ith 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.'

No wonder th