My father’s appointment with Lord Nelson was an early one, and he was the more anxious to be punctual as he knew how much the Admiral’s movements must be affected¹ by the news which we had heard the night before.  I had hardly breakfasted then, and my uncle had not rung for his chocolate, when he called for me at Jermyn Street.  A walk of a few hundred yards brought us to the high building of discoloured brick in Piccadilly, which served the Hamiltons as a town house, and which Nelson used as his head-quarters when business or pleasure called him from Merton.  A footman answered our knock, and we were ushered² into a large drawing-room with sombre furniture and melancholy³ curtains.  My father sent in his name, and there we sat, looking at the white Italian statuettes in the corners, and the picture of Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples which hung over the harpsichord⁴.  I can remember that a black clock was ticking loudly upon the mantelpiece, and that every now and then, amid the rumble⁵ of the hackney coaches, we could hear boisterous⁶ laughter from some inner chamber⁷.

 

When at last the door opened, both my father and I sprang to our feet, expecting to find ourselves face to face with the greatest living Englishman.  It was a very different person, however, who swept into the room.

 

She was a lady, tall, and, as it seemed to me, exceedingly beautiful, though, perhaps, one who was more experienced and more critical might have thought that her charm lay in the past rather than the present.  Her queenly figure was moulded upon large and noble lines, while her face, though already tending to become somewhat heavy and coarse, was still remarkable⁹ for the brilliancy of the

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