But to return to more modern times. Many were the delightful social gatherings, many the gay dances, _tableaux vivants_, private theatricals, and other festive doings in which I took a willing part. How well I remember the night of the 8th of September, 1855! We had had an unusually merry evening; our theatricals had gone off brilliantly, and we had danced ourselves in to the next morning, when Lord Sandwich proposed that all his guests staying in the house should adjourn to the smoking-room to finish up what we had already made “a night of.” We presented a most motley appearance, most of the actors, male and female, having retained their dramatic costumes, some of which were especially grotesque. The ladies were laughing and talking, the gentlemen smoking and sipping, when we were all alike startled by the sound of the door-bell at that unearthly hour. Lord Sandwich rose, and said he would answer the summons himself, and a moment of suspense, not unmingled with fear, ensued. The door re-opened, our host re-entered, his handsome face illuminated with joy and triumph. Glorious news! Sevastopol was taken! the war was at an end! How we all shouted, while some clapped their hands, and leaped on chairs, and one and all drank to the health of our brave soldiers, and to their safe return. It was in January 1859 that a very large party was assembled at Hinchingbrooke in honour of the visit of H.R.H. the Duchess of Cambridge[94] and Princess Mary Adelaide.[95] One evening, in hopes of amusing the company, I imagined to array myself in the costume of a hundred years before, and stepping from a frame which had been set up for that purpose, I spoke an address in the character of the Countess of Sandwich of 1759, which concluded with the following tribute to our much-loved Royal guests: Footnote 94: The late Duchess of Cambridge. Footnote 95: The late Duchess of Teck. “It does rejoice my heart the time was mine To come among you all in Fifty-nine, To see with living eyes the fair array Of noble, gentle company to-day; It proves you keep the spirit of your race, When guests like these our ancient dwelling grace. Those who esteem the will beyond the deed, Who no stiff forms or rigid customs need, Who claim respect, yet kindle love the while, Reward the smallest service with a smile, Meet all half-way, accept each proffered part, And draw the court we pay them from the heart.” This was a feeble but honest expression of the affection we all bore to that noble lady whose loss we are mourning in this present year of 1889, and who, although she had outlived by far the generally allotted span, was so much beloved that England was unwilling to spare her.