had come into the Coke family in James I.’s reign, through the marriage of a son of Chief Justice Coke’s with the heiress of the De Langfords, an ancient family from that time extinct. While staying there during my summer holidays, my mother confided to me that she had had an offer of marriage from Mr. Motteux, the owner of considerable estates in Norfolk, including two houses—Beachamwell and Sandringham. Mr. Motteux—‘Johnny Motteux,’ as he was called—was, like Tristram Shandy’s father, the son of a wealthy ‘Turkey merchant,’ which, until better informed, I always took to mean a dealer in poultry. ‘Johnny,’ like another man of some notoriety, whom I well remember in my younger days—Mr. Creevey—had access to many large houses such as Holkham; not, like Creevey, for the sake of his scandalous tongue, but for the sake of his wealth. He had no (known) relatives; and big people, who had younger sons to provide for, were quite willing that one of them should be his heir. Johnny Motteux was an epicure with the best of chefs. His capons came from Paris, his salmon from Christchurch, and his Strasburg pies were made to order. One of these he always brought with him as a present to my mother, who used to say, ‘Mr. Motteux evidently thinks the nearest way to my heart is down my throat.’
A couple of years after my father’s death, Motteux wrote to my mother proposing marriage, and, to enhance his personal attractions, (in figure and dress he was a duplicate of the immortal Pickwick,) stated that he had made his will and had bequeathed Sandringham to me, adding that, should he die without issue, I was to inherit the remainder of his estates.
Rather to my surprise, my mother handed the letter to me with evident signs of embarrassment and distress. My first exclamation was: ‘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 attaché 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! To think of it! after all that has passed between us these—these three weeks, next Monday! “Once and for ever.” Did ever woman use such words before? And I—believed them!’ ‘Did you speak to the mother?’ I asked in a fit of desperation.
‘There was no time for that. Mrs. — was in the carriage, and I didn’t pop [the odious word!] till I was helping her on with her cloak. The cloak, you see, made it less awkward. My offer was a sort of obiter dictum—a by-the-way, as it were.’
‘To the carriage, yes. But wasn’t she taken by surprise?’
‘Not a bit of it. Bless you! they always know. She pretended not to understand, but that’s a way they have.’
‘And when you explained?’
‘There wasn’t time for more. She laughed, and sprang into the carriage.’
‘And