the album of letters I cherish coolly took it away. But as nearly as I can remember it ran thus: "F. M. the Duke of Wellington presents his compliments to Mr. Vernon Heath. Apsley House is the Duke's private residence, and is now occupied by himself and his friends. His rooms and pictures are therefore not on view."

The Duchess of Sutherland of those daysone of the most beautiful women of her timewrote also asking, as the Duke of Wellington had done, to be received on a day which was not a public one.

Her Grace came to Pall Mall accompanied by her two lovely daughters: one of them was then the Duchess of Leinster, the other afterwards became the Duchess of Westminster. When, after spending much time in examining the pictures, her Grace took her leave, she voluntarily said to me, "Mr. Heath, if at any time you would like to see the rooms and pictures at Stafford House, it will be only necessary for you to present your card."

When the Duke of Wellington came, as just stated, I was waiting to receive him in the dining-room, and from the window I saw him

arrive. He was on horseback, wearing the

surtout coat and the white trousers we of those days saw daily in the Park when he was on his way to the Horse Guards. At that time he sat his horse in a curiously loose fashion; so loosely, indeed, that it gave one the impression of being dangerous. If anyone desires to know exactly the character of his seat, Landseer's picture in the Vernon Collection in the National Gallery, "The Duke of Wellington and the Marchioness of Douro visiting the Plains of Waterloo," will provide the knowledge, for Landseer has caught the attitude with the utmost exactness.

I remember a story of this period that is told of the Duke. Mr. George Jones, R.A., who formerly had been in the army and held the rank of captain, had, by reason of his dress, the appearance of a military man. Beyond that, in figure, face, and general style he was certainly like the Duke. He wore a deep white cravat, while beneath his waistcoat peeped the red edge of an under one, and with the addition of a dark blue military cloak, he was constantly taken for the Duke.

At last someone told his Grace this, upon

which he said, "Really, really, that's odd, for I'm never taken for Mr. Jones!"

Robert Vernon died in May, 1850, and was buried at Ardington Church, in the pretty little north chapel built by him at the time when, a few years before his death, he, at his own cost, had restored the church. In that chapel he placed an exquisite white marble statue by Baily, R.A., of a draped female figure, life size, named "Prayer."

Sir Robert Peel, on hearing of my uncle's death, sent for me, and after I had answered his questions, he suggested that I had a fairly reasonable claim upon the patronage of the Minister of the day (then Lord John Russell), to whom Sir Robert gave me a letter.

The following June Sir Robert Peel's influence was lost to me. Every one will remember the grievous accident that befell him when riding up Constitution Hill, which resulted fatally on the 2nd of July, 1850.

Lord John Russell resigned towards the end of 1852, and was succeeded on the 28th of December by the Earl of Aberdeen. Nothing having, up to that time, come of my application,

the Marquis of Lansdowne gave me an introduction to Lord Aberdeen, who, like Lord John, spoke favourably of my claim. But when the end of the year 1854 came, and long-deferred hope had made my heart sick, I determined to rely upon myself, and strike out a course of my own. What that course was will be made manifest further on.

CHAPTER III.

Robert Vernon: Stories of his Time: The twelve Undervests; His Hunting Clothes; A Hunting Story; The Heron; Roast or Boiled?

I HAVE already spoken of the two sides of my uncle's character. He was also eccentric, and would at times do and say most curious things, which though they in some measure told against himself, he would frequently relate with evident enjoyment.

The following amusing incident happened at the time I lived under his roof:

He always spoke in a slow and deliberate manner a manner which gave one the notion that every word he uttered was carefully weighed and thought out; at all events, he certainly meant what he said, and those who knew him always dealt with his words literally.

My mornings were usually occupied in writing his letters or in reading to him. It was, however,