the keep, is wonderfully beautiful, not only in colour but owing[5] to its exquisite workmanship, and it still contains the celebrated Norman Gothic chimney-pieces which are so well known to art students through their models in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Shortly after its sale, which took place a very few years ago, there was a report current that the old keep and its famous fire-places were to be pulled down, brick by brick, and sent over to America to be there reconstructed. Whether this report was true or not I cannot tell, but anyhow the American scheme came to nothing owing to the patriotism and love of arch?ology exhibited by Lord Curzon of Kedleston, who stepped into the breach and bought the old Castle so as to ensure its remaining in this country.
To return to my father: it is only necessary to say that for the many years that remained to him, after giving up political life, until old age and infirmity had limited his activities, he remained faithful to his County duties and was a most just and generous landlord. When he died at the age of eighty-seven, I believe it to be true that the only building on the estate, whether it were cottage, farm, farm-building, village school, or church, that was badly in need of a new roof and general repair was his own house. In fact, he was an excellent specimen of the average Victorian peer.
My mother, who, alas! died when I was a small boy ten years old, was the eldest daughter of Colonel and Mrs. Dawson Damer, both of whom died before I was born. The Colonel was a very considerable personage in his time. He had fought at Waterloo, and was earlier a member of the Military Mission that was[6] attached to the Emperor Alexander during Napoleon’s Moscow Campaign. In 1825 he married Miss Mary Seymour, the daughter of Lord Hugh and Lady Horatia Seymour. Lady Horatia will always be remembered by lovers of art as the most beautiful of the three Ladies Waldegrave, immortalised by Sir Joshua, and her daughter, my grandmother, Mrs. Dawson Damer, was the “little Minnie,” Mrs. Fitzherbert’s adopted daughter, so often mentioned in the Memoirs of the times of the Regency and the reign of George IV. After Mrs. Fitzherbert’s death my grandparents lived in the well-known house in Tilney Street which Mrs. Fitzherbert had occupied for so many years and had, on her death, bequeathed to her adopted daughter. Besides the house in Tilney Street, Colonel and Mrs. Dawson Damer had a charming property in Dorsetshire, Came by name, in the neighbourhood of Weymouth, and it was from there that my parents were married. There was a great deal of entertaining done at Came in my grandfather’s time. Prince Louis Napoleon, afterwards Napoleon III, was a constant guest there when he was a very poor young man about town, and was always said to have proposed marriage to my mother. I rarely believe family legends, and so used not to have much faith in this particular story, but Lord Rosebery told me some time ago that he believed it was perfectly true. The Colonel, who was eminently a man of fashion as well as a Member of Parliament, was one of the last of those to be concerned in a political duel. He did duty as second to Lord Alvanley when he fought Morgan O’Connell at Wimbledon.[7] The cause of the duel, as is well known, was that O’Connell called Alvanley a “bloated buffoon” in the House. When called out he made his usual excuse of having vowed never to fight another duel, and his son, Morgan O’Connell, took his place. Three shots were exchanged on both sides and no one was hurt, but Greville writes in his Memoirs that O’Connell’s second behaved outrageously, and, had an accident occurred, should have been hanged.
From the miniature by Isabey]
THE HON. MRS. DAWSON DAMER
I hardly remember my grandfather, who had married in 1817 Lady Susan Ryder, a daughter of the first Earl Harrowby; she died in 1827, but his second wife (the widow of an Irish Baronet), to whom he was married when Viceroy of Ireland, was one of the greatest friends of my childhood. She must have been adorably lovely in her youth, for in her old age she was the most beautiful old woman I have ever seen. Her first visit to England was when she settled down at Castle Hill after her marriage, and I well remember, in later days, when she was staying there, the admiration we children used to feel for the neat Wellington boots that always stood outside her bedroom door at Castle Hill, for, from the day she first left Ireland, she always insisted on wearing Wellingtons in the country as she was afraid of being bitten by snakes! She survived my grandfather for many years and died at a great age.
At the time of my birth the only celebrity with whom I came in contact was the Barnstaple doctor who assisted my entrance into the world. I knew him well when I was a schoolboy, and in his way he certainly was, as well as being a very good fellow, somewhat of[8] a celebrity. He was the eldest of nine brothers who were all doctors and all practised in the West of England. I am positive about the number, for when covert shooting with him as a boy he invariably talked about the medical exploits of “my brother Octavius” or “my brother Nonus,” the two who, apparently, in his opinion, were the pick of the Budd family.
In the winter of 1859 my father, then Viscount Ebrington, accompanied his brother John, who had developed consumptive tendencies and was ordered abroad by his doctors, to Madeira, and, what was still more remarkable, elected to go there with his wife and children. We were then a family of seven children, and, as far as I can remember, from motives of economy we were all packed up in a sailing ship with our governesses and nurses, while our parents took the steamer to Funchal.
We arrived there all well after a journey lasting, I believe, some three weeks. We children lived for two years in that delightful island, and during that time two more of my brothers were born. Two events which I remember very clearly were the arrival of the late Empress of Austria, who came to winter there, with a large suite in attendance, and the arrival of Captain Keppel (subsequently Admiral of the Fleet Sir Henry Keppel) in H.M. Frigate Forte on his way to take command of the Cape of Good Hope Station. It was there that he met his future wife, Miss West, who was living with her sister in a small villa near the one occupied by my parents. We children, as a treat, were taken on board the Forte, and that[9] was my first introduction to the quarter-deck of a man-of-war.
The Empress of Austria arrived about the same time in the royal yacht Victoria and Albert, which had been lent to Her Imperial Majesty by Queen Victoria. Many years afterwards, when I was serving as a lieutenant on board her, I was able to read in the journal of the Royal Yacht the account of the Empress’ journey across the Bay. The Victoria and Albert was the most beautiful vessel of her day and a great credit to our Naval Constructors, but, though capable of going what in those days was an unheard-of speed—about fifteen or sixteen knots—being under 3000 tons and a paddle steamer, she could get considerably knocked about in heavy Atlantic weather. Unluckily for the Empress and her travelling companions, the yacht encountered a severe gale, and there was a heartrending account in the said journal of the horrors of the passage. However, all things come to an end, even a bad sea voyage, and the Empress and her suite duly arrived and installed themselves in a couple of villas, or “quintas” as they were named in Madeira, in close proximity to the quinta where my parents lived.
I think that, even at that very early age, I was dimly conscious of the Empress’ extraordinary beauty, but what we children naturally liked most of all were the lovely little knick-knacks from Vienna which she showered on us,—to say nothing of the chocolates they generally contained.
I heard in after years what I believe to be the true reason for the Empress’ expedition. In 1859 she was[10] very young and conscious that she was probably the most beautiful woman in Europe, and naturally greatly resented the Emperor’s indifference to herself and attention to various other ladies, of both worlds, in Vienna. In her dilemma she wrote and asked the advice of Queen Victoria. The Queen strongly advised her to leave Vienna for a time, and suggested that she should, under the plea of ill-health, go to Madeira, which in those days was a sort of fashionable sanatorium for all kinds of ailments, and placed her new yacht, the Victoria and Albert, at the disposal of the Empress for the journey.
It was at Madeira, too, that I saw for the first time the late Duke of Teck, the father of Her Majesty, Queen Mary. In those days he was a young and extremely handsome man, and for the moment was attached to the suite of the Empress, to whom he was related. He and my father naturally saw a great deal of each other, and remained friends for the rest of their lives.
We were for the greater part of two years at Madeira, and during that time my uncle died and was buried in that wonderful bower of flowers which is the little cemetery there.
The autumn of 1860 saw us on our way back to Europe, and the winter of 1860-61 was spent at Pau. In those days the railway only went as far as Dax, and the rest of the journey had to be done by “diligence.” I have a hazy recollection of the discomforts of that journey, for our little party consisted of nine children and two governesses, and I suppose a nurse or two.[11] Anyhow, we must have taken up a good deal of the interior of that somewhat archaic vehicle, and we children remembered afterwards with delight the remark addressed to our most respectable middle-aged spinster governess, who was in charge of this caravan, by a sympathetic Frenchman: “Mon Dieu, Madame, êtes vous donc la grand’mère de tous ces enfants?”
During our stay at Pau my grandfather died, and my parents settled down at Castle Hill, with 17 Bruton Street as their London house.
Naturally the next few years, which were passed while still in the hands of governesses and nurses, were absolutely colourless, but I can still remember some of the house parties at Castle Hill. My father, like all the Whigs of the early ’sixties, was greatly interested in the Italian movement. Various Italian celebrities used to undertake the long journey down to Devonshire, I suppose to make the acquaintance of a specimen of an English country house and to see a week of English country life. It was our great amusement as children, just before being packed off to bed, to lean over the gallery which surrounded the hall when the guests were assembling before dinner, and watch them processing into the dining-room, and I can well remember our childish delight and wonder at the behaviour of the Italians, who invariably went in to dinner, as was the custom in those days on the Continent, with their gibus hats under their arms.
For the next few years Castle Hill and Bruton Street were my alternate homes in their respective seasons, and one of the impressive ceremonies I remem[12]ber was being allowed to see our parents dressed up for Court, and, greatest joy of all, to see them driven away in a coach with a footman behind, and one of my dearest friends, the coachman, in a wig and state livery, enthroned on his hammer-clothed box. How smart were the carriages in London in those days, and how paltry do the most expensive Rolls-Royce cars appear in comparison! Even on ordinary occasions the whole of London Society, which in those days was small and select, used to take their afternoon drives in barouches. In our turn, we children used to drive in the sacred vehicle with our mother. It was very magnificent. To drive in a barouche in London in the height of the Season was rather a solemn affair and not particularly amusing, and the only redeeming feature I remember was that at the end of the outing the carriage used to pull up under the trees in Berkeley Square, and, delight of delights! strawberry ices used to be brought to us from Gunter’s to consume in the carriage, and that admirable institution, I am glad to see, still keeps its hospitable doors open. It was one of the sights of the London Season to see the carriages pulled up in the shade of the trees, full of children consuming strawberry ices. I insist on strawberry ices, for, as far as I can remember, no child ever dreamt of asking for any other.
The expression “dearest friend” as regards the coachman was certainly no mere figure of speech. The two men a boy loves best in the world are the two who teach him how to ride and how to shoot. My friend of the hammer-clothed box did the former,[13] the tuition of the latter fell to the lot of the butler. The butler’s business is generally supposed to lie in another direction, but in our particular case he was undoubtedly the right person, as, apart from his other dignities, he had the high honour of being own brother to the head gamekeeper.
The early years slipped away in the happy childhood that is always ensured by being one of a large family of children treading close on one another’s heels. For, by the time I went to school in 1865, there were exactly a dozen of us,—no very unusual number in those days of large families. Our nearest neighbour and kinsman, the Lord Portsmouth of that day, was the happy father of nine, and to go back another generation or two, I was always led to believe that my step-grandmother, to whose Wellington boots I have already alluded, was one of a family of over twenty.
In the summer of 1865 my eldest brother—my senior by a little over a year—and I were sent to school at Brighton. The owner and manager of this establishment was an old lady, Mrs. Walker by name, and, as was inevitable in those days, the school came to be known by the name of Hookey’s. This school, one way and another, earned an excellent reputation, and I suppose was quite as good as any other preparatory school for Eton and Harrow, to one of which schools nearly all the boys went eventually. Certainly the boys of my time achieved, as a lot, very considerable success in after life. Out of about sixty boys, who must have passed through there during my time,[14] I can remember three Lytteltons, known to us as Bob, Edward and Alfred: the eldest of the three is now a well-known solicitor, the second was Headmaster of Haileybury and Eton, and the youngest was one of the most brilliant men of his time, not only as a born athlete, but in the House of Commons, and in the Cabinet as Colonial Secretary. I also recollect two Northcotes, one being the late Lord Northcote, a most successful Colonial Governor-General; the late Sir Michael Herbert, whose much-to-be-regretted early death had not prevented him from rising to the rank of Ambassador at an unusually early age; Colonel à Court Repington, the well-known writer on military subjects; my own younger brother, John, now a distinguished man of letters; my cousin, the late Lord Portsmouth, and his next two brothers,—the late peer was at one time Under-Secretary of State for War; the present Lord Strathmore and his brothers; and a good sprinkling of boys who subsequently became soldiers, many of whom,—including my brother, Lionel, who was killed in South Africa,—have met a bullet in the wars, great and small, of the last forty-five years.
Poor old Hookey! She was a good old woman and a terrific snob. It speaks well for the sense of humour of the school when I can aver that its best mimic always had his greatest success when he gave his imitation of the old lady showing parents of possible prospective pupils over the school. She invariably used to produce, apparently out of her sleeve and quite by accident, all the eldest sons, the regular[15] formula being: “That boy is Lord Blank, Earl Dash’s son. Come here, Blank, my dear; I am so glad to learn from your tutor that you are first in your class this week.” If there happened to be a slump in eldest sons, even a wretched “honourable” would be produced as a makeshift; but as we were well supplied with Viscounts this very seldom happened.
My holidays were passed entirely at Castle Hill, and hunting became the great joy of the summer and winter holidays, for, in addition to the fox-hunting provided by our kinsman and neighbour, Lord Portsmouth, the Devon and Somerset Staghounds used to begin their season in mid-August, and it was in August 1866 that I was formally entered to the sport of stag-hunting, having been in at the death of a hunted stag after a terrifically long run. My eldest brother and I were both baptised at the same time, having both managed to get to the end on our Exmoor ponies. The ceremony of blooding was performed by the Rev. John Russell, the well-known sporting parson, generally known as Jack Russell, who, in those days, was vicar of a neighbouring parish and esteemed to be the greatest authority on hunting, whether of the stag, the fox, the otter, or the hare, that lived in the West Country. We got home somewhere about ten o’clock that night and fought ferociously to prevent the blood being washed off our faces before being packed off to bed.