'How jolly! The shooting's first rate, and
the old boy is over seventy, if he's a day.'
My mother apparently did not see it in this light. She
clearly, to my disappointments did not care for the shooting;
and my exultation only brought tears into her eyes.
'Why, mother,' I exclaimed, 'what's up? Don't you - don't
you care for Johnny Motteux?'
She confessed that she did not.
'Then why don't you tell him so, and not bother about his
beastly letter?'
'If I refuse him you will lose Sandringham.'
'But he says here he has already left it to me.'
'He will alter his will.'
'Let him!' cried I, flying out at such prospective meanness.
'Just you tell him you don't care a rap for him or for
Sandringham either.'
In more lady-like terms she acted in accordance with my
advice; and, it may be added, not long afterwards married Mr.
Ellice.
Mr. Motteux's first love, or one of them, had been Lady
Cowper, then Lady Palmerston. Lady Palmerston's youngest son
was Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr. Motteux died a year or two after
the above event. He made a codicil to his will, and left
Sandringham and all his property to Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr.
Spencer Cowper was a young gentleman of costly habits.
Indeed, he bore the slightly modified name of 'Expensive
Cowper.' As an attache at Paris he was famous for his
patronage of dramatic art - or artistes rather; the votaries
of Terpsichore were especially indebted to his liberality.
At the time of Mr. Motteux's demise, he was attached to the
Embassy at St. Petersburg. Mr. Motteux's solicitors wrote
immediately to inform him of his accession to their late
client's wealth. It being one of Mr. Cowper's maxims never
to read lawyers' letters, (he was in daily receipt of more
than he could attend to,) he flung this one unread into the
fire; and only learnt his mistake through the congratulations
of his family.
The Prince Consort happened about this time to be in quest of
a suitable country seat for his present Majesty; and
Sandringham, through the adroit negotiations of Lord
Palmerston, became the property of the Prince of Wales. The
soul of the 'Turkey merchant,' we cannot doubt, will repose
in peace.
The worthy rector of Warham St. Mary's was an oddity
deserving of passing notice. Outwardly he was no Adonis.
His plain features and shock head of foxy hair, his
antiquated and neglected garb, his copious jabot - much
affected by the clergy of those days - were becoming
investitures of the inward man. His temper was inflammatory,
sometimes leading to excesses, which I am sure he rued in
mental sackcloth and ashes. But visitors at Holkham (unaware
of the excellent motives and moral courage which inspired his
conduct) were not a little amazed at the austerity with which
he obeyed the dictates of his conscience.
For example, one Sunday evening after dinner, when the
drawing-room was filled with guests, who more or less
preserved the decorum which etiquette demands in the presence
of royalty, (the Duke of Sussex was of the party,) Charles
Fox and Lady Anson, great-grandmother of the present Lord
Lichfield, happened to be playing at chess. When the
irascible dominie beheld them he pushed his way through the
bystanders, swept the pieces from the board, and, with
rigorous impartiality, denounced these impious desecrators of
the Sabbath eve.
As an example of his fidelity as a librarian, Mr. Panizzi
used to relate with much glee how, whenever he was at
Holkham, Mr. Collyer dogged him like a detective. One day,
not wishing to detain the reverend gentleman while he himself
spent the forenoon in the manuscript library, (where not only
the ancient manuscripts, but the most valuable of the printed
books, are kept under lock and key,) he considerately begged
Mr. Collyer to leave him to his researches. The dominie
replied 'that he knew his duty, and did not mean to neglect
it.' He did not lose sight of Mr. Panizzi.
The notion that he - the great custodian of the nation's
literary treasures - would snip out and pocket the title-page
of the folio edition of Shakespeare, or of the Coverdale
Bible, tickled Mr. Panizzi's fancy vastly.
In spite, however, of our rector's fiery temperament, or
perhaps in consequence of it, he was remarkably susceptible
to the charms of beauty. We were constantly invited to
dinner and garden parties in the neighbourhood; nor was the
good rector slow to return the compliment. It must be
confessed that the pupil shared to the full the
impressibility of the tutor; and, as it happened, unknown to
both, the two were in one case rivals.
As the young lady afterwards occupied a very distinguished
position in Oxford society, it can only be said that she was
celebrated for her many attractions. She was then sixteen,
and the younger of her suitors but two years older. As far
as age was concerned, nothing could be more compatible. Nor
in the matter of mutual inclination was there any disparity
whatever. What, then, was the pupil's dismay when, after a
dinner party at the rectory, and the company had left, the
tutor, in a frantic state of excitement, seized the pupil by
both hands, and exclaimed: 'She has accepted me!'
'Accepted you?' I asked. 'Who has accepted you?'
'Who? Why, Miss -, of course! Who else do you suppose would
accept me?'
'No one,' said I, with doleful sincerity. 'But did you
propose to her? Did she understand what you said to her?
Did she deliberately and seriously say "Yes?"'
'Yes, yes, yes,' and his disordered jabot and touzled hair
echoed the fatal word.
'O Smintheus of the silver bow!' I groaned. 'It is the
woman's part to create delusions, and - destroy them!
