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while we have a misty recollection of having heard that even the possession of locks of favourite dogs' hair was forbidden, as tending, no doubt, to instil dangerous ideas. into the minds of the young ladies. It was afterwards again used as a private residence until the 23rd of March, 1862, when it caught fire, and before the close of that Sabbath evening, the old house, where the merry monarch had supped, and an heir apparent had passed his short, childish life, was. a heap of smoking ruins, leaving nothing but its. memories behind.
It was, says an antiquary of the reign of Anne, “a. very noble pile, and finished with all the art the architećts of that time were masters of.” The building was of brick with stone finishings. The Campden arms were sculptured above the first floor bay windows. On the east was the room called Queen Anne's bed-chamber, which had an arched plaster ceiling with pendants, while the walls were hung with red damask tapestry, in imitation of foliage. The house itself stood in large grounds, the approach to it being from Kensington, through a long avenue of elms, which extended nearly to High Street, passing
through the spot now occupied by the cemetery. One of the mounds belonging to the Waterworks Company is still traditionally called “Queen Anne's Mound,” and is said to have formed part of the Campden estate. The situation was so warm that the olive flourished out of doors; and we also read of a caper tree which had annually produced fruit without any artificial heat, for more than a hundred years. At the close of the last century, the land in front of the house was planted with trees, which nearly cut off the view from the town, while at the same time a road was made to the east. Should any of our readers at any time chance to pass down that road; we hope that they will look on the new house, built on the model of the old, with none the less interest, if they think of the touching story of the young Duke of Gloucester,
Macaulay–His fondness for Children; his Generosity,
Hospitality, and Prodigious Memory–His Death.
IN our rambles we have sometimes met with places and names over which we would willingly have lingered. But when those names were the names of well-known men who are still among us, or who have only lately left us, we have either passed by in silence, or at the most, allowed ourselves only a casual peep, and we have already in our introduction explained our reasons for not doing more. There is one house which must be an exception to our usual practiceHolly Lodge. It is a comfortable old-fashioned place standing in its own grounds, situated on the slope of Campden Hill, and now belongs to the Earl of Airlie.
But for nearly four years, from May, 1856 to December, 1859, it was in the hands of one whose name has often been mentioned in these pages—Thomas Babington Macaulay, the most popular historian of England. We think we have made this exception not without reason. Mr. Trevelyan's spirited life and letters of his uncle have provided us with ample materials, while in Macaulay as we see him at Holly Lodge, there is nothing to mar, nothing to confuse, nothing to criticise, so that we need be under no fear of wounding the feelings of friends or relations. It is the picture of an author and reader, enjoying himself as only an author and reader can, and the warm deep evening glow of a sun that is setting in more than usual brilliancy, colours such a picture of greatness, happiness, home life and contentment, as is not often to be found in the career of a literary man.
In May, 1856 then, Macaulay, still plain Mr., removed from his chambers on the second floor in the Albany and settled at Holly Lodge, Kensington. The house had been recommended to him by his old friend Dr. Millman. The first effect of this recommendation was to set Macaulay to re-reading and recriticising the Doctor's book on Latin Christianity, and the second was the purchase of the lease of the house, which latter he pronounced to be “in many respects, the very thing.” The rooms it is true, were not for the most part very large, but that mattered but little, as the room of the house—the library, was all that could be desired. It was a spacious apartment, enlarged by pillared recess, and opening on a beautiful unbroken slope of verdant green. After an autumn trip in Germany and Italy, Macaulay says in one of his letters “that all the countries through which I have been travelling could not show such a carpet of soft rich green herbage as mine," If this lawn were not overshadowed by any giants of the forest, of shrubbery there was abundance, “How I love,” says the happy proprietor, “my little paradise of shrubs and turf.” And again in May, 1857, “It is delicious, the lilacs are completely out; the laburnams almost completely. The brilliant red flowers of my favourite thorn tree began to show themselves yesterday. Today they are beautiful. To-morrow, I daresay, the whole tree will be in a blaze.” A few days later he rejoices over the advent of the rhododendrons, and of the starting into leaf of the mulberry tree, “which though small, is a principal object in the view of the