My first acquaintance with this eminent man, who was known to his contemporaries as the great “Elchee,” was during his residence at Westbrook Hayes, within a few miles’ distance of Ashridge where I was then staying, and while there, and on his return to his house in Grosvenor Square, I always met with great kindness, and was encouraged to be a constant visitor; that, not only by the great “Elchee” himself, but by the gentle and courteous Lady Stratford,[72] whose rare fate it had been to be a wife and an ambassadress at twenty. Between their second daughter and myself there sprung up a close intimacy, and our meetings were frequent beneath the roof of dear Lady Marian Alford, where both in London and at Ashridge we were often fellow-guests, and earnestly did I share the grief of her two surviving sisters, when dear “Catty”[73] passed away. Footnote 72: Elizabeth Charlotte, daughter of James Alexander, Esq. She died in 1882. Footnote 73: Honourable Catharine Canning, daughter of above; born 1835; died 1884. Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, even in his advanced years, was a man of magnificent presence, extreme personal beauty, with features which would kindle at a moment’s notice from deep calm to an expression of varied excitement. I have seldom seen a face that answered more faithfully to the feelings within, and although in his conversations with me he was ever kind and gentle, I could well imagine that it would be in no way difficult to rouse that British lion. I was much amused by an anecdote I heard respecting him, at a time when the Eastern question was the universal theme of conversation. One day a visitor, calling at his door, met Gladstone coming out. “How did you find Lord Stratford?” was the question addressed to the G.O.M. “Wonderfully well,” was the reply, “but quite cracked on the subject of Turkey.” The visitor entered. “I have just met Gladstone on the doorstep,” he said. “Yes,” answered Lord Stratford, “he is in great force and most agreeable, but, between ourselves, the Eastern question has sent him off his head.” * * * * * I hope I may be excused in concluding this short sketch, if I insert the following lines which he one day addressed to me, on my asking him for his autograph. “To meet your wish I fain would write, But doubtful how to please, My words are flat, my notions trite, In short, I’m ill at ease. “What may be done in such a fix Your wit alone can tell; Do you find straw to make the bricks, Be sure I’ll not rebel. “I ask not wheat, I won’t take chaff, Between them lies an art Whereby to make the gravest laugh, Yet somehow touch the heart.