My Grandfather

By LORD EGREMONT

I WAS messing about in my muniment room the other day and dusting off e, various old papers and my old friend, Mr Francis Steer, the county archivist, who happened to be mess- ing about there, too, at the time, came across a bundle entitled 'Henry, 2nd Baron Leconfield: Miscellaneous Correspon-

dence.' I read through it and was thereby reminded of an incident in Henry's life. Henry was my grandfather.

Mark Twain wrote about a character called Emmeline who was addicted to writing lugu- brious verse. She wasn't particular: she would write about anything 'just so it was sadful.' Every time a man died or a woman died or a child died, she would be on hand with her 'Tribute' before he or she was cold. She called them tributes. The neighbours said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker. The undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but- once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler. She was never the same after that: 'She kinder pined away.'

My grandfather was Handsome and grand And idolised land.

He possessed about 110,000 acres. But curiously enough he reminds me of Emmeline. Not that he was addicted to writing lugubrious verse. What my grandfather was addicted to was— of all things—complaining about not being an Earl. His grandfather, who had been one, having delayed getting married to the mother of his children until six of them, the eldest of whom was my great-grandfather, had been born, had washed the earldom out for us. A beneficent sovereign, by way of consolation, had conferred the Barony of Leconfield on my great-grand- father. My grandfather, however, while grateful for this recognition of the family's worth and happy to have inherited the new title, continued nevertheless rb- resent that dilatoriness about going to the altar which had done him out of an earldom.

It was my grandfather's King Qtarles's head.

My grandfather would, so to speak, go on about it: my aunt Maggie, for example, instead of being a mere Hon. Maggie, might have been the glittering Lady Margaret. And so on. He would shout about it after dinner and Maggie (in any case a silly girl) would blub.

One morning early in 1886 the following letter arrived from the Prime Minister: My Dear Lord Leconfield.

1 have great pleasure in being able to inform you that the Queen has been pleased to confer on you the rank of an Earl—in recognition of your great position and high character. .

Believe me, Yours sincerely,

SALISBURY

Was my grandfather pleased? Au commire, as the Frenchman said when they asked if he had lunched on the boat. Here was my grand- father's King Charles's head going for a burton.

At first he did not knov, what to do about it. He pondered over the letter all morning. After mature consideration and a good luncheon, he made up his mind: ,..Dear Lord Salisbury, I must beg you to convey to Her Majesty my very grateful acknowledgments for the honour She is so graciously willing to confer on me, but at the same time 1 trust that Her Majesty will not consider me wanting in appreciation of, and gratitude for her intentions towards me if I decline the rank offered. . .

LECONI IELD

But, like Enmieline, he was never the same after that.