MR. EDWARD ELLICE, who constantly figures in the memoirs ofthe last century as 'Bear Ellice' (an outrageous misnomer, bythe way), and who later on married my mother, was the chiefcontroller of my youthful destiny. His first wife was asister of the Lord Grey of Reform Bill fame, in whoseGovernment he filled the office of War Minister. In manyrespects Mr. Ellice was a notable man. He possessed shrewdintelligence, much force of character, and an autocraticspirit - to which he owed his sobriquet. His kindness ofheart, his powers of conversation, with striking personalityand ample wealth, combined to make him popular. His house inArlington Street, and his shooting lodge at Glen Quoich, werefamous for the number of eminent men who were his frequentguests.

　　Mr. Ellice's position as a minister, and his habitualresidence in Paris, had brought him in touch with the leadingstatesmen of France. He was intimately acquainted with LouisPhilippe, with Talleyrand, with Guizot, with Thiers, and mostof the French men and French women whose names were bruitedin the early part of the nineteenth century.

　　When I was taken from Temple Grove, I was placed, by theadvice and arrangement of Mr. Ellice, under the charge of aFrench family, which had fallen into decay - through thechange of dynasty. The Marquis de Coubrier had been Masterof the Horse to Charles X. His widow - an old lady betweenseventy and eighty - with three maiden daughters, alladvanced in years, lived upon the remnant of their estates ina small village called Larue, close to Bourg-la-Reine, which,it may be remembered, was occupied by the Prussians duringthe siege of Paris. There was a chateau, the former seat ofthe family; and, adjoining it, in the same grounds, a prettyand commodious cottage. The first was let as a country houseto some wealthy Parisians; the cottage was occupied by theMarquise and her three daughters.

　　The personal appearances of each of these four elderlyladies, their distinct idiosyncrasies, and their former highposition as members of a now moribund nobility, left alasting impression on my memory. One might expect, perhaps,from such a prelude, to find in the old Marquise traces ofstately demeanour, or a regretted superiority. Nothing ofthe kind. She herself was a short, square-built woman, withlarge head and strong features, framed in a mob cap, with abroad frill which flopped over her tortoise-shell spectacles.

　　She wore a black bombazine gown, and list slippers. When inthe garden, where she was always busy in the summer-time, sheput on wooden sabots over her slippers.

　　Despite this homely exterior, she herself was a 'lady' inevery sense of the word. Her manner was dignified andcourteous to everyone. To her daughters and to myself shewas gentle and affectionate. Her voice was sympathetic,almost musical. I never saw her temper ruffled. I neverheard her allude to her antecedents.

　　The daughters were as unlike their mother as they were to oneanother. Adele, the eldest, was very stout, with a profusionof grey ringlets. She spoke English fluently. I gathered,from her mysterious nods and tosses of the head, (to be sure,her head wagged a little of its own accord, the ringlets too,like lambs' tails,) that she had had an AFFAIRE DE COEUR withan Englishman, and that the perfidious islander had removedfrom the Continent with her misplaced affections. She was atrifle bitter, I thought - for I applied her insinuations tomyself - against Englishmen generally. But, though cynicalin theory, she was perfectly amiable in practice. Shesuperintended the menage and spent the rest of her life inmaking paper flowers. I should hardly have known they wereflowers, never having seen their prototypes in nature. Sheassured me, however, that they were beautiful copies -undoubtedly she believed them to be so.

　　Henriette, the youngest, had been the beauty of the family.

　　This I had to take her own word for, since here again therewas much room for imagination and faith. She was a confirmedinvalid, and, poor thing! showed every symptom of it. Sherarely left her room except for meals; and although it wassummer when I was there, she never moved without herchauffrette. She seemed to live for the sake of patentmedicines and her chauffrette; she was always swallowing theone, and feeding the other.

　　The middle daughter was Aglae. Mademoiselle Aglae tookcharge - I may say, possession - of me. She was tall, gaunt,and bony, with a sharp aquiline nose, pomegranate cheek-bones, and large saffron teeth ever much in evidence. Herspeciality, as I soon discovered, was sentiment. Like hersisters, she had had her 'affaires' in the plural. A Greekprince, so far as I could make out, was the last of heradorers. But I sometimes got into scrapes by mixing up theGreek prince with a Polish count, and then confounding eitherone or both with a Hungarian pianoforte player.

　　Without formulating my deductions, I came instinctively tothe conclusion that 'En fait d'amour,' as Figaro puts it,'trop n'est pas meme assez.' From Miss Aglae's point of viewa lover was a lover. As to the superiority of one overanother, this was - nay, is - purely subjective. 'We receivebut what we give.' And, from what Mademoiselle then told me,I cannot but infer that she had given without stint.

　　Be that as it may, nothing could be more kind than her careof me. She tucked me up at night, and used to send for me inthe morning before she rose, to partake of her CAFE-AU-LAIT.

　　In return for her indulgences, I would 'make eyes' such as Ihad seen Auguste, the young man-servant, cast at Rose thecook. I would present her with little scraps which I copiedin roundhand from a volume of French poems. Once I drew, andcoloured with red ink, two hearts pierced with an arrow, acopious pool of red ink beneath, emblematic of both thequality and quantity of my passion. This work of artproduced so deep a sigh that I abstained thenceforth fromrepeating such sanguinary endearments.

　　Not the least interesting part of the family was theservants. I say 'family,' for a French family, unlike anEnglish one, includes its domestics; wherein our neighbourshave the advantage over us. In the British establishment thehousehold is but too often thought of and treated asfurniture. I was as fond of Rose the cook and maid-of-all-work as I was of anyone in the house. She showed me how topeel potatoes, break eggs, and make POT-AU-FEU. She made melittle delicacies in pastry - swans with split almonds forwings, comic little pigs with cloves in their eyes - for allof which my affection and my liver duly acknowledged receiptin full. She taught me more provincial pronunciation and badgrammar than ever I could unlearn. She was very intelligent,and radiant with good humour. One peculiarity especiallytook my fancy - the yellow bandana in which she enveloped herhead. I was always wondering whether she was born withouthair - there was none to be seen. This puzzled me so thatone day I consulted Auguste, who was my chief companion. Hewas quite indignant, and declared with warmth that Mam'selleRose had the most beautiful hair he had ever beheld. Heflushed even with enthusiasm. If it hadn't been for hismanner, I should have asked him how he knew. But somehow Ifelt the subject was a delicate one.

　　How incessantly they worked, Auguste and Rose, and howcheerfully they worked! One could hear her singing, and himwhistling, at it all day. Yet they seemed to have abundantleisure to exchange a deal of pleasantry and harmless banter.

　　Auguste was a Swiss, and a bigoted Protestant, and never lostan opportunity of holding forth on the superiority of thereformed religion. If he thought the family were out ofhearing, he would grow very animated and declamatory. ButRose, who also had hopes, though perhaps faint, for mysalvation, would suddenly rush into the room with the carpetbroom, and drive him out, with threats of Miss Aglae, and thebroomstick.

　　The gardener, Monsieur Benoit, was also a great favourite ofmine, and I of his, for I was never tired of listening to hiswonderful adventures. He had, so he informed me, been asoldier in the GRANDE ARMEE. He enthralled me with hair-raising accounts of his exploits: how, when leading astorming party - he was always the leader - one dark andterrible night, the vivid and incessant lightning betrayedthem by the flashing of their bayonets; and how in a fewminutes they were mowed down by MITRAILLE. He had ledforlorn hopes, and performed deeds of astounding prowess.

　　How many Life-guardsmen he had annihilated: 'Ah! ben oui!'

　　he was afraid to say. He had been personally noticed by 'Lep'tit caporal.' There were many, whose deeds were not tocompare with his, who had been made princes and mareschals.

　　PARBLEU! but his luck was bad. 'Pas d'chance! pas d'chance!

　　Mo'sieu Henri.' As Monsieur Benoit recorded his feats, andwitnessed my unbounded admiration, his voice would grow moreand more sepulchral, till it dropped to a hoarse and scarcelyaudible whisper.

　　I was a little bewildered one day when, having breathlesslyrepeated some of his heroic deeds to the Marquise, she with aquiet smile assured me that 'ce petit bon-homme,' as shecalled him, had for a short time been a drummer in theNational Guard, but had never been a soldier. This was ablow to me; moreover, I was troubled by the composure of theMarquise. Monsieur Benoit had actually been telling me whatwas not true. Was it, then, possible that grown-up peopleacquired the privilege of fibbing with impunity? I wonderedwhether this right would eventually become mine!

　　At Bourg-la-Reine there is, or was, a large school. Threedays in the week I had to join one of the classes there; onthe other three one of the ushers came up to Larue for acouple of hours of private tuition. At the school itself Idid not learn very much, except that boys everywhere arepretty similar, especially in the badness of their manners.

　　I also learnt that shrugging the shoulders while exhibitingthe palms of the hands, and smiting oneself vehemently on thechest, are indispensable elements of the French idiom. Theindiscriminate use of the word 'parfaitement' I also noticedto be essential when at a loss for either language or ideas,and have made valuable use of it ever since.

　　Monsieur Vincent, my tutor, was a most good-natured andpatient teacher. I incline, however, to think that I taughthim more English than he taught me French. He certainlyworked hard at his lessons. He read English aloud to me, andmade me correct his pronunciation. The mental agony thiscaused me makes me hot to think of still. I had never heardhis kind of Franco-English before. To my ignorance it wasthe most comic language in the world. There were some wordswhich, in spite of my endeavours, he persisted in pronouncingin his own way. I have since got quite used to the most ofthem, and their only effect is to remind me of my own rashventures in a foreign tongue. There are one or two wordswhich recall the pain it gave me to control my emotions. Hewould produce his penknife, for instance; and, contemplatingit with a despondent air, would declare it to be the mostdifficult word in the English language to pronounce. 'Ow yousay 'im?' 'Penknife,' I explained. He would bid me write itdown; then having spelt it, he would, with much effort, and asound like sneezing - oh! the pain I endured! - slowly repeat'Penkneef.' I gave it up at last; and he was gratified withhis success. As my explosion generally occurred about fiveminutes afterwards, Monsieur Vincent failed to connect causeand effect. When we parted he gave me a neatly bound copy ofLa Bruyere as a prize - for his own proficiency, I presume.

　　Many a pleasant half-hour have I since spent with the wittyclassic.

　　Except the controversial harangues of the zealot Auguste, myreligious teaching was neglected on week days. On Sundays,if fine, I was taken to a Protestant church in Paris; notinfrequently to the Embassy. I did not enjoy this at all. Icould have done very well without it. I liked the drive,which took about an hour each way. Occasionally Aglae and Iwent in the Bourg-la-Reine coucou. But Mr. Ellice hadarranged that a carriage should be hired for me. Probably hewas not unmindful of the convenience of the old ladies. Theywere not. The carriage was always filled. Even MademoiselleHenriette managed to go sometimes - aided by a little patentmedicine, and when it was too hot for the chauffrette. Ifshe was unable, a friend in the neighbourhood was offered aseat; and I had to sit bodkin, or on Mademoiselle Aglae'slap. I hated the 'friend'; for, secretly, I felt thecarriage was mine, though of course I never had the bad tasteto say so.

　　They went to Mass, and I was allowed to go with them, inaddition to my church, as a special favour. I liked themusic, the display of candles, the smell of the incense, andthe dresses of the priests; and wondered whether whenundressed - unrobed, that is - they were funny old gentlemenlike Monsieur le Cure at Larue, and took such a prodigiousquantity of snuff up their noses and under their finger-nails. The ladies did a good deal of shopping, and wefinished off at the Flower Market by the Madeleine, where I,through the agency of Mademoiselle Aglae, bought plants for'Maman.' This gave 'Maman' UN PLAISIR INOUI, and me too; forthe dear old lady always presented me with a stick of barley-sugar in return. As I never possessed a sou (Miss Aglae keptaccount of all my expenses and disbursements) I was stronglyin favour of buying plants for 'Maman.'

　　I loved the garden. It was such a beautiful garden; sobeautifully kept by Monsieur Benoit, and withered old MereMichele, who did the weeding and helped Rose once a week inthe laundry. There were such pretty trellises, covered withroses and clematis; such masses of bright flowers and sweetmignonette; such tidy gravel walks and clipped box edges;such floods of sunshine; so many butterflies and lizardsbasking in it; the birds singing with excess of joy. I usedto fancy they sang in gratitude to the dear old Marquise, whonever forgot them in the winter snows.

　　What a quaint but charming picture she was amidst thisquietude, - she who had lived through the Reign of Terror:

　　her mob cap, garden apron, and big gloves; a trowel in onehand, a watering-pot in the other; potting and unpotting; sobusy, seemingly so happy. She loved to have me with her, andlet me do the watering. What a pleasure that was! Thescores of little jets from the perforated rose, the gushingsound, the freshness and the sparkle, the gratitude of theplants, to say nothing of one's own wet legs. 'Maman' didnot approve of my watering my own legs. But if the watering-pot was too big for me how could I help it? By and by asmall one painted red within and green outside was discoveredin Bourg-la-Reine, and I was happy ever afterwards.

　　Much of my time was spent with the children and nurses of thefamily which occupied the chateau. The costume of the headnurse with her high Normandy cap (would that I had a femalepen for details) invariably suggested to me that she wouldmake any English showman's fortune, if he could only exhibither stuffed. At the cottage they called her 'La GrosseNormande.' Not knowing her by any other name, I always soaddressed her. She was not very quick-witted, but I thinkshe a little resented my familiarity, and retaliated bycomparisons between her compatriots and mine, always in atone derogatory to the latter. She informed me as a matterof history, patent to all nurses, that the English race werenotoriously bow-legged; and that this was due to the viciouspractice of allowing children to use their legs before thegristle had become bone. Being of an inquiring turn of mind,I listened with awe to this physiological revelation, andwith chastened and depressed spirits made a mental note ofour national calamity. Privately I fancied that the mottledand spasmodic legs of Achille - whom she carried in her arms- or at least so much of the infant Pelides' legs as were notenveloped in a napkin, gave every promise of refuting hergeneralisation.

　　One of my amusements was to set brick traps for small birds.

　　At Holkham in the winter time, by baiting with a few grainsof corn, I and my brothers used, in this way, to capturerobins, hedge-sparrows, and tits. Not far from the chateauwas a large osier bed, resorted to by flocks of the commonsparrow. Here I set my traps. But it being summer time, and(as I complained when twitted with want of success) Frenchbirds being too stupid to know what the traps were for, Inever caught a feather. Now this osier bed was a favouritegame covert for the sportsmen of the chateau; and what was mydelight and astonishment when one morning I found a dead harewith its head under the fallen brick of my trap. Howtriumphantly I dragged it home, and showed it to Rose andAuguste, - who more than the rest had 'mocked themselves' ofmy traps, and then carried it in my arms, all bloody as itwas (I could not make out how both its hind legs were broken)into the salon to show it to the old Marquise. MademoiselleHenriette, who was there, gave a little scream (for effect)at sight of the blood. Everybody was pleased. But when Ioverheard Rose's SOTTO VOCE to the Marquise: 'Comme ils sontgentils!' I indignantly retorted that 'it wasn't kind of thehare at all: it was entirely due to my skill in setting thetraps. They would catch anything that put its head intothem. Just you try.'

　　How severe are the shocks of early disillusionment! It wasnot until long after the hare was skinned, roasted, served asCIVET and as PUREE that I discovered the truth. I was not atall grateful to the gentlemen of the chateau whose dupe I hadbeen; was even wrath with my dear old 'Maman' for treatingthem with extra courtesy for their kindness to her PETITCHERI.

　　That was a happy summer. After it was ended, and it was timefor me to return to England and begin my education for theNavy I never again set eyes on Larue, or that charming nestof old ladies who had done their utmost to spoil me. Manyand many a time have I been to Paris, but nothing could temptme to visit Larue. So it is with me. Often have Iquestioned the truth of the NESSUN MAGGIOR DOLORE than thememory of happy times in the midst of sorry ones. Thethought of happiness, it would seem, should surely make ushappier, and yet - not of happiness for ever lost. And arenot the deepening shades of our declining sun deepened byyouth's contrast? Whatever our sweetest songs may tell usof, we are the sadder for our sweetest memories. The grasscan never be as green again to eyes grown watery. The lambsthat skipped when we did were long since served as mutton.

　　And ifDie Fusse tragen mich so muthig nicht emporDie hohen Stufen die ich kindisch ubersprang,why, I will take the fact for granted. My youth is fled, myfriends are dead. The daisies and the snows whiten by turnsthe grave of him or her - the dearest I have loved. Shall Imake a pilgrimage to that sepulchre? Drop futile tears uponit? Will they warm what is no more? I for one have not theheart for that. Happily life has something else for us todo. Happily 'tis best to do it.