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The nineteenth century was still in its teens when I first saw the light. Let me pause, lest I make an inaccurate assertion, for I was born on the 12th November, the month of fogs, in Margaret Street, Cavendish Square, London, the home of fogs. It was under the sign Sagittarius, whose patronage, combined with the tastes inherited from two grandfathers, both masters of hounds, made me a “mighty huntress.” “Tuesday’s child,” says the old adage, “is full of grace,” hence my vocation for, and proficiency in, dancing. The motto of my natal month is “fidelity in friendship”; my patron plant, the ivy, which almost invariably clings to things nobler and loftier than itself. And truly in this respect I have been more than commonly blessed, for, through many adverse circumstances, the coffers of my heart have overflowed with the treasures of friendship, and good measure pressed down and running over has been cast into my bosom. It is usual, at the commencement of a story, to give the description of the heroine, but a few words will suffice in the present instance. In complexion and colouring I am very fair, and have often flippantly remarked—

“Angels were painted fair to look like me.”

Indeed, blondes have a great responsibility placed upon them, as in the old story-books the fair women are very good and the brunettes very bad, though I have not always found the distinction to be carried out in real life. The other chief characteristic of my exterior is that I am very diminutive, a subject on which I have been “chaffed” my life long. I have often been induced to complain that as “Greenwich is the standard for longitude, so Mary is the standard for shortitude.” In spite of which, it has been a cherished vanity of mine that I have very long legs in proportion to my height, and five feet and eight heads (Anglice) in drawing, was the strange description I gave of myself to a friend, whose natural rejoinder was, “What a very remarkable animal!”

One of my chief moral attributes was light-heartedness, and, as Autolycus says:

“A merry heart goes many a league,

Your sad one tires in a mile”—

which is perhaps the reason of my having been an indefatigable walker. From my earliest childhood I have had a decided predilection—I might almost say passion—for all that is bright and brilliant, in garments, furniture, decorations. The “sick turned up with sad” which a few years ago held such universal sway in fashion, and which I devoutly hope is now in the wane, never had any charms for me. Firmly believing as I do that the colouring of our native island is not sufficiently cheering of itself to dispense with cheerful adjuncts, I have wooed external brightness, which does not seem unnatural to the tastes of a “Butterfly.” But let me proceed with my narrative.

M Boyle

A NATIVE OF LONDON

Being a native of London, I am an undoubted Cockney, a circumstance which embittered many of my childish years, and although by no means of an envious disposition, I assuredly envied my sister the privilege of being born in a delightful old Queen Anne’s mansion, in a pretty room, overhanging a broad gravel terrace, the windows of which were embowered with roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle—Balls Park, the home of my uncle, Lord John Townshend—and I have often upbraided my mother for not having selected so delightful a spot for my entrance into the world.^[7]

7.Mary Louisa Boyle, born November 1810, died April 1890.

At the time of my birth, we were in family three girls and two boys—Courtenay, Caroline (Caddy as she was always called), Charles, Charlotte, and myself. But one day, when I was between three and four, my mother asked me if I should not like a live doll to play with? Oh, rapture! Dolls were my passion, but a live doll!—the idea was ecstasy! How well I can recall my first sight of my youngest brother, seated on his nurse’s knee, crowned with one of those quilted contrivances of white satin and rosy pink, that seemed a link between a baby hat of the period and a pudding or bourlet of the olden time. Oh! how I then and there loved my live doll, my brother Cavendish—the little Benjamin of the family!—how I did love him with the love of more than half a century. How I love him still, though we no longer tread the earth together, and how fondly I cling to the hope of a reunion in that region—

“Where those who left us dwell in joy sublime;

And those we leave will come in God’s good time.”

But to return to the members of our family.^[8] My parents were Captain (afterwards Admiral) Sir Courtenay Boyle, second surviving son of Edmund, seventh Earl of Cork and Orrery, and Carolina Amelia, daughter of William Poyntz, of Midgham House, Berkshire.

8.Vice-Admiral The Hon. Sir Courtenay Boyle, born 1770; married 1799 Carolina Amelia, daughter of William Poyntz, Esq., of Midgham, Co. Berks; died May 1844.

Issue of above:

Courtenay Edmund William, Capt. R.N., born 1800; married 1836 Mary, daughter of W. Wallace Ogle, Esq.; died 1859.

Charles John, born 1806, died 1885; married 1849 Zacyntha Moore, daughter of General Sir Lorenzo Moore.

Cavendish Spencer, born 1814; married 1844 Rose Susan, daughter of Captain C. Alexander, Royal Engineers; died 1868.

Carolina, born 1803, died 1883.

Mary Louisa, born 1810, died 1890.

“THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER”

As this is a book of confessions as well as of reminiscences, I may as well make a clean breast of it at once, and own that I take a pride in ancestry, and love Heraldry and History, and many of the “ries,” even as scientific people love the “ologies.” I am proud of my descent because my forefathers were many of them great and good men; and I once boasted that I could find five of them in Biographical Dictionaries, inclusive of Robert Boyle, “the Divine Philosopher of the World,” who has been described in one of the aforesaid books as “the Father of Chemistry and the brother of the Earl of Cork.”

I certainly admit, “that it is better to have a glory of your own, not borrowed of your fathers;” but surely it is better to have that than “none at all.”

“I do not care about ancestry,” said my dear friend, Mayne Dickens, to me one day.

“Well,” said I, “you are better off than any of us in that respect, for your great ancestor is still alive; but will not his children’s children glory in his name?”

On my mother’s side I claim collateral relationship with Rosamund Clifford. Now this involves a moral question. May I be pardoned for feeling any pride on that account? It is so romantic, so pathetic a tale, the scandal, if there were any, dates so many centuries back! The damsel was so fair. Besides, has not our beloved “Laureate” of late wiped the blot from fair Rosamund’s escutcheon?

My father had served with great distinction in the Navy, into which he had entered at the very early age of ten, and had been midshipman on board Lord Nelson’s ship, with whom he was a great favourite. I have in my possession two autograph letters of the Hero’s, one written with the right, the other with the left hand, which I will insert here. The first is addressed to Lord Cork; the second to my father.

Lord Nelson to Lord Cork, written by the Right Hand.

Portsmouth, 22nd July 1787.

My Lord,—I have received your letter of the 17th wherein you seem to think that my advice in regard to Courtenay may be of service to him. I wish it may, therefore will give it. In the first place, it is necessary he should be made complete in his navigation—and if this war continues, French is absolutely necessary. Drawing is an accomplishment that possibly a sea-officer may want. You will see almost the necessity of it when employed in foreign countries. Indeed the honour of the nation is so often entrusted to sea-officers, that there is no accomplishment that will not shine with peculiar lustre in them. He must nearly have served his time, therefore he cannot be so well employed as gaining knowledge. If I can at any time be of service to him, he may always call upon me. His charming disposition will ever make him Friends, and he may as well join the ship when his brother goes to the Continent.—I have the honour to be, my Lord,—Your most obedient humble servant,

Horatio Nelson,

Earl Cork.

Nelson with the Left Hand.

“Victory,” 18th August 1803.

My Dear Boyle,—I am very happy to have you in so fine a frigate under my command, for I am ever yours most faithfully,

Nelson and Bronte.

Honble. C. Boyle,

H.M.S. Seahorse,

Malta.

MY FATHER SHIPWRECKED

During the war with France in the year 1800, my father suffered shipwreck on the coast of Egypt, and narrowly escaped with his life. He sent all his crew ashore before he himself left the sinking vessel, headed by an officer with a flag of truce, to make terms with a detachment of French soldiers (the country being then in the occupation of Napoleon’s army), and these soldiers stood on the beach, calmly watching the dangers and struggles of the shipwrecked mariners, as they endeavoured to gain the shore on hastily-constructed rafts, through surf which threatened to swamp them. The sea was running very high, and many of their provisions and possessions were floated off and lost to them for ever. The locality was near Rosetta, and the Frenchmen, in spite of promises of assistance and protection—which men of any chivalrous feeling would surely have afforded to an enemy in such straits—plundered the English sailors, ill-treated them, and threw them into prison, a fate which also befell their commanding officer on landing.

The history of that portion of my father’s life is a long, and to me, interesting one. Suffice it to say, that from all the officials with whom he had to deal, both he and his men met with the harshest and most unjust treatment. Many of his crew succumbed under the hardships to which they were exposed in their dreary and noisome prison-houses. The bright exception to these hard-hearted functionaries was Marshal Kléber, one of Napoleon’s most distinguished generals, a man of high courage, proverbial generosity, and great personal beauty. He was Governor of Cairo at the time, and showed my father especial favour, allowing him out of prison, “on parole,” and courting his society on every occasion. He also presented him with a sword, which I grieve to say did not become an heirloom in the family as my father made it an offering to the Prince Regent.

There were many among those who surrounded the Governor, to whom my father was an object of dislike and jealousy, and when General Kléber was assassinated by a fanatic, my father was accused of being an accomplice of the assassin, and condemned to death. His only companion and comforter in those terrible hours being his favourite pointer, “Malta,” who kept him warm by lying on his chest at night, and scaring away the rats and scorpions which infested the cell. While awaiting the completion of his sentence, the prisoner wrote a most pathetic and eloquent farewell to his wife in England, then expecting her confinement. I subjoin the letter, in order that my readers may judge if the epithets I have bestowed on it be ill-chosen. I have read it over and over again, at many periods of my life, and every time

“It did beguile me of my tears.”

VICE-ADMIRAL THE HON. SIR COURTENAY BOYLE.

THE HON. LADY BOYLE.

LETTER OF CAPT. COURTENAY BOYLE

From my Prison in the Citadel of Cairo,

19th June 1800.

Should this ever come to the hands of my beloved wife, I shall be no more. Torn from this world by a cruel enemy, I have been bound to answer for the safety of another captive, a French prisoner in the hands of the Turks, our allies. Should I, however, innocent of the crime imputed to me, suffer this unmerited death, I trust in God that I shall possess sufficient fortitude to die as a man, and sufficient religion to die as becomes a Christian.

My last prayer will be for the happiness and comfort of my beloved wife, and of her child, should it have pleased God that she has survived her lying-in. So high an opinion have I of her devout mind and excellent heart, that I shall only recommend her to instil into this dear infant its mother’s principles and virtue.

Assure our friends, my loved Carolina, and particularly our dear mother, that my soul—which will pray to God to receive it during the last moments that it lingers here—will quit this world with emotions of gratitude for kindness to us both, and with a conviction of its continuance to you and to our child.... I cannot write more in the wretched prison where I am confined.

Summon, dear Carolina, your utmost fortitude, and endeavour by prayer to console yourself in this world of trial.

This is the tribute I ask to be paid to the memory of a husband, who wished only to live to promote your happiness. Let my just debts be paid; and give to John Stephens, an old and trusty servant of my father, fifty pounds. Prove this my last will—leaving and bequeathing everything I possess to my beloved wife, Carolina Amelia Boyle.

Wrote in prison, in the citadel of Cairo, after having had an audience with the French general-in-chief, Menou, who informed me that he had determined on my death, and that no application should make him move from his determination.

Adieu, for ever! My much-loved and esteemed wife, adieu!

Courtenay Boyle.

The cruel sentence would assuredly have been carried into execution, but for the timely arrival in those waters of the gallant Admiral, Sir Sydney Smith, whose influence effected an interchange of prisoners; and so Captain Courtenay Boyle, with his faithful dog, “Malta,” returned in safety to his native land.

My mother was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, in form, feature and complexion, and remained so till old age, and even after death. My eldest brother bore the name “Courtenay,” and, following the profession of his father, he also went to sea when quite a boy. I can well remember our sorrow at his departure, and how, shortly after, there was some vague dread and anxiety respecting him, which I did not quite understand at the time, till on his sudden re-appearance the mystery was solved. He had gone on his first cruise in the (not good) ship Meander, which proved unseaworthy, and narrowly escaped foundering. My brother was asleep in his berth at the moment of extreme peril, and one of the officers forbade that he should be disturbed. “Leave the poor little chap in peace,” he said, “and let him awake in Heaven.”... But our middy came back in safety and lived to be an admiral. He brought home with him specimens of the Meander’s timber, which would have made Mr Plimsoll’s hair stand on end, for they crumbled away in our hands like so much touchwood.

Courtenay’s first cruise I commemorated in rather a peculiar manner, by giving the name of “Meander” to my little bay mare, the first palfrey I ever mounted; and I am glad to say the name brought no ill-luck either to pony or rider. Courtenay was the very moral of a sailor—frank, light-hearted, open-handed, impulsive, of a most impressionable and susceptible heart, which he was in the constant habit of losing to every pretty girl he met. He was frequently engaged (perhaps I had better say entangled) before he had attained Post rank. His promotion came to him early. One day he arrived at Hampton Court (before the days that railroads made the old Palace little more than a suburb of London), when his appearance in a yellow “po chay” called forth astonishment and upbraidings at his extravagance. “How else,” was the proud reply, “should a Post-captain travel?” After passing through many vicissitudes in respect of affairs of the heart, Courtenay married one whose remarkable personal charms were her chief recommendation.

CAROLINE AND CHARLES BOYLE

Next in succession came my sister Caroline (Caddy), who was often absent from home, going abroad with our Uncle and Aunt Poyntz, whose three daughters^[9] were nearer her age and more fitted to be her companions than myself, her junior by several years. Wherever she went, Caddy was much admired. Her colouring was exceptionally bright, and even in her eightieth year, her eyes literally sparkled, and her complexion was of that red and white, so softly blent that it might have become an infant in the cradle. Yet the real, surpassing gift of beauty was reserved for my brother Charles. Ah! what a store of love and memory is connected with that dear name, and how well did the Greek epithet “Kalos” become him, which implies in its melodious sound both moral and physical beauty. The term beautiful does not appear, perhaps, often applicable to a man, but it certainly was to Charles. In feature, colouring and expression he was the counterpart of our mother, the same soft brown hair, the same sapphire blue eyes, the same faultless outline of profile. I have a very fine painting of him by Samuel Reynolds, the son of the celebrated engraver. I have also a sketch of his head, a crayon drawing of great beauty, which is doubly valuable to me, as the work and precious gift of our dear friend and world-famed painter, George Watts.

9.Frances, Lady Clinton; Elizabeth, Countess Spencer; Isabella, Marchioness of Exeter.

“Blest be the hand, whose touch can give

The looks that last, the smiles that live!

Blest be the hand that gives us back

The looks we miss, the smiles we lack,

‘Mid time and absence, distance, space,

Recalls the one familiar face

With us to dwell, with us abide,

Which our own tears alone can hide!”

An earlier friend, John Hayter, brother of Sir George Hayter, some time President of the Royal Academy, also made an equestrian sketch in coloured crayons of Charles in a gorgeous Albanian costume, which he brought with him from Greece, on his return from a cruise with our sailor brother. I shall never forget the sensation caused at the fancy ball at Brighton, when our young Albanian appeared with his sister Caroline, also arrayed in a genuine Greek costume. They were indeed a most beautiful pair, and looked the very embodiment of the hero and heroine of one of Byron’s Eastern poems.

Fourth in succession came a little blue-eyed, fair-haired sister, Charlotte by name, who died when only six years old. In what high relief do such early records stand out on the tablet of a child’s memory. Never shall I forget the tone of deep melancholy in which my mother would exclaim: “No one knows what real sorrow is till they have lost a child.”

EPITAPH ON CHARLOTTE BOYLE

Charlotte’s burial-place is at Preston, in Kent, not far from Sheerness, where we were then living, and was chosen not alone on account of proximity. The church contains an elaborate monument erected by our ancestor, the first Earl of Cork, after he had made his fortune, to the memory of his parents, both natives of Kent. This monument has, I grieve to say, been suffered to fall into decay, although I have frequently raised my feeble voice in expostulation on the subject. My uncle, Lord John Townshend, wrote my little sister’s epitaph, which is inscribed on a marble tablet in Preston church. To me the lines have ever appeared pathetic, although penned in the old-fashioned style of those days. After recording the dates of her birth and death, they go on to say:—

“Scarce yet had smiled thy early dawn of day,

Youth’s roseate buds just opening into bloom,

When wintry winds, that chilled thy lovely May,

Shed all thy with’ring blossoms on the tomb.

“But blest, fair child, blest far above thy years,

With filial piety and duteous love,

Thy sure reward restrains our selfish tears

And lifts our hearts to Charlotte’s bliss above.”

Some years ago, when on a visit to my dear friend, Charles Dickens, I made a pilgrimage to the tombs of my ancestors, and that of my little sister. Knocking boldly at the door of the Rectory, I told my errand to the clergyman, asking him at the same time for the key of the church. He discreetly allowed me to remain alone for some time, and when he followed me, naturally enquired to whom he was speaking. Now, I flatter myself, that my mode of self-introduction was rather original. Pointing to a portion of the monument in question, recording the early demise of a certain Mary Boyle, who had died at least two hundred years before, “That is my name,” I said, “and I am very much obliged to you for your kindness.”

I came between Charlotte and Cavendish, and of the latter I shall make constant mention, as being closely bound up with my life and heartstrings.