During the first day of his residence at Epsom the following incident—­which may or may not have had a bearing on the strange events that followed—­took place.

“Lord Lyttelton,” to quote Sir Digby Neave, “had come to Pit Place in very precarious health, and was ordered not to take any but the gentlest exercise.  As he was walking in the conservatory with Lady Affleck and the Misses Affleck, a robin perched on an orange-tree close to them.  Lord Lyttelton attempted to catch it, but failing, and being laughed at by the ladies, he said he would catch it even if it was the death of him.  He succeeded, but he put himself in a great heat by the exertion.  He gave the bird to Lady Affleck, who walked about with it in her hand.”

On the following morning his lordship appeared at the breakfast-table so pale and haggard that his guests, alarmed at his appearance, asked what was the matter.  For a time he evaded their enquiries, and then made the following startling statement:—­“Last night,” he said, “after I had been lying in bed awake for some time, I heard what sounded like the tapping of a bird at my window, followed by a gentle fluttering of wings about my chamber.  I raised myself on my arm to learn the meaning of these strange sounds, and was amazed at seeing a lovely female, dressed in white, with a small bird perched like a falcon on her hand.  Walking towards me, the vision spoke, commanding me to prepare for death, for I had but a short time to live.  When I was able to command my speech, I enquired how long I had to live.  The vision then replied, ’Not three days; and you will depart at the hour of twelve.’”

Such was the remarkable story with which Lord Lyttelton startled his guests on the morning of 24th November 1779.  In vain they tried to cheer him, and to laugh away his fears.  They could make no impression on the despondency that had settled on him; they could not shake the conviction that he was a doomed man.  “You will see,” was all the answer he would vouchsafe, “I shall die at midnight on Saturday.”

But in spite of this alarming experience and the gloomy forebodings to which, in his shattered state of nerves, it gave birth, Lord Lyttelton did not long allow it to interfere with the work he had in hand, the preparation of a speech on the disturbed condition in Ireland which he was to deliver in the House of Lords that very day—­a speech which should enhance his great and rapidly growing reputation as an orator.  He spent some hours absorbed in polishing and repolishing his sentences, and in verifying his facts; and, when he rose in the House, he was as full of confidence as of his subject.

Never, it was the common verdict, had his lordship spoken with more eloquence and lucidity or with more powerful grasp of his subject and his hearers.