The Balance Was Obtained Through Mr. Ellice From The
Patronage Secretary To The Treasury.
At the next election,
as Lord Radnor predicted, Lord Ashley, Lord Shaftesbury's
eldest son, won one of the two seats for the Liberals with
the greatest ease.
As Coleshill was an open house to me from that time as long
as Lord Radnor lived, I cannot take leave of the dear old man
without an affectionate word at parting. Creevey has an ill-
natured fling at him, as he has at everybody else, but a
kinder-hearted and more perfect gentleman would be difficult
to meet with. His personality was a marked one. He was a
little man, with very plain features, a punch-like nose, an
extensive mouth, and hardly a hair on his head. But in spite
of these peculiarities, his face was pleasant to look at, for
it was invariably animated by a sweet smile, a touch of
humour, and a decided air of dignity. Born in 1779, he
dressed after the orthodox Whig fashion of his youth, in buff
and blue, his long-tailed coat reaching almost to his heels.
His manner was a model of courtesy and simplicity. He used
antiquated expressions: called London 'Lunnun,' Rome 'Room,'
a balcony a 'balcony'; he always spoke of the clergyman as
the 'pearson,' and called his daughter Lady Mary, 'Meary.'
Instead of saying 'this day week' he would say this day
sen'nit' (for sen'night).
The independence of his character was very noticeable. As an
instance: A party of twenty people, say, would be invited
for a given day. Abundance of carriages would be sent to
meet the trains, so that all the guests would arrive in ample
time for dinner. It generally happened that some of them,
not knowing the habits of the house, or some duchess or great
lady who might assume that clocks were made for her and not
she for clocks, would not appear in the drawing-room till a
quarter of an hour after the dinner gong had sounded. If
anyone did so, he or she would find that everybody else had
got through soup and fish. If no one but Lady Mary had been
down when dinner was announced, his Lordship would have
offered his arm to his daughter, and have taken his seat at
the table alone. After the first night, no one was ever
late. In the morning he read prayers to the household before
breakfast with the same precise punctuality.
Lady Mary Bouverie, his unmarried daughter, was the very best
of hostesses. The house under her management was the
perfection of comfort. She married an old and dear friend of
mine, Sir James Wilde, afterwards the Judge, Lord Penzance.
I was his 'best man.'
My 'Ride over the Rocky Mountains' was now published; and, as
the field was a new one, the writer was rewarded, for a few
weeks, with invitations to dinner, and the usual tickets for
'drums' and dances. To my astonishment, or rather to my
alarm, I received a letter from the Secretary of the Royal
Geographical Society (Charles Fox, or perhaps Sir George
Simpson had, I think, proposed me - I never knew), to say
that I had been elected a member. Nothing was further from
my ambition. The very thought shrivelled me with a sense of
ignorance and insignificance. I pictured to myself an
assembly of old fogies crammed with all the 'ologies. I
broke into a cold perspiration when I fancied myself called
upon to deliver a lecture on the comparative sea-bottomy of
the Oceanic globe, or give my theory of the simultaneous
sighting by 'little Billee' of ' Madagascar, and North, and
South Amerikee.' Honestly, I had not the courage to accept;
and, young Jackanapes as I was, left the Secretary's letter
unanswered.
But a still greater honour - perhaps the greatest compliment
I ever had paid me - was to come. I had lodgings at this
time in an old house, long since pulled down, in York Street.
One day, when I was practising the fiddle, who should walk
into my den but Rogers the poet! He had never seen me in his
life. He was in his ninetieth year, and he had climbed the
stairs to the first floor to ask me to one of his breakfast
parties. To say nothing of Rogers' fame, his wealth, his
position in society, those who know what his cynicism and his
worldliness were, will understand what such an effort,
physical and moral, must have cost him. He always looked
like a death's head, but his ghastly pallor, after that
Alpine ascent, made me feel as if he had come - to stay.
These breakfasts were entertainments of no ordinary
distinction. The host himself was of greater interest than
the most eminent of his guests. All but he, were more or
less one's contemporaries: Rogers, if not quite as dead as
he looked, was ancient history. He was old enough to have
been the father of Byron, of Shelley, of Keats, and of Moore.
He was several years older than Scott, or Wordsworth, or
Coleridge, and only four years younger than Pitt. He had
known all these men, and could, and did, talk as no other
could talk, of all of them. Amongst those whom I met at
these breakfasts were Cornewall Lewis, Delane, the Grotes,
Macaulay, Mrs. Norton, Monckton Milnes, William Harcourt (the
only one younger than myself), but just beginning to be
known, and others of scarcely less note.
During the breakfast itself, Rogers, though seated at table
in an armchair, took no part either in the repast or in the
conversation; he seemed to sleep until the meal was over.
His servant would then place a cup of coffee before him, and,
like a Laputian flapper, touch him gently on the shoulder.
He would at once begin to talk, while others listened. The
first time I witnessed this curious resurrection, I whispered
something to my neighbour, at which he laughed.
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