lear memories begin. I have indeed some vague impressions of a
visit to the widow of my mother's grandfather--Lady Robert Seymour--who
died in her ninety-first year when I was two years old; though, as those
impressions are chiefly connected with a jam-cupboard, I fancy that they
must pertain less to Lady Robert than to her housekeeper. But two
memories of my fourth year are perfectly defined. The first is the fire
which destroyed Covent Garden Theatre on the 5th of March, 1856. "During
the operatic recess, Mr. Gye, the lessee of the Theatre, had sub-let it
to one Anderson, a performer of sleight-of-hand feats, and so-called
'Professor.' He brought his short season to a close by an entertainment
described as a 'Grand Carnival Complimentary Benefit and Dramatic Gala,
to commence on Monday morning, and terminate with a _bal masque_ on
Tuesday night.' At 3 on the Wednesday morning, the Professor thought it
time to close the orgies. At this moment the gasfitter discovered the
fire issuing from the cracks of the ceiling, and, amid the wildest
shrieking and confusion, the drunken, panic-stricken masquers rushed to
the street. The flames burst through the roof, sending high up into the
air columns of fire, which threw into bright reflection every tower and
spire within the circuit of the metropolis, brilliantly illuminating the
whole fabric of St. Paul's, and throwing a flood of light across
Waterloo Bridge, which set out in bold relief the dark outline of the
Surrey hills." That "flood of light" was beheld by me, held up in my
nurse's arms at a window under "Big Ben," which looks on Westminster
Bridge. When in later years I have occasionally stated in a mixed
company that I could remember the burning of Covent Garden Theatre, I
have noticed a general expression of surprised interest, and have been
told, in a tone meant to be kind and complimentary, that my hearers
would hardly have thought that my memory went back so far. The
explanation has been that these good people had some vague notions of
_Rejected Addresses_ floating through their minds, and confounded the
burning of Covent Garden Theatre in 1856 with that of Drury Lane Theatre
in 1809. Most people have no chronological sense.

Our home was at Woburn, in a house belonging to the Duke of Bedford,
but given by my grandfather to my parents for their joint and several
lives. My father's duties at the House of Commons kept him in London
during the Parliamentary Session, but