Henry was very fond of travelling, and took great delight in lionising different cities which we visited; but in one respect he was a staunch John Bull—no power on earth could persuade him that when he resided in Florence he could possibly be called a foreigner. “No, ma’am,” he used to say, “the Italians are foreigners, but I am an Englishman!” Yet he liked Italy and the Italians, and during a summer we passed at Munich busied himself, with an Italian grammar and dictionary, in preparation for his journey to Rome. The language of Goethe and Schiller had no charm for him, and by means of his Italian studies and his own quick intelligence he contrived to make himself understood, although in a somewhat unidiomatic and ungrammatical way.
For instance, one morning when starting from the door of the hotel where we had passed the night, the large Berline in which we were travelling was surrounded by a host of beggars. My mother had caused some “largesse” to be distributed, especially to the woman in charge of the blind beggar, who invariably figures in the group, when, to Henry’s indignation, she repeated her demands, and was bold enough to ask for more. Then he turned upon her in all the eloquent indignation of his newly-acquired language, “Volete, prendete tutto, prendete carozza e cavalli!” Poor Henry! He knew “Volete” was right, and “prendete” was right—how could he imagine the combination could be wrong? I well knew that nothing pleased him more than to be trusted with messages or directions to the Italian servants. Therefore, one day when driving in Florence, I said to him, “Henry, pray tell the coachman that the carriage window is broken.” “Ehe, cocchiere, il bicchiere é rotto.” But he invariably contrived to make himself understood, and was a great favourite with the Italians, from his easy good humour and willingness to help on all occasions.
In addition to his other talents, Henry was an adept with his needle, an excellent cook, and an incomparable waiter. He was slow of hearing, which perhaps sharpened his powers of vision, and we got into a habit of communicating with him by signs. He identified himself with our family in rather a comical manner sometimes. “It is getting quite late in September, Henry,” said my sister-in-law to him one day, “and we have had no game sent us yet; it is very odd.” “Very true, Ma’am, very true,” was the sympathetic reply; “I think it is too bad. Why, there is Lord Cork, the nearest relation we have, to think he should not send us a single partridge!”