Let not the scandal be implicitly credited.  Lady Mary, dirty or clean, resided occasionally, however, at Twickenham.  When the admirable Lysons composed his ‘Environs of London,’ Horace Walpole was still living—­it was in 1795—­to point out to him the house in which his brilliant acquaintance lived.  It was then inhabited by Dr. Morton.  The profligate and clever Duke of Wharton lived also at Twickenham.

Marble Hill was built by George II, for the countess of Suffolk, and Henry, Earl of Pembroke, was the architect.  Of later years, the beautiful and injured Mrs. Fitzherbert might be seen traversing the greensward, which was laved by the then pellucid waters of the Thames.  The parish of Twickenham, in fact, was noted for the numerous characters who have, at various times, lived in it:  Robert Boyle, the great philosopher; James Craggs, Secretary of State; Lord George Germaine; Lord Bute—­are strangely mixed up with the old memories which circle around Twickenham to say nothing of its being, in after years, the abode of Louis Philippe, and now, of his accomplished son.

One dark figure in the background of society haunts us also:  Lady Macclesfield, the cruel mother of Savage, polluted Twickenham by her evil presence.

Let us not dwell on her name, but recall, with somewhat of pride, that the names of that knot of accomplished, intellectual women, who composed the neighbourhood of Strawberry, were all English; those who loved to revel in all its charms of society and intellect were our justly-prized countrywomen.

Foremost in the bright constellation was Anne Seymour Conway, too soon married to the Hon. John Darner.  She was one of the loveliest, the most enterprizing, and the most gifted women of her time—­thirty-one years younger than Horace, having been born in 1748.  He doubtless liked her the more that no ridicule could attach to his partiality, which was that of a father to a daughter, insofar as regarded his young cousin.  She belonged to a family dear to him, being the daughter of Field Marshal Henry Seymour Conway:  then she was beautiful, witty, a courageous politician, a heroine, fearless of losing caste, by aspiring to be an artist.  She was, in truth, of our own time rather than of that.  The works which she left at Strawberry are scattered; and if still traceable, are probably in many instances scarcely valued.  But in that lovely spot, hallowed by the remembrance of Mrs. Siddons, who lived there in some humble capacity—­say maid, say companion—­in Guy’s Cliff House, near Warwick—­noble traces of Anne Damer’s genius are extant:  busts of the majestic Sally Siddons; of Nature’s aristocrat, John Kemble; of his brother Charles—­arrest many a look, call up many a thought of Anne Damer and her gifts:  her intelligence, her warmth of heart, her beauty, her associates.  Of her powers Horace Walpole had the highest opinion.  ‘If they come to Florence,’ he wrote, speaking of Mrs. Damer’s going to Italy for the winter, ’the great duke should beg Mrs. Damer to give him something of her statuary; and it would be a greater curiosity than anything in his Chamber of Painters.  She has executed several marvels since you saw her; and has lately carved two colossal heads for the bridge at Henley, which is the most beautiful in the world, next to the Ponte di Trinita and was principally designed by her father, General Conway.’