My grandfather’s Garter was a great honour, if something of a disappointment. He had been a great friend of George the Fourth when he was Prince of Wales, and the Prince had promised him that when he should come to the throne, he would show him some mark of his favour. Lord Ashburnham attended his first levée. In those days, and indeed down to the end of King William the Fourth’s reign, a levée was not what it is now; it was a reception attended by very few people, and the King entered into conversation with everyone present in turn. The King greeted my grandfather most cordially, saying, “Ah! George, I see you have come to remind me of my promise. Well, there is a Garter vacant, and you shall have it.” (The Garter, like all other honours, was then still in the gift of the sovereign without any reference to ministers). My grandfather was deeply grateful, but he had a large family, and he had hoped that he might have obtained for his second son some one of those snug offices to which the only duty attached was the reception of the salary—sinecures now all vanished!—and instead of that, at a moment when he was feeling rather poor, he had to find one thousand pounds for fees. [Illustration: THE ASHBURNHAM FAMILY.] Of my mother’s brothers and sisters, those that I knew best were my uncles Charles, who was in the Diplomatic Service, and Thomas, who was first in the Coldstream Guards and, after exchanging into the line, served in many Indian battles; his last post was that of Commander-in-Chief at Hong Kong; he was one of the wittiest of men, endowed with the power of giving a fantastic turn to the most commonplace topics, and his subtle humour was enhanced by being rendered in a musical speaking voice which was a special attraction in all his family. He was the darling of society, and might easily have been a spoilt darling, but that was impossible. His last years—he died in 1872—were spent in the very able administration of various charities. The widow of my Uncle Charles, a brilliantly clever woman, married Sir Godfrey Webster, and became the châtelaine of Battle Abbey, which was afterwards bought by the Duchess of Cleveland, the authoress of the “Roll of Battle Abbey,” and the mother of Lord Rosebery. My aunt, Lady Jane Swinburne, was the mother of the poet. She was a very cultivated woman, to whose bringing up he owed the finest side of his character. I hardly knew my eldest uncle, Lord Ashburnham, the famous scholar and bibliophile, a man of recognized learning and taste. He was a great Pasha of whom men stood in terror. Old Mr. Quaritch, the bookseller, used to tell a good story of him.