The heroine of his story was a beautiful Italian girl, of a noble family, which had given more than one Doge to Venice. She had come with her father at a time of political trouble to England, and, like many other Italian emigrants, they had supported themselves by teaching their beautiful language.
The daughter, indeed, had become a resident governess in the family of an English nobleman, where she was deservedly a favourite—so much so, indeed, as to make a deep impression on the susceptible heart of the young heir-apparent of the title. Amiable and accomplished as was the fair Venetian, the union was not calculated to obtain the parents’ approbation; and Giulia was not one to repay kindness by causing strife in the family. The young Englishman would have braved his father’s displeasure on this point, but the noble girl withstood the temptation which presented itself, and with a sad heart left the house where she had spent many happy days. Pondering how best to make use of her talents, which were considerable, and to gain a subsistence for herself, Giulia determined to go upon the stage, and it was in her capacity as an actress that she became acquainted with Charles Young, who was at that time playing the part of first lover (if I mistake not) in some provincial theatre. It was love at first sight, with the lover in question, and a beautiful young couple they must have been in those far-off days; but alas! within the year she died in giving birth to a son, named Julian, after his mother. During the time that I lived at Hampton Court, Julian Young was appointed Chaplain to the Palace, and he became the husband of my friend, Annie Willis. This favourite companion was a distinguished member of our dramatic corps, and shared in the laurels which the Sheridans, my two brothers and self, acquired in our amateur theatricals. She was deservedly admired, and I well remember Lord Normanby (the ambassador) whispering to me the night her engagement was announced: “What a pretty little edition of Young’s ‘Night Thoughts.’”
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It was during the summer of 1844 that my dear father, who had been in failing health for some time, breathed his last at the small wayside hotel at Salt-Hill, near Slough. It has since been burned down, but was well known in former years as the resort of the Eton scholars, at the time of Montem. My father had gone thither for change of air, in company with his life-long friend and favourite messmate, Sir Willoughby Lake, who did not long survive him.