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■ " ilii ■• Villi; v\V lltlKMi: ■ 
 
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t i ll 
 
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 THE 
 
 Wits and Beaux of Society. 
 
 BV 
 
 GRACE AND PHILIP WHARTON, 
 
 AUTHORS OF " THE QUEENS OCIBTY." 
 
 IVit/i I/lustrations from Drawings by 
 
 II. K. BROWNE A.\D JAMES GODWIN. 
 Engraved by the BRO THERS DA L7.IEL. 
 
 J' H T R D EDITION. 
 
 JAMES CAMPBELL AND SON, 
 TORONTO AND MONTREAL. 
 
IilLL!.N<;, I'KINTEK, GUILDFORD. 
 
 Sfcl;: 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface to the Second Edition 
 
 PUEl-ACK TO THE FlRST r'-DllION 
 
 p. XI 
 
 p. \v 
 
 GEORGE VILLIERS, SECOND DUKE OF BUCK- 
 INGHAM. 
 
 i Sijrns of the Restoration. -Samuel Pepys in his Glory. -A Royal Convpany. - 
 
 Penvs *n-advto WVep.'-'riie I'lavinato of Charles II.-- (.corKe \ lUiorss 
 Inheritaiiee -Two (iallant Young Xol.lenien.-'riie Brave Irancis Vilhers. 
 
 — After the Battle of Worcester.— DisRuisins the Kintj.— Villiers ni Ilidinj,'. 
 
 — He appears as a Mountebank. - P.uckiii.t;l...iii's Habits.— A Daring 
 Adventure -fronnveUs Saintiv Uau.i,'hter. A'illiers and the Rabbi.— T he 
 
 i Ruckiniihaiu Pictures and i:states. - Y(jrk House. — \'ilhers returns to 
 
 i iMT'laud —Poor Marv Fairfa.\. -Villiers in tlie Tower. - .\brahain ( owley, 
 
 i the^Poet -The Greatest Ornament of Whitehall.- Buckaiijlian) s \\ U ,ind 
 
 1 Beauty — Flecknoe's OiMuion of l.im.— His Duel witii liie luirl of Mirews- 
 
 i burv. -Villiers as a Poet. -As a Dr unatist. -.\ 1 Varfui ( ensure ! - Vilhers s 
 
 i Influence in Parliament. -A Scene ii ihe I.onl^. I he Duke of Oniinnd 
 
 ' in Dantrer— Colonel Blood's Ouira-.-,. Walliii-lonl House and Han. 
 
 ' House —' Madame Kllen.'—T'he Cab.a. -Villiers a.iiaui m the |.,u,r A 
 
 ' ChanL'e —The Duke of York's Theatre.— Buckin,i,'hani and the i'r,:Kr-. ot 
 
 Oran<4e.— His last Hours.— His Rcli,^non. — Death ot Vilhers.— Hie DiiJi, ..s 
 of Buckingham. . . • • • • • P- ' 
 
 COUNT DE GRAAfMONT, ST. EVREMOND, AND 
 LORD ROCHESTER. 
 
 De 
 
 Grammont's Choice.— His Influence with T,,renne.— The Ciiurdi or tlie 
 Armv?— An Adventure at Pvons.— .\ b' -^U Idea.— De C]r,iinmont s 
 Generosity— \ Horse 'for the Cards.'— rv:,,,'iit-Cicisbeism. — De Gram- 
 mont's first Love. -His Wittv Attacks on >:azarin. Anne Lucie de la 
 Mothe Houdancourt.- Beset with .Snares.— De Grammont's Visits to 
 Eu'd and — Chi il"s H. — The Court of Charles 11. — Introduction of 
 Country-dances.— Norman I'eculiarities.- -St. Evremond, the Handsome 
 Norman —The most P^eautiful Woman in Europe. — Hortense Mancini's 
 Advemures.-M.ulame Mazarin':, Hoa.e at Chdsea,- \necdr.tr of I/)rd 
 Dorset.— Lord Rochester in his Zenith.— His Courage and Wit.— 
 
IV 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Km, li.-icrs Pranks in the City.— Crcduliiv, fast and Prr'^cnf. -' Dr. 
 liiMido,' ami I,a Ik-lIc Ji'iinin^s.- |.a 'I rist.-' Hcriiii'-r.'. F.li/iil.vth, Couii- 
 tL'ss of Kiiclu'stor, ~ kutribiitioii and Rtlurmation. • (oriMrsion. Hcaii.\ 
 without Wit. -- Little Ji nnvii. ,\ii IniN.mpaiahk' liciiitv. .Xnthcmy 
 H.iniiltDH, I)f Crainniont ■> iiioKiaphiT. 'Ihi' 'riirce ( oiini.' ' I«i M'll'f 
 
 llaiiiillon.' Sir I'vt.r I.cly's I'ortr.iit of her. The HouM-hold iX-itv of 
 
 ^^'hiii-hall. Who shall havr tin- (^li.chc? A ( hapl.iin in Livery. •-!)« 
 (iraiiiiiioiit s La--t Hours. -What niiijiit he not have been? . p. 41 
 
 i5i'..\r riKi-DiNc. 
 
 » 
 On Wit, :uul P.,-aux.-^'<coiland Varrl in Ch.arlos 11. 's day. Orlando of 'Tln! 
 'I'atl,!,' I'm ail Flfldin;,', Jii.stici' of the roaco. —Adonis' in S.Mnh of a Wife. 
 - 'Ihe .Slinni Widow. -\Vays and Means, jj.irhara N'llliers, Ladv Castle- 
 niainc. (,)iiarn'ls with the Kini;.— The IUmu's .S.-cond .Nhirriai^"', Tlie 
 I.a-I D.iv^of I'ops ,ind I'.raiix. . . . . . ' 11, o 
 
 OF CKRTAIN CLUBS AND CLUH-WITS 
 ANXK. 
 
 UNDER 
 
 Tin: nrj.jin f)f Clnhs. — The I^st.ablishnunt of Coff.'e-houses.— The October Chih. 
 The Heef-hteak Club. Of eertain other Clubs. -The Kit-kat Club. --'1 Ik; 
 Komance of the Howl. The 'loasts of the Kit-kat. ~'lhe MiMiib.rs of the 
 Ku kat. -A ,!,Tood Wit, and a bad .Nrdiitect. — ' Well-natured Oarth.' -'I'he 
 I'oi-ts of tin; Kit-kat. Ch.irles .\Ionta%'u, Earl of Halifax. Chancellor 
 Soniers. -Cliiirlcs .Sackviili', Lord iJur.Mt. - I-ess eelebnited Wit^. p. yi 
 
 \Vn.I.I.\.M CONGRI'.Vi;. 
 
 When and where was he born? TIp" Middle Temple.— Contrrcve finds his 
 Vocation.— V'eises Kjtjueen M.iiy. The Trniiis-ccnirt Theatre. -Coiigrevo 
 abandons tiu- Dr.una.-Jrreiny Collier. Thf Iinnioralitv of the Stage. - 
 Very iniproix-r Things. -A 'on^'ivves Writini,'s. I.Tmnvs' ' Short Views.' - 
 Kiv.il Theatres.— Dryden's Funeral.-- .\ Tub-Pnaeh'-f. -Horoscopic I're- 
 dictiou^. l)iyd(Mi's ,*^olicitiide for his Son. Congreve's .Xnibition. --.Anec- 
 dote of Voltaire and Con.i;reve. Th.' I'rofe-sion of .M;ee<Mias. ( 'on.£,'re\ e's 
 Private Life. - ' .Malbrook's' Uauyhtrr. (/ongreve's Death and Burial. 
 
 p. 106 
 
 HK.AU NASH. 
 
 1 he k:n- of P.at!i. - .Vash at Oxford. ' Mv Hoy Dick.'- Off.-rs of Kniirhthood. 
 Doing Penance at York. - Davs of' FollV.— .X very Romantic "Storv.- 
 Siekness and C"ivili/ation. — .\a>,h descends, upon Hath. - Nash's C'hef- 
 d'otivre.— The Hall, ftujirovenients ii: the Pumii-room, (S;c.— A Public 
 Peiufactor.— Life at P.ath in Xashs lime. - .\ Compact with the Duke of 
 Heaiilort. -Caniint,' at Hath.- .\necd(jtes of .N.ish. 'Miss Sylvia.' A 
 (jenerous Act.- -Xash's Sun .scttii:t;.-^.\ Panegyric— Xash's I'uneral.- His 
 
 Characteri.siics. 
 
 p. 127 
 
 riilLIl', DUKK OF WHARTOxN. 
 
 Whirto'i's .Xnce-t'Ts. His h'.arlv Years.— M;irriai,'e at Sixteen.— 'VX'harton takes 
 leave of his Tulor. -TIk- Young Mar(|uis and the Old Pretender. -Frolics 
 at I'.iij^. -/eai for the Oninge Cause.- .\ Jacobite Hero.— 'I he 'Irial of 
 Altcrbur) — Wharton's Defence of the Bishop. — Hypocritical Signs of 
 
■nt.-'Dr. 
 ■th, ( otiii- 
 
 11. I'i-;H1\ 
 
 Aiitliciiiv 
 • I,;l l'..'ilo 
 I Deity of 
 very. -Du 
 
 Contiiits. V 
 
 rrnitonrc Sir Rohort VV.ilpolo (Uitx'il. -- V.-ry Tryinp.- 'Ih.- Duke ol 
 WliMitoiis 'Wlifiiv Mililarv l..<>rv at (lil.r.iltar. ' rncic H.-raa-. 
 Whuiiun to ' fiiLlc Iloraci'.'^ 'nii- Diikf's linpiKlnicf. MikIi IrraM.ii 
 Wliartons K<wlv Wit.">-ist I'Atr.'iiiitic-.. Sad D.iv^i.i Pans. -Mis l„-i-t 
 Journuy toSpain'.— His Ucatii 111 a Iknuinliiu; ( oiisiiit. . r- i-r' 
 
 T.ORl) HKRVKY. 
 
 PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, EOURTH EARL OF 
 CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 Tlie Kill"- of Table Wits.-^F.arlv Years.— Ik-rvcy's Description of his I'ersoii. 
 kesuhitions and I'lirsuits. Stiidv of Oratory. Tlie Duties of an Ain- 
 ha■'^ador. Kinir (leur^e ll.'s Opinion of liis fhronielers.- Life in tlu; 
 Couiitrv MeiuMn.i, ( oiiute.^s of WalMiighani. Ceor^'e II. and liis 
 Father's Will- Di-^solvi 111; \'i.\vv Madam.; du Bouehet. -'Ihe Hroad- 
 Bottomed Administration. I . :'i Lieutenant of Ireland in Time of I'eril • 
 Reformation of the LaleiKLr. ( hesteifield House.- l-.vdusivene.ss.--~Ke- 
 commnuhn" 'J<jhn.s(,n - Dieiionarv.'— ' Old Samuel, to ( hest.'iheld — 
 Defensiv.' l'ridi\- 'Ihe (ilass of Fasliion. — Lord Seari)orouKh s I'riend^hip 
 for ChestertUkl.— The Death of Chesterfields S(Mi. His Int.T.st in his 
 Grandson-s — ' I must go and Rehearse my Funeral.'- ( liestertield s Will.- 
 What is a Friend ?— L'.s Manieres Nobles.— Letters to his Son. p. 210 
 
 THE ABBE SCARRON. 
 
 An Eastern Allegory. W!-... (omr- II. r,. ' A Mad Frrak and itsC'onscqnenccs. 
 —Making an Abt)e of Imn. 1 hr Ma>-l-air of i'aris. -Searron's Lament to 
 Peii; r,.-- The Ott'iee of the (Jueen's Patient. — ' Oive me a Simple Hene- 
 fice. - carrons Descripiiiii of Himself.— Improvidence and Servility.— 
 The Society at Scarron -^ — Tlie W'itiv Conversation.— Francoise D Aubig- 
 nd's Debut'— The Sad Storv of La Meile Indienne.— Matrimonial C-'onsider- 
 ations.— ' Searron's Wife w'ill live for ever.'— I'etits Soupcrs.— Searron's la.st 
 Moments.— A Lesson for Gay and Grave. . . . P- '-235 
 
V| 
 
 Coutcuts, 
 
 IR.WCOIS DUC I)K I. A ROCUKFOUCAl'LT AND 
 'I'HI': hi (" Di; SAINT SIMON. 
 
 Rank and (Jood MrmlinjT.-Th.- HAtcIdc Knchcfoncniilf.- Rncine and his 
 Mays. I.a koihoiuaulis Wit ami Si'n«,iliililv. - Saint SinionN Yoiitli-- 
 I-'H.kiiiKniit for a Wiff. Saint-Sinu.n> ( oiirt Lift-. I li.- lliMurv i.f Louise 
 (li- la \'.illicn'. A mean Alt of F-ouis (Juatorzc— All li;ii> passltl away ■ - 
 >aiui Siiiioii-, Mrnioirs of ilis^Own'Iiniu. . T . p. 353 
 
 HDRACl', WALPOM:. 
 
 Tlic Common.Ts u\ iMi^'lan.!. - i I..ra. .• s k,.rrr,.f for tin- Drntli of his Mother — 
 l.ilfl.' Miiraco' in Arlinn;tr)n Sin-ct. Iiitro.huv,! to (icMf.'c 1 - ( haric- 
 I.TistK- .\n.-olot.- of V.vw^v I. Walpo|..s Kducation.^ Sihoolhoy Davs — 
 J.ov^li iTRMid-hips, ( onipani.>nshi|)of (Irav. A I arv Dor.m - VVal- 
 noU-s DfMTipiiun of Youihlul I >.'iM,'hls. - An.T.iuto of l'<,pi-an<l Fr.'.l.Tu- of 
 NVales. - I,.' lonifriMx Sir 'Uiomas Rol.inson s Hall. An Admirable 
 L?'*i', 7 ».'""■■■'' S-inihs. Sir Kohrrt's Ki'tircnifnt from Office. The 
 S|)lim(lid Mansion of |[,,ii-liton. Sir K,,1»ti s r,ovc of (Jardcnin- -What 
 N-''.'?'^!" ""■ '•',';■""''"* ■'"'"■>-■ <iiw.i;,- Witu.-.- Men of Ono Idca.-'lhe 
 rs-.bl,. I ictiin-nall.-ry at lIoiij;ht.)n.- The 'Market IMwes.' Sir Koherfs 
 I eath - Ili'-'jranvill,. Faction. -A vitv j^'ood (Jiiarrd. -Iwickcnhain.- 
 Slrawhcny lliil. 1 he Recluse of Strawl)..rr\-. Portraits of ti,e F)ii:l)V 
 l-amily. NurileRe.-Mrs. Damers NJodels. '11... Ixnij,' ( iaJU'rv at Straw- 
 borry. he { h.-ipel.--' A Dirty Little "I hini,..' 1 jie Society around Straw- 
 beiTv I liM. ,\iiiie .SeynvMir < onw.iy. A M in who newr Doubted 1 ady 
 Sophi.i ierninrs Mama,!;. — Horace in F.iv<nir.-- Anecdote of Sir William 
 Stanhope. -A I'aper J l.ai-.- - - Wal|.oles Habits. Whv did he not Marry? 
 - Dowa-ersas I'lentyas 1 lu.inders.'- ( atherine Ihde,' Di.che^sof ( )ueens- 
 Derry. -Aiiecdot.M.f I„,dy ( Jranville.-Kittv ('live. - Di^ath of J loraiio Wal- 
 
 to an I'arldoin.-Walpoles L;ist Houis.-Ut us not be Ungrateful, p. 263 
 
 GEORGE SEIAVVN. 
 
 A I^veof Horrors -Anecdotes of Selwm's Arofhcr.-Selwvn's follerc Davs 
 
 U-^^^'-nn ''■•■•. ■^"Ir"'' '''■'■^i''"'"^""^ IV^-ak. The r'ro|...su,n ol^ a 
 V\ It. - 1 he I hirst (or I lazard. -Reynolds s ( onxersation-Piece. • Selwvn's 
 Lccentncmes and \\ itiicisms.-A most Important Communication - \n 
 Amateur Headsman -^ The Klo,|uence of InditfeKiice. ( atchinK a House- 
 breaker.- 1 he l;amily of the Selwyns. -Tlu- .Man of the People. -Selwvn's 
 I arliamentary Career. -True Wit. Some of Selwvn's Witty Savinirs -'The 
 (TMUh''n'"-\r m' '""'I'h ,('" V™ "^''"'^ ^'^ Wit.-Selwvns llome for 
 >,,,'■ Vi""'^ ;■ ',"; l-'"l'-/i;'l'an.-Sdwyn's Little Companion taken 
 Horn lum.—lli.s Later Days and Death. . . . p. 322 
 
 RICHARD r.RINsr.FA' SFIKRIDAN. 
 
 Sherulan a Dune.. -noyi..li Dreams ',f Literarv Fame. -Sheridan in Love - 
 
 Ae>t of .Niirhtin.L^dcs. -'I'he 'Maid of Ha-h.' ( 'n-.t':-,- .;. ;! !.. ::....■.'.. 
 SluTKl.uiS, l-;iop,'nient with ' Cecilia. '—His Duel with e'n.t.iin \1 .ith.'u, 
 btandardii ol Ridicule-Painful Family Estrangeineui..-Lmcri Dru 
 
 I 
 
 Twc 
 
 Th( 
 
 Th 
 
 ry 
 
Contents. 
 
 Ml 
 
 Unc.-SucccM of the Fnmous • School for Scatul.il. Oiiinions of S u ri 
 dan and hi. InlU.mre.-Tho l.it-T.iry Club. An.-cclot.-of <^^vmcks A.lm, 
 .ance.-OriRin of the ' Rfj..ct.d .\.l.ln-H.sc.s. N.;w H.Khts. _ 'o meal Am 
 bilioa.-The ClanMHR Nlania.- Ahnacks.-Ikorjkos.- I lack- .a^^^^^^ 
 Versions of the I'l.Ttion Trick. -St. Stephens VV on.- -Voc. 1 !>"»' "' ; 
 I>-a.l, a Du.it.le Life. I'itfs Vuluar Attack. _^SherulanH »I-'I'PV K.tu 
 (irutans g.iip. -Sheridan's Salli.-s. -'Ihe Ina of Warren I astinKs, 
 Wonderful Ktlect of Sheridan's |.-.lo(|uence.- I he Supreme hllo.t.^ 1h 
 Si.ir Cuhnmates.-Naiiv,. Tas.e (or SwindlinR. - A Shrevv. l.n ^'^■'''^1'2 
 Oxonian. Dnns Outwitt-d. - Th.r Lawyer lockey.d. Adventures wilh 
 Bailiffs, -Shcn.lxn's Powers of Persuasion.- Mouse of I omnions (.reek 
 l.'urious Mimicry. The Koy.d Boon Company. Street ItoIics at -^'K'H- " 
 AnOldlale. — 'Alls well that ends well.'---lhe I'rayin St. Oiles . Ln- 
 opc-ned letters.-. An 0<ld Incident.- Reckless Kxtr;,v,,t::.nce - ,.,vmmK 
 Ambition.- Like I'ath.r like Son.- A Severe and \Vuty l<<'lml<'' >" ' ' 
 ix.-rancc.- Convivial K.xcesses of a Past I ),iy.^ Worth wins «»< ••|^;_; "; f '"^^ 
 Panirs —The Scythe of Death. -Sheridan's Second Wif(.- Debts of Ho- 
 nour -Dnirv Lan.- Burnt.- -The Owners S..renity. Misfortunes nev.-r com.- 
 
 Sinirlv -- 'lluAVhitbread Quarrel. Kuined. Undone and. ilmosthorsakm 
 -■n.e Dea.l Man Arr.sted.-Thc Stories fixed on Sheridan. - Lxtenipore 
 Wit and Inveterate lalkcrs ''■ 344 
 
 BEAU BRUMMELL. 
 
 Two popular Science<;.-'Buck Bntmmeir at I'.ton.-InvcstinR his Capiial 
 YounK Comet Brummrll. -The Beau's Studio. -The loilet.-- ( reasuH-. 
 Down '-Devotion to Dress.-.\ (Jreat (ientleman. -Anecdotes of I.rmn- 
 mell. -'Don't forjret, lUum ; (ioose at Four !' Offers of I"<'"'f y.""^''"'''^ 1 
 -Never in love. - Brumnull out 11 untiuK. ~- Anecdote of Sheridan and 
 Bnimmell.-The Beau's Poetical F.fforts^-The Value of a * ;.""'j;.''> j;p; 
 pence. -The ISreach with the Prince of Wales.-' W ho s; your lat 1 nend . 
 •I lie Climax is reached.- The Black-mail of Calais.-Oe- r«e the (.reati r 
 and (Jeoriie the Les.s.-An l-.xtniordiiiarv St.p.- Down tl.. M\ o\ l.ile -^ 
 A Miserable Old Akc. -In the llos|)ice Du Bon Sauveur.-O Youn^ Miji 
 of this Age, be warned ! . . ■ • • • P- -tw 
 
 THEODORE EDWARD HOOK. 
 
 The Greatest of Modern Wits. -What Coleridge said of I look.- Hook s I- amily . 
 -RedeeminL' Points.— Versatility.— Varieties of IloaxinR. Hie l^lack- 
 wafered Horse.— 1 lie Rerners Street Hoax.— Success of tli.; Scheme. I he 
 Strop of Hunger. - Kitchen I'.xaminations.-The Wronu House. - AnKlin^ 
 for an Invitation.- -The Hackney-coach Device. -'Hie Plots o Hook and 
 Mathews.-Hook's 'lalents as an Improvisatore. - Ihe (jift becomes his 
 Bane.-Hooks Novels.--' ollege Fun.-Baitin« a Proctor. I he I unning 
 Faculty. -Official Life Open^. 'froublesome Pleasantry. - I, harge ot i.m- 
 bez/lement.-Misfortune.-DouLlv Disgraced. -No Kttort to remove the 
 Stain Attacks on the Queen.- An Iiicongnious Mixture. -^Specimen oi 
 tin- Kaninbottom Letters. -Hook's Scurrility, Fortune and Populanty,- 
 Thc End . p. 42.S 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 The 'Wise Wit. '-Oddities of the Father.- Verse-making at Winchester, - 
 Curate Life on Salisbury Plain.— Old Ldinburgh.- its Social and Archi 
 tectural Features. — Making Love Mruii)h>sic.tii>.— 1 no Oid ni:u\:y.:\-^\: 
 per.- The Men of Mark pa^bing away.— 1 he Band of Young Spints.. - 
 
VUl 
 
 Contents. 
 
 nron.qhams F.nrly Tcnanty.-Fitting up fonversations.-' Olri Sclmcl' 
 I -■ cnionies.-- 1 he Spec.ilativoSocioly.--A I'.rilliant Sct.-Svdnevs Onii,i,,n 
 of IMS ]TH,.nds -Holland Jio,..so.--fn.aclKr at the • Fo.mdiin.r '^-Sv ■ ' 
 i^^'l ^'"-rr '" ''""""" ^'^^"'••••-A Living Comes a7 Last' -The 
 Wis Mmistry.- Ih.. Parsonage House at Foston-k-Clav.-Conntrvn.u.. . 
 -1 he Universal Seratcher. -Uoiuury [,if,- and Coantrv Prejudice.-Thc 
 Genial AlaKistrate -t.l,mpseof Fdinhursh Society.- Mr^.Grant of I.ag.^an.- 
 A 1 ens.on Difficulty --Jetfrey and Cocklmrn.-C raigcrook.- Svdnev Smiths 
 heer ulness.-|I,s Rheumatic Annour.-Xo I',i>l,opric. ^-Pecomes Canon 
 o St. |-auls.-Am.cdot..s of F.ord Uudley.^-A Sharp Reproof. -Svdt^ev" 
 Classification of Society.— Last Strokes of Humour. . . p. 4:;- 
 
 GEORGE I3UBB DODIXGTOX, LGRD- MELCOMBE. 
 
 A Dinner-giving lordlv I'oct.-A .Misfortune for a Man of Society -Rranden- 
 
 nirgh House.- ••he Diversions of the Morning, -Johnson's On on of 
 
 •note. -^ furchill and 'The Rosciad.'- Personal i^idicule m hs y- op^ 
 
 T^ •";. •^l'^''-''"'^'" »^"''' I'"^-t. -\\alpole on D.Klinglons ' Diary '- 
 
 ;rEi™„.ss'j'£.^;':?" ""■ """■' -■- '■"'"■—• "^■^c^is 
 
 p- 493 
 
T ■' »i r 
 
 I mmmmMan -— ■" 
 
 xc=xc=xc=x 
 
 » ■ ■ - i- i I -Jt l 
 
 SUBJECTS OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 I'AGK. 
 
 BEAU FIELDING AND Till': SHAM WIDCAV ( /■r.<n//s/>i,re.J 
 
 VILLIERS IN DISGL'ISE-THE MEETING WITH HIS SISTER 
 DE GRAMMONTS MEETING WITH LA HELLl'. HAMILTON 
 
 WHARTON'S ROGUISH PRESENT 
 
 A SCENE BEFORE KENSINGTON PALACE-GEORGE H. AND 
 
 QUEEN CAROLINE 
 
 POPE AT HIS VH.LA^DISTINGUISHED VISITORS ... 
 
 A ROYAL R0I5BER 
 
 DR. JOHNSON AT LORD CHESTERFIELDS 
 
 SCARRON AND Tt i e WITS— F1 RST APPEARANCE OT' LA BELLE 
 
 INDIENNE 
 
 STRAWBERRY HILL FROM THE THAMES 
 
 SELWVN ACKNOWLEDGES 'THE SOVEREIGNI-\' OF 'THE 
 
 PEOPLE' 
 
 ■THi: FAMOUS 'LITERARY CLUB' 
 
 A TREASURE FOR A LADY-SHERIDAN AND THT: LAWYER 374 
 THE BEST THING BEAU BRUMMELL EVER SAID ... 4'7 
 
 THEODORE HOOKS ENGINEERING FROLIC 438 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH'S WITTY ANSWER TO 'THE OLD PARISH 
 
 CLERK ■■• '^76 
 
 14 
 
 74 
 
 152 
 
 172 
 194 
 
 217 
 226 
 
 247 
 289 
 
 338 
 356 
 
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 ^N revising this Publication, it has scarcely been found 
 
 , ^ ] necessary to recall a single opinion relative to the 
 L^l subject of the Work. The general impressions of 
 
 .-liaracters adopted by the Authors have received litUe modifi- 
 cation from any remarks elicited by the appearance of ' The 
 Wits and Beaux of Society.' 
 
 It is scarcely to be expected that even our descendants will 
 know much more of the Wits and Beaux of former days than 
 we now do. The chests at Strawberry Hill are cleared of their 
 contents ; Horace Walpole's latest letters are before us ; Pepys 
 and Evelyn have thoroughly dramatized the days of Charles H. ; 
 Lord Her\-ey's Memoirs have laid bare the darkest secrets of 
 the Court in which he figures ; voluminous memoirs of the less 
 historic characters among the Wits and Beaux have been pub- 
 lished ; still it is possible that some long-disregarded treasury 
 of old letters, like that in the Cullcry at Wotton, may come to 
 light. From that precious deposit a housemaid— blotted for 
 ever be her name from memory's page— was purloining sheets 
 of yellow paper, with anti^iuated writing on them, to light lier 
 fires with, when the late William Upcott came to the rescue, 
 
Ml 
 
 Preface to Second Edit ion. 
 
 an.l s:ivc(l lOvclyn's 'Diary' for a grateful world. It \<, just 
 possiMc that su( h a discovery may again be made, and that 
 the doings of (;corge Villiers, or the exile life of Wharton, or 
 the inmost thoughts of other Wits and Beaux may he made to 
 appear in clearer lights than heretofore; but it is much more 
 likely that the ]JO])ular opinions about these witty, worthless 
 men are substantially true. 
 
 All that has been collected, therefore, to form this work— 
 and, as in the ' Queens of Society,' every known source has 
 l)een consulted— assumes a sterling value as being collected ; 
 and, should hereafter fresh materials be disinterred from any 
 old library closet in the homes of some one descendant of our 
 heroes, advantage will be gladly taken to improve, correct, and 
 complete the lives. 
 
 One thing must, in justice, be said : if they have been 
 written freely, fearlessly, they have been written without pas- 
 sion or ])reju(lice. The writers, though not quite of the stamp 
 of persons who would never have ' dared to address' any of the 
 •subjects of their l)iograi)hy, 'save with courtesy and obeisance,' 
 have no wish to 'tramj^le on the graves' of such ver)' amusing 
 personages as the ' Wits and lieaux of Society.' They have 
 even l)een lenient to their jneinor\-, hailing every good trait 
 gladly, and i>ointing out with no unsjiaring hand redeeming 
 virtues ; and it cannot certainly be saitl, in this instance, that 
 the good Jias been ' interred with the l)ones ' of the personages 
 herein described, although the evil men do, 'will live after 
 them.' 
 
 _ But whilst a biographer is bound to give the fair as well as 
 the dark side of his subject, he has still to r-member that bio- 
 graphy is a trust, and that it should not be an eulogium. It is 
 his duty to reflect that in many instances it must be regarded 
 even as a warning. 
 
 . The moral conclusions of these lives of 'Wits and Beaux' 
 
Preface to Second Edition. 
 
 xm 
 
 I. It is just 
 
 ide, and that 
 
 \\ liarton, or 
 
 l)c niatlc to 
 
 nuich more 
 
 t}-, Avorthless 
 
 this work — 
 I source has 
 g (ollccted ; 
 ctl from any 
 ulant of our 
 
 con-ect, antl 
 
 have been 
 without pas- 
 'f the stamp 
 s' any of the 
 I obeisance,' 
 ery amusing 
 
 Tliey have 
 ^ good trait 
 
 I rcdecniinir 
 istance, tliat 
 ; personages 
 
 II live after 
 
 as well as 
 )er that bio- 
 :iuni. It is 
 e regarded 
 
 are. it is admitted, just : vice is censured ; folly rebuked ; un- 
 gentlemanly conduct, even in a beau of the h.ighest polish, ex- 
 posed ; irreligion finds no toleration under gentle names — 
 heartlessness no palliation from its being the way of the world. 
 There is here no separate code allowed for men who live in the 
 wodd, and for those whc live out of it. The task of pourtray- 
 ing such characters as the 'Wits and beaux of Society' is a 
 responsible one, and does not involve the mere attempt to 
 amuse, or the mere desire to abuse, but retpiires truth ami dis- 
 crimination ; as embracing just or unjust views of such charac- 
 ters, it may do mu<h harm or much good. Nevertheless, in 
 spite of these obvious considerations, there do exist worthy 
 persons, even in the present day, so unreasonable as to take 
 oftence at the revival of old stories anent their defunct grand- 
 fathers, though tho.se very stories were circ ulated by accredited 
 writers eini)loycd by the families themselves. Some individuals 
 are scandali/e<l when a man who was liabitu;il!y drunk, is 
 called a drunkard ; and ears polite cannot hear the ai^plication 
 of plain names to well-known delinquencies. 
 
 There is something foolish, but resjiedably foolish, in this 
 wish to shut out light which has been streaiiiing for years over 
 these old IdhiIis and memories. The flowers that are cast on 
 such gTaves cannot, however, rause us to forget the i-orruption 
 within and underneath. In consideration, nevertheless, of a 
 pardonable weakness, all expressions that can give ])ain, or 
 which have been said to give pain, have been, in this Second 
 Edition, omitted ; and whenever a mis-statement has crept in, 
 care has been taken to amend the error. 
 
 ind Beaux' 
 
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION 
 
 HE success of the 'Queens of Society' will have 
 pioneered the way for the 'Wits and F.eaux :' with 
 whom, (luring the holiday time of their lives, these 
 foir ladies were so greaUy associated. The ' Queens,' whether 
 all wits or not, must have been the cause of wit in others; 
 their influence over dandyism is notorious : their power to make 
 or mar a man of fashion, almost historical. So far, a chronicle of 
 the sayings and doings of the ' ^Vits ' is worthy to serve as ^ pen- 
 dant \.q that of the 'Queens :' happy would it be for society if the 
 annals of the former could more closely resemble the l)iograi)hy 
 of the latter. But it may not be so : men are subject to 
 temptations, to failures, to delinquencies, to calamities, of which 
 women can scarcely dream, and which they can only lament 
 and pity. 
 
 Our • Wits,' too — to separate them from the ' Beaux ' — were 
 men who often took an active part in the stirring events of 
 their day : Uiey assumed to be statesmen, though, too fre- 
 quently, they were only politicians. They were brave and 
 
XVI 
 
 Preface to First Edition. 
 
 loyal : in.lccl, in the time of the Stuarts, all the Wits were- 
 Cavaliers, as well as the Beaux. One hears of no repart- 
 among Cromwell's follou-ers; no dash, no merriment, in Fa. ■ 
 fax's staff ; elociuence, imlee-I, hut no wit in the Parliamen- 
 tarians ; an.l, in truili. in the second Charles's time, the king 
 m.ght have headed the lists of the Wits himself-such a capital 
 man as his Majesty is known to have been for a wet evenin-^ 
 or a dull Sunday ; surh a famous teller of a story-such a 
 I-erfect dmer-out : no wonder that in his reign we had George 
 \ilhers, second Duke of IJuckingham of that family ' man- 
 kuid's epitome,' who ha<l every pretension to every accom- 
 ph-shment combined in himself No won.ler we could attract 
 I)e Grammont an<l Saint Kvremond to our court; and own 
 somewhat to our discredit be it allowed, Rochester and Beaii 
 iMeldmg. J.-.very reign has had its wits, but those in Charles's 
 tune were so numerous as to distinguish the era by an especial 
 bnlhancy. Nor let it be supposed that these annals do not 
 contam a moral application. They show how little the spark- 
 hng attributes herein pourtrayed conferred happiness; how far 
 more the n,re, though certainly real touches of genuine feel- 
 ing and strong affection, which appear here and there even in 
 the lives of the most thoughtless ' ^^•its and Beaux,' elevate 
 the cliaracter in youth, or console the spirit in age. They 
 j)rove how wise has been that change in society which now re- 
 pudiates the ' Wit ' as a distinct class ; and recjuires general in- 
 telligences as a compensation for lost repartees, or long obsolete 
 practical jokes. 
 
 'Men are not all evil :' so in the life of George Villiers we 
 tmd him kind-hearted, and free from hypocrisy. His' old 
 servants-and the fact speaks in extenuation of one of our 
 wildest Wits and lleaux-loved him faithfully. Do Grammont 
 we all own. has little to re.leem him except his good-nature' 
 Rochester-s latest days were almost hallowed by his penitence 
 
e Wits were 
 no rejiart' 
 ;nt, in Fa, 
 ■ I'arliamcn- 
 le, the king 
 ach a cai)ital 
 wet evening 
 Dry— such a 
 had George 
 iiily, * nian- 
 xry accom- 
 Jiild attract 
 ; and own, 
 • and Beau 
 in Ciiarles's 
 an esjjccial 
 lals do not 
 the spark - 
 ■> ; liow far 
 nuine fecl- 
 re even in 
 X,' elevate 
 ge. They 
 h now re- 
 general in- 
 ig obsolete 
 
 illiers, we 
 His old 
 ne ot' our 
 ramniont, 
 >d-nature : 
 Penitence. 
 
 P/r/ncc to First luiition. 
 
 xvw 
 
 Chesterfield is saved by his kindness to the Irish, and his 
 aliection for his son. Horace Walpole liad human affections, 
 though a most inhuman pen : and Wharton was famous for his 
 good-humour. 
 
 The periods most abounding the Wit and the Hcau have, 
 of course, been those niost exeni[a from wars, and rumours 
 of wars. The Restoration ; the early period of the Augustan 
 age; tlie commencement of the Hanoverian dynasty,- iiave 
 all been enlivened by Wits and l!eau\, who came to light like 
 mushrooms after a storm (jf rain, as soon as the political hori 
 zon was dear. We have Congreve, who affected to be the 
 lieau as well as the \\'il ; Lord llervey, more of the courtier 
 than the IJeau— a Wit by inheritance — a peer, assisted into 
 a pre-eminent position by royal preference, and conseciuent 
 prestii^c; and all these men were the offspring of the particular 
 state of the times in whi( h they figured: at earlier jieriods, 
 they would have been deemed effeminate ; in later ones, 
 absurd. 
 
 Then the scene shifts : intellect had marched forward gigan- 
 tically : the world is grown exacting, disputatious, critical, and 
 such men as Horace Walpole and Brinsley Sherichm api)ear ; 
 the characteristics of wit which adorned that age being well 
 diluted by the feeliler talents of Selwyn and Hook. 
 
 Of these, and others, ' tul'k tjv/ts,' and other traits, are here 
 given : brief chronicles of ///(//' life's stage, over which a cur- 
 tjin has so long been dropped, are supplied carefully from well- 
 established sources : it is with characters, not with literary 
 history, that we deal ; and do our best to make the portrai- 
 tures life-like, and to bring forward old memories, whi< h, with- 
 out the stamp of antiquity, might be suflered io pass into 
 obscurity. 
 
 Vour Wit and your Beau, be he French or Fnglish, is no 
 niedi.\3val personage: the aristocracy of the present day rank 
 
 if 
 
XVllI 
 
 Preface to First Edition. 
 
 among his iinnicdiatc descendants : he is a creature of a 
 modern and an artificial age; and with his career are 
 niingled many features of civilized life, manners, habits, and 
 traces of nimily history which are still, it is believed, interest- 
 ing to the majority of English readers, as they have long been 
 to 
 
 Grace and Philu' Wjiarton. 
 
 October, i860. 
 
 
reaturc of a 
 
 career are 
 
 habits, and 
 
 ed, intcrest- 
 
 c long been 
 
 Vharton. 
 
 THE 
 
 WITS AND BEAUX OF SOCIETY 
 
 » 
 
 GKORGK VILMKRS, Sl-XJOXI) DUKK OF 
 niCKlNCIlAM. 
 
 Sijjns of the Rfstoralii»n. — S.umicl Pt'pys in liis (ilory. — A Royal Coinpany. 
 l'(-|iys ' ri-.uly to Wwp,' -'Ihc I'layrnau- of Cliarles II. -Gforgo VilliiTss 
 liilitTitance. — 'Iwo (.jailant Yuiiiitj Nui)U-'im'n. -'I'Ih; Hr.ivi^ I'Vancis Villicr-.. 
 -After tlf Battle of Worci-sttT. -Di-guisim,' tlie Kinij.- -VillitTs in Ilidini,'. 
 — Hi- appt-ars a.s a Mountchank. - Hiu:kin,t(liain's Habits. — A Daring 
 A'lvcniure.— fronnvcHs Saintly Dauiilitrr. X'llliir-, and the Kabbi TlHr 
 l'.iirknij,'iiani Piclnrcs and Iv^t.itc--, N'^il; ll'iii-. Villicrs rctmi: . !•> 
 I'.n.^land. -I'oorMary l''airfax. — ViliiiMs in tli.' Iowit. -Abraliain <.i)wic y, 
 the I'oot.- The (jreatest Ornament of Wiiitehall. l)nekin.t(liains Wit and 
 Hcaiity.l''lecknoe's Opinion of Hitn. — His ]h\o] with the Ivul of Shrew - 
 linry. Aallicrs as a I'oet. — As a Dramatist A i > ailiil < e:i-,ure I A'llli r ^ 
 Inlhience in I'arhament. - A Scene in the Lords. I he Dnke of Ormond 
 in Danger. Cohjiiel Hlood s Ontraij;cs.- Wallini^ford Ibjusc and Ilani 
 liouse. — ' MaiJame l^Uen.' — Tiie (,,'ab.d. V'iliiers aL;ain in the Tower. — .\ 
 Change.—The Duke of York's TTieatre.rinekingham and the I'lincess ot 
 Or.mt,n-.-— Mis la-t n.jiir. II ! - . Ii ' h' ci Vi'.ii.-rs. --'I'lie Dnulics-. 
 
 of lUickingh.ini. 
 
 .AAfUl-:!. PI:P\S, the weather-glass of his time, hails 
 the first glimpse of the Restoration of Charles II. 
 ^ m his usual cjuaint terms and viilLjar svcophancy. 
 * To Westminster I hill.' says he; "where 1 heard how the 
 I';irhament had this day dissolved themselves, and did pa.s.s 
 very cheerfully throuL^h the Mall, and the Speaker without his 
 mace. The whole Hall was joyful thereat, as well as them- 
 selves ; and now they beiiin to talk hnid of the king.' And 
 tlie evening was closed, he further tells us. with a large bonfire 
 in the E.xchange, and people c.illeil > it. -(lod bless King 
 Cliarles !' 
 
 This was in March 1660; and during that spring Pepy.s was 
 
 I 
 
2 .V/]^'-//.v of the Restoration. 
 
 noting down Iiow lie (lid not think it possible that my *I-ord 
 Protector,' Ri( hard Cromwell, should rome into power again ; 
 how there were great hopes of the king's arrival ; how Monk, 
 the Restorer, was feaste<l .it Merters' Hall (I'ejjys's own 
 especial) : Ikav it was resolved that a treaty be offered to the 
 king, privately ; how he resolved to go to sea with ' my lord :' 
 »«<! how, while they la> at (Iravesend, the great affair which 
 brought b.K k Charles Stuart was viniially a< < omplihhed. 'J'hen, 
 with various p.irmtheses, inimitable in their way, i'epys carries 
 on his narative. He has left his father's 'tutting-room ' to 
 take c.iire of itself; and finds his cabin little, ihcjugh his bed is 
 conven m, but is certain, as he rides at anchor with ' my lord,' 
 in the ship, that the king ' must of necessity come in,' and the 
 vessel sails round and anchors in Lee Roads. 'To the castks 
 about Deal, where our fleet' (oiir fleet, the saucy son of a 
 tailor!) ' lay and anc horcd ; great was the shoot of guns from 
 the castles, ancl ships, md our answers.' (llorious Sanuu.'' in 
 his element, to be sure. 
 
 Then the wind grew high: he began to be 'dizzy, and 
 S(iueamish;' nevertheless employed * Lord's Day' in looking 
 through the lieutenant's glass at two good merchantmen, and 
 the women in them ; ' bcii/g pretty handsome;' then in the 
 afternoon he fir^t saw Calais, and was i)leased, though it was at 
 a great distance. All eyes were looking across the Channel 
 just then- for the king was at J-'lushing; and, though tlie 
 ' Fanatic |ues ' still held their heads \\\i high, and the Cavaliers 
 also talked high on the other side, the cause that Tepys was 
 bound to, still gained ground. 
 
 Then 'they begin to speak freely of King Charles;' 
 churches in the City, Samuel declares, were setting up his 
 arms ; merchant-ships — more important in those clays — were 
 hanging out his colours. He hears, too, how the Mercers' 
 Company were making a statue of his gracious ^L^ljesty to 
 .set up in the Lxchange. Ah 1 Pepys's heart is merry : he has 
 forty shillings (some shabby ])erquisite) given him by Captain 
 Cowes o{ tlie 'Paragon;* and 'my lord' in the evening 'falls 
 to singing' a song upon tho R"mp to the tune of the 
 ' Blacksmith.' 
 
 .*:! 
 
my 'I-ord 
 )\vcr ngain ; 
 low Monk, 
 .pys's own 
 .red to the 
 
 ' my lord :' 
 itttair whi( h 
 Iicd. 'Ihcn, 
 jpys < arrics 
 L,'-r()om ' to 
 1 his bed is 
 
 ' my lord,' 
 1,' and the 
 the castles 
 
 son of a 
 guns from 
 Samuel I in 
 
 dizzy, and 
 in looking 
 itmen, and 
 len in the 
 ;h it was at 
 le Channel 
 [hontrh tlie 
 : Cavaliers 
 Pejiys was 
 
 Charles ;* 
 ing up his 
 lays — were 
 le Mercers' 
 Majesty to 
 ■ry : he has 
 by Captain 
 LMiing 'falls 
 une of the 
 
 Saiiiihl Pifys in his Glory. 3 
 
 The hopes of the Cavalier party are hourly increasing, and 
 those of Pepys we may be sure also ; for I'im, the tailor, 
 spends a morning in his cabin 'ptutting a great many ribbons 
 to a sail ' Niid die king is to ' 'aoughl over suddenly, 'my 
 lord' tells u : and indeed i! u; ., like it, for the sailors are 
 drinking C ■ irles'^ health in the streets of Deal, on their knees ; 
 ' whiih, mL,...!i''<s.' says I'ej)ys, 'is a little too much;' ami 
 'methinks' so. Master Pepys, also. 
 
 Then \v <■' ' ■ I'arliamentar) le king's 
 
 declaration was retei\ed ! I'epys becomes eloque) 
 
 'lie that can fai <y ;i fleet (like our-*) in her pride, with 
 pendants loose, guns roaring, caps flying, and the loud "■Vive 
 ic Roi r echoed from one shij/s company to another; he, and 
 he only, can api>rehenil the joy this enclose . vote was received 
 with, or the blessing he thought himself possessed of that 
 
 bore it.' 
 
 Next, orders ( ume for ' my lord' to sail forthwith to the 
 king; and the painters and tailors set to work, Pepys hu"it 
 intending, 'cutting out some pieces of yellow cloth in 
 fashion of a crown and C. R. ; ami -.utting it upon a luie 
 sheet' — and that is to supersede the Mates' arms, and is 
 finished and set up. And the next i.ay, on May 14, die 
 Hague is seen plainly by us, 'my lord g( nig up in his night- 
 gown into the cuddy.* 
 
 And then they land at the Hague; : nie 'nasty Dutch- 
 men ' come on board to offer their l)Oa; , and get monr\-, 
 which rt,'i)ys does not like ; and in time tlv v fuid themselvi s 
 in the Hague, ' a most neat place in all re.-^j-ects :' salute tli- 
 Queen of Bohemia and die Prince of Ormge — aftenvan'. > 
 William HI. — and find at their place of supper nothing but ,1 
 'sallet' and two or three bones of mutton rovided fur ten 
 of us, ' whi( li was very strange. Neverthele ■^, on they sail, 
 having returned to the fleet, to Schevelling: ai !, on the 23rd 
 of the month, go to meet the king; who, 'on ,etting into the 
 boat, did kiss my lord with much affection.' And ' extraor- 
 dinary jiress of good company,' and gr^ it iih ;ill day, 
 announced ilic Restoration. Neverdieless Ci rles's clothes 
 
 I — 2 
 
4 A Rojal Coni/'anj. 
 
 iuid not been, till this time, Master Pepys is assured, worth 
 forty shillings— and he, as a r'onnoisseur, was .scandalized at 
 the fad. 
 
 And now, before we ])roceed. let us ask who worthy Samuel 
 J'cpys was. that he should jkiss such stringent connnents on 
 men an<l manners? His origin was lowly, although his f;\mily 
 ancient : his father having followed, until the Restoration, the 
 calling of a tailor. I'epys, vulgar as he was, had nevertheless 
 received an university education ; first entering Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, as a sizar. '1\) our wonder we find him marrvi'iig 
 furtively and independently; and his wife, at fifteen, was glad 
 with her husband to take up an abode in the house of a 
 relati\e, .Sir Edward Montagu, afterwards I'larl of Sandwic h, the 
 'my lord' uniler whose sha<low Samuel Pepys dwelt in rever- 
 ence. By this nobleman's influence IV-pys for ever left the 
 'cutting-room;' he acted first as secretary, (always as toad- 
 cater, one would fancy), then became a clerk in the Admiralty ; 
 and as such went, after the Restoration, to live in Seething 
 bane, in the])arish of St. Olave, Hart Street— and in St. Olave 
 his mortal part was ultimately de[)osited. 
 
 So much for l'ej)ys. See him now, in his full-buttoned wig, 
 and best cambric neckerchief, looking out for the king and his 
 suit, who are coming on boird the ' Xa/eby.' 
 
 ' Ui), and made iii\ self as fine as I could, with the linning 
 stockings on, and wide canons that I bought the other day 
 at the Hague.' So began he the day. ' All day nothing but 
 lords and persons of honour on l)()ard, that we were exceeding 
 full. Dined in great deal of state, the royalle company by 
 themsehes in the coache, which was a blJssed sight to .see.' 
 'Hiis royal company consisted of Charles, the Dukes of York 
 and Cloucester, his brothers, the Queen of Bohemia, the Prin- 
 cess Royal, the Prince of Orange, afterwards William III.— all 
 of wJiose hands Pei)ys kissed, afier dinner. The King and 
 Duke of York changed the names of the shijis. The 'Runiper.s,' 
 as Pe])ys calls the Parliamentarians, had gi\en one the name 
 of the ' Nazeby ;' and that was now christened the ' Charies :' 
 ' Richard " was changed into ' James.' I'he ' Speaker ' into 
 
 w 
 
 Mary,' the ' Laml)ert,' was 'II 
 
 en: 
 
 Ita. 
 
 nd so on. 
 
 II 
 
 o\v 
 
Pcpys ' Ready to Weep: 
 
 5 
 
 ed, worth 
 dalizcd at 
 
 ly Samuel 
 mcnts on 
 Ill's fiMiiily 
 ■ation, the 
 vortheless 
 ►' CoUege, 
 
 marning 
 
 was j^kul 
 •use of a 
 Avich, tile 
 ; in rever- 
 ■ left the 
 
 as toad- 
 :hiiirahy ; 
 
 Seething 
 St. Olave 
 
 )nea wig. 
 
 2 linning 
 >tlier (la\ 
 Iiing hut 
 xcee(h"nir 
 pany ])y 
 . to sec' 
 of V'ork 
 he Prin- 
 III.— ah 
 ing and 
 luiipers,' 
 e name 
 :haiie.s :' 
 er ' into 
 
 . How 
 
 merry the king must have heen whilst he tlius turned the 
 Roundheads, as it were, off the ocean ; and how he walked 
 here and there, up and down, (([uite contrary to what Samuel 
 Pepys ' expected,') and fell into discourse of his escape from 
 Worcester, and made Samuel ' ready to weep ' to hear of his 
 travelling four days and three nights on foot, up to his knees 
 in dirl, with 'nothing hut a green coat and a pair of hreeches 
 on,' (worse and worse, thought Pepys,) and a pair of country 
 shoes that made his feet sore; and how, at one ])lacehewas 
 made to drink by the servants, to show he was not a Round 
 
 head : and liow, at another place and Charles, the best teller 
 
 (jf a storv in his own dominions, niav here have softened his 
 tone - the master of the house, an innkeejier, as the king was 
 standing hv the fire, with 'his liands on the back of a cliair, 
 kneeled down and kissed his hand ' privately,' saying he could 
 not ask him who he was, but bid ' God bless him, where he 
 was going 1' 
 
 'i'licii, rallying after this touch of pathos, Charles took lii^ 
 hearers over to Fecamj), in France — thence to Rouen, where, 
 he said, in his easy, irresistible way, 'I looked so poor that 
 the people went into the rooms before 1 went away, to see if I 
 had not stolen something or other.' 
 
 With wliat reverence and sympathy did our Peyys listen ; but 
 he was forced to hurry off to get Lord Berkeley abed; and 
 with 'much ado' (as one may believe) he did get 'him to 
 bed with My 1-ord Middlesex;' so, after seeing these two 
 peers of the realm in that dignified j)redicament — two in a 
 bed — -'to my cabin again,' where the comiiany were still talk 
 ing of the king's difficulties, and how his Majesty was fain to 
 eat a piece of bread and cheese out of a poor bods's i)0( ket ; 
 and, at a Catholic house, how lie lay a good while ' in the 
 Priest's Hole, for jMnvacy.' 
 
 \\\ all these hairbreadth escapes — of which the king s])oke 
 with infinite humour and good feeling— one name was per- 
 petually introduced : — (leorge— '^ieorge \'illiers, Vil/ers, as 
 the royal narrator called him ; for the name was so pronounced 
 formerly. And well he might ; for George Villiers had been 
 his playmate, classfellow, nay, bedfellow sornotimes, in priests' 
 
^ The Playmate of Charles //. 
 
 holes ; their names, their haunts, their hearts, were all assimi- 
 lated; and misfortune had bound them closely to each other. 
 To George Villiers let us now return ; he is waitint,^ for his 
 royal master on the other side of the Channel—in iuigland. 
 And a strange character have we to deal with :— 
 
 • A man so various, that be scomrd to he 
 ^'yot one, Ijut nil mankind's epitome : 
 Stiff in opinions, nluays in the wrony. 
 Was everyiliintj by starts, nnri nothing lonf^ ; 
 Hut, in the cour.-e of one revolving moon. 
 Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and huftbon.'* 
 
 Such Avas George Villiers : the Alcibiades of that age. Let 
 us trace one of the most romantic, and brilliant, and' unsatis- 
 factory lives that has ever been written. 
 
 (icorge Villiers was born at ^\'allingford f{ouse, in the parish 
 of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, on the 30th January. 1627. The 
 Admiralty mm stands on the site of the mansion in which he 
 first saw the light. His father was George Villiers. the ft- 
 vourite of James I. and of Charies I. ; his mother, the Lady 
 Katherine Manners, daughter and heiress of Francis, Ivirl of 
 Rutland. Scarcely was he a year old, when the assassination 
 <^f his father, by Felton, threw the affairs of h.is funilj- into 
 confusion. His mother, after the Duke of TUickingham's 
 death, gave birth to a son, Francis: who was subsequently, 
 savagely killed by the Roundheads, near Kingston. Then the 
 Duchess of Buckingham very shortly married again, and uniting 
 lierself to Randoli)h Macdonald, ivirl of Antrim, became a 
 rigid Catholic. She was therefore lost to her children, or 
 rather, they were lost to her; for King Charles I., who had 
 I)romised to be a 'husband to her, and a father to her children,' 
 removed them from her charge, and educated them with the 
 royal princes. 
 
 'I'he youthful peer soon gave indications of genius ; and all 
 that a carefid education could do, was directed to improve his 
 natural capacity under pri\ate tutors. He went to Cambridge; 
 and thence, under the care of a preceptor named Aylesbuiy, 
 travelled into France. He was accompanied by his voung,' 
 
 Dryd 
 
 en. 
 
J all as.simi- 
 
 cacli other. 
 
 it'"ng for his 
 
 11 I'ingland. 
 
 age. Let 
 11(1 unsatis- 
 
 I the parish 
 627. The 
 1 wliich he 
 -Ts, the fa- 
 ", the Lady 
 ::i.s, I'larl of 
 sassination 
 amily into 
 
 kingliam's 
 ).seqiiently, 
 
 Then the 
 nd uniting 
 
 became a 
 liMren, or 
 
 who Iiad 
 rchiKh'en,' 
 
 willi the 
 
 ; and ail 
 iprove his 
 :imhridge; 
 Aylesbury, 
 is vouno". 
 
 George Villicrss Irhcritancc. 7 
 
 handsome, fine-spirited brother, Francis ; and this was the sun 
 shine of his life. His ladier had indeed left him, as his'biogra- 
 pher Brian Fairfax expresses it, 'the greatest name in Kngiand ; 
 his mother, the greatest estate of any subjet I.' With this in- 
 heritance there had also descender! to him the wonderful beauty, 
 the matchless grace, of his ill-fated flither. ('.reat abilities, cou- 
 rage, fascination of manners, were also his ; but he had not 
 been cmlowed with firmness of character, and was at once 
 energetic and versatile. Lven at this age, tlie ([ualities which 
 became his ruin were clearly discoverable. 
 
 C.eorge Villiers was recalled to l-aigland by the troubles which 
 drove the king to Oxford, and which converted that academical 
 city into a garrison, its under-gradiiates into soldiers, its ancient 
 halls into barrack-rooms. Villiers was on this occasion entered 
 at Christ Church: the youth's best feelings were aroused, and 
 his loyalty was engaged to one to whom his father owed so 
 much. He was now a young man of twenty-one years ot age 
 
 able to act for himself; and he went heart and soul into the 
 
 cause of his sovereign. Never was there a gayer, a more pre- 
 possessing Cavalier. He could charm even a Roundhead. 
 The harsh and Presbyterian-minded Bishop Burnet, has told us 
 that ' he was a man of a noble [Mesence ; had a great liveliness 
 of wit, and a peculiar faculty of turning everything into ridicule, 
 widi bold figures and natural descriptions.' How invaluable 
 he must have been in the Common-rooms at Oxford, then turned 
 into guard-rooms, his eye upon some unlucky volunteer Don. 
 who had put off his clerkly C(Kiuine iVn" a buff jacket, and could 
 not minage his drill. Irresistible as his exterior is declared to 
 have been, the original mind of Villiers was even far more in- 
 fluential. l)e Crrammont tells us, ' he was extremely handsome, 
 but still thought himself mu( h more so than he really ..as ; 
 although he had a great deal of discernment, yet his vanities 
 made him mistake some civilities as intended for his [jersan 
 which were only bestowed on his wit and drollery.' 
 
 But this very vanity, so unpleasant m an old man, is only 
 amusing in a younger wit. Whilst thus a gallant of the court 
 and camp, the young nobleman proved himself to be no less 
 brave than wiitv. lusenile as he was, with a brother still 
 
^ 'J'ljo Callant Vouiic; Xoblcviai. 
 
 >ounger, they fought on tlic royalist side at Lirhnel.l, In the 
 storni.ng of the Cathedra! Close. For thus allowing their lives 
 to l.e endangered, their mother blamed l.ord Ceranl, one of the 
 Dukes guanhans; whilst the I>arliament seized the pretext of 
 '-onfisratmg their estates, which were afterwards returned to 
 them, on account of their being under age at the time of con- 
 .scatu^n 1 he youths were then ]>laced under the care of the 
 •;arl of Northumberland, by whose permission thev travelled in 
 ^ ranee and Italy, where they appeared- their estates having 
 H.en re.h^red- With princely magnifu enc-e. Nevertheless, on 
 K'armg of the unpri.M.nment of Charles I. in the Isle of Wight 
 tlic gallant youths rettu-ned to Mnglan.l and joined the armJ 
 nncler the i..arl of Holland, who was debated near Ncnsucl J 
 
 A sad episode in the annals of these eventful times is pre- 
 sented u. the fate of the handsome, brave Francis \-HIiers H s 
 jnurde, tor on. can call it by no other name, shows how keenly 
 the personal feehngs of the Roundhea.ls were en..-,..e.l in this 
 ;;;;;'-^^^''luan.,. Umlem^ost circumstances, Kngl^slnnenwc^dd 
 spared the yout , and respected the gallantry of the free 
 vo.n.g so d,er, who. plantmg himself against an oak-tree which 
 .-V .n the road, reii.sed to ask ,or quarter, but defende.l hmv 
 scU agamM scleral assailants, llul the name of \'illiers was 
 ; te nl tn Puruan ears. ^ n,,, ,,,,, ^own, root and branch •' 
 ^vas the sentnnent that actuated the soldiery. His very loveli 
 nessexaspe.ued their vengeance. At last^ with nine V^^^ 
 on h,. ,H.aut,lul lace and !-ly,' says Fairfxx, ' he was slam ' 
 
 '•nd the letters ot 1-. V. were .ut in it in his ,lay. His bodv 
 -conveyed by water to ^ork House, a.td was enton^ c w 
 tliat of lus lather, m the Chapel of Jlenry VH 
 
 His brother lied towards .St. X^ofs, where he encountered a 
 stiange km<l of peril. Tobias Rustat attetuled hin. • am .as 
 
 el net b> a b ush under a tree, was turned upon his back and 
 
 tied so last with a stri^- mv! r k;- <i . - . . ' "'^' 
 
 a hiri..^ under his throat, • tJiat without the pre- 
 
ificld, in the 
 ig their lives 
 1, one of the 
 -^ pretext of 
 returned to 
 nie of con- 
 care of the 
 travelled in 
 :Ues having 
 rtlieless, on 
 f of Wight, 
 I the army 
 vcnsuch, in 
 
 ics IS prc- 
 h'crs. J lis 
 low keenly 
 ;c(l in this 
 men would 
 'f the free 
 ree v.'hich 
 idcd hiin- 
 illiers was 
 branch !' 
 .'ly lovcli- 
 c wounds 
 *;is slain.' 
 anunient,' 
 4 is body 
 ibcd with 
 
 intercd a 
 and was 
 erein the 
 c Duke's 
 •ack, and 
 t the prc- 
 
 A//cT the Bcxttlc of Wo; 'cstcr. 9 
 
 sent help of T. R.,' writes Fairfax, ' it had undoubtedly clioked 
 him. ;is 1 have credibly heard.'"' 
 
 Whilst at St. .\eot's, the house in which \'illiers had t;ik(ii 
 refuge was surrounded with soldiers. He had a stout heart, and 
 a dexterous hand ; he took his resolution ; rushed out upon his 
 Joes, killed the officer in command, galloped off and jcjined the 
 Prince in the Downs. 
 
 The sad story of Charles I. was played out; but \'illiers re- 
 mained stanch, and was permitted to return and to accompany 
 JVince Charles into Scotland. Then came the battle of Wor- 
 cester in 1651 : there C'harles II. showed himself a worthy de- 
 scendant of James IV. of Scotland. He resolved to concjuer 
 or die : with desperate gallantr' the faiglish Cavaliers and the 
 Srotch Highlanders seconded the monan h's valiant onslaught on 
 ta-omwell's horse, and the invincible l-ife (luards were almost 
 driven back by the shock. Hut they were not seconded ; 
 Charles II. had hi/, horse twice shot under him, but, nothing 
 daunted, he was the last to tear him>e!f away from the field, an<l 
 then only uj)on the solic itations of his friends. 
 
 Charles retired to Kidderminster that evening. The Duke 
 of liuckingham, the gallant Lord Derby, Wilmot, afterwards 
 I"'.ad of Rochester, and some others, rode near him. 'I'hev were 
 lollowed by a small body of horse. Disconsolately they rode 
 on northwards, a futlil'ul band of sixty being resolved to escort 
 his Majesty to Scotland. At length they halted on Kinver 
 lieath, near Kidderminster: their guide having lost the wa\. 
 In this extremity Lord Derby .said that h^ had been received 
 kindly at an old house in a secluded woody country, between 
 Tong Castle and IJrewood, on the borders of Staffordshire. It 
 was named ' Boscobel' he said ; and that wonl has henceforth 
 conjured up to the mind's eye the remembran( e of a band of 
 tired heroes, riding through woody glades to an ancient house, 
 where shelter was given to the worn-out horses and scarcely less 
 harassed riders. 
 
 * The day .iftcr the b.ittle at KiiiLjston, tlu-: Duke's c-t.iu-- wdv ((.r.l'i-t atcd. 
 (Sth July, 1648.) -NiLliol's History of Lcici-sttrshia-, iii. 213 ; w ho uImi havs that 
 tile Hi iki' offered inarriatrc !o ontr of tlu" danrbtcr-: nf ('rMtriWr!!. hvA was rr- 
 fuscd, Ho went abrond in 1648, but rettinifd \sit!i ( harlts II to Scotland in 
 
 i^'ko. .and air.n 
 
 of ti 
 
 ipfd to i''rancc after tl 
 
 Mttl 
 
 if w 
 
 uvcsti r, 1')^!. 
 
 le pictures would senn to lia'.e euiiiii;ii;i.<d diim::' In- fn-t cxiU 
 
 The ^ale 
 
^^ jyisgnisi\(f the King. 
 
 I!ui not so rapidly did they in reality proceed. A Catholir 
 family, named (liffard, were living at Whitcl.ulies, about 
 tuenty six miles from Worcester. 'I'his was only about half a 
 mile horn Hosc^obel : it had been a convent of Cistercian nuns 
 whose Ion- uhite cloaks of ol<l had once been seen, ghost-like' 
 n'nid forest glades or on hillock green. The White-Ladies had 
 other memories to grace it besides those of holv vestals or of 
 unholy Cavaliers. Fron) the time of the 'I udors a respectable 
 a>niy named .Somers had ou-ned the White-Ladies, and inln- 
 iMted It sin<e Us white-garbed tenants had been turned out and 
 tMc place secularized. 'Somers's Mouse,' as it was callerl, 
 (though more hai.pily, the old name has been restored,) had 
 received Queen I'.h/abelh on her progress. The richly culti- 
 vated old (onventual gardens had suj-plied the Oueen with 
 some famous pears, and, in the fulness of lier approval of the 
 'nut. she ha.l added them to the City arms. At that time one 
 o t,iese vaunted pear-trees stood .securely in the market-place of 
 \\ orce'ster. 
 
 Al ihe White-Ladies, Charles rested for half an hour- and 
 here he left his garters, waistcoat, and other garmeins. to avoid 
 dtsTOvery, ere he proceeded. They were long kept as relics 
 
 Ihe mother of I,ord Somers had been placed in this old 
 house for security, for she was on the eve of giving birth to the 
 luture .statesman, who was born in that sanctuarv just at this 
 tu-ne. ILs father at that very moment commandJd .i trooo ot 
 horse in Cromwell's army, so that the ri^k the Cavaliers ran\v is 
 imminent. 'I'he King's horse was led into the hall l),y was 
 Planning ; and the Cavaliers, as they entere.l the ol<l conventud 
 tenement, an.I saw the sunbeams on its walls, perceived their 
 Ijenl. A family of servants named Penderell held \arious ofl'ices 
 tliere, and at Boscobel. William took care of IJoscobe! 
 (.eorge was a servant at White-Ladies; Humphrev was thj 
 miller to that house; Richard lived close bv, at Hebbd 
 (.range. He and William were called into the royal ])re- 
 sence. Lord Derby then said to them, 'This is the Kin- 
 have a care of him, and jjreserve him as thou didst me.' 
 
 Then the attendant courtiers began undre«in<r fi-- k;...- 
 They took -'■'-'■ ' - ■ ' -.-.••• f^-.,.- 
 
 off his buff'-coat, and put on h 
 
 uii a 'noggon cc .rse 
 
(1. A Catholic 
 L- Ladies, about 
 ily al)out half a 
 Cistercian nuns^ 
 ^een, ghost-like, 
 hite-Ladies had 
 \' \cstals, or of 
 s. a respectable 
 dies, and inha- 
 tiirned out, and 
 
 it was callefl, 
 
 restored,) had 
 
 he richly culti- 
 
 le ()ueen with 
 
 ppruval of the 
 
 that time one 
 nnrket-iilaceof 
 
 an hour; and 
 iicnis. to avoid 
 -'])t as relics. 
 d in this old 
 ivj; l)irth to the 
 ry just at this 
 ed a troop of 
 valiers ran was 
 all. Day was 
 Id convontua! 
 }rcei\-ed their 
 \arious offices 
 of Boscobel, 
 hrey was the 
 . at Hebbd 
 le royal pvc- 
 is the Kin-.: ; 
 t me.' 
 
 !g the King. 
 Dggoii cc ..-se 
 
 Villicrs ill IJiditig. \ \ 
 
 shirt.' and a green suit and 'another doublet — Richard Tende- 
 rell's woodman's dress. Lord \Vilmot cut his sovereign's hair 
 with a knife, but Richard I'enderell took up his shears and 
 finished the work. • iJurn it,' said the king; but Ri( hard kept 
 the sacred locks. Then Charles (oxered his dark fai e with 
 soot. Could anything have taken away the expression of his 
 halfsleepy, half-merrv eyes? 
 
 They dei^arted, and half an hour afterwards Colonel Ashen- 
 luir.-,t, with a troop of Roundhead horse, rode up to the White- 
 Ladies. The King, meantime, had been conducted by Richard 
 I'enderell into a coppice-wood, with a bill-hook in his hands for 
 defence and disguise. But his followers were overtaken near 
 Newport; and here lUickingham, with Lords Talbot and Levis- 
 ton, escaped ; antl henceforth, until Charles's wanderings were 
 transferred from Kngland to I'Yance, Ceorge Villiers was sejja- 
 ratcd from the Prince. .Accompanied by the Ivuis of l)erl)y 
 and Lauderdale, and by Lord Talbot, he proceeded northwards, 
 in hojjes of joining Gencr.al Leslie and the Scot(-h horse. Hut 
 their hopes were soon dashed : attacked l)y a body of Rvjund- 
 hc:i(is, lUickingham and Lord Leviston were compelled to leave 
 the high road, to alight from tlu-ir horses, and to make their way 
 to liloore ]\irk, near Newport, wliere Villiers found a shelter. 
 He was SOU!!, however, necessitated to de])art : he put on a 
 labourer's dress ; he deposited his Ceorge, a gift from Henrietta 
 Maria, with a companion, and set off for liillstroi), in Notling- 
 liam.>!iire, one .Matthews, a carpenter, acting as his guide ; at 
 i'.illstrop he was welcomed by Mr. Hawley. a Cavalier; and 
 from that place he went to Lrookesby, in Leicestershire, the 
 original seat of the Villiers family, and the birth])lace of his 
 fuller. Here he was received by Lady Villiers— the widow, 
 probably, of his father's brother. Sir W'ilHam Villiers, one of 
 those contented country s(|uires who not only sought no dis- 
 tinction, but scarcely thanked James L when he made him a 
 I'aronet. Here might the hunted refugee see, on the oi)en bat- 
 tlements of the church, the shields on which were exhibited 
 united (juarterings of his father's fniiily with those of his mo- 
 trier; here, listen to old lak-s abouL his grandiauier, good Sir 
 George, who married a serving-woman in his dc(vi.,,l wife's 
 
' -' //^' Af^/h-ars as a Moniili-bauk. 
 
 kilchci) ; • and thai scrv in--uonian hccanic the loader of fashions 
 m the rourt of James, i lere he might pon.ler on the vicissitudes 
 which marked the .lestiny of the house of ViUiers, an<l wonder 
 wJuil shouhl come next. 
 
 'I'liat the spirit of adventure was strong within him, is shown 
 l.y his daring lo go up to London, and disguising himseh' as i 
 mountebank. He had a coat ma<le, called a ' Jack l>uddin- 
 (- oat :' a little hat was stuck on his head, with a fox's tail in it" 
 and cocks' fealliers here and there. A wizard's mask one day' 
 a daubing of Hour another, < ompletcd the disgui.e it was then 
 so usual to assume: witness the l.jug traffic held at I'xeler 
 Change by the Duchess of Tyrconnel, Francis Jennings, in a 
 white mask, selling la<es, and French gew gaus, a trader to all 
 n])peara ce, but really carrying on political intrigues; everyone 
 went to ,hat will, the -While Milliner,' as she was called 
 during the reign of W illiam and .\[ary. The Duke next erected 
 a stage at Charing Cross- -in the very fa.e of the stern Jum- 
 pers, who, with long faces, rode past the sinful man each day 
 as they came ambling up from the Parliament House. A band 
 ol pui.pel-[.layers and violins set uj) their shows; and music 
 <overs a multitude of incongmiiies. The ballad was then the 
 great vehu le of j^ersonal atta- k, and \-illiers's dawning taste 
 ior i)oetrywas shown in the ditties which he now coniposed, 
 and in which he sometimes assisted vocallv. Whilst all the 
 other Ca\aliers were foned to lly, he thus bearded his enemies 
 m their Aery homes : sometimes he talked to them face to face, 
 and kept the sanctimonious citizens in talk, till they found 
 themselves sinfully (hsposed to laugh. ]]i,t this vagi'ant life 
 had serious evils : it broke down all the restraints which civilised 
 society naturally, and beneficially, imposes. 'I'he Duke of 
 iJuckingham, P.utler, the author of Ilu.libras, writes, 'rises, 
 c'ats, goes to ])e<l by the Julian account, long after all others 
 that go by the new style, and keeps the same hours with owls 
 and the Antipodes. He is a great obser\ er of the Tartar cus- 
 
 l4 ^i'fV!k'iS'.M''l v-' ' T" '"r' ''''^ ^vas Mary, daughter of Antunv I;, aun.oi 
 u :; K "r' • 'r'':;??'-^'' lA-icoMc-r^hav, i,i. 19,,) who was s„„.,i \\„, IVa 
 
 ont, 
 au- 
 
 
 lam 111 1618. 
 
 ^ompton, aiid was created C 
 
 ountc^s of Buckinir 
 
(ler of fashions 
 the vicissitudes 
 's, and wonder 
 
 him, is shown 
 ; hinisrif as a 
 Ja( k I'lidding 
 fox's tail in it, 
 iiask one chiy, 
 le it was then 
 eld at Ivxeter 
 ennings, in a 
 a trader to all 
 es ; every one 
 e was calleel, 
 -■ next erected 
 .' stern Rum 
 nan each day 
 use. A band 
 s ; and music 
 was then the 
 lawning taste 
 >\y composed, 
 •'hilst all the 
 1 his enemies 
 •■ face to flice, 
 1 they found 
 '■ \agrant life 
 hich civilised 
 'he Duke of 
 "rites, ' rises, 
 er all others 
 irs with owls 
 ' Tartar cus- 
 
 tony rk-auniont, 
 n of Will. Beau- 
 ccssivcly to Sir 
 CSS of IJuckint:- 
 
 Iliicl-ii/i^/iiim's Habits. \ 3 
 
 toms, and never eats till the great cham. having dined, makes 
 proclamation tint all the world may go to dinner. He does 
 not dwell in his house, but haunts it like an evil sjiiril, that 
 w.ilks all night, to disturb the fimily. and never appears by 
 d.iy. He lives perpetually benighted, runs out of his life, and 
 loses his time as men do their ways in the dark : and as blind 
 men are led by their dogs, so he is governed by some mean 
 servant or other that relates to his jjleasures. He is as incon- 
 stant as the moon which he lives under; and although he does 
 nothing but ad\ise with his ]iillow all dav, he is as great a 
 stranger to himself as he is to the rt'st of the world. His mind 
 entertains all things that come and go; but like i,Mies!s and 
 strangers, they are not welcome if they sia\- long. 'I'his Li)s 
 him open to all cheats, (juacks. and impostors, who a])ply to 
 every parti< ul.ir humour while it lasts, and afterwards vanish. 
 He deforms natiuv, while he intends to adorn her, like Indians 
 that hang jewels in their lips and noses. F lis ears are jjcrpe- 
 tually drilling with a fiddlestick, and endures pleasures with less 
 ])alience than other men do their pains.' 
 
 The more effectually to support his character as a mounle- 
 l)ank, \'illiers sold mithridate and galbanum jdasters: thou- 
 sands of spectatots and c ustomers thronged every day to sec 
 and hear him. Possibly many guessed that beneath' all this 
 fantastic exterior some ulterior project was concealed ; yet he 
 remained untouched by the City Gtuirds. \\W\ did Dryden 
 [describe liiin : — 
 
 ''I'lion all for women, p.aintinff, rliyniini;, drinking-, 
 Hc>i<lc ten tliousaiiri freaks that du-d in thinking. 
 P.liNt nia(hn.-ui, who could every liour employ 
 With bonii.thing new to wish or to enjoy.' 
 
 His elder sister. Lady Mary Villiers, had married the Duke 
 jof Richmond, one of the loyal adherents of Charles I. The 
 [duke was, therefore, in durance at Wind-^or, whilst the durhess 
 jwas to be iil.ircd uniler strict sur ''kince at Whitehall, 
 
 Villier- re-MjIved to see her. Hearing that she was to i)ass 
 [into Whitehall on a certain day, lie set up his stage where she 
 cniild not fail to j^jrceive him. He had something important 
 [to say to lier. As she drew near, he cried out to the mob that 
 
14 Cvomiccirs Saintly Daiij^^Iih-r. 
 
 lie would give them a song on the Duchess of Richmond and 
 iht; Duke; of Buckingham: nothing • ould be more acceptable. 
 ''I'hc mob; it is related, 'stopped the coach and the duchess 
 Nay, so outrageous were the mob, that they forced the 
 duchess, who was tlien the h;indsomesi woman in f'.ngland, to 
 sit in the boot of the coach, and to hear him sing all his im])er- 
 liiKut son-s. Having left off singing, he told them it was no 
 more than reason that lie should present the duchess with some 
 of the songs. So he alighted from his stage, covered all over 
 with i)apers and ridicnilous little pictures. Having come to the 
 coach, he took off a bUu k piece of taffeta, which he always 
 wore over one of his eyes, when his sir^ter discovered imme- 
 iliately who lie was, yet had so nnu li presence of mind as not 
 to give the least sign of mistrust ; nay, she gave him some very 
 opprobrious language, but was very eager at snatching the 
 papers he threw into her coach. Among them was a i)acket of 
 letters, which she had no sooner got but she went forward, the 
 duke, at the head of the mob, attending and hallooing her a 
 gootl way out of the town.' 
 
 A still more daring a(!vent:ire was coniei. -plated also by this 
 young, irresistible duke. Bridget Cromweii, the eldest daughter 
 of (jHver, was, at that time, a bride of twcnly-six years of age; 
 having married, in 1647, the saintly Henry Ireton, Lord Deputy 
 of Ireland. Bridget was the pattern heroine of the ' unco };uid^ 
 the (luintessence of all propriety ; the imi)ersonation of sanctity ; 
 an ultra republican, who scarcely accorded to her father the 
 modest title of Protector, l-he was esteemed by her party a 
 * personage of sublime growth ' ' lumibled, not exalted,' accord- 
 ing to Mrs. Hutchinson, by her elevation: ' nevertheless,' says 
 that excellent huly, 'as my l.ady Ireton was walking in the St. 
 lamcs's J'ark, the l.ady J.ambert, as proud as her husband, 
 came by where she was, and as the i)resent princess always 
 hath precedency of the relict of the dead, so she put by my 
 ].ady Ireton, who, notwithstanding her piety and humility, was 
 a litUe grieved at the affront.' 
 
 After this anecdote one cannot give much credence to this 
 lady's lv.mii!itv: Bridget was. however, a woman of ])0werful 
 intellect, weakened by her extreme, and, to use a now common 
 
 »- 
 
 !*/» 
 
lond and 
 ccptal)lc. 
 (liirhcss 
 >rcc(l ihii 
 Inland, to 
 lis iinpcr- 
 it was no 
 ■ilh sonic 
 1 all over 
 no to the 
 \c always 
 •d ini me- 
 nd as not 
 omc very 
 :l)ing the 
 packet of 
 ward, the 
 ing her a 
 
 so by this 
 daughter 
 •s of age ; 
 (1 DcjAity 
 ///CO .i;/jit/,' 
 ■ sanctity ; 
 Either the 
 T party a 
 1,' accord- 
 less/ says 
 in the St. 
 husl)and, 
 is always 
 ut l)y my 
 nilitv, was 
 
 ice to this 
 
 ])0werful 
 
 ,' common 
 
 VILLIERS IN msUt'ISK -THE .MEKTSStl WITH !!'- ^;S-.TK!'-. 
 
 .SVf p. li 
 
folly. 
 
Viliiii's and the Rabbi 
 
 i; 
 
 
 term, croUhcty opinions. Like most esprits forts, slu- u.ts c.iMly 
 iinposcjl upon. One tlay this paraxon saw a mountebank 
 «lam:ing on a stage in the most exciuisile styk\ His tine shape, 
 too, caught the attention of one who assumed to he above all 
 folly. It is sometimes fatal to one's peace to look out of a 
 window: no one kn( what sights may rivet or displease. 
 iMi i. . Ireioii was sitting at her window unconscious that any 
 one with the hated and malignant name of ' N'illiers' was before 
 her. After some unholy admiration, she sent to speak to the 
 mummer. The < hike sc arcely knew whether to trust )iin\self in the 
 powei of the bloodthirsty Ireton's bride or not — yel his courage 
 his love of sport prevailed. He visited her that evening : no 
 longer, however, in his jack-pudding coat, but in a ri( h suit, 
 <lisguised with a < loak over it. He wore still a plaster over one 
 eye, and was much disposed to take it off, but pnidence for- 
 bade ; and thus he stood in the presence of the prim and 
 saintly I'.ridget Irelon. 'i'he ])articulars of the interview rest on 
 his statement, and they must not, therefore, be a(< opted im- 
 plii itl\. Mistress Ireton is said to have made advances to the 
 hanilsonie incognito. ^Vhat a triumph to a man like Villiers, 
 to have intrigued with my Lord Protector's sam titled daughter! 
 ]5ut she inspired him with disgust. He saw in her the pre- 
 sumption and hyi)Ocrisy of her father ; he hated her as Crom- 
 well's daughter and Ireton's wife. He told her, therefore, ih.it 
 he was a |cw, and could not by his laws become the paramour 
 of a Christian woman. The saintly l>ridget stood ama/ed ; she 
 had imjjrudently lei him into sonic of the most inipor.-.int 
 secrets of her parly. A Jew! It was dreadful! Hut how 
 could a jierson of that i)ersuasion be so strict, so straii huxil ? 
 .^he 5)robably entertaincil all the horror of Jews wliic h the Puri- 
 tanical party cherished as a virtue ; forgetting the lesson: ol 
 toleration and liberality inculcated by Holy Writ. She sent, 
 however, for a certain Jewish Rabbi to converse with the 
 stranger. What was the Duke of I'Hickingham's sur])rise, on 
 visiting her one evening, to see ihe learned doctor armed at all 
 points with the Talmud, and thirsting for dispute, by tlie side 
 of the saintly Bridget. He could noways meet such a body of 
 controversy; but thouglil it best forthwith to set oH for the 
 
i6 
 
 The Jhickiiiji^/iajii Pic/iiirs and Estate. 
 
 liowns. r.cforc he (le])artcd he wrote, however, to Mistress 
 Ireton, on the jilea tliatshe niiLrht wish to know to what tribe of 
 Jews he l)eIont,^e(l. So he sent her a note written with all his 
 native wit and point.'' 
 
 P>uckin;j;hani now e.\i)erience(l all the miseries tliat a man of 
 expcnsiv'c pleasures with a sequestrated estate is likely to 
 endure. One friend remained to watch o\er his interests in 
 l-aigland. This was John Traylman, a servant of his late 
 father's, who was left to guard the collection of jjiclures made 
 l)y the late duke, and deposited in York House. That collec- 
 tion was. ill the ojiinion of competent judges, the third in ]Joint 
 of value in England, being only inferior to those of Charles I. 
 and tlie l''.arl of Arundel. 
 
 It had been bought. \\\\\\ immense expense, partly by the 
 duke's agents in Italy, tlie Mantua ("tallery su])[)lying a great 
 portion — partl\ in f'rance — partly in J-'landers ; and to Flanders 
 a great portion was destined now to return. Secretly and laljo- 
 riousl)' did old Tra_\liuan ]ia( k up and send otV these treasures 
 to Antwerp, where now the gay youth whom the aged domestic 
 had known from a child was in want and exile. 'J1ie ])ictures 
 were eagerly bought by a foreign collector named Duart, The 
 proceeds ga\e poor \'illiei"s bread ; but the noble works of 
 Titian and Leonardo da \'iiici. and others, were lost for ever to 
 J-ai^land. 
 
 It must have been verv irritating to Villiers to know that 
 whilst he just existeil abroad, the great estates enjoyed by his 
 father were being subjected to pillage 1)y CromwelFs soldiers, 
 or sold for ])itiful sums l)y the Commissioners aj^jjointed by 
 the Parliament to brenk up and annihilate many of the old pro- 
 l)erties in KngUind. Hurleigh-on-theTlill, the stately seat on 
 which the first duke had Uivished thousands, had been taken 
 by die Roundheads. It was so large, and presented so long a 
 line of buihh'ngs, that the ]\irliamentarians could not hold it 
 without leaving in it a great garrison and stores of ammunition, 
 it was therefore burnt, and the stables alone occupied; and 
 those even were formed into a house of unusual size. York 
 
 Tliis incident is Uikcn from Madame Dmiois' Memoirs, part i, p. 86. 
 
V(>rl' House. 
 
 17 
 
 Mistress 
 hat tril)c of 
 ,-ith all his 
 
 1 a iiKin of 
 . likely to 
 ntcrcsts in 
 f his late 
 iircs made 
 hat coUec- 
 rd in jioinl 
 Charles I. 
 
 tly by the 
 iig a great 
 3 Flanders 
 • and labo- 
 L' treasures 
 1 domestic 
 e pictures 
 lart. The 
 works of 
 for ever to 
 
 know that 
 red by his 
 s soldiers, 
 ointed by 
 c old pro- 
 y seat on 
 een taken 
 so long a 
 ot hold it 
 imimition. 
 pied : and 
 ze. York 
 
 i. p. 06. 
 
 House was doubtless marked out for the next destructive 
 decree. There was something in the very history of this house 
 which might be supi)0sed to excite the wrath of the Round- 
 heads. Queen Mary (whom we must not, after Miss Strick- 
 land's admirable life of her, call Bloody (^uecn Mar}-, but who 
 will always be best known by that unpleasant title) had be- 
 stowed York Mouse on the See of York, as a comiK'nsati(jn for 
 Nork House, at Whitehall, which Henry VJII. had taken from 
 Wolsey. It had afterwards come into jjossession of the Keepers 
 of the Great Seal. Lord Bacon was born in York House, his 
 father having lived there ; and the 
 
 '(Greatest, wisc^f, mcar;"st of mankind," 
 
 built here an avi;iry whidi cost ^/T^oo. When the Duke of 
 Lennox wishe<l to Iniy York JLju^e, b.uon thus wrote to 
 him : — 'For this you will pardon me : York House is the house 
 where my father died, and where I first breathed ; and there 
 will I yield my last breath, if it so i)lease God and the King.' 
 It did not, however, please the King that he should ; the house 
 was jjorrowed only by the first Duke of Buckingham from the 
 Archbishop of York, and then e\<hanged for another seat, on 
 the plea that the duke would want it for the rec eption of foreign 
 potentates, and for entertainments given to royalty. 
 
 The duke ])ulled it down : and the house, whi( h was 
 erected as a temporary structure, was so superb that even 
 l'e])ys, twenty years after it liad been left to bats and cob- 
 webs, speaks of it in raptures, as of a place in which the great 
 duke's soul was seen in e\ery ( liamber. On the walls were 
 shields on which the arms of Manners and of \'illiers pcj 
 ( ocks and lions — were (|uartered. York House was never, 
 however, finished ; but as the lover of old haunts enters 
 P.uckingham Street in the Strand, he will ])erceive an ancient 
 water-gate, beautifidly pro[)ortione(l, built by fnigo Jones 
 Nmoky, isolated, impaired— but still speaking volumes of re- 
 membrance of th.e glories of the assassinated duke, who had 
 jturposed to build the whole house in that style. 
 
 ' Yorschaiix^' as he called it — York House — the French 
 ambassador had written word to his friends at home, ' is the 
 
 <y 
 
i8 
 
 V iliicrs Returns to Ens:land, 
 
 inost richly fitted up of any tliat I saw.' 'I'lie galleries and 
 statu rooms were graced hy the disjilay of the Roman marbles, 
 both busts and statues, which the first duke had bought from 
 Rubens ; whilst in the gardens the Cain and Abel of John of 
 i5olognn, given by Philip IV^ of S[)ain to King Charles, and 
 by hirn bc-lowed on the elder Cleorge A'illiers. made that fair 
 //<:Wi-(?////tV famous. It was doomed — as were what were called 
 the ' sujierstitious' pictures in the house — to destruction: 
 henceforth all was in decay and neglect. ' I went to see York- 
 House and gardens,' J<A-elyn writes in 1655, ' belonging to 
 the former grealc iluckingham, but now muc h ruined through 
 neglect' 
 
 'I'raylman, doubtless, kei)t C.eorge Villiers tlie younger in 
 full possession of all that was to happen to that deserted tene- 
 ment in which the old man mourned for the departed, and 
 thought of the absent. 
 
 The intelligence which he had soon to communicate was 
 all-important. York House was to be occupied again; and 
 Cromwell and his coadjutors had bestowed it on Fairfax. 
 The blow was perhaps softened by the reflection that l"'airfax 
 was a man of generous temper ; and that he had an only 
 daughter, Mary I-'airflix, young, and an heiress. Though the 
 daughter of a I'uriian, a sort of interest was attached, even by 
 Cavaliers, to Mary Fairfax, from her having, at five years of 
 age, followed her father through the civil w„irs on horseback, 
 seated before a maid-servant; and having, on her journey, 
 freiiuently fainteil, she was so ill as to have been left in a 
 house by the roadside, her father never ex])ecting to see her 
 again. 
 
 In reference to this young girl, then al)0ut eighteen years 
 of age, lUickingham now formed a plan. He resolved to 
 reiurn to F.ngland disguised, to offer his hand to Mary Fair- 
 fax. ;'nd so recover his projjcrty through the influence of 
 Fairfax. lie was confident of his own attractions; and, in- 
 deed, from (j\ery ac(-ount, he a])pears to have been one of 
 those reckless, handsome, speculative characters that often take 
 the fancy of better men than themselves, ' He liad,' says 
 IJurnet, 'no sort of literature, only he was drawn into chy- 
 
^a)-s 
 
 Pooy Mary Fairfax ! jq 
 
 mistry ; and for some years he thought he was very near the 
 finchng of the pliilosopher's stone, which had the etVeet that 
 attends on all such men as he was, when they are drawn in, 
 to lay out for it. J e had no jjrinciples of religion, virtue, or 
 friendship; pleasure, frolic, or extravagant (h'version, was all he 
 laid to heart. He was true to nothing ; for he was not true to 
 himself He had no steadiness nor conduct; he could keep 
 no secret, nor execute any design without spoiling it ; he could 
 never fix his thoughts, nor govern his estate, though then the 
 greatest in England. lie was bred about the king, and for 
 many years he had a great ascendant over him ; but he spoke 
 ol him to all ],crsons with that contempt, that at last he drew 
 a lasting disgrace upon himself. And he at length ruined both 
 body and mind, fortune and reputation, eiiually.' 
 
 'I'his was a sad prospect for poor Mary l-airfix, but certainly 
 if in their ( hoice 
 
 ■W 
 
 e.ik uonion go a'tray, 
 
 'llicir stars arc more iii fault tlian they,' 
 
 and she was less to blame in her choice than her father, who 
 ought to have advised her against the marriage. \\'here and 
 how they met is not known. Mary was not atlra. tive in 
 person : she was in her youth little, brown, and thin, but 
 became a 'short fat body,' as De Crammont tells us, in her 
 early married life ; in the later period of her existence she was 
 described by the Vicomtesse de I.ongueville as a 'little round 
 c rumi.lcd v.oman- very fond of finery ;' and she adds that, on 
 visiting the du( hess one day, she fouml her, though in mourn- 
 ing, in a kind of loose robe over her, all edged and laced with 
 gold. So much for a Puritan's daughter ! 
 
 To this insii>Kl [iersonage the duke presented himself She 
 soon hked him, and in si)ite of his outrageous infidelities, con- 
 tinued to like him after their marriage. 
 
 He caiTied his point : Mary Fairfax became his wife on the 
 6th of Sejitember, 1675, and, by the inlluence of Fairfax, his 
 estate, or, at all CNeiUs, a portion of the re\enues, about 
 ,/..},ooo a year, it is said, were restored to him, Nevertheless, 
 
 it !s morlifvintr to find th't in if;--* hn cr^i ; \- ■ ^ ^ 
 
 . ' ^^ ^ '•""'■ '" ^"/-> n(- soki \oiK. House, \\\ 
 
 which his father had taken su( h pride, for ,Cp,ooo. Th.e 
 
?0 
 
 Villicrs in tJic Torccr, 
 
 house was pulled down ; streets were erected on the gardens: 
 Ccorge Street, \'illicrs Street, Duke Street. Buckingham Street, 
 Off Alley recall the name of the ill-starred (leorge, first duke, 
 and of his needy, profligate son ; but the only trace of the real 
 greatness of the flunily importance thus swept away is in the 
 motto inscribed on the point of old Inigo's water-gate, towards 
 the street : ^Fidci cotictila crux' It is sad for all good royalists 
 to reflect that it was not the ral)id Roundhead, but a degenerate 
 Cavalier, who sold and thus destroyed York House. 
 
 The marriage with Mary Fairfax, though one of interest 
 solely, was not a mesalliance: her father was connected by 
 the female side with the Ivuls of Rutland ; he was also a 
 man of a generous spirit, as he had shown, in handing over to 
 the Countess of Derby the rents of the Jsle of Man, which 
 had been granted to him by the Parliament. In a similar 
 spirit he was not sorry to restore York House to the Duke of 
 lUickingham. 
 
 Cromwell, however, was highly exasperated by the nuptials 
 between Mary I'airfax and A'iUicrs, whirh took jilace at Xun 
 \])pleton, near York, one of Fairfax's estates. The I'rotector 
 had, it is said, intended Yilliers for one of his own daughters. 
 Cpon what plea he acted it is not stated: he committed 
 \'illiers to the Tower, where he remained until the death of 
 Oliver, and the accession of Richard Cromwell. 
 
 In vain did I'airfax solicit his rele;ise : Cromwell refused 
 it, and \'illiers remained in durance until the abdication of 
 Richard < 'romwell, when he was set at liberty, but not without 
 the following conditions, dated February 21 si. 105S 9 ;-- 
 
 •'i'he humble petition of C.eorge Duke of liuckin-diam was 
 this (lay read. Resolvetl that Ceorge Duke of liuckingham. 
 now prisoner at ^\'indsor Castle, upon his engagement U])on 
 his honour at the bar of this House, and ujion the engage- 
 ment of Lord Fairfax in ^20,000 that the said duke .shall 
 l)eaccably demain himself for the future, and shall not join 
 witli. or abet, or have any correspondence with, any of the 
 enemies of the Dord Protector, and oi this Commonwealth, in 
 any o! tlic parts beyond Iik sea, or within this Couunon- 
 wealth, shall be discharged of his imprisonment and restraint; 
 
: gardens : 
 iir. Street, 
 'irst (hike. 
 )f the re;) I 
 is in tlic 
 ?, towards 
 I royalists 
 egenerate 
 
 interest 
 ccte'l hy 
 IS als(; a 
 ig over to 
 m, wliirh 
 a similar 
 '. Duke of 
 
 : nuptials 
 : at Xun 
 Protector 
 laughters, 
 nmmitted 
 de.;lh of 
 
 1 refused 
 cation of 
 it without 
 
 liani was 
 kinghani, 
 
 Jilt U]ion 
 : engage- 
 ke shall 
 not join 
 ny of the 
 ivcalth, in 
 Zounnon- 
 restraint ; 
 
 A braJiam Cozohy, the Poet. 2 1 
 
 and that the (kn-ernor of Windsor Castle he required to 
 bring the Duke of Buckingham to the bar of this House on 
 ^\■ed^esday next, to engage his honour accordingly. Ordered, 
 that the security of ^20,000 to be given by the J.ord Fairfax, 
 on the behalf of the Duke of Buckingham, be taken in the 
 name of His Highness the Lord Protector.' 
 
 During his incarceration at Windsor, Pnickingham had a 
 companion, of wliom many a better man might have been 
 envii)us; this was Abraham Cowley, an old college friend of 
 the duke's. Cowley was the son of a grocer, and owed his 
 entrance into academic life to having been a Kinu's .Scholar 
 at Wcstnnnster. One day he haijpened to take up from his 
 mollici's parlour winilow a c(jpy of S|)enser's ' Faerie Queene.' 
 He eagerly perused the delightful volume, tiiough he was then 
 only twelve years old : and this impulse being given to his 
 mind, became at fifteen a reciter of verses. His ' I'oetical 
 P.IosMMns,' jjublished whilst he was still at school, irave, how- 
 e\er, r.o foretaste of his future eminence. He proceeded to 
 'i'riniiy College, Cambridge, where his friend^liiii with Villiers 
 was formed ; and where, i)erhai)s, from that < ircumstan( e, 
 Cowley's i)redilections fur the cause of the Stuarts was ripened 
 into loyalty. 
 
 .No two characters could be more dissimilar than those of 
 .\braham Cowley and (Jeorge \'illiers. Cowley was (|uiet, 
 modest, sober, of a thou^-iiUnl, philosoijhical turn, and of an 
 affectionate nature ; neither boasting of liis own merits nor 
 ilepreciating others. He was the friend of Jau ius Cary, Lord 
 Falkland ; and yet he loved, though he must have <ondenmed, 
 Oeorge \'illiers. It is not unlikely that, whilst Cowley im- 
 parted his love of poetry to Villiers, Villiers may have inspired 
 the pensive and blameless poet with a love of that display 
 of wit then in vogue, and heightened that sense of humour 
 which speaks forth in some of Cowley's ];roductions. ]''ew 
 authors suggest so many new thoughts, really his own, as 
 Cowley. ' His works," it has been said, ' are a flower-garden 
 run to weeds, but the flowers are numerous and brilliant, and 
 u search ai'ter them will rejiay the pains of a collector who is 
 not too indolent or fastidious.' 
 
22 The Gnalcst Ornament of Whitehall. 
 
 As Cowley and his friend passed the wcjrv hours in 
 (hirance, many an old tale could the j-oet lei! ihc jjeer of 
 stirring limes ; for Cowley had accompanied Cliarles I. in 
 many a i)enlous journey, and had jjrotectcd Oueen Henrietta 
 Maria in her escape to France : through Cowley liad the cor- 
 respondence of the royal j)air. when separated, been carried 
 on. 'I'he i)oel had before suffered imijrisonnient for his lovalty; 
 and, to disguise his actual occu])ation, had obtained the 
 degree of J)octor of Medicine, and a.ssumed he character of a 
 l)hysician, on the strength of knowing the virtues <jf a few ] slants. 
 IMany a laugh, doubtless, had ]!uckinghani at the expense of 
 />. Cowley: however, in later days, the duke jiroved a true 
 friend to the poet, in helping to pro'ure for liim the lease of 
 a farm at Chert.M-y from the ([Ueen. and here Cowley, rich 
 upon ^'300 a year, ended his days. 
 
 For some time after Buckingham's release, he lived quietly 
 and respectably at Nun-Apj^leton, with Cieneral Fairfax and 
 the vapid Mary. But the Restoration— the first dawnings of 
 winch have been referred to in the commencement of this 
 biography- ruined him. body and mind. 
 
 He was made a Lord of the ])edchani1)er, a Member of 
 the Privy Council, and afterwards Alastcr of the TTorse,"- and 
 J.ord Fieutenant of Yorkshire. He 1i\-ed in great magnificent e 
 at Wallingford House.a tenement next to York Housejntended 
 to be the habital)le and useful a])])endage to that palace. 
 
 He was hencefortli. until he jn-oxed treacherous to his sove- 
 reign, the brightest ornament of Wlutehall. lleauty of person 
 was hereditary : his father was styled the 'handsomest-bodied 
 man in Fngland,' and Ceorge Yilliers the younger equalled 
 Ceorge Yilliers the elder in all personal accomjilishments. 
 A\hen he entered the Presence-Chamlier all eyes followed 
 hun ; every movement was graceful and stately. Sir b)hn 
 Reresby ]ironounced him 'to be the finest gentleman he" ever 
 saw.' ' J [e was born,' Madame Dunois declared, ' for gallantry 
 and magnificence.' His wit was faultless, but his "manners 
 engaging ; yet his sallies often descended into buffoonery, ancf 
 
 # 'I^K-thikt'hcc.imc Ma-icrof tlic iior.se in i633 : lie !)aid /20 000 to the 
 Duke "'' •■^""■■'"'"■''-' '"I" tlie post. 
 
i 
 
 hours in 
 lie ])ccr of 
 larlcs 1. in 
 1 liciirictta 
 1(1 the cor- 
 'xn c.irried 
 his loyalty; 
 taincii the 
 iractor of a 
 few jilaiits. 
 expense of 
 \e(l a true 
 ie lease of 
 iwley, rich 
 
 ■ed quietly 
 airfax and 
 iwnings of 
 nt of this 
 
 rember of 
 
 M'^e,''' and 
 L^iiiliccnc e 
 , intended 
 
 ' his so\'e- 
 of person 
 L'st-bodied 
 
 equalled 
 lishments. 
 
 followed 
 Sir John 
 n lie ever 
 
 gallantry 
 
 manners 
 ncry, and 
 
 3,oao tu the 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 4 
 
 tit 
 
 Bucki>r^hani 's / f 7/ (7;;i f In •aiity. 2 3 
 
 he spared no one in his merry moods. One evening a play 
 of Dryden's was represented. An actress liad to spout forth 
 this line — 
 
 ' My wound is j;ro,Tt hrcaiisc it i.i so smal! !' 
 
 She gave it out with ])athos, paused, and was theatrically dis- 
 tressed. Buckingham was seated in one of the boxes. He 
 rose, all eyes were fixed ui)on a fice well known in all gay 
 assemblies, in a tone of burlesque he answered - 
 
 ' '! li'-M 'p.viiuUl i>o LTcatcr were it tion • i' n'' ' 
 
 Instantly the audience laughed at the Duke's ttjiie of ridicule, 
 and the ])oor woman was hissed off the stage. 
 
 The king himself did not escape Buckingham's shafts ; 
 whilsL Lord ( 'Ikuk cllor Clarendon fell a victim to his ridicule: 
 nothing could withstand it. There, not in that iniquitous gal- 
 lery at Whitehall, but in the king's jirivy chambers, Villicrs 
 might be seen, in ali die radiance of his matured beauty. His 
 face was long and o\al. with slecfty, yet glistening eyes, over 
 whi( h large arched cNclirows seemed to contra( I a brow on 
 whii h the (urls of a massive wig (which fell almost to his 
 shoulders) hung low. His nose was long, well formed, and 
 flexible; his lijis thin and compressed, and dernud. :i^ I'lr (iis- 
 tom was, l)y two very short, fine, black patches ol luiir, looking 
 more like strips of sticking-plaster than a moustache. As he 
 made his reverence, his rich robes fell over a fuiltless lurni. 
 He was a beau to the wry fold (jf the cambric b.uid xo\\\m\ his 
 throat; with long ends of the riciiest, closest [loim \\\.\\ w,;s 
 ever rummaged out from a foreign nunnery to be )>!aced on the 
 ])erson of this sacrilegious sinner. 
 
 behold, now, how he ( h ;ngcs. Mlliers is \'illiers no h-ngcr. 
 He is Clarendon, w.dking solemnly to the Coiut of the Stir 
 Chamber: a jxiir of bellows is hanging before him for the 
 l)urse ; CoI(M1c1 Titus is w;dking with a fire shovel on liis 
 shouldur, to represent a mace ; the king, himself a ca})ital 
 mimic, is splitting his sides with laughter : the courtiers are 
 fairly in a roar. Then how he was wont to di'.ert the kia-- 
 
 u;tii Uis 
 
 ciescri j 
 
 on- 
 
 i.->wifh, for instance,' 
 
 he said. 
 
 was 
 
 a town without inhabitants— a river it had without water- 
 
I 
 
 ^4 I'lcskiwc's opinion of I/ini. 
 
 streets wiu.oui -names; and it was a place where asses ^vore 
 l.oots: allu.hncj to the asses, uhen emph)ye,I in roIHng Lord 
 Hereford s bou Img -,Teen, having boots on their teet to prevent 
 their injuring tlie turf. 
 
 I'lecknoe, the poet, describes the duke at this i.erio<l, in 
 iMilerjie Revived' — 
 
 ' Tiie pllant'sl person, and iho iiol,Ic-t niimio, 
 In all the world his prince ccnild ever finde 
 CJr to i)articipatc his jirivate cares, 
 f 'r bear the piihlie wei-ht of his affairs 
 Like wdl-hiiilt arches, si n.nsrer \sith their wei^lif 
 :\W\ weli-huilt nunds, the steadier with their lie-dlt • 
 Miefi was the coiii|)0>itioii and frame "'' ' 
 
 O' 111,' noble and the j^allaiit nuekini,'ham.' 
 
 The praise, huuever, even in tlie duke's l)est days, was over- 
 charged. \ ilhers was no ' uell-built arch,' nor could Ch irles 
 trust to the tidehly of one so versatile for an hour. Besi.les 
 the moral chanuter of V.Hicrs must have j-revented him, even 
 •11 those days, from bearing 'the public weiglit of affairs.' 
 
 A scamlalous intrigue soon proved the unsoundness of Fleck- 
 noe's tribute. Amongst the most licentious beauties of the court 
 \vas Anna Maria, Countess of Shrewsbury, the daughter of Robert 
 brudenel, l.arl of Cardigan, and the wife of Francis, Ivirl of 
 Slireusbury : amongst many shameless women she was the 
 inosl shameles , and her face seems to have well expressed 
 her mm.I. Jn the rounu, fair visage, with its languishing eyes 
 and full, ,,outing mouth, diere is something voluptuous and' 
 l)old. 'I he forehead is broad, but low; and the wavy hair, 
 uith \{^ tendril < urls. conies down almost to the fme arched' 
 eyebrows, and then, fdling into masses, sets off white shoulders 
 which seem to designate an inelegant amount of cmbonhnnt 
 .1 liere is nothing ele\ated in the whole countenance, r ; Lely 
 has painted her, and her history is a di.sgrace to her'a^e and 
 tune. 
 
 She had mmierous lovers (not in the refined sense of the 
 word), and, at last, took u]) with Thomas KiUigrew. He had 
 l)een, like Villiers, a royalist : iirst a page to Charles I., next 
 a companion of Charles JL, in exile. He married the fair 
 Ceciha Croft ; yet his morals were so vicious that even in the 
 Court of Venice to which he was accredited, in order to borrow 
 
asses wore 
 oiling Lord 
 t to prevent 
 
 period, in 
 
 S was o\ er- 
 ild Ch.irles 
 . ]5esides, 
 I Iiim, even 
 lirs.' 
 
 .sofK!c(k- 
 'f tlic couri 
 r of Robert 
 is, Karl of 
 L^ was the 
 
 expressed 
 liing eyes, 
 tuous and 
 .vavy hair, 
 nc arched 
 
 shoulders 
 mbonfyoint. 
 2, r ; I.ely 
 r age and 
 
 se of the 
 He had 
 s I., next 
 i the fair 
 en in the 
 ;o borrow 
 
 His Duel -citli the lun-l of Shrewsbury. 25 
 
 money from the muLhants of that city, he was too profligate 
 to remain. Me .ame back with Charles JI., and was Master 
 ot the Revels, or Kings Jester, as the court considered him, 
 though without any regular appointment, during his life : the 
 butt, at once, and the satirist of Whitehall. 
 
 It was Killigreu's wit and descriptive powers which, when 
 heightened by wine, were inconceivably great, that induced 
 ^ illiers to select F.ady Shrewsbury for the object of his admi- 
 ration. When Ki".;^.ew perceived that he was supplanted by 
 \ilhers, he became frantic with rage, and poured out the bit- 
 terest mvec tives against the countes.s. The result was that, one 
 night, ^returning from the Duke of York's apartments at St. 
 James's, three passes with a sword were made at him through 
 his (hair, and one of them pierced his arm. This, and other 
 occuri;n(es, at last aroii.ed die attention of Lord .Shrewsbury 
 who had hitherto never doubted his wife : he < hallenged the 
 Duk. (,i l!iukingha;i: and his infamous wife, it is sai.l held 
 her paramour's horse, disguised as a page. Lord Shreu'.bnry 
 was killed.- and the s.and.ilous intimacy went on as before. 
 -o one but the (jueen, no one but the Duchess of Duckingham 
 appeared shocked at this trage.ly, an.l no one mindc.r their 
 remarks, or joined in their indignation : all moral sense wis 
 suspended, or wholly stitle.l ; an<l Villicrs gloried in his de- 
 I'ravity, more witty, more amusing, more fashionable than ever; 
 an.l \et he seems, by the best-known and most extolled of his 
 I'ooins. to have had some conception of what a real and worthy 
 attachment might be. 
 
 The following verses are ' Mistress' :— 
 
 ' What a dull fool u.i^ 1 
 
 'Id tiiink su orus,-, a lie, 
 As that I over was in love Ijcforc ! 
 I ii.ive, perhaps, known one or I wo, 
 
 With \sliom 1 was cuiitcnt to l)o 
 
 At that Nvhich they call keeping coniiKnu. 
 liut alter all that they could do, 
 
 I still could Ik.- with more. 
 
 Their absence never nuule me slicd a tear • 
 
 And I can trulv swear. 
 That, til! my eyes first ga;'ed on von 
 
 1 nc cr Ix'held the thing I could adore 
 
 The duel With the l-.rl of .Shrewsbury took place 17th January. 1667-8. 
 
2C> 1 'illicrs as a Poet. 
 
 ' A world of tliinijs must curiouslv Ik' soiitrjit ; 
 A world of thinjj-, riiu<.| he togeriur broiiHlii 
 To niakf up c'liauiis winch have the powir to fiimv, 
 'rhrout;h a (h.scfrnin.i; i-yr, trill 1... , 
 That is ,1 niastcr-pii •uc jihovi; 
 
 Wliat only looks and shape can do ; 
 _ I'litre riiM-.t he wit and jiidi,'nienl too. 
 (ireatii'Ss of tliou,L;hi, and worth, whiih draw, 
 From the rthoii! world, res]H'ct and awe. 
 
 ' Slie thai would r,ii-r a nolile love mut find 
 W'aNs to l)e;,'el a passion for her mind ; 
 She must lie that which .she to he would seciu. 
 [•'or all true love is f;rounded on esteem : 
 Plainness anil truth j;ain more a ^enerou- Ihm:! 
 Than all the crooked suhlli.'ties of art. 
 She must be- wli.it said I ? she must 1,.- i / 
 iNone but yourself thai miracle can do. 
 At least, I'm '-lire, thus much I | lainty ler, 
 None but yourself e'er did it up i nii-. 
 ■'In you alone th.it can niv he., vuiHliie, 
 'J'o Null aluHi; it always s! all br liii. .' 
 
 'I'iK' next lines irc also remark, ihlc for tlio dcHcacv ami 
 iiaii[i\' liini uf the espressions — 
 
 ' Thoimh I'hillis, from prevailing clianns, 
 jiave forc'd my iKiia from my arms, 
 Think not your coiKpiest to iiiainl, un 
 I'.y ri.tjour or unjii-t di-.dain. 
 In vain, fair nyinjih, in vain you 'Strive, 
 h'or Love doth seldom Hope sin\ive. 
 My heart m.ay laii;;ui>h for ;i time, 
 As all beauties in their priiiu: 
 Have justihed such cruelty, 
 P.y the same fate th;U conquered me. 
 When aije .shall conic, at whose eiminiand 
 'J'hose troops of be.iuty must disband 
 A rival's strength once took aw.is, 
 \\'hat slave's so dull as to obey ? 
 P.ut if you'll learn a noble way- 
 To kei-p liis cmjiire from decay, 
 And there for ever fix your throne. 
 He kind, but kind to me aluiie.' 
 
 Like his fathcf, who ruined himself by hiiiUlinir, Villicrs liad 
 a monomania for bricks and mortar, yet he found time lo 
 write ' The Rehearsal,' a ])lay on which Mr. Reed in his 
 ' Draniatic Biograidiy' makes the following ob.servation : Mt 
 is so perfect a masterpiece in its way, and so truly original, that 
 notwithstanding its prodigious success, even the task of imita- 
 tion, which nio^t kinds of excellence have invited inferior ge- 
 niusiN to nndertake. h.as .-!pp(\ired as too ard.n.ous to be 
 attempted with regard to this, which through a whole century 
 
lulicacy and 
 
 Villiers liad 
 ind time to 
 veed in liis 
 rvation : ' it 
 Di'igina!, tliat 
 .sk of iniita- 
 infcrior j^c- 
 uoiis to he 
 lole centurv 
 
 A fiarfitl C, HSU IV. ^j 
 
 stands alone, notuiihstanrlin,- that the very plays it was written 
 expressly to ridicule are forgotten, and the taste it u is nu nit 
 to expose totally exploded.' 
 
 Tile reverses of fortune which brouuht (;eor;,'e Villier-. to 
 nl.ject misery were therefore, in a verv ^l^mvU measure, due to 
 his own misrondurt, his depravitv. his waste of lifo his pu 
 yersuMi of noble mental p<iwers : yet in many respects he was 
 m advance of his age. He advocated, in the House of f.ords 
 toleration to Dissenters. He wrote a ' Short Discourse on th-' 
 Reasonableness of M.n's havin;, a Religion, or Worshii. ot 
 t.O(l; yet, such was his inconsistency, that in spite of these 
 woi-Ks, and of one styled « Demonstration of tli.' Deity' writ- 
 ten a short time before his death, he assisted Lord Rochester 
 m hi-, atheistic poem upon ' Xothin".' 
 
 liutler, the author of !Iudil)ras,*too truly sai.I of ViiJicrs 
 ' tlr-t he Iiad studied ///,• r.VWf body of vice ^ a most fearful cen- 
 sure -a most significant description of a bad man. * His parts' 
 he adds, 'are disproportionate to the whole, and like a monster 
 he has more of some, and less of others, than he should have' 
 '- has pulled down all that nature raised in Mm, ami built 
 liiniself up again after a niorlel of his own. 1!.. has dammed 
 11!' nil those lights th.t natn.v n> :.|e into the noblest prospects 
 o' the worM an.l o])ene.l other little blind looi.^holes backward 
 I'V turning day into night, and night into day.' 
 
 The .satiety a,nd consequent misery prodiice.I bv this terrible 
 I'ly ^'.re ab!)- described by butler. And it was perhaps partly 
 tins weane i. worn out spirit that caused \-|lh-ers to rush madly 
 into politics for excitement. In ,666 he asked f.r the .miee 
 oi 1 onl President of the North ; it was refused : he became 
 d.saftected. raise<l mutinies, and. ra last, cxcite.l the in.li<ma- 
 tion o. his too-indulgeni sovereign. Charles dismissed him 
 Iron, Ins oftice. after keeping him for some time in confinement 
 Alter this e|,o, h littK, i. i,,,,,-,, ,,f Buckingham but what is dis- 
 graceiul. Jle was again restored to Whitehall, and, accordinij 
 to I epys, even closeted with Charles, whilst the Duke of York 
 uas excluded. A certain acquaintance of the duke's remnn- 
 'wunnimupon the course which Charles now took in 
 i arhament. ' How often have you said to me,' this person re- 
 
28 Vi/iicrs's InJIiuncc in Parliaincnt. 
 
 marked, ' that the kin^ was a weak man, uiiaMr to govern, but 
 to he governed, and that you < ould ( ommand hima.s you hked? 
 AVhy do you suffer him to do thoe things?' 
 
 ' Why.' answered the (hike. ' 1 do sulier liim to do these things, 
 thai I may hereafter the better command hiu).' A reply which 
 betrays the most depraved |.rin< iple of a< ti.,n. whether towar.ls 
 a sovereign or ;, fncn.l, that .an he e\i>res..e.h Hi. inthien. e 
 was for some time supreme, yet he be<ame the leader of the 
 opi.osit..on, and invited to hi.^ table the .hscontented peers, to 
 whom he satHi/e<I the court, and condenuied the king's want of 
 •'lt^'i"""i lo business. Whilst the theatre was ringing with 
 laughter at the mimitable chara.ter of I'.ayes in the ' Rehearsal,' 
 the House of Lords was listening with profouml attention to 
 the elo.|uence that cntrance.l their faculties, making wrong seem 
 right, for biK kingham was ever heard with attention. 
 
 'I'akinginto account his mode of existence, ' whi. h,' says 
 ClaremhMi. 'wasalife by night more than bv dav, in all the 
 hberties that nature coul.I <le>iiv an.l wit inveiU,' it Mas aston- 
 ishing how extensive an inlhiciue he had in bot!i Houses of 
 i'aihament. M lis rank an.l condescension, the pleasantness of 
 his luimours and conversation, and the extravagance and keen- 
 ness ol his wit, unie.lrained by modesty or' religion, caused 
 persons ol all ojanions and dispositions to be fond'of his com- 
 I'any. and to imagine thai these levities and vanities woald wear 
 off with age, and that there would be enough of good Ie''t to 
 make him useful to his country, for which he pretended a won- 
 derful affection.' 
 
 but this brilliant career was soon chec ke.l. 'J'he varnish over 
 tlie hollow character of this extraordinary man was eventually 
 rubbe<l off. We find the hrst hint of ihal famous coalition 
 styled the Cabal in J'epys's Hiary, and henceforth the duke must 
 be regarded as a ruined man. 
 
 ' He' (Sir H. Cholmly) 'tells in that the Duke of Eucking- 
 ham his crimes, ^ lar a. he K .ows, are his being of a cabal 
 with some dis((,ntented j.ersons of the late House of Commons 
 and opposim t!u- d. vires of the king in all his matters in that 
 House ; and endeavouring to become popular, and advising 
 how die Commons' House .should proceed, and how he would 
 
govern, but 
 s you liked? 
 
 .Iic.sc lhinji;s, 
 reply \vlii( h 
 licr towards 
 i^ intliieiK e 
 ider uf the 
 d ])eer.s, to 
 iL,''s want of 
 inlying wiU) 
 Rehearsal,' 
 ttention to 
 >\ i<jng seem 
 
 liicli,' says 
 in all the 
 was aston- 
 1 louses oi" 
 isantnessof 
 and keen- 
 on, caused 
 f his com- 
 ivould wear 
 •od left to 
 led a won- 
 
 irnish over 
 eventually 
 > coalition 
 duke must 
 
 liuckinir- 
 >r a cabal 
 I)omnions, 
 rs ill that 
 I advising 
 he would 
 
 I 
 
 
 A Scow in til,' T '^y-h' \^ 
 
 T^^^T '' ''"^'- •^'""- '■"'"-en endeavouring 
 
 V ""• "^'■'.^-y-'t'vuy calculated : which was done, and 
 
 i c .e low now m the Tower about it. . . . This silly lord hath 
 
 > ovoked, by h,s .11 <-arriage. the Duke of N'.,d/,„v \Z 
 
 Uiamvllor, and all the ,reat persons, and therefore mo^t likely 
 
 nned:.y.ind,e Ibu.e on,..nl,. „nnng a con.erence be- 
 t^cen the two Houses. lU. kin,ham leaned rudelv over the 
 shoulder o, Henry I'i.rrepont .Nfaniuis of Dunhe.^ter. Lord 
 on hester n.erely removed his elbow. Then d,e duke .asked 
 n .M,e was tmeasy ; Yes/ the marquis replied, adding. ' the 
 •li.ke .Iare.| not do tins if he were anywhere else.' liuckin.-h ,m 
 -torted,.yeOu.wou,d:andlK.w..s a better nu^d^^^^^^^^^ 
 "/Imarqms. on uh.. h l)„n Iu.s,.r told him that he lied. On 
 tins Huckmgham stnu k o,r Don hester's h:„. seized him bv the 
 Pcnw.g. pulled u asi.le. .uhI held him. The I <-,rd Chamberl ,in 
 :tnd others uiterposed and sent them both to the Tower Ne- 
 vertheless, not a month afterwards. iVpys speaks of seein, du. 
 
 "k.s play ,>r -Fhe Cham-es' acted at Whitehall. ^X ;„.„, 
 I'lay he condescends to s:,y. • I hnd i,, ,„, „,, ^.„,j^^^ \ 
 
 I rl> All mght I weepe." an<l sun.; it adnuVablv. The uholo 
 Hay pleases me well : and nK,st of all, the sight of manv line 
 ladies, amongst others, my I,ady ( 'astlemaine and Mrs.'Mi,! 
 
 _ The whole management of p„|,H<. ; -,!,, ,,,,, ,^ ^j,;^ - 
 .ntrust.1 to five persons, and hence e famous combin ' 
 the united h-tters of which formed the woni 'Cabal :'-C!iffor ' 
 AH,n,ton, kin.., .n. Ashley, and Lauderdale. T X^:t 
 ':;;2: • ''->— -'^--ers, .ndered them'tl. 
 
 terity. 
 S])oke u 
 
 icir 
 
 age. and the objects of censure to all j.os- 
 • uwtters were in this state a.larin.: outrage, which 
 ,, . >■ ^' ^'le lawless ate of the tim . . ascril)ed 
 
 thou.n u-rongly, to Buckingham. The Duke ol ( ,rmon 
 olll« ; ut his inveterate hatred, wh 
 tenant of [relaml. ( .!,„„.| p.!o,„i , , ,. , , , 
 
 officer of th- r-,„ > . . - '^'' •'''•^'^amle<i 
 
 . ^ '■'"' i'<-en attainted lor ■! 
 
 <i, llie 
 
 .ieii- 
 
30 
 
 The Duke of Oniiond in ])anga\ 
 
 England, and acted as a spy for tlie ' Cabal,' who did not hesi- 
 tate to countenance this daring scoundrel. 
 
 His first exploit was to attack the Duke of Orniond's coach 
 
 one night in Si. James's Street : to secure his person, bind him, 
 
 I)ut him on horseback after one of his accomplices, and carry 
 
 him to 'J'yburn, where lie meant to hang his grace. On their 
 
 way, however, Ormond, by a violent effort, threw himself on 
 
 the ground ; a scuffle ensued : the duke's servants came up, and 
 
 after receiving the ^\w of JJlood's j-istols, the duke escaped. 
 
 Lord Ossory, the Duke of Ormond's son, on going afterward 
 
 to court, met iUickingham, and addressed him in these words:— 
 
 ' My lord, I know well that you are at the bottom of this 
 
 late attempt on my father ; but 1 give you warning, if he by 
 
 any means come to a violent end, 1 shall not be at a loss to 
 
 know the auliior. I shall consider you as an assassin, and shall 
 
 treat you as such ; and wherever 1 meet you I shall pistol you, 
 
 though you stood behind the king's chair; and 1 tell it you in 
 
 his majesty's presence, that you may be sure 1 shall not Vail of 
 
 performance.' 
 
 Mlood's next feat was to carry off from the 'J ower the crown 
 jewels. He was o\ertaken and arrested : anil wa.s then asked 
 to name his accomplices. ' Mo,' he replied, • the fear of danger 
 shall never tempt me to deny guilt or to betray a friend. 
 Charles 11., with undignified curiosity, wished to see tlie culjmt. 
 On inquiring of Jilood how he dared to make so bold an at- 
 tempt on the crown, the bravo answered, ' My father lost a good 
 estate fighting for the crown, and 1 con^^idered it no harm to 
 recover it by the crown.' He then tolil his majesty how he had 
 resolved to assassinate him : how he had stood among the reeds 
 in r.attersea-fields widi this design; how then, a sudden awe 
 liad come over him : ami Charles was weak enough to admire 
 IMood's fearless bearing and to pardon his attempt. Well might 
 the Karl of Rochester write of Charles — 
 
 'Here lies my sovereign lord the king, 
 
 Wiioic word no man relies on ; 
 Who ni'ver said a foujish tiling, 
 And never did a wiic one.' 
 
 Notwitlistanding Blood's oulr-g-,-: the -^^lightcst penalty fur 
 
lid not hcsi- 
 
 ond's coach 
 »n, bind him, 
 •s, and carry 
 . On their 
 
 himself on 
 ame u]), and 
 ko escajjed. 
 ig afterward 
 :se words : — ■ 
 tom of this 
 ig, if lie l)y 
 t a loss to 
 in, and shall 
 
 l^istol you, 
 11 it you in 
 
 not fail of 
 
 ■ the crown 
 then asked 
 ir of danger 
 r a friend, 
 the culj)rit. 
 )old an al- 
 ios I a good 
 o harm to 
 how he hafl 
 ig the reeds 
 idtlen awe 
 to admire 
 Well nn'ght 
 
 penalty for 
 
 Walliu^crford House, and Ham Ifousc. 3 1 
 
 which in our days uould have been penal servitude for life- 
 Jwelyn met hun. not long afterwards, at Lord Clifford's it 
 dmner, when Dc (nammont and other Fren< h noblemen were 
 entertamed. • The man,' says Evelyn, ' had n<,t only a darin-^ 
 but a villanous. unmerciful look, a false <ountenance ; but veiy 
 well-spoken, and dangerously insinuating.' 
 _ Ivirly in ,06., the Duke of Buckingham had been en.n.^ed 
 m practices against du. court : he had disguised ,leep .l^i^s 
 by affectmg the mere man of pleasure. Never was there such 
 splendour as at Wallingford House-such wit and g ilfuurv • 
 .su<h perfect good breedmg ; such apparently openhamled hos- 
 pital Uy. At those splendid ban<iuets, John AVihnot, Karl of 
 Rochester, 'a man whom the Muses were fond to inspire but 
 ashanied to avow,' showed his ' i,eautiful face,' as it was called ■ 
 and dnmed m with that wit for which the age was famous' 
 I he Irecpienters at Wallingford House gloried in their indeli- 
 cacy. ' One is amazed,' Hora. e U alpole observes, > at hearing 
 I'ea,,eof harles H. called ,,olite. The Puritans have af 
 hx ed to call everything by a Scipttue' nan,e ; the newcomers 
 atlccted to call everytlung by its right name; 
 
 ' As if prcpostfi-oiisly (hev would confess 
 A forced liy;)ucii.-,yiii \vid;ctim--.s.' 
 
 Walpole .ompares the age Of Charles H. to that of Aristo- 
 phanes---' wh.ch , ailed us own grossness polite.' How bitterly 
 he decnes the stale poems of the time as 'a heap of senseless 
 nbaldry;' how truly he shows that licentiousnes; weakens as 
 ^ve las depraves the judgment. ' U'hen Satyrs are brought to 
 
 hen' I ' r^"' "" wonder the Craces would not tru.t 
 themselves there. 
 
 In lliis siMrly old .naiwr-hotise, the aboile of tlic Tollomatl.e 
 
 .ngors, I. „,,,„ House >va,, in.en.lcl for ,l,c rcsidcn,- If 
 a,,,.. Pnncc of Wales, .„,, u-.,s i.uilt in ,6,0. It s.a.uis Jr 
 II e nver lliames ; and is lianke,! by noble ..venues of eJ,„a,„i 
 "f chestnttt trees, down ,vl,i. I, one ,M..y .!„„«,, .,s it were, li '• ' 
 
32 
 
 ' Madame Ellcu: 
 
 the king's talk with liis courtiers ; see Arlington approach with 
 the well-known patch across his nose; or sj^y out the lovely, 
 childish iMiss Stuart and her future husband, the J)uke of 
 Richmond, sli|)ping behind into the garden, lest the jealous 
 mortified king should catch a sight of the ' conscious lovers.' 
 
 'i'liis stately structure was given by Cliaties II., in 1672,10 
 the Duke and Duchess of Lauderdale : she, the supposed mis- 
 tress of Cromwell ; he, the cruel, hateful Lauderdale of the 
 Cabal. This detestable couple, however, furnished with massive 
 grandeur the apartments of Ham J louse. They had the ceil- 
 ings painted by Verrio ; the fiirniluie was rich, and even now 
 the bellows and brushes in some of the rooms are of silver fili- 
 gree. One room is furnished with yellow tlamask, still rich, 
 though flided ; the very seats on which Charles, looking around 
 him, saw Cliflord, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley (the infamous 
 Shaftesbury), and Laudenlale— and knew not, goo.l easy man, 
 that he was looking on a band of traitors— are still there' 
 Nay, he even sat to Sir J'eter Leiy for a portrait for this very 
 I)lac-e— in which, schemes for the ruin of the kingdom were 
 concocted. All. j.iobably, was smooth and i-Iea.sing to the 
 monarch as he ranged tlown the fine gallerv, ninety-two feet 
 long: or sat at dinner amid his foes in that hall, surroumled 
 with an open balustrade; or disported himself on the river's 
 green brink. Nay, one may even fancy Nell (iwynn taking a 
 day's i)leasure in this then lone and ever sweet locality. We 
 hear her swearing, as she was wont to do. perchance at the dim 
 looking-glasses, her own house in Pall Mall, given her by the 
 king, having been filled up, for the comedian, entirelv, ceiling 
 and all, with looking-glass. How bold and pretty she .looked 
 in her undress ! Even Pepys— no very sound moralist, "thou-di 
 a vast hypocrite— tells us : Nelly, 'all unready' was 'very prett]- 
 l.rettier lar than he thought.' JUit to see how she was ' painted,' 
 would, he thought, 'make a man mad.' 
 
 'Madame Kllen,' as after her clcvaliou, as it was termed, she 
 was called, might, since she held h^ig a groat sway over 
 Charles's fancy, be suflered to scamper about Ham House- 
 where her merry laugh perhaps scandalised the now Saintly 
 Duchess of Lauderdale,— jubt to impose on the world; for Nell 
 
pproach with 
 It the lovely, 
 the Duke of 
 t tlie jealous 
 ous lovers.' 
 • , in 1672, to 
 uijposed mis- 
 -Tclale of the 
 with massive 
 Kul the ('eil- 
 <l even now 
 of silver lili- 
 sk, still rich, 
 akint^ around 
 the infamous 
 m\ easy man, 
 ; still there, 
 or this very 
 li^doin were 
 tsing to the 
 ety-two feet 
 surrounded 
 the river's 
 in taking a 
 calit)-. We 
 e at the dim 
 her by the 
 rely, ceiling 
 she jlookecl 
 list, though 
 \-cry pretty, 
 s ' j)ainted,* 
 
 erincd, she 
 sway over 
 1 House — 
 o\v Saintly 
 I; lor .Nell 
 
 T/ic Cabal. 
 
 Zl 
 
 su on to her French nval, the Duchess of Portsmouth ^ 
 
 o(> ; T>'nT,''n'' """' '^' ^'' ''^"^'" ^' ^^'^"^ House, an.l is .^one 
 
 ^J^^ X T'"' r'T '" ^^" ''' '^- i-"^-i ^^ 
 
 c cr> turn J he kmg has departed, and Killigrew, who at all 
 
 t ay to London. In yon sanctimonious-looking closet 
 
 HMto the duchess's bed-chamber, with her psalter and le; 
 
 prayer-book on her desk, which is fixed to her great cha am 
 
 that vejy cane which still hangs there serving'.' h<^« 
 
 w en she comes forth from that closet, murmm and ^ ang e he 
 
 lu^r the Cabal. I he conspirators dare not trust themselves 
 
 overt, here are for eaves-droppers and spiders in tapestrie 
 vails : then the great Canlinal spielers do so click there "re so 
 h>e the death-watch, that Villiers, who is inveterately s; pers i 
 fous wd not ab,de there. The hall, with its enclosing Xie" 
 a"<l the Inutery near, are manifestly unsaO-. So tl^y n ' 
 nay crouc, mutter, and concoct that fearful treachery h' 
 as far as heir country is concerned, has been a thing ap rt a 
 our .mnals, m ' n.y Lady's' closet. LlnglishuK-n are 'ttfrCen 
 a.nb,t.ous unscrupulous ; but tl. craft of Maitland, u^^l 
 
 'er m a .^cot or Southron. 
 
 rlicsc meetings IukI ihoir natuml conseqt.cnce. One leaves 
 
 Ille circLr of \ ,lkrs Misp.res more interest, lie seemetl horn 
 
 t^Z T'r. 'f " '"""' '"™ °' «"'-• ■'« >-" ' r 
 
 M„- . "-■ l"""-'""""'.-llev,lon,a„ astrolo-er 
 
 .-.t . n» t,me, perhaps h„oye,l Inn, „p „,■„, r,„e hopes 1^1 
 »» .t mny, h,s plots now ,en,le,l ,0 open insurrection. In C66 
 
 , trr:;""" "', "T '^™'-'" '•■' "'^ =l>P-he„sioni e ha': 
 . ■; '"■" ^"'^"'""l. On this „ea.,ion he was saved by the 
 •to one whom he had inj„re,l grossly-his wife. She „n 
 
 day;asamatte;ofcot,rse;jeah;:;:a:rri:l:rt^e:« 
 
34 
 
 Villicrs amin in the Tower. 
 
 — constancy, a chimera ; and her husband, whatever his con- 
 duct, had ever treated her with kindness of manner ; he had 
 that charm, that attribute of his family, in perfection, and it 
 had fascinated Mary Fairfax. 
 
 He tied, and played for a year successfully the ])ranks of his 
 youth. At; last, worn out, he talked of giving himself up to 
 justice. ' Mr. Fenn, at the table, says that he hath been taken 
 by the watch two or three times of late, at unseasonable hours, 
 but so disguised they did not know him ; and when I come 
 home, by and by, Mr. Lowthcr tells me that the Duke of 
 Buckingham do dine i)ublickly this day at Wadlow's, at the Sun 
 Tavern ; and is mighty merry, and sent word to the Lieutenant 
 of the Tower, that he would come to him as soon as he dined.' 
 So Pepys states. 
 
 Whilst in the Tower — to which he was again committed — 
 Buckingham's jjardon was solicited by I.ady Custlemaine ; on 
 which account the king was very angry with her ; called her 
 a meddling 'jade;' she calling him ' fool,' and saying if he was 
 not a fool he never would suffer his best subjects to be impri- 
 soned — referring to Buckingham. And not only did she ask 
 his liberty, but the restitution of his places. No wonder there 
 was discontent when such things were done, and public affairs 
 were in such a state. We must again (juote the graphic, terse 
 language of l*epys : — ' It was computed that the Parliament 
 had given the king for this war only, besides all prizes, and 
 besides the /^2oo,ooo which he was to spend of his own re- 
 venue, to guard the sea, above ^5,000,000, and odtl ;^ioo,ooo; 
 which is a moot prodigious sum. Sir H. Cholmly, as a true 
 Fnglish gentleman, do decry the king's expenses of his privy 
 purse, which in King James's time did not rise to above 
 ;^5,ooo a year, and in King Charles's to ^10,000, do now 
 cost us above ^100,000, besides the great charge of the 
 monarchy, as the Duke of York has /,"! 00,000 of it, and other 
 limbs of the royal family.' 
 
 In consequence of Lady Castlemaine's intenention, Villicrs 
 was restored to liberty — a strange instance, as Pepys remarks, 
 of tlie ' fool's play' of the age. Buckinglm.m was now as pre- 
 suming as ever : he had a theatre of his own, and he soon 
 
 J 
 
A CJiansrc 
 
 r his con- 
 r ; he had 
 ion, and it 
 
 inks of his 
 isclf uj) to 
 been taken 
 able liours, 
 ;n I come 
 I Duke of 
 
 at the Sun 
 Lieutenant 
 
 lie dined.* 
 
 nimitted — 
 maine ; on 
 called her 
 g if he was 
 ) be impri- 
 id she ask 
 )nder there 
 blic affairs 
 iphic, terse 
 Parliament 
 )ri/es, and 
 lis own re- 
 ^100,000; 
 , as a true 
 f his j)rivy 
 to above 
 o, do now 
 -gc of the 
 , and other 
 
 on, Villiers 
 ys remarks, 
 now as pre- 
 id he soon 
 
 35 
 
 I 
 
 showed his usual airogance by beating Henry Killigrew on the 
 stage, and taking "away his coat and sword; all very ' inno- 
 cently' done, according to Pepys. In July he appeared in his 
 place in the House of Lords, as ' brisk as ever,' and sat in his 
 robes, ' which,' says Pepys, ' is a monstrous thing that a man 
 should be proclaimed against, and put in the Tower, and re- 
 leased without any trial, and yet not restored to his places.' 
 
 We next find the duke intrusted with a mission to France, 
 in concert with Halifax and \rlington. In the year i6So, he 
 was threatened with an impeachment, in which, with his usual 
 skill, he managed to exculiKite himself by blaming Lord Arling- 
 ton. The House of Connnons passed a vote for his removal ; 
 and he entered the ranks of the oiq^osition. 
 
 Hut this career of public meanness and private profligacy 
 was drawing to a close. Alribia<les no longer— his frame 
 wasted l)y vice- his spirits broken by pecuniary difficulties — 
 P'uckingham's importance visibly .sank away. 'He remained, 
 at last,' to borrow the words of Hume, 'as incapal)le of doing 
 hurt as he had ever been little desirous of doing good to man- 
 kind.' His fortune had now dwindled down to ^300 a year 
 in land; lie sold Wallingford House, and removed into the 
 Cit)'. 
 
 And now the fruits of liis adversity, not, we hope, too late, 
 began to ai)pear. Like Lonl Rochester, who had ordered all 
 his immoral works to be burnt, lUickingham now wished to 
 retrieve the past. In 16S5 he wrote the religious works which 
 form so striking a contrast with his other i>roductions. 
 
 'I'hat he had been ur) to the very time of his riiin perfectly 
 imjK'rvious to remorse, dead also to shame, is amply mani- 
 fested by his conduct soon after his duel with the L.irl of 
 Shrewsburv. 
 
 Sir (ieorge Ktherege had brought out a new play at the 
 Duke of York's Theatre. It was called, ' .She \\'oiild if she 
 Could.' Plays in those days began at what we now consider our 
 luncheon hour. Tiiough Pepys arrived at the theatre on this 
 occasion at two o'clock— his wife having gone before -about a 
 thousand peuple luul then Iklh juii back from the pit. At last, 
 •seeing his wife in the eighteen-penny-bo.\, Samuel ' made 
 
 3—2 
 
 I 
 
I 
 
 36 The Duke of 3 'ork's Thecxtve. 
 
 shift' to i^ct tliLTc and there saw, ' Iml lord !' (his own words 
 are ininiitaljle) ' how dull, and how silly the play, there beini( 
 nothing in the world good in it, and few i)eo])le ])]eased in it. 
 'I"he king was there; but I sat mightily behind, and could see 
 but little, and hear not at all. The i)lay being done, 1 weni 
 into the ]iit to look for my wite, it being dark and raining, but 
 rould nut hnd her ; and so staid, going between the two doors 
 and thrcjugh the pit an hour and a half, I think, after the jilay 
 was done ; the peoi)le staying there till the rain was over, and 
 ti) talk to one another. And among the re.it, here was the 
 Duke of Buckingham to-day openly in the pit; and there I 
 Ibiuid him with my Lord Uuckhurst, and Sedley, and laheridge 
 the poet, the last of whom 1 did hear mightily find fault with 
 the ac tors, that they were out of humour, and had not their 
 |)arts perlei t, and that Harris did do nothing, nor could so 
 much as sing a ketch in it; and so was niighlily concerned,, 
 while all the rest did, through the whole pit, blame the play as 
 a silly, dull thing, though there was something very roguish aud 
 witty ; but the design of the ])lay, an<l i^mX. might) insipid.' 
 
 IJuckingham had held out to his i'iu-itan friends the hope 
 of his con\crsion for some years; and when they attempted to 
 con\ert him. lie had appointed a time lor them to fmish their 
 work. Thev kei>t their promise, and disco\ered him in the most 
 ])roiligate society. It was indeed impossible to know in what 
 directions his fane ies might take him, when we fmd him be- 
 lie\ing in the ])rediction-. of a ])Oor fellow in a wretched lodg- 
 ing ne.ir '['owcr Hill. who. having t:ast hi> nativity, assured 
 the duke he would be king. 
 
 He had continued for years to li\ewilh the Countess of 
 .Shrewsbury, and t\ months after her husband's death, had 
 tak . r to his home. 'I'hen, at last, the Duchess of lUick- 
 iuLri lU indiirnantlv observed, that she and the countess could 
 not ])Ossibly li\e together. ' So I thought, madam,' was the 
 re[>ly. ' 1 have therefore ordered your coach to take you to 
 your father's.' It has been asserted that Dr. Sprat, the duke's 
 chai»iain. a( tually married him to Lady Shrewsbury, and that 
 his legal wife was ilienc eforth st)led 'The ]Juclie&s-do«ager.' 
 He retreated with his mistress to Clavcrdon, near Windsor, 
 
 3 
 
s own words 
 
 tliLTc hc'nvj, 
 pleased in it. 
 id could see 
 one, 1 went 
 1 raining, but 
 he two doors 
 after the play 
 vas over, and 
 here was the 
 
 and there I 
 nd Ktheridge 
 nd fault with 
 lad not their 
 nor rould so 
 y concerned^ 
 e the ])lay as 
 y roguish and 
 
 insipid.' 
 ids the hojje 
 
 alieinpled to 
 finish their 
 111 in the most 
 now in what 
 
 find him be- 
 ■retched lodg- 
 ivity, assured 
 
 Countess of 
 .'s death, had 
 less of liuek- 
 xuitess could 
 lam,' was the 
 o take you to 
 •at, the duke's 
 ury, and that 
 js-dowagcr,' 
 lear Windsor, 
 
 r>itckiui:;ham and the Princess of Orcmgc. t^-j 
 
 situated on the summit of a hill which is washed by the 
 'I'hame.s. it is a noble building, with a great terrace in front. 
 under which are twenty-six nir;hes, in which Buckingham had 
 intended to place twenty-si.x statues as large as life ; and in the 
 middle is an alcove with stairs. Here he lived with the in- 
 tamoiis countess, by whom he had a son. whom he stvlcd p'.arl 
 of Coventry, (his second title.) and who died an infmt. 
 
 One lingers still over the social career of one whom Louis 
 XIV. called ' the only Knglish gentleman he had ever seen.' 
 A capital retort was made to l]u( kingham by the Princess of 
 < 'range, during an interview, when he stopped at the Hague, 
 between her and the Duke. I le was trying diplomaticallv to 
 convince her of the affection of Kngland for the States. ' W <• 
 do not.' he said, ' use Holland like a mistress, we love her as 
 auile.' ' I'mininif jc ciois //i/r :'oits nous aiinn conuitc I'oiis 
 aiDir: la •■otn\' was the sharp and ( le\'er answer. 
 
 On the death of Charles II.. in 16S5, I'.urkingham retire.l 
 to tile sill ill remnant of his \'()rksliire estates. His debts were 
 now set down at the sum of X^o^ooo- 'I'hey were liquidated 
 by the sale of his estates. He took kindly to a country life, to 
 the surprise of his old comrarle in pleasure, l-'.therege. ' I 
 have heard the news.' that wit cried, alluding to this change, 
 •with no less astonishment than if I had been told that the 
 Pope had begun to wear a periwig and had turned beau in 
 the seventy-fourth vear of his aue !' 
 
 Father Petre and ]'"atlier Fit/gerald were sent by James II. 
 'o convert the duke to Popery. Tie following anecdote is 
 told of their conference with the dyi.g sinner: — 'We deny.' 
 said the Jesuit Petre, 'that anyone can be saved out of our 
 Church. Your grace allows that our people may be sa\e(l.' 
 'No,' said the duke,* I make no doubt youwiil all be damned 
 to a man!' 'Sir.' said the father. 'I cannot argue with a 
 lierson so void of ail charity.'—' I did not expect, my reve- 
 rend father,' said the duke, 'such a reproach from you, whose 
 whole reasoning was founded on the very same instance of 
 want of charity to yourself.' 
 
 ]lu(-kingham's death took place at Ilelmsby, in Yorkshire, 
 -and the immediate cause was an ague and fever, owing to 
 
 I 
 
3-^ 
 
 J I is last Hours. 
 
 having sat down on the wet grass after fox-hunting. Po])e 
 has given tlie following forcible, hut inaccurate acaountof his 
 hist hours, and the phue in which they were 'passed : - ■ 
 
 ' In tlif uorst inn's worst rormi, uiih nml Imlf liiing, 
 'I'lic floors of phistiT iind ilif Willis of (Inns-, 
 CJn once ;i (lock-hod, hut rL'|)aircd with sfr.iw, 
 \yith taiK'-ticd c:urt:iins never meant to draw ; 
 The (;eorL,'f and (farter dan^dine from that h'ed, 
 \\'here tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, 
 Jireat \llliers lies :•- alas ! liow tl.ans,.,] f,'oni him, 
 'I hat life of pleasure and tiiat soul of whitn ! 
 Ciallant and j,'ay, in Claverdon's proud alcove, 
 The houer of wanton Shrcwshurv ,iiui lo\e ; 
 Or, just as j,';iy, at council in a r:n;.; 
 Of mimic'cl statesmen and their merry Kin"- 
 No wit to flatter left of xxW his .store, ' 
 -No fool to laugh al, whicli he valued more, 
 'I'hen victor of his health, of fortune, friend's. 
 And l.une, thi; lord of useless thousands cuds." 
 
 Far froni expiring in the ' worst inn's worst rooni,' tlic duke 
 breatlied his last in Kirhy Muor.side. in a house which had 
 once l)een the l)est in the jilace. Brian Fairfax, who loved 
 this brilliant : -probate, has left the only authentic account on 
 record of his last hours. 
 
 The night previous to the duke's death Fairfax had rec eived 
 a message from him desiring him to ])repare a bed for him in 
 his house, ]]ishop Hill, in \ork. The next day, however, 
 i airfax was sent for to his master, whom he found dying. He 
 was si)eechless, but gave the afllic ted servant an earnest look of 
 recognition. 
 
 The Ivu-l of Arran, son i^{ the Duke of Hamilton, and a 
 gentleman of the neighbourhood, stood by his bedside. He 
 had then received the Holy C.'ommunion from a neighbouring 
 clergyman of the Established Church. ^Vhen the- minister 
 came it is said that he inciuired of the duke what religion he 
 ])rofessed. 'It is,' replied the dying man, 'an insignificant 
 (luestion, for I have been a shame and a disgrace to all 
 religions : if you can vxw do me any good, pray do.' A\'hen 
 a Popish priest had Ijcen mentioned to him, he answered 
 vchementl}-, ' No, no :' 
 
 _ He was in a very low state wlien Lord Arran had found 
 him. Dut though that nobleman saw death in his looks, the 
 
nting. Pope 
 riccount of his 
 
 c(l : - . 
 
 "Iff. 
 
 om,' the (hike 
 se which had 
 <. who loved 
 c account on 
 
 had rec eived 
 cd for him in 
 a}-, however, 
 1 dying. He 
 irnest look of 
 
 niUon, and a 
 )edside. He 
 neiijfhbourinLC 
 the minister 
 t reh'gion he 
 
 insignificant 
 grace to all 
 
 do.' When 
 le answered 
 
 I had found 
 n"s looks, the 
 
 
 His DcatJi. 39 
 
 duke said he ' felt so well at heart that he knew he could be in 
 no danger.' 
 
 He appeared to have had inflammation in the bowels, which 
 ended in mortification. He begged of Lord Arran to stay 
 with him. The house seems to have been in a most miserable 
 condition, for in a letter from Lord Arran to Dr. Sprat, he 
 says, ' I confess it made my heart bleed to see the Duke of 
 Buckingham in so ])itiful a ijlace, and so bad a condition, and 
 \vhat made it worse, he was not at all sen^^ible of it, for he 
 thought in a day <x two he should be well ; and when wc 
 reminded him of his condition, he said it was not as we ai^- 
 preheiuled. So I sent for a worthy gentleman, Mr. Gibson, 
 to be assistant to me in this work ; so we jointly represented 
 his condition to him, who I saw was at first very uneasy; but 
 I think we should not have discharged the duties of honest 
 men if we had suffered him to go out of this world without 
 desiring him to prepare for death.' The duke joined heartily 
 in the beautiful prayers for the dying, of our Church, and 
 yet there was a sort of selfishness and indifference to others 
 manifest even at the last. 
 
 'Mr. (libson,' writes Lord Arran, * asked him if he had 
 made a will, or if he would declare who was to be his heir? 
 but to the fust, he answered he had made none ; and to the 
 last, whoever was named he answered, " No." First, my lady 
 du( hcss was named, and then I think almost everybody that 
 had any relation to him, but his answer always was, "No." 
 i did fully represent my lady duchess' condition to him, but 
 nothing that was said to him could make him come to any 
 point.' 
 
 \\\ th;s 'retired corner,' as Lord Arran terms it, did the 
 former wit and beau, the once brave and fine cavalier, the 
 reckless plotter in after-life, end his existence. His body 
 was removed to Helmsby Castle, there to wait the duchess' 
 pleasure, being meantime embalmed. Not one farthing could 
 his steward i)roduce to defray his burial. His Ceorge and 
 blue ribbon were sent to the King James, with an account of 
 )i.s death. 
 
 In Kirby Moorside the following entry in the register of 
 
40 Duchess of Buckingham. 
 
 burials records the event, which is so replete with a singular 
 
 retributive justice — so constituted to impress and sadden tin; 
 
 mind : — • 
 
 ' Cieorgcs Villus f^rd dooki: of I'.uckinRham.' 
 
 lie left scarcely a friend to mourn his life ; for to no mnn 
 had he been true. He died on the i6th of A])ril according 
 to some accounts ; according to others, on the third of that 
 month, 1687. in the sixty-first year of his age. His body, 
 after being embalmed, was deposited in the finiily vault in 
 Henry VII. 's chapel.'* He left no children, anil his title was 
 therefore extinct. The Duchess of Buckingham, of whom 
 lirian I'airfax remarks, ' that if she had none of the vanities, 
 she had none of the vi( cs of the court,' survived him several 
 years. She died in 1705, at the age of sixty six, and was 
 l)uried in the vault of the Villiers' family, in the chapel of 
 Henry VII. 
 
 Such was tilt, extinction of all the magnificence and intel- 
 lectual ascendency that at one time centred in the great and 
 gifted family of \'illier'^. 
 
 * Brian Fairfax statt-s, that at \M deatli (ilu; Duke of nuckinp;hnni's) lie 
 charged his debts on liis estate, leaviii;^ much more than enough to cover 
 them. By tin; register of Westminster Abbey it appears that he was buried 
 in Henry VII. s Cii.apcl, 7th June, 1687. 
 
1 singular 
 Lildcn tin; 
 
 IT " " V ■■ ■■ " ' L^ Jl„iL.JLi.,.^ T 
 
 iTr^" 1' ' I " " " '■' IT— n— iT-t 
 
 ) no man 
 according 
 \\ of thai 
 lis body, 
 / vault in 
 > title was 
 of whom 
 ; vanities, 
 im several 
 and was 
 chapel of 
 
 and intel- 
 grcat and 
 
 iiiRlmm'.s) he 
 igli to cover 
 ; was buried 
 
 COUNT DE GRAMMONT, ST. KVRKMi )Nl), 
 AND LORD ROCHKSrisR. 
 
 l)r Crammont's Choice. — His Influrncc with Ttirtnnc. -Tho Church or the 
 Anny? An Adventure ra I.vons. -A brilliant bleu. De (iraninionl's 
 (Jenerosity.— A Horse 'for the Cards.' ~Knii,'ht-CicisbeiHm.- De (Irani- 
 mont's fnsl I-ove.- lbs Witty Attacks cm Ma/arin.- Anne Lucie ile l.i 
 ^^)the Houdanrourt. Hevet' with Snares.- De (Iramnioni-. \'i-.its lo 
 KuKlaml.— Cliarlcs H. --'I'lu; Court of Charles U. — Intrcxluclion of 
 Cuuntry-ilanccs. --Norman I'eculiarities. — St. I'.vremond, the Handsoiue 
 Norman.- The mo^t IV-autifuI Woman in I-'.uropi;."-MortenM- .Maiuini's 
 Adventures. -Madame Mazarin'.s llouse at Chelsea.— Anecdote of Lord 
 Dorset.-- Lord Rochester in his Zenith. -His Courage and Wit. 
 [<ochester'.s I'ranks in the City.— Credulity, I'ast and Present. -' Dr. 
 IJendo." and La lUll.- Jennings. —La Triste Heriticrc—EliMbeili, ( oun- 
 te-s of R(uhe:ifer. Rctrilmtiun and R.-fornialion. Conversion. Heau.\ 
 without Wit.-- Little Jermyn. — An Incomparable Beauty. .\ntli<jny 
 Hamilton, De (Jranunont's (Jiographer. -The '1 hree Courts. 'La IWUe 
 Hamilton,' Sir IVter Lely's Portrait of her.—The Household Deity of 
 VVhiteliali Wlio shall have the Calechc?— A Chaplain in Livery.— De 
 (JnunniuiU', La.st Hours,— What niiyht lie not have been? 
 
 T has been oljservcd by a French < ritic, that the 
 Memoires do (".ranunont afford the truest specimens 
 ofl'Vench character in our language. To this it may 
 be added, thai the sid)ject of that animated narrative was most 
 <:omi)letely French in principle, in intelligence, in wit that 
 hesitated at nothing, in spirits that were never daunted, and in 
 that incessant activity which is characteristic of his coimlrymen. 
 Grammont, it was said, 'slept neither night nor day ;' his life 
 was one scene of incessant excitement. 
 
 Flis father, supposed to have b':en tlie natural son of 
 Henry the Great, of F>ance, did not su])press that f u t. but 
 desired to publish it : for the morals of his time were so de 
 praved, that it was thought to l)e more honourable to be the 
 illegitimate son of a king than the lawful child of lowlier 
 pareni>. Born in the Castle of iScmeae, on the ])anks of the 
 Garonne, the fame of two fair ancestresses, Corisande and 
 
4- De Gr.immotif's Choice. 
 
 iNkiKulamc, had entitled the family of Do Grammont to ex- 
 1H'< t in ear!) siirce.ssive memljer an inheritance of beauty. 
 WiU courage, good nature, a charming address, and boundless 
 assurance, \vcre the heritage of J'hilihert de (iranunont. 
 ]5eauty was not m his possession; good nature, a more i)0i.ular 
 •luality, he had in abundance : 
 
 ' His wit to spaiula! never .stooping:, 
 His mirtli iic'ir to InifCooncry drooping.' 
 
 As rhihbert grew up, the two aristocratic jnofesslons of 
 France were presented for his choice : the army, or the church. 
 Neither of these vocations constitutes now the ambition of the 
 high born in France: the church, to a (ertain extent, retains 
 Its ,*/r.f//.7-, but the army, ever since olficers have risen from 
 the ranks, .iocs not comprise the same class of men as in 
 Kngland. In the reign of Louis XIII.. wlien Dc (Irammont 
 hved It was otherwise. MI pohtica! power was \csted in the 
 Chun h. Richelieu was, to all jnirposes, the ruler of France, 
 thedidatorof Kuropc , and. with regard to the church, great 
 men, at the head of military affairs, were daily proving to 
 the world, how much intelligent o could effect with a .small 
 numerical jiower. \'oung me;i took one course or another: 
 the sway of the cabinet, on the one hand, temj.ted them to 
 the church ; the brilliant exploits of Turenne, and of Conde, 
 on the other, led them to the cam]). It was merely the 
 ditk-rence of dress between the two that constituted the dis- 
 tinction : the soldier might be as I)M)us as the priest, the prie.st 
 Avas sure to be as worldly as the soldier ; the soldier might 
 have ecclesiastical preferment; the ])riest sometimes turned 
 out to fight. 
 
 Philibert de C.rammont chose to be a soldier. He was 
 styled the Chevalier de (Irammont, according to custom, his 
 father being still living. He fought under Turenne, at the siege 
 of Trino. The army in which he served was beleaguering that 
 city when the gay youth from tiie banks of the (laronne joined 
 It, to aid it not so much by his valour as by the fun, the 
 raillery, the off-hand anecdote, the ready, hearty companionshn^. 
 which lightened the soldier's life in the trenches'^ adieu to 
 
 ^^ 
 
 .i# 
 
nont to cx- 
 ' of beauty. 
 1(1 boundless 
 (iranimont. 
 [lore popular 
 
 •ofessions of 
 tile ( hurrh. 
 bition of the 
 tent, retains 
 ! risen from 
 men as in 
 (iraniniont 
 ■ste<l in the 
 ■ of I'rance, 
 lunch, great 
 proving to 
 ith a small 
 3r another; 
 ted them to 
 I of Conde, 
 merely the 
 ed the dis- 
 :, the priest 
 Idier might 
 mcs turned 
 
 He was 
 :ustom, his 
 It the siege 
 tiering that 
 nne joined 
 E fun, the 
 panionshl!^. 
 : adieu to 
 
 4 
 
 2 
 
 //is /uJlucHcc ivith Tin etinc. 43 
 
 impatience, to (lcsi>air, even to gravity. The very generals 
 M)uld not maintain their seriousness when the lighl-heari d Dc 
 (Irammont vttered a repartee — 
 
 'Sworn I'lu-my «<> all loni; sj)f.( lies, 
 I.ivdy .111(1 hnlli.iiit, tr.mk .iml free, 
 Autlior of many :i rt-parli-c : 
 kcnii'inlRT, (niT.ill, that In- 
 
 Was not nMuiunril fur slcjiinin'^ \.v, n ' , ,/ 
 
 Where he ranie, all was sunshine, yet there I»reathed not a 
 t oilier, graver man than the Calvinist Turcnne : modest, 
 serious, somewhat hard, he gave the young nol.ility who servjd 
 under him no (|uarter in their shortccmiings ; but a uord, a 
 look, from I)e Grammont could make \nm, Md/^n' /ui, unbend. 
 'I'iie gay chevalier's white charger's prancing, its gallant rider 
 foremost in every peril, were not forgotten in after-times, when 
 De (Irammont, in extreme old age, (hatted over the achieve- 
 ments and pleasures of liis youth. 
 
 .Amongst those who courted his so( iety in 'I'urenne's army 
 was .Matta. a > .:'••• of simple manners, hard h.abits, and 
 h id.nnie pe'-ion, jom< d to a candid, hone.^t nature. He soon 
 jier.Miaded 1)( Urammc't to share his (juarters, and there they 
 gave splendid entertain' ents, which, Frenchmandike, DeGrani- 
 inont paid fur ( o! the successes of the gaming-tables. JUit 
 ( han< es were against them ; thu two officers were it the mercy 
 of their W(?///v (f/totcl, wIkj a.^ked for money. One day, 
 when l)e lirammont came home sooner than usual, he found 
 Matui fast asleep. Whilst l)e Crammont stood looking at 
 hun, he awoke, and burst into a violent fit of laughter. 
 
 'Whati.^ the matter?' cried the chevalier. 
 
 'Faith, chevalier,' answered Matta, ' I was dreaming that we 
 had sent away our maitrc if hold, and were resolved to live 
 like our neighbours for the rest of the campaign.' 
 
 'Poor fellow!' cried De Grammont. 'So, you are knocked 
 (\o\\\\ at once : wh:,.t would ha\ e become of you if you had 
 been reduced to the situation I was in at I,yons, four days 
 before I came liere ? Come, I will tell you all about it.' 
 
 uegiH u iitiie I .rtin.r .mi k,' 1 1 led Ai r i, "and tell nie about 
 the manner in wli:> h \.)u fust paid your resj.ects to Cardinal 
 
 tf 
 
44 The CInirch or the Army ? 
 
 Richelieu. Lay aside your ])ranks as a child, your genealogy, 
 and all your ancestors together; you cannot know anything 
 about thcni.' 
 
 ' ^VeII,' replied DeC.rammont, 'it was my father's own fault 
 that he was not Ilcnry IV.'s son : see what the (Irammonts 
 have lost by tin's ( rossed-grained fellow I I'aith, wc might 
 have walked before the Counts de VendOme at this very 
 moment.' 
 
 Then lie went on to relate how he had been sent to Pan, 
 to the ( ollege, to be brought up to the church, with an old ser- 
 vant to act both as Iiis valet and his guardian. How his 
 head was too full of gaming to learn Latin. How they gave 
 him his rank at college, as the youth of <iuality, when he did 
 not deserve it ; how he travelled up ;to l\iris to' his brother to 
 be polished, and went to court in the character of an abbe. 
 'Ah, Matta, you know 'the kind of dress then in vogue. 
 No, T would not < hange my dress, but I consented to draw 
 over it a cassock. I had the fmest head of hair in the world, 
 well curled and powdered above my cassock, and below werj 
 my white buskins and spurs.' 
 
 Even Ri( helieu, tliat hypocrite, he went on to relate, could 
 not help laughing at the parti-coloured costume, .sacerdotal 
 above, soUlier-like below ; but the cardinal was greatly offended 
 —not with the absence of decorum, Init with the dangerous 
 wit, that could laugh in juiblic at the cowl antl shaven crown, 
 points which constituted the greatest ])onion of Richelieu's 
 sane tity. 
 
 De C.rammont's brother, however, thus addressed the Che- 
 valier :--' Well, my little parson,' said he, as they went home, 
 'you have acted your i)art to perfection; but now you must 
 clioose your career. If you like to stick to the church, you 
 will possess great revenues, and nothing to do; if you choose 
 to go into the ami}-, you will risk your arm or your leg, but in 
 tune you may be a major-general with a wooden leg and a 
 glass eye, the sjiectacle of an indifferent, ungrateful court. 
 IVTake your choice.' 
 
 '!'he clioice, i'hilibert went on to relate, was made. For 
 the good of his .soul, he renounced the church, but for his own 
 
• genealogy, 
 w anything 
 
 's own fault 
 Clranimonts 
 , we might 
 t this very 
 
 ent to Pail, 
 an old ser- 
 How his 
 .' they gave 
 'hen he did 
 
 brother to 
 if an abbe. 
 
 in vogue. 
 m1 to draw 
 
 the world, 
 )elow were 
 
 ;latc, (ould 
 sacerdotal 
 
 y oflended 
 dangerous 
 en crown, 
 
 Richelieu's 
 
 :1 the Chc- 
 ,'ent home, 
 you must 
 lurch, you 
 ou choose 
 leg, but in 
 leg and a 
 ^ful court. 
 
 ade. For 
 tr his own 
 
 An Advaitinr at Lyons. 45 
 
 advantage, he kept his abbacy Tliis was not difficult in days 
 when secular abbes were common ; nothing would induce him 
 to change his resolution of being a soldier. Meantime he was 
 perfecting his accomi)lir,hments as a fine gentleman, one of the 
 requisites for which was a knowledge of all sorts of games. No 
 matter that his mother was miserable at his decision. Had 
 her son been an abbe, she thought he would have become a 
 saint : nevertheless, when he returned home, with the air of a 
 courtier and a man of the world, boy as he uas, and the very 
 impersonation of what might then hcicxmcd /<r jeinit: J-'nviu; 
 she was so enchanted with him that she consented to his going 
 to the wars, attended again hy llrinon, his valet, equerry, and 
 Mentor in one. Next in I)e (iramniont's narrative came his 
 adventure at Lyons, where he spent the 200 louis his mother 
 had given Jirinon for him. in play, ami very nearly broke the 
 ])oor old servant's heart ; where he had duped a horse-dealer ; 
 and he ended by proi)osing plans, similarly /io!ioiiral>/<; to l)e 
 a(lo[)ted for their ])resent emergencit ■. 
 
 The first step was to go to Iiead-quarters, to dine with a 
 certain Count de Camer;>n, a Savoyard, ami invite him to 
 :iui)[)er. Here Matta interposed. 'Are you mad?' he ex- 
 claimed. ' Invite him to supper ' we have neither money nor 
 credit ; we are ruined ; and to save us you intend to give a 
 sup|)er !' 
 
 'Stupid fellow!' cried De Grammont. 'Cameran plays at 
 quin/e: so do I: we want money. He has more than he 
 knows what to do with : we give a supper, he pays for it. 
 However,' he added, 'it is necessary to take certain precau- 
 tions. You command the (iuards : when night comes on, order 
 your Siri:Y;//-</c-/>Ahr to have fifteen or twenty men mider arms, 
 and let them lay themselves flat on the ground between this 
 and head-(|uarters. Most likely we shall win this stupid fellow's 
 money. Now the Piedmontese are suspicious, anfl he com- 
 mands the Horse. Now. you know, Matta, you cannot holtl 
 your tongue, and are very likely to let out some joke that will 
 vex him. Supposing he takes it into his head that he is being 
 
 ^--.v._-! — 11^. ,.j, - t.Q.u Oi i-ci) iiu-;r,eiueu : we must DC 
 
 prei)ared.' 
 
 I 
 
4^ • A Brilliant Idea. 
 
 * Embrncc me !' cried Malta, ' einbrao.c me ! for thou art un- 
 paralleled. I thought you only meant to prepare a pack of 
 cards, and some false dice. But the idea of protecting a man 
 who plays at quinze by a detachment of foot is excellent : thine 
 own, dear Chevalier.' 
 
 Thus, like some of Dumas' heroes, hating villany as a matter 
 of course, but being by no means ashamed to acknowledge it, 
 the Piedmontcse was asked to supper. Me came. Neverthe- 
 less, in the midst of the affair, when l)e Cameran was losing as 
 flist as he could, Matta's conscience touched him : he awoke 
 from a deej) sleep, heard the dice shaking, saw tlie poor 
 Savoyard losing, and advised him to play no more. 
 ' Don't you know, Covmt, you cannot win ?' 
 'Why?' asked the Count. 
 
 'Why, faith, because we are cheating you,' was the reply. 
 The Chevalier turned round impatiently, 'Sieur Matta,' he 
 cried, ' do you su])pose it can be any amusement to Monsieur 
 le Comte to be plagued with your ill-timed jests? lor my 
 part, I am so weary of the game, that I swear by Jupiter I can 
 .scarcely play any more.' Nothing is more distasteful to a 
 losing gamester than a hint of leaving off; so the Count en- 
 treated the Chevalier to continue, and assured him that ' Mon- 
 sieur Matta might say what he pleased, for it flid not give him 
 the least uneasiness to continue.' 
 
 The Chevalier allowed the Count to ]jlay upon credit, and 
 that act of courtesy was taken very kindly : the dupe lost 1,500 
 pistoles, which he paid the next morning, when Matta was 
 sharply reprimanded for his interference. 
 
 ' Faith,' he answered, ' it was a i)oinl of conscience with me ; 
 besides, it would have given me pleasure to have seen his 
 Horse engaged with my Infantry, if he had taken anything 
 amiss.' 
 
 The sum thus gained set the spendthrifts up ; and De Gram- 
 mont satisfied his conscience by giving it away, to a certain 
 extent, in charity. It is singular to perceive in tiie history of 
 this celebrated man that moral taint of rliaracter which the 
 French have never lost : this total absen. c of right reasoning 
 on all points of conduct, is coupled in our Gallic neighbours 
 
 i 
 
thou art un- 
 J a pack of 
 cting a man 
 llent : thine 
 
 as a matter 
 lowledge it, 
 Neverthe- 
 as losing as 
 : he awoke 
 ' the poor 
 
 le reply. 
 Matta,' he 
 
 Monsieur 
 ? For my 
 
 ipiter I can 
 steful to a 
 Count en- 
 tliat ' Mon- 
 3t give liim 
 
 credit, and 
 
 : lost 1,500 
 
 Matta was 
 
 2 with me ; 
 e seen his 
 
 1 anything 
 
 De Gram- 
 
 ' a certain 
 history of 
 
 wliich the 
 reasoning 
 
 leighbours 
 
 Be Grammonfs Generosity. 47 
 
 with the greatest natural benevolence, with a generosity only 
 kept back by poverty, with impulsive, impressionable disposi- 
 tions, that require the guidance of a sound Protestant faith to 
 elevate and correct them. 
 
 The Chevalier hastened, it is related, to find out distressed 
 comrades, officers who had lost their baggage, or who had been 
 ruined by gaming; or soldiers who had been disabled in the 
 trenches; and his manner of relieving them was as graceful 
 and as delicate as the bounty he distributed was welcome. 
 He was the darling of the army. The poor soldier knew him 
 personally, and adored him ; the general was sure to meet him 
 in the scenes of action, and to seek his comjiany in those of 
 security. 
 
 ^ And, having thus retrieved his finances, the gay-hearted 
 Chevalier used, henceforth, to make De Cameran go halves 
 with him*in all games in which the odds were in his own favour. 
 Kven the staid Calvinist, Turenne, who had not then renounced, 
 as he did in after-life, the Protestant taith, delighted in the off- 
 hand^ merriment of the Chevalier. It was towards the end of 
 the siege of Trine, that De Grammont went to visit that gene- 
 ral in some new fiuarters, where Turenne received him, sur- 
 rounded by fifteen or twenty officers. According to the custom 
 of the day, cards were introduced, and the general asked the 
 Chevalier to i)lay. 
 
 'Sir,' returned the young soldier, 'my tutor taught me that 
 when a man goes to see his friends it is neither prudent to leave 
 his own money behind him nor civil to take theirs.' 
 
 '\Vell,' answered Turenne, 'I can tell you you will find 
 neither nnu h money nor deep play among us ; but that it 
 cannot be said that we allowed you to go off without i)laving, 
 sui)pose we each of us stake a horse.' 
 
 De Grammont agreed, and, lucky as ever, ^^•on from the 
 officers some fifteen or sixteen horses, by way of a joke • but 
 seemg several faces pale, he said, 'Gentlemen, I should be 
 sorry to see you go away from your general's (piarters on foot • 
 It will do very well if you all send me to-morrow your horses' 
 except one, which I give for the cards.' 
 The vaicUk^chambre thought he was jesting. ' I am serious,' 
 
4^ Knight- Cicisbcisui. 
 
 cried tlie Chevalier. ' /\iro/f (f/ioiiiwnr I give a horse for the 
 cards ; and what's more, take which you please, only don't 
 take mine.' 
 
 'Failli,' said 'J'urenne, pleased widi the novelty of the affair, 
 ' I don't believe a hoise \vu.. ever Ijefore given for the cards.' 
 
 Voung peoi)le, and indeed old people, can perhaps hardly 
 remember the time when, even in luigland, money used to be 
 put under the candlesticks 'for the cards,' as it was said, but in 
 fact for the servants, who waited. A\inner or loser, the tax 
 WIS to be paid, and this custom of \ails was also prevalent in 
 l''rance. 
 
 Trino at last surrendered, and the two friends rushed from 
 their campaigning life to enjoy the gaieties of Turin, at that 
 time the centre of jjleasure; and resolved to jjerfect their cha- 
 racters as military heroes— by fdling in love, if respectably, 
 well ; if disreputably, well too. perhaps all the more agree- 
 able, and venturesome, as they thought. 
 
 'I'he court of Turin was then jjresided over by the Duchess 
 of Sa\0)-, Madame Royak, as she was called in France, the 
 daughter of Henry IV. of France, the sister of Henrietta Maria 
 of ICngland. She was a woman of talent and spirit, worthy of 
 her descent, and had certain other (pialities which constituted a 
 point of resemblance between her and her father; she was, like 
 him, more fliscinating than resi)ectable. 
 
 'J'he ( ustoms of Turin were rather Italian than French. At 
 tliat time every lady had licr professed lover, who wore the 
 liveries of his mistress, bore lier arms, and sometimes assumed 
 her \ery name. The office of the lover was, never to (juit his 
 lady in public, and never to approach her in j)rivate : to be on 
 all occasions her esquire. In the tournament her chosen kniglit- 
 cicisbeo ( ame forth with his coat, his housings, his very lance 
 distinguished with the cyphers and colours of her who had con- 
 descended to invest him with her preference. It was the rem- 
 nant of chivalry that authorized this custom ; but of chivalry 
 demoralized — chivalry denuded of her purity, her respect, the 
 chivalry of corrupted Italy, not of that which, i)erhaps, falla- 
 ciously, we assign to the earlier ages. 
 
 Grauunont and Matla enlisted themselves at once in the 
 
horse for the 
 c, only don't 
 
 of the affair, 
 the cards.' 
 :rhaps hardly 
 ty used to be 
 s said, but in 
 Dser, the tax 
 I prevalent in 
 
 rushed from 
 
 urin, at that 
 
 ct their cha- 
 
 respectably, 
 
 more agree - 
 
 the Duchess 
 France, tlie 
 irietta Maria 
 •it, worthy of 
 constituted a 
 she was, like 
 
 French. At 
 ho wore the 
 nes assumed 
 r to (juit his 
 Le : to be on 
 losen knight- 
 is very lance 
 iho had con- 
 gas the rem- 
 . of < hivalry 
 res[)ect, the 
 xhajjs, falla- 
 
 once in tlie 
 
 Dc CrammonCs First Love. aq 
 
 service of two beauties, flranimont chose for the queen of 
 beauty, who was to 'rain intluence' tipon Jiim, Mademoiselle 
 (le St. Germaui, who was in the very bloom of vouth She 
 was 1-rench, and, probably, an ancestress of tlia't all-accom- 
 phshed Comte <le St. Germain, whose exploits so dazzled suc- 
 rcssive Luropean courts, and the fullest account of whom in 
 all Its brilliant colours, yet tinged witli mvstery, is given in 'the 
 Memoirs of Maria Antoinette, by the Mnr-iuise d'Adhemar, he'- 
 lady of the bed chamber. 
 
 The lovely object of 1 )c Grammont's ' first love' was a radiant 
 brunette belle, who took no i^ains to set off by art the charm, 
 of nature. She had some defects : her black and sparklinii 
 eyes were small ; her forehead, by no means 'as pure as moon- 
 light Sleeping upon snow,' was not fair, neither were her hands- 
 neither had she small feet-but her form generallv was perfect' 
 UT e l,ows had a peculiar elegance in them; and in old times 
 lo hold the elbow out well, and yet not to stick it out was a 
 l-mt of early discipline. Then her glossy black hair set off a 
 superb neck and shoulders; and, moreover, she was gay, full 
 o( nurth life, complaisance, perfect in all the acts of pdite- 
 ucss. and invariable in her gracious and graceAil bearin- 
 
 Matta admired her; but He r.ramnio.u onUrcd I'lim (o 
 au rh himself to tlie >raniuise .le Scnantes, a nurried beautv 
 "i herourt: and .Nfatta, in full l*ith that all (Jrammont .said 
 and did was sure to sucree.l, obeyed his h-iend. The Chev. 
 her had fallen m love with Mademoiselle de St. Ge-main it 
 ^T.t sight, and instantly arraye.l himself in her colour, wlmh 
 v.as green whilst Matta wore blue, in compliment to the mar- 
 H>nse ; in, they entered the next <lay upon duly, at Fa Venerie, 
 ^ here the 1 )nehess of Savoy gave a grand entertainment. De 
 Grammont.^uth his native tact and un.nipnlou 
 l'la)cd h,s part to i)erfection; but his .onimde, AFatta, com 
 nmted a hunched solecisms. The very second time he ho.'.om"! 
 he marqmse with his attention... he treated her as if she were 
 h.s humble servant : when he pressed her hand, it w... a pres- 
 
 ^1:^X^:1::':^:- -T^ when i.. ..ght to L. 
 -rttvomh..;m;-d,e;rh::Ldytr:r';^^^^^^^^ 
 
so I lis IVi/fy Attacks on Marjariii, 
 
 he sliould liavc hccn laying himself at her feet. JJoth these 
 affairs ended as might lia\e hc.n expected. Mademoiselle 
 de St. (JernKiin was diverted by (irammont, yet he could not 
 touch her heart. Her aim was to marry; his was merely to 
 attacli himself to a reigning beaiily. They parted without 
 regret ; and he left the then remote court of Turin for the gayer 
 scenes of Paris and Versailles. Here he became as celebrated 
 for his alertness in play as for his readiness in repartee; as 
 noted for his intrigues, as he afterwards was for his bravery. 
 
 Those M jre stirring ilays in Trance. Anne of Austria, then 
 in her maturity, was governed by Mazarin, the mosi artful of 
 ministers, an Ilali;ui to the verj iie.;:.'s tore, wit!; :; love of 
 amassing wealth engrafted in his bij>plc nature tin; ;n,inunte(I 
 
 to a monomania. T'le wh >le aim <a hi'-, life was r^am. 
 
 I'hough 
 
 gaming was at its hu-ight, Mazarin never played for amuse 
 ment; he played to enric h i.lmseif; and when he played, he 
 cheated. 
 
 The Clievalier (.e lirammont w.^s how r'wh, and Mazarin 
 worshipped the rich, ilc -.vaswit.y ; and his wit ;,oon procured 
 hiin admission into the clicjue whom the v.iiy Ma/.ir.'n collected 
 around him in Paris. AVIiatever were De Grammont's faults, 
 he soon perceived those of Ma/aiin; lie detected, and he de- 
 tested, ;i!e w^ily, grasping, serpent-like attributes of the Italian; 
 lie attacked him on every o^asion on which a ' wit combat' was 
 possiiile : he gracefully showed Mazarin off in his true colours. 
 With ease he annihilated him, inetaphorically, at his own table. 
 Yet De Crammont had something to atone for: he had lieen 
 the atlherent and companion in .irms of Conde ; he had fol- 
 lowed that hero to .Sens, to Nordlingen, to I'ribourg, and had 
 returned to his allegiance to the young king, J.ouis XIV., only 
 because he wished to visit the court at I'aris. Ahrzarin's pohcy, 
 however, was th.it of i)ardon and j^eace — of du])licity and 
 treachery — and the ('he\alier seemed to l)e forgiven on his re- 
 turn to Paris, even by Anne of Au>lria. \e\ citheless, De 
 Grammont never lost his independence ; and he could boast in 
 after-life that he owed the two great cardinals who had governed 
 France nothing that they could have refused. It was true that 
 Richelieu had left him his abba<y; but he could not refuse it 
 
;t. J]uth these 
 Mademoiselle 
 t he could not 
 was merely to 
 parted without 
 in for the gayer 
 e as celebrated 
 n repartee; as 
 n's hravery. 
 f Austria, then 
 mosi artful of 
 vitl: :; love of 
 tluii: ai.iounted 
 jain. Though 
 j(l for annise- 
 he jflayed, he 
 
 and Mazarin 
 30on prot ined 
 z;;rin collected 
 imonl's faults, 
 ;K aud he de- 
 )f the Italian; 
 it combat' was 
 s true colours, 
 his own table. 
 
 he had Iicen 
 ; he had fol- 
 )urg. and liad 
 is XIV., only 
 zarin's policy, 
 du])licity and 
 C11 on his re- 
 .ithcless, ])e 
 ould boast in 
 had governed 
 was true that 
 not iciuse it 
 
 yl nw L ucic dc la Mot he Ilondancourt 5 f 
 
 .-« mono ..,s n ;. . .^ , ;,• ' v; '™;; :; ''^- ^^-j"-:' "• «■>'>■ 
 
 r,, I 1 • I- • . I'aiu. lie Had now some>vhat rcrf 
 
 onascno icgard for favour unless supported bv merit • he 
 de enmned to ,nake Imnself beloved by 'L courtieis o ; " 
 
 do't In """'•"' to dare to undertake anvthin, lo 
 ^ .' o I, an.l to Ullage n; nothing at the expense of innocence 
 He St 11 continued to be eunnently succs.aIi in play, o^^vh u^i 
 K- dul not perceive the evil, nor H!ow the wicke In^s b he 
 -as unlbrtunate m love, in which he was e,ua!lv un ';„ L 
 ^ind more rash than at the gaming-table ' 
 
 Among the maids of honour of .\nne of Vustri- m-,s a vn, n. 
 lady named Anne fauie de li Mmh,. Tt -';"^"-''^^^ ^^ >oi'ng 
 fhMM.rl, n , 1 t -^iothe Houdancourt. i.ouis 
 
 t;£;:i:i-ri;s~:"i,7,:;r' '='- 
 
 virtuous Th ^'''■'■' ^"■'"- ^•P'^" ^'^^''^ the 
 
 ^Uuous. .i'K- queen-dowager, Anne of Austria, was livin^^ at 
 
 ^ a. 1.. u\eci into her household. The I);i. !- . ,1 - v "ii 
 u la. ma 1. of h.,n,„„, . nevertheless, she could not i.revent 
 
 !'■"!- or pretended to h-,v . . -; -^rqu.-, de Kicheheu, who 
 
 4-2 
 
52 
 
 Beset zvilh Snares. 
 
 tiun— that of l)cini,' the kini^'s mistress: even licr mof^icr re- 
 proached Ikt witli lier coldness. A family council was held, 
 in ho])cs of convincing her of her wilfulness, and Annie Lucie 
 was bitterly reproached hy her female relatives; but her heart 
 still (lung to the faithless iManiuis de Richelieu, who, however, 
 when he saw that a royal lover was his rival, meanly withdrew. 
 
 Fler fUl seemed inevitable: but the firmness of Anne of 
 Austria saved her from her ruin. That (jueen insisted on her 
 being sent away ; and she resisted even the entreaties of the 
 (|ueen, her daughter in-law, and the wife of Louis XIV. ; who, 
 for some reasons not explained, entreated that tf.e young lady 
 might remain at the court. Anne was sent away in a sort or 
 disgrace to the convent of Chaillot, whi( h was then considered 
 to be quite out of J'aris, and suffu iently secluded to ])rotect her 
 from visitors. According to another account, a letter full of 
 reproaches, which .she wrote to the Marquis de Richelieu up- 
 braiding him for his desertion, had been intercepted. 
 
 It was to this young lady that De (h-ammont, who was then, 
 in the very ( entre of the court, 'the type i.A' fishion and the 
 mould of torm,' attached himself to her as an admirer who 
 could condescend to honour with his attentions those whom 
 the king pursued. The once gay girl was thus beset with 
 snares : on one side was the king, whose disgusting preference 
 was shown when in her jiresence by sighs and .sentiment ; on 
 the other, De (h-ammont, whose attentions to her were impor- 
 tunate, but failed to convince her that he was in love ; on the 
 other was the time-serving, heartless De Richelieu, whom her 
 reason condemned, but whom her heart ( heri.shed. She soon 
 .showed her distrust and dislike of De (Irammont: she treated 
 liim with contempt; she threatened him with exposure, yet he 
 wouUl not desist : then she complained of him to the king. It 
 was then that he perceived that though love could ecjuali/.e con- 
 ditions, it could not act in the same way between rivals. He 
 was commanded to leave the cour^ Paris, thereibre, Ver- 
 sailles, Fontainble.ui. and St. (lermains were closed atrainstthis 
 g:iy Chevalier; anil how could he live elsewhere? Whither 
 could he go? Strange to say, he had a vast fancy to behold 
 the man who, ;,taiiieil with the crime of regicide, and sprung 
 
lier niotJicr re- 
 Duncil was held, 
 1(1 Annie Lucie 
 
 but her heart 
 , who, however, 
 'anly withdrew. 
 Lss of Anne of 
 insisted on Iier 
 1 treaties of the 
 is XIV. ; who, 
 :f.e youn_^ hidy 
 ly in a sort or 
 lien considered 
 d to protect her 
 I letter full of 
 
 Richelieu U[)- 
 )ted. 
 
 who was then, 
 ishion and the 
 1 admirer who 
 s those whom 
 uis beset with 
 ling preference 
 sentiment ; on 
 ■r were impor- 
 
 love ; on the 
 ieu, whom her 
 :(\. She soon 
 t : she treated 
 l)Osure, yet he 
 ) tlie king. It 
 d equali/.e con- 
 ;n rivals. He 
 herefore, Vcr- 
 ;ed against this 
 .re? Whither 
 ncy to behold 
 e, and sprung 
 
 A- Crammonrs Visits to Eni^laiuL 53 
 
 from the people, was receiving magm-f.cent embassie.s from con- 
 nnen tal nat.ons, winlst Charles J I. was seeking se<urity in h\ 
 -vie from the power of Spain in the Low Countries. He wh 
 
 eager to see the Protector, Cromwell. l]nt Oonnvell, thou-^h 
 te, h o s^ame^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ugh A^^jred at home and abroad^-was little calculated to win 
 Mt.rages fro.n a mere n>an of pleasure l.ke He Crammont. 
 ihecourt, the.. ty, the country, were in his davs gloomy, I' 
 |on ented joy ess : a proscribed nobility was the sure cau^e of 
 he h,n tho.,,h i;.u- festivities of the now lugubrious gallery of 
 U^ute a 1 P.,ntamsm drove the ohl jovial churchmen int/rf 
 a,and d.spelle.l every hngering vestige of ancent hospi- 
 It) . long graces and long sermons, sanctimonious manners 
 -I gru.. sad faces, and sad-coloured .Iresses were not much-fo 
 e .,-,Mn:n„n,. ,,,.,e ; he returned to France, and declared 
 iiiat he iiad gained no ' • 
 
 ;•••■■• •iv.i^liliei I 
 
 ad\antage from his travels. Neverthe- 
 
 1 ., . to^ <.v^iu ui:> iiiiveis. iveverthc- 
 
 tesc,.lKT,r„„,..iH>„x..,r,K.,.cs»iu,l,. „,,„,>.. .„„„,,, ^"^ 
 tlio (l:im|,s and fogs of l-:n<,'lan.i." 
 
 WlKa, l,c agam visito.l o„r country, Charles 11. l,a,l l.ccn „vo 
 ) .", seal,, on IlK- il.ronu „r l,is f„l,,r. Kvcrvtln'n.r was 
 c »ngc-, , and ,!,o lirni.l, ,„,„t „-as in its fnll.s, 'spl^b ' • 
 wh.ls. .1,0 r.joKings of ,1,0 poo|,le of Englan.l a. ,l,o Rosto ,' 
 lion «-oro still rosotm.iing throngi, the land 
 
 II ono conid indndo royal porsonagos in tl,o rathor gay ,l,,n 
 «o„ y oatogory „l tl,o • wits an.l l.oanx of sooioly ' Char o T 
 sLonid f,6„ro at thoir l.oad. ,lo was tl,o ,nost a ^ooaU co, ' 
 I—- :-i •!-■ «-..rst king inraginahlo. In ,l,o first lac ■ J 
 
 iron I„s oj ly I,nyl,o„d : a n.lnoss at tlio ton.lcr ago of tw, • ■ 
 or tl,o l,au lo o. ,,dgo nill,„.I,ore tI,o colohra.od Ilarvoy hvl 
 hargo of inn, and of his brothor. That inanspicions c , " 
 moncomont of a wandoring l,fo had perhaps l.oon 'an.ong^st c 
 loast of Ins oarly tr.als. Tho llorco,t was his long rosi.lonco a 
 
 110 camo I aok to l-.ngland w,th a full kno»lodgo of n,o., -n, 
 i-nnors, ,„ tho prin.c of i,is lifo, with spirits nthrok ™ hy'a.i 
 
54 
 
 Cliarhs If. 
 
 vcrsity, wiih ;i lic;ui iin;,(ji!rc»l bv lliat ' ,>tciii nurse,' nilh a {,'alc(y 
 
 that was always kindly, ntvcr uncoiirtci ais, ever more Fren( ii 
 
 than I'lnglish ; far more n:;tiinl did lio appear os the son of 
 
 Henrietta Maria than as the ufts|)rinj; dt' iv ilioiightfiil Charles. 
 
 In person, too, the king was tlun agreeable, though rather 
 
 what the Frentli would (all (/is/ini^iir than dignified ; he was, 
 
 however, tall, and somewhat elegant, with . long i^xnch face, 
 
 whirh in his boyhood was plump and full about the lower jmrt 
 
 of the (lieiks. but nou i 'i to sink intothatwell known, lean, 
 
 il.irk. flexible ( ountenan( e, in whirh we kV) not, how i.v. re- 
 
 '■ gaiety of t!ie mm wiiuse ver\- name brings with it 
 
 .ons of gaiety, joliteness. good con-.pany. and all the 
 
 attributes of a firsl-rate wit. except the almost in-'vital'le ill 
 
 nature. There is in tlie jihy^i' >gnoiny of Chailc II. tliai me- 
 
 imcholy wine h is often tHiservable in tlie 1j'\ - of those v.ho 
 
 are mere men of pleasure. 
 
 De (]ra!i t. ill iu.aul liir, If » -im])letely in In's own spIii-re 
 al Whitehall, where the habits were far more k'reneh than En- 
 glish. Along that stately Mall. > \ .-rshadowed with umbrageous 
 trees. whi( li retains — and ii is to be ho],(.'(l c\er\. ill retail, ihe 
 old name of the ' birdf age W.ilk.' one can picture to cmeself 
 the king walking so fast that no one can keep uj) with him; 
 yet stopping from time to time to chat with sonie a(i|uaintances. 
 [le i^ walki!) lo I )u( k b,' iid, wlii ' i., lull of his tavourite 
 water !o\\l. . lid of whicli he has L:\cn Si. l''.\a\niond the go 
 \ernmeiu. How ])leasant is bis ta.lk to those wf > af-'jiul him 
 as he walks al -ng ; luiw we'' ;'^e iiuaiity os' good-nature i ■ shown 
 in his love of dumi) animaU : i .w < o;n; letely he is a buy still, 
 even in that brown wig of many ( mis. and with the (leor... and 
 darter on his bn a! \)o\\ in. I. imt ' lolkjwecl i;v a 
 
 litter of young spjiiids : a little ■ rindled greyhound fr! ' 
 beside him; it is for liiat ' is ridiculed bv liie '• psalir' sii;i .x 
 the Calve.s' Head Club : tii. foourit' were cherished ' ''s 
 death. 
 
 His dofjs w m!'.l sit in couir :1 boards 
 Like judcT"-: in tln-ir soats : 
 \\\.'. cjiU'si: : iiiiich wliich tun! i 
 Tiie nui-tcr or the ciir-.' 
 
 
 ii.tl storie^ Char:;:s would te;!. as !u 
 
 ful 
 
-•,' w iih a f^Mi'cty 
 
 more I'rcm Ii 
 
 ns tlie son of 
 
 ghtfiil Ciiaiics. 
 
 though rather 
 
 iric<l ; ho was, 
 
 I'lvnch fact', 
 
 he lower ])art 
 
 11 kiinwii. lean, 
 
 t, l.n '. rc- 
 
 hringr, uith it 
 
 y, ami all the 
 
 iiv-vitaMc ill- 
 
 . 1 1. tii.it ine- 
 
 of llio.sc who 
 
 iu;h than Kn- 
 th umhrageous 
 ill retail, ihc 
 nv to (iiii'-iclf 
 11]) with him ; 
 ir(|naintan(:cs, 
 his t"av(;i;.-ito 
 11011(1 the go- 
 . "lend him 
 ;Uiire i ■ shown 
 is a boy still, 
 heCk'orj^v ;'n(l 
 followed Iry a 
 yhound fri;! 
 '>sa//;-' siui. at 
 orishcd - '''s 
 
 ,1k 
 
 T/w Court of C irlcs //. r - 
 
 niglnnmid the futhA.I. th. n,h proHigatc. .omi.u..ns of his 
 cMlc IK,, told his anecdotes, it is true, over and over again, 
 yet they were always enihellished with some fresh touch-like 
 H- repetition of a Mg which has been emore.l on the stage" 
 ^\ hether Irom his n tal.Ie art, or from his rovaltv, we leave 
 others to guess, bm „ stories bore repetition ngain'and ' ■ ■=, • 
 t')ey were amusing, and c\c;i novel to the very last, 
 'lo this se<!u(ing court <iid De (Irammontnow con. It was 
 idightlul exchange from the en<lles. ceremoni. puncti- 
 
 hos of the region over which Louis \\\, preside.l. W herever 
 Umles was, his pabce appeared to re.emble a large hospit- 
 .il'le hou.e sometimes town, sometimes country- In which 
 everj- on. ,lid as he liked : and ^shere .listinctions of , :,kw're 
 kept up as a matter of . onvenience. but were onlv valued on 
 that score. 
 
 In other respects. Charles had niodelK.l his court very much 
 on the plan of th- of f,ouis XIV., whi< h he had adn.:' cd for 
 it.s gaiety .md spun. Conuille. Racine, Molierc, Boileau, were 
 encouraged by /. Unvui Monar.ur. A\v. herley and Dryden 
 uere attracted bv Charles to celebrate the f^stiv-ities, „1 to 
 amuse the great d the gay. In various p, Jnts I)e Ciammont 
 f^und a resembl.aice. The queen-consort. Catherine . ' Ilri- 
 gan/a.was as .--mplacent to her hu.b.ndV vices as the queen 
 
 'I'hese royal ladies wm 
 
 in-iely hrst sultanas, and 
 
 of bonis 
 
 Y' "^,'-if ^ it was i:iiought, to teel jealotKv, or to reser, ne- 
 ect. bach returning sabln.th saw \V!,;t.h;il lighted up, ami 
 iH'anl the tabors sound f,r a bnvdc. (.\n^Iii iscd M.ra vF) 
 i "is was a dance which m.x.d „p .vervbodv. and called a 
 bnuvl fVom the foot being shaken to a quick tan-. Claily did 
 his Majest)^ perlorm it, leading to the hot exercise An,. Hyde, 
 Duchess of York, stout aral homely, and leaving Lady Castle- 
 ' 'ue to his son, the Duke of Monuiouth. Then Cha.dc.s, with 
 " .; '0, would begin the .oranto, taking a sinr/le la.iv in 
 n. e along the gallery. l.<,rds and ladies one alter ano'ther 
 ;■- -■.. an.M very noble,' writes Tei.y.. • aiui great plea.sure 
 u V..S to .see. Next came the country dances, introduced by 
 
 lul ua..evn, '.;ng along the galh . he invented 
 
A^( >i iihjii l\ rn/inn'/ii s. 
 
 56 
 
 those one. p.,..! , dan.e-, n, onior to introdi.re. with less 
 chance of fa.h.rc, her rustic . ountry cousins, who <-o„hl not 
 easily he taught to carry themselves well in the brawl, or to 
 step out graceh.IIy in ihe coranto, both of whi, h dances re- 
 '.nred practice and tin>e. In ,11 these .lances the kin^/shines 
 01 York '' ' """^' l>cltcrth:,n hi-, i.rother thl- Duke 
 
 in these gay scenes De (Irammont mei wuh the most 
 llisluonal.Ic belles ol ,hc court: fortunately fur him they all 
 spoke Irench tolerably; and he .,..:. kly made himself welcome 
 amongst even the few- and few indeed there ue,. who 
 plumed themselves u,Km untainted reputations. 1 1, iurto 
 those Prcmh noblemen who ha.l presented themselves .n Jmv- 
 land had been poor and al.Mud. The court had been tlmmgcnl 
 wuha troopot impertinent Parisian cox. ombs, who had pre- 
 lcmde<l to despise everything Kngli.h, apd who treated the 
 natives as it they were foreigners in their own country De 
 (.ranimont, on the contr.uy, was familiar with everv one • he 
 ate. he drank, he lived, in .short, according to the n. ;tom of 
 the country that hospitably re- eived him. :,nd accorded him 
 the more respect, because they had been insulted bv others 
 
 He now nitrodu.ed the/././, so.^os, which have' never been 
 understood anywhere so uell as in France, and whi< h are even 
 there d.Mng out to make way for the less so.:ia] and more ex- 
 pensive dinner ; but, perhaps, he wnuld even here hav. been 
 .msuccessfnl, had it not been for the so.ietv and advu e of the 
 famous St. EvreniMid, who at this time was' exiled in J-ranc 
 and took refuge m Jaigland. 
 
 This celebrated and accomphshe.l man had some points of 
 resemblance with De (iiammont. Like him, he had been ori- 
 gmally mtemled (or the church ; hke him he had turned to the 
 m.htary profession ; he was an ensign before he was fiill six- 
 teen ; and had a company of foot given him after servin^ ,. 
 or tln-ee campaigns, lake De (Irammont, he owed the t.u , 
 ]-t.es of Ins eady career to his being the deseendant of an 
 ancient and honourable family. St. l-vremond was the 
 Se^neur of St. D.nis le Cuast, m Normandy, where he was 
 
 II 
 
 UK I ;< 
 
r, wilh less 
 H) (oiild not 
 brawl, or to 
 h (lances re- 
 c king shines 
 IT the Duke 
 
 :h tlie most 
 iiini they all 
 self welcome 
 
 utiv who 
 
 II. lurto 
 
 -■Ives in Kni;- 
 
 .'en ihroMf^ed 
 
 ho had i»re- 
 
 trciird the 
 (nintry. De 
 cry one : he 
 L" cu ,toni of 
 •corded him 
 'V others. 
 
 never been 
 i< h are even 
 1(1 more cx- 
 
 h;iva been 
 lvi( c of the 
 
 in ]•' ranee, 
 
 e points of 
 d been ori- 
 Tned to the 
 as full si\- 
 iervin;,'^ tAO 
 :d the faci- 
 dant of an 
 was the 
 J re he was 
 
 .SV. r.vmmmd, the Ilamhomc Norman . 57 
 
 Holh these sparkling; wits of society had at one lime, ard 
 in fact.at the sa.ne period, served under the great Comie ; both 
 ^^ ere pre-eminent, not only in literature, but in games of chance. 
 M Kvrenu,n.I was famous at the lamersity of Caen, in win. h 
 'c stu.iied, lor h,s lencmg ; and 'St. I-vremond's pass' was well 
 known tosuord.nunofhis time -both were gav and satiric J • 
 neuher of then, pretended to rigid nK.,als; I't' both „'":;': 
 -nmted m.n ol honour among thci. fellow-men of pleas,,,, 
 li'cy were graceful, kind, generous. ' ' 
 
 In person St. l-ivre.nond ha.l the .ulvantage, being a Nor 
 >;^'" a ra.e uhich combines the han.lso.nest traits of" an 
 
 om ,, ,u,,, ^,^^ ,rne. well-born Xor.nan, bre.l up in 
 
 Kovmce whtch ,s called the Court-end of France, and 
 
 H.sh..l m the capnal. N'onr Nonnan is hardy, and .0 d .4 
 
 i'cld.sporls : l.ke the Englishman, he i. usually fearless • .e.J 
 
 n..sbtu^unhketheK^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ^"n In the fresh colour, the peculiar bi.c .ye, long ami lar^e • 
 by nsjoyousness atul look of health, gather^l u,rin hi o; ti 
 ">a..shy country, lor the Norman is well fed, ami Hves on the 
 
 pn.It,ceo nch pasture-land, with cheapness and plenty 1:^ 
 ^1""- And St. f.vre.no.al was one of the handsomest soeci- 
 
 ■-SO, tins, me locality (so mixed upasit is with.)' d 
 
 lhw.:'r'""^'"'^'^"""'^^ '- l-utnullyutrnd 
 of ; tit. ^^-^^.^'r^ ;"!*' '^'^ -^^>'^ ^-^'^-1. the whiteness 
 
 ""-'■""- A,.,l h,s lalk, wo arc .old, during ,l,c fortnM.t 
 
5'^ The most Beautiful Woman in Europe. 
 
 tiiat ijrcccilcd his death, was not regret for a hfe wc .sliould, 
 in seriousness, call misspent, l)iit because partridges and phea- 
 s;ints no longer suited his condition, and lie was obliged to be 
 reduced to boiled meats. \o one, howe\ er, c-nild lell what 
 nught also be jnissing in his heart. We cannot al-.vays judge 
 of a hfe, any more than of a drama, by its last scene; but this 
 IS certain, that in an age of blasi.hemy St. I'vremond could 
 not endure to hear religion insulted bv ridicule. 'Common 
 dc.cncy,' said this mnn of the world, 'and a due regard to 
 our lellow-creatures, would not permit it.' He di<f nut, it 
 seems, refer his displeasure to a higher source— to the prc- 
 senre of the Omniscient,— who claims from us all not alonr 
 tiK- tribute of our poor frail hearts in serious moments, but 
 i.ie deep reverence of every d.oughl i ) ihe hours of careless 
 pleasure. 
 
 It WIS now St. Evremond who taught De Cnmimont to col- 
 lect around him the wits of that court, so rich in attractions so 
 I>nor m honour and morality. The object of St. Kvremond's 
 d^'Notion, though he. had. a! the ;era of the Restoration, passed 
 his liliKih year, w.is Horlense Alancnii, once the richest 
 heuess, and still the most beautiful woman in luiroj.e an<l a 
 niece, on her mother's side, of Cardinal .Ma/arin. ilorlense 
 had been e(Uicated, after the age of six, in l''ran<'.'. She was 
 Italian m her acromplishments, in her reckless, uild .lisposi- 
 tion, opposed to that of the Freud,, who are genenillv calcu- 
 lating ami wary, even in their vices : she was Italian' in the 
 style of her .surpassing beauty, an.i ImvihI, to the cov,. in her 
 bnnc.ples. Mortense, at the age of thirteen, ha.l been mar- 
 ried to Armand ])!,<■ de Meilleraye and ^ravenne, who had 
 Jailen so desperately in love with this beaiiiifu! child, that he 
 declared ' ,f he <lid not marry her he should die in iluee 
 nionths.' Cardinal Ma/arin, although he liad deVtine-i hs 
 ■y-ece Mary to this alliance, gave his consent on condition that 
 t le duke .should take the name of Ala/arin. The cardinal died 
 ;^ }X'ar aher this marriage, leaving his niece Ilortense the enor- 
 mous fortune of /:,,6.5.ooo ; yet she died in the greatest 
 Uitiicuities, and her corpse was seixed by her ere Jitors. 
 
 The Due de Mayenne i-roved to be "a fanatic, wlio used to 
 
Europe. 
 
 1 life wc sliould, 
 :rid\5es and {ihca- 
 MS obliged to be 
 . roiild tell what 
 not al;vays judge 
 : scene ; but this 
 I'ATcraond coukl 
 ulc. ' Common 
 a (hic regard to 
 lie (lid nut, it 
 "ce— to the jjre- 
 is all not alone 
 :s moments, but 
 lours of careless 
 
 ':immont to col- 
 in attractions, so 
 St. }'A remond's 
 iteration, jKissed 
 ice the richest 
 
 l'airoj)e, and a 
 u-in. Horlcnsc 
 incv'. She was 
 s, wild (lisposi- 
 generally calcu- 
 
 llahviii ill the 
 he core in her 
 had l)cen mar- 
 eiine, who had 
 
 cliild, tiiat he 
 
 <lie in ihiee 
 I d:-,iined li.'s 
 condition that 
 e cardinal died 
 tense the enor- 
 n the greatest 
 iiiors. 
 •\ who used to 
 
 Ifoi-tcusc Maucinl's Adventures. 
 
 59 
 
 waken ' ,s wife in the dead of the night to hear his visions • 
 who A,rbad. iHs child to be nursed on iast-davs ; and who be- 
 .cved Inmsclt to be inspired. After six years "of wretchedness 
 poor Horte>.se pebfoned for a separation and . division of 
 property. She .juuted her husban.Fs home and took refuge 
 h.st m a ,umnery, where she showed her unbehef, or her irre- 
 
 ^^<M .'"T '"'^ r"' ^^^y--^^, that the poor nuns 
 
 '">^^iit black heir faces when they crossed themselves : or in 
 ^ |;onrert wnh Madame de Courcelles, another handsome mar 
 : '-l-mun she used to walk through the dormitories in ,he 
 : j-|l nf n,,ht, wuh a number of htUe dogs barking at their 
 
 -Is : then she hlled tuo great chests d.U were over the .io" 
 : one w. w:,t... which ran over, and, penetrating thro 1. 
 
 iK unks of the floor, wet the holy sisters in their be.ls. Xt 
 
 gth all th,s sorn- gaiety was stopped by a decree that H;.- 
 
 " ;•>; ;;: ;;:'-n to the l-alais Mazarin ; and to remain there 
 
 . ac smt for a sep-arafon should be decided. That the re- 
 
 r m r 66^ r;'""^ ^'^ ''^^"'^'^■' ■ ^---^-None fine nig^ 
 
 ^, ;"■ -'U>a,d not her fl.ght been shared by the Chevaher 
 
 --11> uve blamed an escape fVom a half-lunati. husband She 
 
 ^- only twenty-e,ght when, .fu. various adventures, si e : 
 
 ■ '11 Hetnnmr.a.red beauty t<, Kngland. Charles was ca,aiv-ed 
 
 J aniLs .s. \\ ajlcr sang her i)raise :— 
 
 A. .he l.i.st tnumpl, of h.r coriquunng eyes.' 
 
 • -, u5 ^;;.uLauunana worshipped Ala- 
 
6o 
 
 Madame Mazarins House at Chelsea. 
 
 dame Rccam.cr, adored to the last the cxile.l niec-e of Ma.arin 
 t^very day when in her old :,,e an.l his, the wannth of love 
 had subsided ,nto the serener affection of ]m^■in^^ and vet ad- 
 n.nng ^,e..lship, St. Evremond was seen, \ Uu^ ol.I n^L t 
 .1 hlack coif, earned along I'all Mall in a sedan , hair to the 
 apartment of Ma.lame Maxarii, in St. James's. He ahvav 
 took with hnn a pound of l.utter, made in Ins own little .lair'y 
 for her breakfast, ^^•hen De (irammont was installed at thJ 
 court of Charle.s, Hortense was, however, in her prime. Her 
 liouse at Chelsea, then a country village, was famed for its so- 
 ciety and ,ts vaned j.leasiires. St. Evremon.l has so well des- 
 cnbed.ts attractions that his words should be literally ^dven 
 freedom and discretion are equally to be found there 5^^ery 
 one IS made more at home than in his own house, and treated 
 with more respect than at court. Jt is true that there are fre- 
 quent disputes there, but they are those of knoule.lge and not 
 ol anger. I here ,s ],lay there, but it is inconsiderable, and 
 only pnutise,! Ic.r its amusement. You discover in no counte- 
 nance the <ear of losing, nor concern for what is lost Some 
 are so disinterested that they are reproached or expressing joy 
 . -hen they lose, and regret when they win. Play is followed by 
 the most excellent repasts in the world. TiK.e vou will Imd 
 n-hatever delicacy is brought from France. an<l whatever is cu- 
 rious from the Indies. J.:ven the comn.onest meats have the 
 rarest relish imparted to them. There is neither a plentv which 
 gives a notion ot extravagance, nor a frugalitv that di'srovers 
 l)enury or meanness.' ' 
 
 What an assemblage it must have been ! Here 1 >];■, ( harles 
 Lord Ruckhurst, afterwards J.cn.l Dorset, the la.ics,, m mat- 
 ers of busmess or court advancement- the boldest, in ,,oint 
 of frolic and pleasure, of ail the wits and Oeaux of his i„u- 
 His youth had been full of adventure and of .lissipation. ' f 
 know not how It is,' said Wilmot. F.ord Rochester. ' but my 
 Lord Dorset can do anything, and is never to blame.' He had 
 m truth, .n,eart; he could bear u, hear ..hers praised : lil: 
 t.r scd the arts ot courtiers ; he befriended the unhappy ; he 
 ^va. the most engaging of men in manner., the most loveable 
 and accon^phshed of human beings, at on.c poet, nhi n 
 
 of 
 
uclsco, 
 
 niece of -Ma/arin. 
 I warmth of love 
 ying, and yel ad- 
 ittle old man in 
 Ian chair, to the 
 s s. lie always 
 
 ^)v^-n little dairy, 
 
 installed at the 
 her iin'me. Her 
 anied for its so- 
 has so well des- 
 ^' literally given, 
 id there. J'lvery 
 ise, and treated 
 t there are fre- 
 kviedge and not 
 nsideral>le, and 
 r in no cotinte- 
 
 is lost. Some 
 ' expressing joy 
 ■' is followed by 
 you will find 
 vhatever is cu- 
 neats have the 
 a ])lenty which 
 
 that discovers 
 
 ■ li'lls ( harles, 
 i.'iest, in mat- 
 '!>-^t. in j)oint 
 < "t iiis time, 
 ssipation. ' [ 
 ;ster, 'but my 
 "C He had, 
 rs praised ; he 
 
 unhappy ; he 
 most loveable 
 
 lioet. nhilan- 
 
 li 
 
 Anecdote of Lord Dorset ^j 
 
 notunlkehis <.-over(.|,rM ;„ n ^hailes 11.. he was 
 
 ro..n,i, a,„l ,„ k . " , °"^ t^' "■" "^7" "' I"- '"-.• l-o..le 
 
 i" Newgate on a Z^fi^ZTf'"'' ""' "™' "'••" '"-■■■■" 
 
 .•.':.i.Kl.t.T „„lv. He „.„ ' ;' , '.'"' f°""'' KN.lt,- of ,„:,„- 
 ^''■.■ir"-i.lKS,/,1urlcU"iJ n' T''' "I' '" ^' 'J'Vn.cf,,! 
 
 "yd., .i,e„ ^J^^^;/'^'!''"'^''''''''^^ x-i'^n 
 
 I'avins hoc, n.enlio ,,!,,, ' "?" ^'''■■•'"'' '"'^ "^'""-' 
 I.C -k.d ,,„„ „, : ," . o" ■" "r' "■'"■" '°'-' '" "-• 
 
 '" '"'"^ into s,uh course's again > ° ' '"'-"'■'"^•^^ "'»'> 
 
 1-;...^".^, ,n ,,,e „ee.\r:,:!: rj;:, ™r;T^;: 
 
 Pl^'ted his reform, to all outw.nl .1 '^^'Uie com- 
 
 I-'-outh.^^ ,;„ Uu,r.t, inl^j" i'"' "' """^"^^ '"•^>^ 
 "f "len, was thus referred to bv Pr ' "/"'''' -""'^^^-'^^^^P^rcd 
 Fleetwood Sheppard :- ^ '' " '"^ J'^^'^'''^''" ^•I""'^'^ to 
 
 ■'""'' «»t my K„ocl Lord Dorsofs IS ' 
 
 •K.rpoint.,-ds.-,tin. I would Buck!,,: 
 
 '" '-' -HxTman^with the wom-na.urcd n.use." 
 
 ;!c tiinrri. d. -71 1, \L', 'Aanvick- 
 
 8hl 
 Co 
 
 James Earl of Xortl" ,,•■ 
 
 •'.ady Mary 
 
Lord Roclu-stcr in Ii is Zenith. 
 
 Still more c-cicbrated as a beau and wit of liis time M-ns Tohn 
 ^ mot, ,..1 Rochester. He .as the son of LonI U £^ 
 t>e c:..l,er uho so loyally a:tc:ulcd Charles II. ..Rerthe 
 -:>-tIeofUorcester;an,l. as, the ohsprin, of th:u r^-^ 
 v.-as greeted by [,or,lClarenclon, then Chamdl-r of thj r„i' 
 ve..ty of Oxfoni, .hen he took his degree as .aster o^l^; 
 N'lli a kiss. • J he young nobleman then travelled, arrordin^ 
 ^J'^7= and then .nost unhappily ,„• Himself amfo^ 
 othns, whom he corrupted by his cxan.ple, he presented him 
 self a the court of Charles II. He was at this\inK a vo h 
 
 ^l^ir'rVu "''" "'^-'-"-t persons ofhi^:: 
 
 Hu iM^ ol buckhurst w.,s hard and plain : that of Do 
 ^nimmont had h.tle to rcdeen, it but its varying intelli^c^^ 
 -: ,f --^|--n- of the young .,„, of Rli;;ste ^ ^: 
 cc tiy symmetncal : ,t was of a long oval, .i,h large, tl^ough fu 
 s^epycyes; the eyebrows arched and high above them de 
 n.v t ough concea e,l 1. the <.urls of the now n.odest w " 
 ^-■^h.gh and sn.ooth; d,e nose. ,leli,-ately shaped, somewhu 
 aqudme ; the mouth lull, b,, p,,.a.,,iy beaudhd, was ef o f bv a 
 round and well-,ormed<hin. Su, h was I.onl Ro.hJ; ^ his 
 >-cnUh; andnshecamelorward on state occasions, his hb^ 
 ■g^n curls hangu.g down on his shoulders- a can.br . k r ht? 
 boselyt,ed,soa.,tolet the ends, worked in pomt, fuAw 
 nUlydown : Ins s.arlct gown in i;,lds over a s it o li-dus el 
 an.Kn.r-,ar men had become carpet knights then, ZTt 
 < oat of mad worn by the brave cavaliers was now less w .rlik ^ 
 and was m.xed up with robes, ruffles, and rich hose--:and h^i 
 HMh.s gu,se he ap,H:ared at Whitehall, all admirecl; and Ch!^ 
 '- ,; ■' ' "^"' ^'^'' ^''^' ^"^'i'"" ">■• '^^^ intelligence, an.l mo.lesty 
 ot o..e who was then an mgenuous youth, with :.,od asnirations 
 and a staid and decorous demeanour. P'rations, 
 
 Woe to Lady Rochester--- woe to the mother who trusted her 
 sc.y.,nnocenceu. that vidated court: l-ord Rochester u.rm 
 
 n ist n T" -■ :'f r^ "^ '^^">' '^^'-'^^- ^'-^ i^ i« those 
 iaost ten. eih . :,, ! ior, uho olien f.dl most deeply as Mell '^s 
 
 --t early, uuo temptation. He soon lost even-" ^^ ^J 
 ^:L!^^^^^,^S:^^ '"■' '-'"^'"^"^ '" ^'^- '^ -s created by 
 
 I 
 
5 lime, was John 
 r J.nnl \\'iIinot, 
 -s ir. after the 
 •r th;it roynh'st, 
 I'T of tlic Uiii- 
 ■ aster of Arts, 
 elled, acrordintr 
 inis^'lf and for 
 
 inx'seiiffil hini- 
 ■i time a youth 
 JUS of liis age. 
 
 ; that of be 
 ig intelh'gence; 
 iiester was per- 
 rge, thoughtful, 
 )ove them ; the 
 \' niodest wig, 
 [*etl, somewhat 
 ■■ns set off l)y a 
 'xhcstei in his 
 ons, his false 
 nl)ri(- kerchief 
 'int. fall grace- 
 
 of light steel 
 hen, and the 
 V less NWiiiike, 
 se — and when 
 ; and Charles 
 . and modesty 
 'd aspirations, 
 
 10 trusted her 
 Chester forms 
 ■U it is those 
 *'}', as well as 
 or\- trace of 
 
 w;is crcittcl by 
 
 His Courage and Wit. q. 
 
 n>an of l,i., .ukIcm. v : :,ll .1 , t'' „ .""'f- ''""''"" ''" ' 
 in.' him ,„„., 1. I ^.ilinral an.i impure ^itiniri- 
 
 'b IMC i.iiL,H.-,n, uerc /]is LMijllIJle 111111,^. 11 1 
 
 -<;n,.,,h....:,;:;ci;;::-:--:;^rz 
 
 V e,- h . ; '""""'"^ " """*■■ "f -"»»<""•■ living A. 
 
 outn,.-.: , :.,; "'; ''"'•'°"^^ '"»'".■■ P>-'rilo..sIv, ,l„l he 
 like 1 ;;":"' '.'""^■- l""f»- ^-li«io"- ChaHeH II. 
 ll.-„>,, ■,,,,:,,;'"::'";"-■• '- '<«>-^tCT wa. a „u„ .„■ 
 
 ^vh:,ei^,n ,;;;,,, '■'■■ »'">;;»™i" «- i,a„;.,.., ,„„„ 
 
 -i.„it hi,,, iittoh' ;:;:':::;,,';."''' '^ "-^^^-^'^ •^"™'" ^"°- >« 
 
 I>^s.^,.e,a„,l practieal jokes „-e,e the f,..l,i„„ „f ,„,. ,,,, 
 ■' -''""■^''■" "' '-'"""■Wivertca i,i,„.df. Thcsueecss 
 
 'fcp 
 
^4 Crnfiili/y, Past (Vhf Prcscut. 
 
 of his scheme was perfert. He cstahlishcil himself, since he 
 could not go to Whitehall, in the City, 'ilis first design,' 
 De Grammont relates, 'was only to I)c initiated into the 
 mysteries of those fortunate and happy inhabitants ; that is 
 to say, l.y (hanging his name and dress, to gain admittance 
 to their feasts and entertainments. . , . As he was able to 
 adapt himself to all ( apacitics and humours, he soon deeply 
 insinuated himself into the esteem of the substantial wealthy 
 aldermen, and into tlie affections of their more delicate, mag- 
 nificent, and tender ladies ; he made one in all their feasts 
 and at all their assemblies; and \vhil>t in the company of the 
 husbands, he declaimed against the faults and mistakes of 
 government ; lie joined their wives in railing against the 
 profligacy of the court ladies, and in inveighing against the 
 king's mistresses : he agreed with them, that the industrious 
 l)oor were to ])ay for these cursed extravagances; that the City 
 beauties were not inferior to tiiose at the other end of the 
 town, . . . after which, to outdo their murmurings, he said, 
 that he wondered Whitehall was not yet consumed bv fire from 
 heaven, since sui \\ rakes as Rochester, Killigrew, and .Sidney 
 Were suffered there.' 
 
 'I'his conduct endeared him so muc h ).« the City, and made 
 him so welcome at their clubs, that at last he grew sick of 
 their cramming, and endless invitations. 
 
 He now tried a new sphere of action ; and insle;:d of re- 
 turning, as he might have done, to the co'ut, retreated into 
 the most obscure corners of the metr(,)]i(j]is ; and again chang- 
 ing his name and dress, gave himself out as a (ierman doctor 
 named liendo, who jirofessed to find out inscrutable secrets, 
 and to ajjply infallible remedies; to know, by astrology, all 
 the ]):ist. and to foretell the future. 
 
 Jf t)ie reign of Charles was justly deemed .m age of high 
 civilization, it was also one of extreme credulity. Unbelief in 
 religion went hand in hand with blind faith in astrology and 
 witchcraft ; in omens, divinations, and jirojjhecies : neither let 
 us too strongly despise, in these their foibles, our ancestors. 
 'I'hey had many excuses for their .superstitions ; and for their 
 fears, false as tlieir hopes, and equally groundless, 'i'l-e circu- 
 
6: 
 
 iiscir, since he 
 is first design,' 
 elated into the 
 litr.nts ; that is 
 ain adiniltance 
 .' was able to 
 c soon deeply 
 aiitial wealthy 
 delicate, mag- 
 11 their feasts 
 )mpany of the 
 d mistakes of 
 g against the 
 ig against the 
 he industrious 
 ; that the City 
 cr end of the 
 ings, he said, 
 ■ 1 1iy hre from 
 X, ;ui(l Sidney 
 
 'it}', and made 
 grew sick of 
 
 inste;:(l of re- 
 retreated into 
 again chang- 
 ennan doctor 
 itable secrets, 
 astrology, all 
 
 1 ai,^e of hitjh 
 Unbelief in 
 aNirology and 
 :s : neither let 
 )ur ancestors, 
 ami for their 
 circu- 
 
 4* 
 
 I 
 
 
 •y>r. /;,;/,/,<■ ,„„//.„ /,v//,. y,„„i,i!;s. „^ 
 
 ...pre,,. 10 ,vl„<l, wc now o>v. i.K-xprcssil.ic g,-..i„„lc for 
 H. KU,er.,l accuracy, „s enlarged views, i,s puriiy, i,s infor. 
 '«>-"■ -.s .lun :, ,ne:,gre st.Ucn.nu of .Iry fa,,.,: a," n 
 
 -"..r nt, ,1,0 n.nnos „l „l,„l, may W suppose,! ,„ „„pK- 
 
 poe.i. never rea,l,e, lone,o„n,ry pla,;es „ll weeks after they 
 
 1 i.ce„ pr,n,e,I on .heir one ,i„o,le,a,no shee, of ,l„n eoar e 
 
 I.e arkness „1 pop,-,,-, |,a,l s„ll l,er s„pers,i„„„s ; a,ul ,l,e 
 "■ai.tlc ll.a. pr,es,.r,,f, l,a,l ,„„,ri,e,l ,„ ,|,r„,v ovjr he r e. 
 -I'-i.e, ra.i, ,„,. a,„l sin.pie f.„-,„. „as „„, „,e„ „l,olly and 
 
 ':"; """■■ ,"i'l> -I--'""-' 1- il spoke,,, in ,he fall noon.lay 
 .u.al sple„.,o„r „, o„r Kero,-„,e,i Chanh, w„h new.sp.,pe,-s 
 . K le,,h„« ar„, les of whi, I, rise ,„ ,, level wid, o,.r jre test 
 ; " - .c wrhers, a,,,| are ,-o„,pe,ent even ,o for,,, d,e , ,i 
 
 o.r, spe,,eH of ,hreet com,nuni,;a,io„, we vet hol,l to fall-,. 
 
 :,,:„"'"„ " i' ""■ ;";-""°"^ ■" ^■"-■-■^ ■"-■ "onM h -i 
 
 •Mirunk 111 (lisniav and ( is'^iss Tii.i..,, ■• . 
 
 / ■ ■• 'ii\-, isi. lahlc-tu.-Muiu' sijirit-raijo hir 
 
 ;-^^;.j,... .wedenborgian.m, an 
 
 ^^uuldha^ebeen far too strong for the faith of those who 
 cotmte. upor. dreams as their guide, or looked u^o ^ 
 '-cny planets wah a belief partly superst.tiot s, part l 
 H .cnt.al, i.r then- guulance ; and in a d,m and tli kcnn. 
 filth tru.sted to their stars. nK-Kermg 
 
 • Dr. be.rlo,' therefore, as Rochester was .allcd- handsome 
 
 .•^iui:;^^c^;;:x:;;:;;!/ 
 
 ^vcre his fust custom r;," '"''"^ "^^""'^' '^'"' ^'lop-g.rls 
 
 the court c.,n '7 '""^ ■^^°"' ^'^^'>' ■'^I'-'^-^f^''--^ *'-<J>n 
 
 tlK court came m tluar ,„,, ,„^.^n„^ ^^ ^ 
 
 a™ .ces, their iortunc . .h.!st the cunning c 
 i)r. Jiendo, noted m his diarv all th,. in,.- , ■ , 
 
 r 1 I , . »ii,ii\ ail tnc mtriifues u hich \wr,. 
 
 ■■"" ^' ""^ --"' I>ucne.i ol Marlborough, uas ai 
 
 nong his 
 
66 
 
 La Trislc ITcriticir. 
 
 disciples ; she took with her the beautiful Miss I'rice, and, 
 disguising themselves as orange girls, these young ladies set off 
 in a hackney-coach to visit Dr. JJcndu ; but when within half a 
 street of the supposed fortune-teller's, were prevented by the 
 interruption of a dissolute courtier named Hrounker. 
 
 ' Kverything by turns and nothing long.' When Lord Ro 
 Chester was tired of being an astrologer, he used to roam about 
 the streets as a beggar; then he kept a footman who kneu the 
 Court well, xwd used to dress him up in a red coat, supjjly him 
 with a musket, like a sentinel, and send him to watch at the 
 doors of all the fine ladies, to find out their goings on : after- 
 wards, Lord Rochester would retire to the country, and write 
 libels on these fair victims, and, one day, oftered to ])resent the 
 king with one uf his lam])oons ; but being tipsy, gave Charles, 
 instead, one written u[)on himself 
 
 At this juncture we read with sorrow 15ishop lUirnet's forcible 
 description of his career: — 
 
 ' lie seems to have freed himself from all impressions of 
 virtue or religion, of honour or good nature. ... He had but 
 one maxim, to which he adhered firmly, that he has to do 
 everything, and deny himself in nothing that might maintain 
 his greatness, lie was unhapjiily made for dnmkenness, for 
 he had drunk all his friends dead, and was able to subdue 
 two or three sets of drunkards one after another; so it scarce 
 ever appeared that he wa^ disordered after the greatest drink 
 ing: an hour or two of sleep carried all off so entirely, that no 
 sign of them remained. . . . This had a terrible conclusion.' 
 
 Like many other men, Rochester might have been saved by 
 ])eing kei)t far from the scene of temptation. AVhilst he re- 
 mained in the country he was tolerably sober, ])erha[)S steady. 
 When he approached lirentford on his route to London, his old 
 propensities came upon him. 
 
 When scar( ely out of his boyhood he carried off a young 
 heiress, l^li/abeth Mallett. whom De Crammont calls f.a trislc 
 hcritihr: and triste, indeed, she naturally was. Possessed of 
 a fortune of ,-{^2500 a year, this young lady was marked out by 
 Charles II. as a victim for the lirofiigate Rochester. But the 
 reckless v(jung wit cliose to take his own \v;iy of managin-r *hx. 
 
 I 
 
Miss I'ricc, and, 
 ing ladies set off 
 len within half ;i 
 prevented by the 
 Hiker. 
 
 U'hen Lord Ro 
 d to roam about 
 n who knew the 
 coat, supply him 
 to watch a.t the 
 ^'oings on : after- 
 luntry, and write 
 .■d to present the 
 y. gave Charles, 
 
 liurnet's forcible 
 
 I impressions of 
 . . He had bul 
 I he has lo do 
 L mi,i;ht maintain 
 drunkenness, for 
 i able to sub<lue 
 er ; so it scarce 
 
 greatest drink 
 
 entirely, that no 
 
 e ( oncUision.' 
 
 : been saved by 
 
 Whilst he re- 
 
 perhaps steady. 
 
 London, liis old 
 
 ed off a voun^ 
 t calls Im tristt' 
 Possessed of 
 marked out by 
 lester. JJui the 
 f managing thu 
 
 I 
 
 ; ^''=a!"-tli. Countess of Roclu-sUr. C; 
 
 ; "I 11. ), >vl,cn ll,c,r ,:oa,i, was s. cillv sloppcl nci 
 
 loot-llK. KoannK Hoys ;in,l MolKuvk.,,' who were- not ex- 
 
 to,,, ,ar„as;o an,I ,,la,.,l h„ in one wh„h l,a,l s°x hurt,- 
 ' :;m "" '^^". ^^-^'-''l^-. -"I "cro overtaken; hut thj 
 
 .lu'n'''' wh'n TT "; ''i'"' ; ' """'' '"^" '"^■"' '™"'"-' ^" -'V- 
 
 '■ onl, he so, he,.a.,se y„„ ,li,l not nan.e a tin.e wi.en 1 
 
 111 ts Z 1^' • ""■ ""■ '""■^■"""">' "f "■'"■'■'' --y ""-" 
 
 I'' "L. . . . Lay your rommnnds upon me what 1 im fn 
 '^;™' ,;.""«'• ■■' '- '°.f-«- ■">■ ".iUlren. and .„e l''; „ ^ 
 
 o, n , he „,a„„rj. „„,_, ,„,,„^.,„ , ,^^.| ^^.^ ) 
 
 )0.,^.he ,r.,„hle of put.i,,,, ,„„ ;„ ,„,„, „„^ ,„^^^. ,,t^.^ !; 
 
 ' Your faithful, humble servant.' 
 
 ■>"!» leaie, ,lear wile. It is an Mnpulisiie<l way of 
 •■-liK. winch a .nodes, „,an cii,l„ ,„ ,',, ashamed' of 
 
 nn nl'i, ' -T " '"'■■>■ '." ^'""^ """ ""•'«i"«ions amongst 
 1 I ^ ' "'■'"' '" """'"^"'"-- li« .Lore will „L 
 , t'voi' s'T"'" "" "■'"-■"■ '"■'> "" '""'!-" 1- ."cna- 
 
 Sloo . ■'■' '" "■■''"' "'■ " '■'""'-■ ^>l'l»^^'ra„ee in 
 
 • I'ray write as often as you have leisure, to v our 
 
 'ROCHE.STER.' 
 
 To his son, he writes : ' Vou are now grown bi^ ennn.h .. 
 '- - inan, -u you can be wise enough ; and the way to be^trul)' 
 
 5—2 
 
r„s 
 
 ]\iiri/'!u'.('ii aiiii R^fviiiiatii 
 
 li>r 
 
 wise IS to sen lod, learn your liook. the in- 
 
 structions of your parents first, and next vmiu u. jr, lo whom 
 I have entirely resigned you for this seven \ears; an(' uicord- 
 ing as you employ that time, you are to be happv or imhai-py 
 for ever. I ii:ive so good an npii)i(,n of you. tliat I am glad to 
 think you will never deceive me. Dear child, leain your hook 
 and he obedient, and you will see what a father 1 shall be to 
 you. \'ou shall want no pleasure while you are good, and that 
 you may be g(K:)d are my ( (instant pravcrs.' 
 
 Lord Rochester !iad not attain-. I tli. ;i- of thirlv. when he 
 was mercifully awakened to ,i .sense of his juilt here, his peril 
 hereafter. It seemed to many that his vi-ry nature was so 
 warped that penitence in its true sense could never come 
 to him; but the mere y of (lod is unfathomable; He judges 
 not as man judges ; Jle forgives, as man knows not how to 
 forgive. 
 
 '<;i)(l, our kind Master, iiuTciful .as 
 Knowinti 'Ji"" frame, remernhers nun. , ilu-t . 
 He tiiarlss the druvn of every virtuous a;iii. 
 And fans ilu; sniokinj,' flax into a flanv ; 
 He hears the Ian'.^ua.i,'e of a sik-nt tear, 
 .Xnd siijhs are iiuense frijni a lieart sincere." 
 
 And the reformation of l\o( hester is a ( onfirmatii ii of the doc- 
 trine of a s])ecial Providence, as well as of that oi i 'ril ). 
 even in this life. 
 
 The retribution came in the form of an early but certain 
 decay; of a suffering so stern, so composed of men*;! and 
 bodily anguish, thai never wis man called to repeiiuUK e by a 
 voice .-o (hsiiiict as Ro< liester. Tlic reformation was sent 
 t'^rough the instrumentality of one who had l)een a sinner like 
 •iw's.iself who had sinned r.-//// him ; an unfortunate lady, who. 
 it) her l.isl hours, had been xisite-'. re< laimed. consoled by 
 liisho]) lUnnet. Of this. Lord Rochester had heard. He was 
 then, to all appearaiK e. reco\ering from his hist sickness. He 
 sent for Hurnet, who devoted to him one evening every week 
 of that solemn winter when the soul of the jieiiitent sought 
 reconciliation and ])eace. 
 
 The conversion was not instantaneous ; it was gradual, pene- 
 trating, effective, sincere. Th.ose who wisli to gratify curiosity 
 
 1702. 
 
the in- 
 r, to wlioni 
 
 an<i (Conl 
 
 or iinlia).[iy 
 am glad to 
 
 11 your book 
 shall be to 
 
 0(i. and that 
 
 ty. wlicn Ik- 
 LTc, his peril 
 lire was so 
 never come 
 He judi^es 
 not how to 
 
 of the do( 
 
 but i ertain 
 mental nnd 
 itancc by a 
 n was sciit 
 
 sinner like 
 e lady, who, 
 -onsoled b\" 
 1. He was 
 kness. JIc 
 L\er\- week 
 itent souglit 
 
 adual, j)ene- 
 ily curiosity 
 
 I 
 
 < Hi 
 
 the h( ft ; few 
 
 '.<\l vaiiu i' 
 savs !)()< .f 
 
 Con Vers ion. (^^ 
 
 '■ning the death-bt, . ...^ who had so noioi.uiisly .smnul, 
 
 ^^ ! rca.l !{.,rncfs . , uimi of Rocb stcr's illness and .Icath with 
 
 ''■\ nothing is mtere.^ting as a death-bed. 
 
 I Lose Hi, .dchniit in work. <■ uvous thought. ,ind elevated 
 
 stntuncnts, will read it loo, and ari^c fn.m the perusal grati- 
 
 Mcd. Those, however, who are true, < on; t ( hristians will go 
 
 still 1, r; tluv will own that few work itensely touch 
 
 til'- hoi >t and • feelings ; few so . ' 
 
 '" -'■^■'f'y si' ' aity (,f life: the 
 
 purify,. .4 faith. • li . .i hook wlii( h the 
 
 Johnson, -may read lor its elegance, the philosopher for 'its ar 
 
 K'HiK'nts, the saint for its piety.' 
 
 Uhil.st deeply lamenting his own .sm... Lord ! .. i^.ter be- 
 ' anu; anxious to redeeu) his former associates from theirs 
 
 ' \\ hen Wilmot, Iv.rl of Ro. he.ster,'- Nvrites U illiam Thomas 
 'H a manuscript preserved in the British Museum, 'lay on his 
 .ie'ath-bed, Mr. Fanshaue .amc t. ,.,, ^ith an intention 
 
 to stay about a week with him. .. ,.hawe, silting bv the 
 
 bedsul> peueued his lordship pra u, (lod, through Jesus 
 
 i>rist, ;md ac.juainte.i Dr. Rad.li' , who atlen.led my Lord 
 Kochester m this ihness and was the. in ihe luni.e, with what 
 he had heard, and told him that mv lord wa. .ertainlv delirious 
 !-•' ' his knowIe<lge. he said, he believed neither in Cod nor 
 '•1 J -s Christ. The <!.>< tor, who had often heard him pray in 
 tl) v.me nunner. propu.e.l to .Mr. Fan.hawc to go up to hi. 
 lordship to W further satisfied tou« hin- this affair. When they 
 came to his room the .lu, tor told mv h,r<l uIku Mr. banshawe 
 said, upon which his lordship addressed himself to Mr Fan- 
 shawe to this etfe.t : -.Sir. it is true, you an.! I have been very 
 l^-'d and profane together, and then 1 was of the opinion you 
 mention. Hut now 1 am .|uite of another mind, an.l happv am 
 i that I am so. I am very suiMble hou miserable T was 
 whilst ot another opinion. Sir. y(,u mav a.^nre vouimIi that 
 there is a Judge and a future state ;" and .so entered into a very 
 luuKlsome discourse concerning he last judgment, future state, 
 
 ^kI.\'^>^''"\^"''1:''.o'"-«. tl'ewrit.ToftliisstaUmK-m. I,,.ar.l i, r,„,„ i>,. ... .,i 
 ^_;.^ .tt i::^ t;u;ic 01 ^pc..kcr ila' mft-ruards Karl of Uxiurd, I'lOth June. 
 
MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART 
 
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 "octiester. New York 1 4609 
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70 
 
 Beaux ii.'ithont Wit. 
 
 ^:c•., um\ concluded witli a serious ;iiid pathetic exhortation to 
 Mr. I'anshawe to enter into another course of Hfe ; adding that 
 lie (Mr. V.) knew liini to l)e his friend ; that he never was more 
 so than at this lime ; and " sir," said he, " to use a Scrijiture 
 expression, I am not mad, but speak the words of truth and 
 sol)erness." Upon this Mr. Fanshawc trembled, and went im- 
 mediately a-foot to ^\■oodstock, and there hired a horse to 
 Oxford, and thence took coa( h to Lontlon.' 
 
 There were other buttertiies in that gay cuurt ; beaux witlv 
 cut wit ; remorseless rakes, inca[)able of one noble thouglit or 
 higli i)ursuit ; and amongst the most foolish and fashionable 
 of these was Henry Jermyn, Lord ])over. As the nephew of 
 Henry Jermyn, Lord St. Albans, this young sim|)leton was 
 ushered into a court life with the most favourable auspices. 
 Jermyn Street (built in 1667) recalls to us the residence of 
 Lord St. Albans, the supposed husband of Henrietta Maria. 
 It was also the centr^ of fa.shion when Henry Jermyn the 
 younger was launched into its unholy si)here. Near luigle 
 Passage lived at that time I -a JJelle Stuart, Duchess of Rich- 
 mond ; next door to her Llenry Savile, Rochester's friend. 
 The locality has since been ])Urified l)y worthier associations: 
 Sir Isaac Newton lived for a lime in Jermyn Street, and Gray 
 lodged there. 
 
 It was, however, in De (Jrammont's time, the scene of all 
 the various gallantries which were going on. Henry Jermyn 
 was suinjorted l)y the wealth of his uncle, that uncle who, 
 whilst Charles II. was starving at Brussels, had kcjjt a lavish 
 table in I'aris : little Jermyn, as the younger Jermyn was called, 
 owed much indeed to his fortune, which had procured him 
 great idat at the Dutch court. His head was large ; his 
 features small ; liis legs short ; his jjhysiognomy was not posi- 
 tively disagreeable, but he was affected anc' trifling, ami his 
 wit consisted in expressions learnt by rote, which supplied him 
 either with raillery or with compliments. 
 
 This petty, inferior being had attracted the regard of the 
 Princess Royal — afterwards Princess of Orange — the daughter 
 of Charles 1. Then the Countess of Castlemaine — afterwards 
 Duchess of Cleveland — became infatuated with him ; he cap- 
 
 I 
 
>vhortation to 
 ; adding that 
 vcr was more 
 ," a S(:rii)turc 
 vi' truth and 
 md went irn- 
 1 a liorse to 
 
 beaux with- 
 le tliought or 
 :] fashionable 
 he neiihcw of 
 inipleton was 
 ible ausi)iccs. 
 i residence of 
 irietta Maria. 
 / jcrni}!! llic 
 Near iuigle 
 iiess of Rieh- 
 ester's friend, 
 associations : 
 .■et, and CI ray 
 
 ; scene of all 
 [enry Jcrmya 
 it uncle who, 
 kept a lavish 
 lyn was called, 
 l)rocurc<l him 
 as large ; his 
 was not posi- 
 fling, and his 
 supplied him 
 
 regard of the 
 -the daughter 
 le — afterwards 
 him ; he cap- 
 
 I 
 
 .//v huoiit par able Beauty. 7^ 
 
 livateil al.o the lovely Mrs. Hyde, a languishii:,; beauty, whom 
 Sir IVter Lely has depicted in all he' sleepy attractions, with 
 her ringlets falling lightly over her snowy forehead ami down 
 to lier\houlders.^ This lady was, at the time when Jermyn 
 , ame to Kngland, recently married to the son of the great 
 Clarendon. She fell desperately in love with this unworthy 
 being; l)Ut, happily for her peace, he 'preferred the honour (or 
 dishonour) .of being the favourite of Lady CasUemaine, and 
 Mrs. llvde escaped the disgrace she, perhaps, merited. 
 
 De (irammont a[>pears absolutely to have hated Jermyn; 
 not because he was immoral, impertinent, and ( ontemptd)le, 
 but because it was Jermyn's boast that no woman, good or bad, 
 ( ould resist him. Yet, in respect to their unprincipled life, 
 Kri.un and De C.rammont had much in common. The Che- 
 "vaiici- was at this time an admirer of the foolish beauty, Jane 
 Middleton ; one of the loveliest women of a court where it was 
 impossible to turn v.ithout seeing loveliness. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton was the daughter of Sir Roger Xeedham ; 
 and she has been describeil, even by the gra\e l-.velyn, as a 
 •famous, and, indeed, incomparable beauty.' A cociuette, she 
 was. b.owever, the friend of intellectual men ; and it was i^ro- 
 l.jbly at the house of St. I'.vremond Uiat the Count first saw 
 her. ' Her figure was good, she was fair and delicate; and she 
 had so great^i desire. Count Hamilton relates, to ' appear mag- 
 nificently, that she was ambitious to vie widi those of the great- 
 est fortunes, though unable to sujjport the expense.' 
 
 Letters and presents now flew aDout. Perfumed glove.s. 
 pocket looking-glasses, elegant boxes, ajiricot ])aste, essences, 
 and other smaU wares arrived weekly from Paris; I'aighsh 
 jewellery still had the preference, and was liberally bestowed ; 
 yet Mrs. Middleton, affected and somewhat precise, ac(;epte<l 
 the gifts but did n(jt seem to encourage the giver. 
 
 The Count de Crammont, pi([ued, was beginning to turn his 
 attention to Miss Warmistre, one of the queen's maids of honour, 
 a lively brunette, and a contrast to the languid Mrs. Middleton ; 
 when, hapi)ily for him, a beauty appeared on tlie scene, and 
 attracted him, by higher (jualities than mere '-oks. to a real, 
 fervent, and honourable attachment. 
 
/2 Anthony I lauiilloii, I\- Cramuioiifs IVio-raplicr. 
 
 Amongst the lew rc.spcctcl families o*' that period was ihnt 
 of Sir (ieorgc Hamilton, the fourth son of |anies, Karl of Aher- 
 <orn, and of Mary, grand-daughter of Walter, eleventh I'larl of 
 Ormon.l. Sir Ceorge had distinguished himself durin- the 
 Civil Wars: on the death ,.f Charles I. he had retired to Fnmce 
 l>ut returned, after the Restoration, to I,ond«n. with a lar-J 
 family, all intelligent an<l beautiful. "" 
 
 From their relationship to the Ormond familv, the Hamil- 
 tons were soon installed in the first circles of fashion. The 
 Duke of Ormond's sons ha<l i.een in exile with the king; they 
 now added to the lustre of the < (nut after his return. 'Il^ie Marl 
 of Arran, the second, was a beau of the true Cavalier order; 
 clever at games, more ope.ially at tennis, the king's favourite 
 •hversion; he l(Hirhul the guitar well ; and marie hne </,////v-- 
 ///;//. ].or(l Ossory, his elder brother, had less vivacitv but 
 more intellect, an-l i-ossessed a liberal, honest nature, and an 
 heroic character. 
 
 All the good (lualities of tliese two young noblemen seem to 
 have been united in Anthony Hamilton, of whom l)e C.ram- 
 moiu gives the foll.nving < haracter :^-- '['he elder of the Hamil- 
 tons, then- cousin, was th.e man who, of all the court, dresse.l 
 best ; he was well made in his person, an.l pos.se,-.se(l those 
 happy talents whi. h lead to fortune, and proc ue sucess in 
 love: he was a most assiduous courtier, had the most lively 
 wu. the most p.^li^hed manners. an<l the most punctual atten- 
 tion lo his master imaginable; no peison danced better, nor 
 was any one a more general lover-™a merit of some a( rount in 
 a court entirely devoted to love ; \m\ gallantrv. Jt is not at all 
 surprising that, with these .|ualities. he su'cceeded mv Lord 
 I'aimouth in the king's favour.' 
 
 ■|~hc fascinating person thus described --s born in Irelan.d: 
 he had already experienced some vici, es, which were re- 
 
 neweil at the Revolution of 168.S, when he .le.l to France-- the 
 coimtry in which he had spent his youth-and died at .St. (Jer- 
 nvuns, in 17^0, aged seventy-four. His poetr>^ and his fairv 
 tales are forgotten ; but his ' Memoirs of the Count de Cram'- 
 im)nt 1. a work wlWd, ,-om!)ines the vivacity of a French writer 
 
 wall the truth of an l-jiglish historian. 
 
■aplwr. 
 
 i()(l was ihnt 
 larl of Aber- 
 nth Karl of 
 • lurinLC tlic 
 <1 to l''ranre, 
 villi a large 
 
 the liamil 
 'hion. The 
 
 king; they 
 
 The I'lail 
 
 Lilier order ; 
 
 ;'.s favourite 
 
 iove ad libi- 
 
 ivacitv but 
 n-e, and an 
 
 en seem to 
 
 De (Jrani- 
 
 tlie llaniil- 
 
 irt. dressed 
 
 .'.-.sed those 
 slIccc.^s in 
 
 uiost lively 
 tual atten- 
 better, nor 
 a<ruunl in 
 
 -i not at all 
 my Lord 
 
 in helan.d : 
 h werj re- 
 ranre — the 
 at St. Cer- 
 <1 his fairv 
 t dc CJram- 
 c-nch writer 
 
 The Tlircc Courts. 
 
 75 
 
 
 Ormond Yard, St. James's Sijuare, was the London residence 
 of the Duke of Ormond: the garden wall of Ormond House 
 took u[) the greater part of York Street: the Hamilton family 
 liad a ( ommodious house in the same courtlv neiL;hl)ourhood ; 
 and the cousins nn'ngled continually. Here !)er.-,()ns of the 
 ;creatcst distinction constantly met ; and here the ' Chevalier de 
 ('■rammont,' as he was still called, was received in a manner 
 suitable to his rank and style ; and soon regretted that he had 
 parsed so much time in other places ; for, after he once knew 
 the (harming Hamiltons, he wished for no other friends. 
 
 There were three courts at that time in the capital ; that at 
 Whitehall, in the king's ai)artments ; that in the (jueen's, in the 
 same palace; and that of Henrietta Maria, the QuecnMother, 
 as she was styled, at Somerset House. Charles's was pre-emi- 
 nent in immoralit\. and in the daily (outrage of all decency; 
 tj-.at of the unwoiihy widow of Charles I. was just bordering 
 on impropriety; Uiat of Katherine of Hraganza was still de- 
 corous, though r.ot irre])roachal)le. IV-p}'^' '"^ ''"^ Diary, has 
 tiiis passage :—^ Visited Mrs. Ferrers, and stayed talking with 
 her a good while, there being a little proud, ugly, talking lady 
 tliL-re, that was nnich crying up tlie «|ueene-mother's court at 
 Somerset House, above our ipieen's ; there be W'd, before her no 
 allowance of laughing and mirth that is at the other's ; and, in- 
 deed, it is obN-rved tliat the greatest court now-a-days is there. 
 Th-ence to Whitehall, where i carried my wife to see the (pieene 
 in her i)resence-chamber ; and the maydes of honour and the 
 young Duke of Monmouth, playing at larcK.' 
 
 (Jueen Kalhjrine, notwithstanding that the first words she 
 was ever known t'^ say in English were ' Yoii lie !' was one of 
 the gentlest of beings. Pepys describes her as having a modest, 
 innocent look, among all the demireps with whom she was 
 forced to associate. Again we turn to I'epys, an anecdote of 
 whose is characteristic of [)oor Katherin-'s submissive, uncom- 
 jilaining nature :■ — 
 
 '\\'ith Creed, to the King's Head ordinary; . . . and a 
 pretty gentleman in our company, who c:onf"irms my Lady 
 Castiemaiiie's b.eing gcMie from court, but knows not tlie reason ; 
 he told us of one wipe the (jueene, a little while ago, did give 
 
74 
 
 La biilc 1 fnniiltoiL 
 
 her, when she came in and found the ((Ueene under the dresser's 
 liands, and liad I)een so long. " I wonder your Majesty," says 
 she, "can have the patience to sit so long a-dressing?" — "I 
 have so niu* h reason to use patience," says the (jueene, " th.at 
 1 (an very well l)e:i.r witli it."' 
 
 It was in the court of this injured ([uccn that De Gramniont 
 went one evening to Mrs. Middleton's house : there was a ball 
 that night, and amongst the dancOrs was the loveliest creature 
 that l)e (irammont hail ever seen. His eyes were riveted on 
 this fair form ; he had heard, but never till then seen her, 
 whom all the world < onsented to call ' La IJelle Hamilton,' 
 and his heart instantly e( hoed the e.\i)ression. I'"rom this time 
 lie forgot Mrs. Middleton, and despised Miss Warmestre : 'he 
 found,' he said, that he 'had seen nothing at ( ourt till this 
 instant.' 
 
 'Miss Hamilton,' he himself tells us, 'was at the hapi)y age 
 when the charms of the fair sex begin to bloom; she had the 
 finest shape, the lo\eliest neck, and most beautiful arms in tlie 
 work! ; she was majestic and graceful in all her movements ; 
 and she was the original after which all the ladies copied in 
 their taste and air i)f dress. Her tbrehead was open, white, 
 and smooth ; her hair was well set, and fell with ease into that 
 natural order which it is so difticidt to imitate. Her complexion 
 was possessed of a certain freshness, not to be equalled by 
 borrowed coloiu's ; her eyes were not large, but they were lively, 
 and cajiable of expressing whatever she pleased.' '■' So far for 
 her ])erson ; but De Clranunont was, it seems, weary of external 
 charms: it was the intellectual superiority that ri\eted his feel- 
 ings, whilst his connoisseurship in l)eauty was satisfied that he 
 had ne\'er yet seen any one so perfect. 
 
 'Her mind,' he says, 'was a pro])er companion for such a 
 form : she did not endeavour to shine in conversation by those 
 sprightly sallies which only puzzle, and with still greater care 
 she avoided that affected solemnity in her discourses which 
 l)roduces stupidity; biU, without any eagerness to talk, she just 
 said what slie ou^ht, and no more. She had an ailmirable 
 
 k 
 
 i r- 
 
 \ 
 
 * Soe Ue (jr.'unniom'a Mctuoirs. 
 
■r the dresser's 
 ^lajcsty," says 
 essing?"— "I 
 luccne, 
 
 
 " that 
 
 )l' Ciramniont 
 ere was a ball 
 .'licst creature 
 re riveted on 
 len seen lier, 
 le Hamilton,' 
 'rem this time 
 irmestre : 'lie 
 < ourt till this 
 
 :he happy age 
 ; slie had the 
 1 arms in the 
 
 ■ movements ; 
 lies roi)ied in 
 
 open, white, 
 ease into that 
 er complexion 
 
 ■ e(iualled by 
 jy were lively, 
 ' ■' So for for 
 try of external 
 vetcd his feel- 
 tisfied that he 
 
 on for such a 
 ition by those 
 1 greater care 
 :ourses which 
 I talk, she just 
 an atlmirable 
 
 
 
 5) 
 
 a 
 
 'A 
 
 H 
 
 A 
 
 ■r, 
 
 D 
 
 3t 
 
 

.S/> Peter Lily's Port rait of Ilcr. 75 
 
 • lisrcrnincnt ii\ dlstinmiisliini; l)ctwecn solid and f.dse wit; and 
 iar from making an ostentatious display of her abilities, she was 
 reserved, though very just in her decisions. Her sentiments 
 were always noble, and even lofty to the liighest extent, when 
 there was occasion ; nevertheless, she was less proiiossessed 
 with her own merit than is usually the case with those who have 
 so nnich. Formed as we have des( ribed, she could not foil of 
 I ommanding love ; but so far was she from courting it, that she 
 vv.is scrupulously nice with respect to those whose merit might 
 ".lUitle tliLin to form any pretensions to her.' 
 
 Horn in 1641, Kli/abeih lor such was the Christian name of 
 this lovely and admirable woman — was .scarcely in her twentieth 
 year when she first aj.jjeared at Whitehall. .Sir Peter I.ely was 
 at that time i)ainling the ik-auties of the Court, and had done 
 full juslic e to the intellectual and yet iimocent face that riveted 
 De Crainmoni. He had depicted her with her rich dark hair, 
 of w1h( h a tendril ( r two fell on her ivory forehead, adorned 
 at the bai k with large pearls, under which a gauze-like tex- 
 ture was gathered up, falling over the fair shoulders like a veil : 
 a full corsage, bound by a light band either of ribbon or of gold 
 lace, confmiug. with a large jewel or button, tin; sleeve on the 
 shoulder, di.sguised .somewhat the c\([uisite shape. A frill of 
 fme cambric set off, whilst in whiteness it scarce rivalled, the 
 shoulder and neck. 
 
 The features of this ex(iuisite face are accurately described by 
 De Crammont, as Sir Peter has painted them. 'The mouth 
 does not smile, but seems ready to break out into a smile. 
 Nothing is sleepy, but everything is soft, sweet, and inno( eiU in 
 that face so beautiful anil so beloved.' 
 
 Whilst the colours were fresh on F.ely's i)alettes, James Duke 
 of York, that jjrotligate who ajjed the saint, saw it, and hence- 
 forth paid his i ourt to the original, but w.is repelled with fear- 
 less hauteur. The dissolute nobles of the court full ■. d his 
 example, even to the ' lady-killer' Jermyn. but in vain. L'n- 
 happily for Pa Belle Plamilton, she became sensible to the 
 attractions of De Cirammont, whom she e\entually married. 
 
 Miss Hamilton, intelligent as she was, lent herself to the 
 fashion of the day, and delighted in practical jokes and tricks. 
 
V> 'rite Ifoitscliolti Deity of Whitehall. 
 
 At tlu" splendid nias(|Ueradc .L;i\en by the i|UceM slic continued 
 to |il;i,i;iic Ik r ( oii^in, Lady Muskcrry ; to < on fuse and expose a 
 stupid (oint licitit)-, ,1 Mi-,, l!l.ii|iie; and at the same time to 
 jjrodiue on the Count de ( Iranininnt a still mmv iiovveiful effect 
 than even her (harms had done. Her .su( t ess in hoaxing- 
 whii h we shouldnow think both perilous and indelicate- seems 
 to ha\e on!}' riveted the ( hain, which was drawn around him 
 mole ^iron.ul). 
 
 i lis friend, or rather his fde, ,Si. l'',vremond, tried in \ain to 
 discourage the ('he\alier fn^m his new passion. 'I'lie formei' 
 tutor was, it appeared, jealous of its intluent e, and hurt thai 
 i)e Ciramniont was now seldom ai his lunise. 
 
 De (Irammont's answer to his remonstrances was \ery < hara( ■ 
 tcristic. "My poor philosopher,' he < rie<l, 'you under>t;uid 
 Latin well _\dU (an make uood NerNe-^ vou are at ijuainted 
 with the na.ture of the stars in the tirmament hut you are 
 uholly ignorant (jf the hnninaries in the terrestrial globe.' 
 
 lie then announced his intention to persevere, notwithstand- 
 ing all the ol»ta( les which atlai lied to the suit of a man with- 
 out eitliei- loi'lune or ( har.icter, who had been exiled from his 
 own ((juntry. and whose ( liiel' mode of lis elihood was dependeiit 
 on the gaming-table. 
 
 One can scarcely read of the infatuation of I. a llelle Hamil- 
 ton without a sigh. During a ])erioil of six _\ear.i their mar- 
 riage was in contemplation only; and 1 'e (Ir.unmont seems to 
 ha\e trilled inexcusabi) with the feelings of this once gav and 
 ever lovely girl. It was not for want of means that Ue (Irammont 
 thus delayed the fulfilment of his engagement. Charles II.. 
 inex(aisal)l)- knish, ga\e him a jiension of 1500 Jacobuses: it 
 was to be ]taid to him luuii he should be restored to the favour 
 of his own king. The fat t was that De CramuKjiit contributed 
 to the pleasures of the (ourt, and pleasure was the household 
 deity of \\'hitehall. Sometimes, in those days of careless gaiet} , 
 there were ])romenades in Spring (lardens, or the Mall ; some- 
 times the court beauties sallied forth on horseback ; at other 
 times there were shows (jii the ri\er. whit h then washed the 
 very I'oundations of Whitehall. 'I'here in the summer e\enings, 
 when it was too h(jt and dusty to walk, olil Thames might be 
 
.slic contimicd 
 and expose a 
 saiiK' time to 
 
 KHVcrflll etVc'ct 
 
 ii) hoaxing-- 
 .■licatc- -seems 
 
 II .iroiind liim 
 
 i(.Ml ill \aiii to 
 
 Wx tormer 
 
 .will I)iirt tliat 
 
 IS \ery < liarat - 
 )ii unilcrstaiid 
 re a(>|uainted 
 liul Noii are 
 1 .ylohe.' 
 notwithstand- 
 r a man with- 
 ■\ik(l irnni his 
 ivas (ielieixlerit 
 
 1 Jiellc 1 lamil- 
 ars their mar- 
 !iioiil .Neeins to 
 
 once t;ay and 
 
 1 )c(lrammont 
 
 Charles II., 
 
 Jacoluises : it 
 1 lo tlie favour 
 
 III (onlrihuled 
 liie h()U,'>eh(jM 
 areless gaiet\ , 
 J Mall ; some- 
 ia(~k : at other 
 .11 washed the 
 imer evenings, 
 mes might be 
 
 Who shall have the Calcchc .' 
 
 // 
 
 seen rovered with little boats, tilled with .ourt and ( ity beau- 
 ties, atten<ling the royal barges ; ( ollations. music, and fireworks 
 ( nmpleted the s( ene. and De Crammont alwa. s contrived some 
 siirpriNC some gallant show : once a concert of voc a! and in- 
 -ariiinental music. whi( h he had privately brought from I'aris, 
 stiu(k up unexj.ec tedly: aiKJther time a .ollation brought fnjm 
 the gay capital Mirpas>e(l that supplied by the king, 'j'hen the 
 Chevalier, finding that conches with gla^s win.lows. latdv in- 
 troduced, dis|.leased the ladies, because their (harms were only 
 pn-ti.illy seen in them, sent for the most elegant and superb 
 . '. r//, ever seen: it ( aine after a month's journey, and was 
 presentcil by I )e C.iMininont to the king, It was a royal jiresent 
 in price, for it had ( i.Nt two thousand livres. 'jlu- famous dis- 
 pute between Lady Castlemaine and .Miss Stuart, afterwards 
 Du.hess of Richmond, arose about this calkhc. 'I'he Queen 
 an.l the Duchess of York appeared first in it in HydeVark, 
 uhi< h h:id then recently been fenced in with bri( k. Lady Ca.s- 
 tlemnine thought that the c,///,//,' •,howed otV a fine figure better 
 than the c(ia(h : Miss .Stuart was of the same opinion. T.oth 
 these grown-uj) babies wished to have the coach on the same 
 day. but Miss .Stuart ])revaile(i. 
 
 The (^hieen (ondescended to laugh at the <|uarrels of these 
 two foolish women, and c omplimented the Chevalier de 
 (h-anunont on liis present. " Hut how is it.' she asked, 'that 
 you i\o not even keep a f.MHm.m. and that one of the c(munon 
 runners in the street lights you home with a link ?' 
 
 • Ma.lame.' he answered, 'the Chevalier de Crammont hates 
 P'^nip: my link boy is faithful and brave.' Then he told the 
 (Jueen that he siw she was un;i< (luainted with the nation cjf 
 hnk-boys. and related how that he had. at one time. ha<l one 
 hundred and sixty arouml his chair at night, and people ha<l 
 asked 'whose lunernl it was? .\s for the parade of coaches 
 •>nd lootmen,' he a.lded. * 1 dc.pi.e it. I have .sometimes had 
 Ine or six vahts-cL'-duvnhn; without a single footman in liverv 
 except my chaj>lain.' 
 
 'Ibnvr cried the (• 'n, laughing, 'a chaplain in liverv? 
 surely he was not a prit i* ' 
 
 ' P^'>-don, Madame, a pric>t. .i,u ihc best dan<-er in the world 
 of the IJiscavan gi^:.' 
 
7^ - / Cluif'la'ui in Liwry. 
 
 •Chevalier,' .viid the kin-, 'tell i:s the liistory of your 
 <li;i|)lain I'oiissatin.' 
 
 'I'hen J>e (iranunoiU related how. when he w.i-, with the ^re I 
 Coiide. alter the campaign of Catalonia, he had seen among a 
 <omiiany of Catalans, a priest in a little '.la<k ja( ket, skipping 
 and fri-^king : how Conde was (harmed, and how they recog 
 ni/cd III him .i Frendiman. and how he off-red himself to De 
 (irannnont for his ( haplain. I )e ( ir.iinniont Ii.mI ihm nun h 
 need, he said, for a (haplain in his house, hm In- tcjok liir 
 ])riest, who had afterwards (he honour of (lan( in;; before Annr 
 of Austria, in Paris. 
 
 Suitor after suitor interfered witli 1 )c (irammont's at hist 
 honoural lie address t(i I,a Utile Hamilton. At length ;. inci 
 dent o( ( urred which Iiad very nearly separated them for ever. 
 I'hilihert de (irammont was recalled to Paris by l.ouis XI\'. 
 He forgot. I'l-fiichmanlike. all his engagements to Miss 
 liamili.m, and hurried ou'. lie had rea( l^'d Dover, when her 
 two brolhers rode up after him. ' Chevalier de Crammont.' 
 they Slid. ' have you forgotten nothing in lajndon?' 
 
 ' 1 beg your pardon.' he answered. ' I forgot to marry your 
 sister.' it is sai<l that this story suggested to .Molieiv the idea 
 ol l.r MariiV^c fonr. They were, however, married. 
 
 In \U(h) La Melle Hamilton, after giving ])irth to a ( hild. 
 went to reside in l-'ranee. Charles lb. who thought she would 
 ])ass for a handsome woman in l'"rance, recommended her to 
 his sister. Henrietta Duchess of ( )rleans. and begged her to 
 be kind to her. 
 
 Henceforth the Chevalier 1 )e Crammont and his wife figured 
 at \ ersailles. where the Countess de Crammont was ai)])oinled 
 Dasitcdii Palais. Her career was less brilliant than in Kngland. 
 The French ladies deemed her haughty and old, and even 
 termed her U)ic Aiv^^laisc iiisupportablc. 
 
 She had certainly too much virtue, and perhai)s too much 
 beauty still, for the I'arisian ladies of fashion at that period to 
 admire her. 
 
 She endeavoured in vain, to reclaim her libertine husband, 
 and to call him to a sense of liis situation when he was on his 
 death-bed. Louis XIV. sent the Maniuis de Dangeau to con- 
 
A" Craiinuout's I.nst Hours. 
 
 ■<> 
 
 story of your 
 
 with I lie great 
 sct.Mi among a 
 ( kct, ski|i|)ing 
 )\v they rccog 
 liinself to Dc 
 i;mI not iiuK li 
 he took the 
 4 hcloru Aiidl- 
 
 iioiu's at last 
 
 
 cngth : . im I 
 
 
 hem for ever. 
 
 
 ' Louis XI\'. 
 
 
 nts to Miss 
 
 
 vcr. when her 
 
 
 e ( Irammont.' 
 
 
 to marr\' your 
 
 V 
 
 lilav the idea 
 
 
 h to a child. 
 
 \ 
 
 ^ht slie would 
 
 ^1 
 
 )eiidc(l her to 
 
 -i 
 
 jegged her to 
 
 1' 
 
 is wife figured 
 vas a|)])ointed 
 II in ringland. 
 Id. and even 
 
 i])s too much 
 hat period to 
 
 •ine husband, 
 iie was on his 
 n?eaii to ron- 
 
 vert him. and to talk to him on a sul*je<i little thought d' by 
 De (irammont the world to lome. After tlie Maniuis hid 
 bien talking fur scmie time, De (Irammont turned h^ hi^ wile 
 and said, ' Counte-^. if sou don't look ii it. I> ■; v\ will 
 juggle you out of my < onversion.' St. Kvrcmoml ,.iid he would 
 gladly di.. to go off with so su((es-,rul a bon-mot. 
 
 He became however, in time, serious, if not dcvuui ,.r 
 I'cnitmt. Ninon de I'l-'.nclos having written to St. i'lvremond 
 that the Count de (Iranunont had not only recoveretl but had 
 become <levout, St. Kvremond answered lu r in these words : 
 
 ' f have learned with a great deal of jjleasure that the (."ount 
 dcCrjinmont has recovered his fcjrmer he:dth, and ac(|uired 
 a new devotion. Ifitherlo I have been c(jntenled with being 
 a I'l iin hoiu'.-,L nun; but I must do something moie: ancl J 
 onlrw.iit for your example to become ;! ck'Vote.-. \'ou li\e 
 ni a <Miintry where people have wonderful adv. images oi' 
 saving their souls: there, vice is almo.-,! a, opposite to the 
 mode as virtue ; sinning passes for ill breeding, and shoe ks 
 dec incy and good-manners, as nuich as religion. Formerly 
 It was enough to be wi< ked. now one must be a .scoundrel 
 withU to be damned in Fram e.' 
 
 .\ report having been circulated that I )e (Irammont was 
 dead, St. Fvremonci expressed deep regret. The report was 
 contradicted by Ninon de I'Knclos. The Chevalier was then 
 eighiysi.x years of age; -nevertheless he was,' Ninon says, 
 'so young, that I think him as livel\ as when he hated sic!: 
 people, and loved them after they li.id recovered their health;' 
 a trait ver>^ desc-riptive of a man whose good-n;iture was 
 alway.s on the surface, but whose selfishness was deej) as that 
 of most wits and beaux, who are spoiled by the world, and 
 who. in return. clislni-,t and deceive the spoilers. With this 
 long life of eighty-six years, endowed a, he ( irammont was 
 with elasticity of sf.irits, good fortune, considerable talent, an 
 e.xcellent i)osition. a wit that never ceased to flow in a ''lear 
 current ; with all these advantages, what migin he not have 
 been to scjciety. h.id his energy ])een well applied, his wit 
 mnocent. his talents employed worthily, ;uid his heart as sure 
 to stand muster ;!s hi-; mnnncrs ? 
 
r. KAl' V I K LI)1X(;. 
 
 On Wits and I'.c.'iux.— ScotlnncI ^■a^l in ( 'liarli-s II. s dnv.- Orlando of 'Tlic 
 Tatk-r.-Hcau I'icldini,', justice of the IVace. — Adonis'in Search of a Wife. 
 --'1 he Sham Widow. \Vay.s and .Means.- Harliara Villiers, I„adv Castle- 
 inaine.- Quarrels with the King. — The licaus Second Marriage.— The 
 I^ast Davs vf I'ons and P.ean.x. 
 
 S"^ I'7r US Ijc wise, l)oys. licrc's a fool coming, said a sen 
 ^» j sihie ni;<n, when lie saw IJcaii Nash'.s .sijlendid car 
 
 sen- 
 .sjjlendid car- 
 riage draw up to the door. Is a l)eauafooI? Is 
 a sh.irper a fool ? Was l]ona])arte a fool ? If you rej)!/ ' no ' 
 to the last two ([uestions, you must give the same answer to the 
 fnsl. A beau is a fox, lu'.t not a fool — a very clever fellow, who, 
 knowing the weakness of his brothers and sisters in the world, 
 takes advantage of it to make himself a fame and a 
 fortune. Nash, the son of a glass-meirhant — Brummell, the 
 ho[)eful of a small shopkeeper — became the intimates of 
 princes, dukes, and fashionables ; were petty kings of Vanity 
 Fair, and were honoured by their subjects. In the kingdom of 
 the blind, the one-eyed man is king; in the realm of folly, the 
 shar[)er is a monan-h. The only pro\iso is, thnt the cheat 
 come not within the jurisdiction of the law. Such a cheat 
 is the beau or dandy, or fme gentleman, who im|)oses on his 
 ])ublic by his clothes and ap])earance. Jyoiia-Jide monarchs 
 have done .s nuich: Louis XI\'. won himself the title of Le 
 (Irand Monarcjue by his mannei-s, lu's dress, and his \anity, 
 iMekling, Xash, and Brummell did nothing more. Jt is not a 
 (lueslion whether .such roads to eminence be contemptible or 
 not. luit whether their adoption in one station of life be more 
 so than in another. Was Brummell a wJiit more contemptible 
 than A\'ales ?' ( )r is John Thomas, the pride and glory of the 
 * I)oine;>lics' i'ree and-Fasy,' whose \vhi.skcrs, figure, face, and 
 
 I 
 
-Orlando of 'The 
 1 Searcli of ,i Wife. 
 itis, Lady Castle- 
 d Marriage. —'I'lie 
 
 !ng, said a sen- 
 's splendid car- 
 Mii a fool ? Is 
 you re])ly ' no ' 
 2 answer to the 
 \cr fellow, who, 
 s in the world, 
 
 finie and a 
 I'.ninnnell, the 
 c intimates of 
 ni,s of \'anity 
 :lie kingdom of 
 n) of folly, the 
 Lh;it the cheat 
 
 Sucli a cheat 
 imposes on his 
 -Jiik monarchs 
 the title of Le 
 and his vanitv. 
 e. Jt is not a 
 ontemptible or 
 )f life be more 
 e contemptible 
 nd glory of the 
 giire, face, and 
 
 Ou Wits and Pnaitx. 8r 
 
 manner are all suj^erb, one atom more ridiculous than your 
 recognized beau ? I trow not. ^Vhat right, then, has your 
 beau to a place among wits ? I fancy Chesterfield would be 
 much disgusted at seeing his name side l)y siile with that of 
 i\a.h in this volume; yet Chesterfield had no objection, when 
 at bath, to do homage to the king of that city, and may have 
 prided himscll on exchanging pinches from diamond-set snuff- 
 boxes with that superb gold-laced dignitary in the Pump-room 
 Certainly, people who thought little of Philii, Dormer Stanhope 
 thought a great deal of the glass-merchanfs reprobate .son 
 wlien he was in power, and submitte.l without a murmur to his 
 impertinences. The f u t is, that the beaaix and the wits are 
 more inlunateiy cunne. led than the latter would care to 
 own: the wits have all been, or aspired to l)e, beaux, an.l ],eaux 
 have had their fair share of wit; both lived for the same pur- 
 pose-to shine in society : ],oth used the same means-coats 
 and bon-mots. The only distinction is, that the garments of 
 the beaux were ],etter, and their sayings not so good as those 
 «>f the WHS ; while the conversation of the wits was better and 
 incr .,|,p,nvl not so striking as those of the beaux. So my 
 l^ord Chcslerfiel.l, who prided yourself quite as much on beinf^ 
 a t.nc gentleman as on being -^ fine wit. you cannot complain 
 at your proxunity to Mr. Nas.. .^^.\ others who r.v;vfine gentle- 
 men, and would ha\ e been line wits if thev < ould 
 
 Robert Fielding was, pcrliaps. the least of the beaux ; but then 
 I" HK.ke up lor this, he belonged to a noble familv: he married a 
 duchess, and, what is more, he beat her. Surely 'in the king.loni 
 of fools such a man is not to be despised. Yoti may be sure he 
 ^'■'1 '^o^.H'-nk he was, fur was he not made the subject of two 
 papers in ' Ihe Tatler,' anrl what more coul.l such a man desire > 
 H|s ather was a Sufiolk scp.ire, claiming relationship with 
 the Lars o Denbigh, ami therefore, with the liapsburgs from 
 whom the Jieau and the Kmperors of Austria had the .'^mmon 
 honour of being descended. Perhaps neither of them had suff- 
 icient sense to be proud of the greatest intellectual ornament of 
 l!'^:'?'^'^"!^'''"'^':''^'^"' J'--;'i-tas our hero was 
 
 r r'"'^;'? '''T''^' ^^^ I^^n^t is not lair to conjecture 
 ^\ hat he might have thought on llie subjer t. 
 
82 Scotland Yard in Charles Il.'s Day. 
 
 It does not appear that very inucli is known of this great 
 gem of the race of Ilapsl^urg. Mc liad tlie misfortune to l)e 
 very handsome, and tlie folly to think that his face would be 
 liis fortune : it certainly stood him in good stead at times, but 
 it also brought him into a lamentable dilemma. 
 
 His father was not rich, and sent his son to the Temjjle to 
 study laws which he was only fitted to break. The young 
 Adonis had sense enough to see that destiny did not beckon 
 him to fame in the gloom of a musty law court, and removed 
 a little further uj) to the I'hames, and the more fashionable 
 region of Scotland Yard. Here, where now Z 300 repairs to 
 report his investigations to a ("ommissioner, the young dandies 
 of Charles H.'s day strutted in gay doublets, swore hasty oaths 
 of choice invention, smoked the true Tobago from huge l)ipe- 
 bowls, and ogled the fair but not too bashful dames who passed 
 to and fro in their chariots. 'I'he court took its name from the 
 royalties of Scotland, who, when the}- visited the South, were 
 there lodged, as being con\eniently near to AVhitehall Palace. 
 It is odd enough that the three architects, Inigo Jones, Van- 
 brugh, and Wren, all lived in this yard. 
 
 It was not to Ijc sujiposed that a man who could so well ap- 
 preciate a handsome face and well-cut doublet as Charles H. 
 should long overlook his neighbour. Mr. Robert Fielding, and 
 in due course the P.eau, who had no other diploma, found him- 
 self in the honourable position of a justice of the peace. 
 
 The emoluments of this office enabled Orlando, as ''I'he 
 Tatler' calls him, to shine forth in all his ii\or\. With an en- 
 vialile indifference to the future, he launched out into an 
 o.\j)enditure which alone would have made him ])opular in a 
 country where the heaviest purse makes the greatest gentleman. 
 His lactjueys were arrayed in the brightest yellow coats with 
 black sashes — the Hajjsburg colours. He had a carriage, of 
 course, but, like Shei-idan's, it was hired, though drawn by his 
 own horses. 'I'his carriage was described as being shaped like 
 a sea-shell ; and 'the Tatler' calls it 'an open tumbril of less 
 size than ordinary, to show the largeness of his limbs and the 
 c^ranfleur of his i.tersonaire to the l.'est advantncre.' The said 
 limbs were Fielding's especial pride : he gloried in the strength 
 
 
Day. 
 
 n of this great 
 
 lisfortune to l)e 
 
 face would he 
 
 id at times, hut 
 
 the Temjilc to 
 ;. The youni^ 
 did not beckon 
 t, and removed 
 )re fasliional)lc 
 300 repairs to 
 .' young dan(Hes 
 ore hasty oaths 
 rom huge l^pe- 
 nes who passed 
 name from the 
 the Soutli, were 
 hitehall Palace. 
 ,'() Jones, Van- 
 
 ild so well ap- 
 as Charles 11. 
 , Fielding, and 
 11a, found hini- 
 
 peace. 
 mdo, as ' The 
 ■. "With an en- 
 1 out into an 
 n popular in a 
 test gentleman. 
 o\v coats with 
 
 a carriage, of 
 I tlrawn by his 
 ng shaped like 
 umbril of less 
 limbs and the 
 ge.' The said 
 in the strength 
 
 4% 
 
 Or/audo of The Tafia-: ^^ 
 
 of his leg and arm ; and whei. he walked down the street he 
 waslollowed by an admiring crowd, whom he treated with as 
 much haughtmess as if he had been the emperor himself, instead 
 of his cousm five hundred times removed. ]{c used his 
 strength to good or bad j.urpose, and was a redoubted fi^dUer 
 and bull)-, thu- -h good-natured withal. In the Mall as he 
 •strutted, he ,v ■ die cynosure of all female eyes. His dress 
 iK-d all the ■:, ganre of which the grareAil costume of that 
 pcnod was capable, though Fielding ,|,<1 not. hke Brummell 
 understand die delicacy of a (juiet. but stu.lie.l stvie Thosx' 
 uere simpler, somewhat more honest davs. It was not necessary 
 or a man to cloak his vices, nor be ashame.l of his cloak The 
 beau then-a-day openly and . '-rogantly glorie.l in the grandeur 
 ot his attue ; and bragging was a part of his character. Fieldin- 
 was made by his tailor; nrumnieil ma<Ie his tailor- the onlt- 
 pomt in common to both was that neither of them paid the 
 tailor's bill. 
 
 The fine gentleman, under the .Stuarts, was fine only in his 
 lace and h.s velvet .loublet : his language was coarse, his man 
 ners coarser, Ins vuxs tlie coarsest of all. No wonder when the 
 kmg himsell could get so drunk with Sedley an.l buckhurst as 
 to be unable to give an audience appointed for; and when the 
 chief fun of his two rompanions was to divest themselves of all 
 the habihments which civilization has had the ill taste to make 
 necessary, and m that .state; run about the streets. 
 
 /Orlando- wore the finest ruffles and the heaviest .sword- his 
 w.g was combed to perfection; and in his pocket he carrie.l a 
 httle comb with which to arrange it from time to time, even 
 as the d.indv of to-day pulls out his whiskers or curls his mous- 
 ache. Such a man could not be pa.ssed over ; and accordin-dy 
 he numbered half the officers and gallants of the town amo%' 
 h.s intimates. He drank, swore, and swaggered, and the snobs 
 of the day proclaimed him a 'com[,lete qentleman.' 
 
 Mis impudence, however, was not always tolerated. In the 
 playhouses of the day, it was the fashion for some of the spec- 
 tators to stand upon the stage, and the i,laces in that po.sition 
 were chiefly occupied l>y young gallants. The ladies came 
 most m masques : but this did not prevent Master Fielding 
 
 0—- 
 
84 
 
 Adonis in Search of a Wife. 
 
 from inakinc; his remarks very freely, and in no very refined 
 strain to them. The modest damsels, whom I'oi)e has described, 
 
 ■ 'I he fair sat pouting at the courtii'r's play, 
 Ami not ;i mask wfiit iiniiiiprovcd away : 
 'I'lii; niodi-'^t fan was lifti'd uji no mori', 
 And virgins smiled at what they blushed before, ' 
 
 were not too coy to be pleased with the fops' attentions, and 
 replied in like strain. The players were tmheeded ; the audi- 
 ence lauj^hcd at the ini])roviscd and natural wit, when carefully 
 ])rei)ared dialogues tailed to fix their attention. The actors were 
 disgusted, and, in si)ite of Master Fielding's herculean strength, 
 kicked him off the stage, with a warning not to come again. 
 
 The !vli' of a beau is expensive to kee]) u]) ; and our justice 
 of the peace could not, like Nash, double his income by gaming. 
 lie soon got det.-ply into debt, as every celebrated dresser has 
 done. The old story, not new even in those days, was enacted 
 antl the brilliant Adonis had to keep watch and ward against 
 tailors and bailiff's. On one occasion they had nearly caught 
 him ; but his legs being lengthy, he gave thcni fiir s])ort as far 
 as St. James's Palace, where the officers on guard rushed out to 
 save their pet, and drove off the myrmidons of the law at the 
 point of the sword. 
 
 [')Ut debts do not pay themselves, nortlie, and Orlando with 
 all his strength ai.l jirowcss could not long kcej) off the con- 
 stable. I'A'il days gloomed at no very great distance before 
 him. and the fear of a sponging-house and debtors' j^rison com- 
 pelled him to turn his handsome ])erson to account. Had he 
 not broken a hundred hearts already? had lie not ci:armed a 
 thousand j)airs of beaming eyes ? was there not one owner of 
 one i)air who was also possessed of a i)retty forltme ? Who 
 should lia\e the honour of being the wife of such an Adonis ? 
 who, indeed, but she who could pay highest for it; and who 
 ( ould pay with a hardsome income but a well-dowered widow ? 
 A widow it must be — a widow it should be. Noble indeed was 
 the sentiment which inspired this great man to sacrifice himself 
 on the altar of Hymen for the good of his creditors. Ye young 
 men u:i liie C.uards, who do this kind of thing e\ery day — that 
 is, every d.iy that }0U can meet with a widow with the jnopcr 
 
o very refined 
 e has described, 
 
 attentions, and 
 ilcd : the audi- 
 
 wheii carefully 
 The actors were 
 nilean strength, 
 come again, 
 and our justice 
 ome by gaming. 
 ted dresser has 
 ys, was enacted 
 <1 ward against 
 1 nearly caught 
 fair sjiort as far 
 d rushed out to 
 
 the law at the 
 
 (1 Orlando with 
 ep off the con- 
 distance before 
 Drs' i)rison com- 
 :ount Had he 
 not cnarmcd a 
 t one owner of 
 fortune ? Who 
 ach an Adonis? 
 or it ; and who 
 owered widow ? 
 oble indeed was 
 sacrifice himself 
 ors. Yc young 
 e\ery day — that 
 wiUi the jiropcr 
 
 t 
 
^1 
 
T]ic Sham IVido'c 
 
 85 
 
 ) w-i 
 
 mm \ 
 
 
 »i' 
 
 V 
 
 K 
 
 VIsJ 
 
 (lualifirations— take warning by the lamentable history of Mr. 
 Robert Fielding, and never trust to ' third parties.' 
 
 .\ widow was found, fat, lair, antl forty— and oh I —charm 
 greater far than all the rest— with a fortune of sixty thousand 
 jiounds ; this was a Mrs. Deleau, who lived at Whaddon in 
 Surrey, and at Copthall-court in London. Nothing could be 
 more charming ; and the only obstacle was the absence of all 
 acquaintance between the parties— for, of course, it was im- 
 jjossible for any widow, whatever her attractions, to be insensible 
 to those of Robert l-'ielding. Under these circumstances, the 
 lieau looked about for an agent, and found one in the person 
 of a Mrs. Villars, hairdresser to the widow. He offered this 
 person a handsome douceur in case of success, and she was to 
 undertake that the lady should meet the gentleman in the most 
 unj premeditated manner, \ariuus schemes were resorted to: 
 with the alias, for he was not above an alias, of Major-(Jeneral 
 Mllars, the Beau called at the widow's country house, and was 
 ])ermilted to see the gardens. At a window he espied a lady, 
 whom he took to be the object of his ])ursuit— bowed to her 
 majestic ally, and went awa}-, persuailcd he must iiave made an 
 imiiression. lint, whether the widow was wiser than wearers of 
 weeds have the reputation of being, or whether the agent had 
 really no ])0wer in the matter, the meeting ne\cr came on. 
 
 'I'he hairdresser naturally grew anxious, the douceur was too 
 uocjd to be lost, and as the widow could not be had, some one 
 niii^t bo supi)lied in her jilace. 
 
 One (lav while the Beau was sitting in his splendid 'night- 
 gown; as the morning-dress of gentlemen Wvis then called, two 
 
 MiUe-. were u>hcred into his august presence. He had been 
 w.'.riKd of this visit, and was prepared to receive the yiohling 
 A\ idow. The one, of course, was the hairdresser, the other a 
 young, jireltv, and a/^parcn/ly modest creature, who bluslu 1 
 much — th.ough with some difficulty— at the trying jMjsition m 
 which she found herself The Beau, delighted, did his best to 
 reassure her. He tlung himself at her feet, swore, with oaths 
 more fashionalile than delicate, that she was the only woman 
 he ever loved, antl iirevailed on the widow so far as to induce 
 her to ' call a^ain to-morrow.' 
 
86 IVoj's and Means. 
 
 Of course she came, and Adonis was in heaven. He wrote 
 little poems to her— for, as a gallant, he could of course make 
 verses— serenaded her through an Italian donna, invited her 
 to suppers, at which the delicacies of the season were served 
 without regard to the jnirveyor's account, and to which, coy as 
 she was, she consented to come, and clenched the engagement 
 with a ring, on which was the motto, ' 'J'ibi Soli.' Nay, the 
 Ueau had been educated, and had some knowledge of ' the 
 tongues,' so that he added to these attentions, the further one 
 of a song or two translated from the (Ireek. The willow ought 
 to have been ])leased, and was, One thing only she stipulated, 
 namely, that the marriage should be private, lest her relations 
 should forbid the banns. 
 
 Having brought her so far, it was not likely that the fortune- 
 hunter would Stic k at such a mere trifle, and accordingly an 
 entertainment was got u]) at the IJeau's own rooms, a supper 
 suitable to the rank and wealth of the widow, provided by 
 some obligingly ( redolous tradesman ; a ])riest found — for, be 
 it premised, our hero had changed so much of his religion as 
 he had to change in the reign of James H., when Romanism 
 was not only fashionable, but a sure road to fortune — and the 
 mutually satisfied couple swore to love, honour, and obey one 
 another till deatli them sliould part. 
 
 The \\c\i morning, however, the widow left the gentleman's 
 lodgings, on the i)retext that it was injudicious for her friends 
 to know of their union at present, and continued to visit her 
 sposo and sup somewhat amply at his chambers from time to 
 time. AVe can imagine the anxiety (Jrlando now felt for a cheque 
 book at the heiress's bankers, and the many insinuations he 
 may have delicately made, touching ways and means. We can 
 fancy the artful excuses with which these hints were put aside 
 by his attached wife. lUit the dupe was still in happy ignorance 
 of the trick played on him, and for a time such ignorance 
 was bliss. It must have be n trying to him to be called on 
 by Mrs. Villars for the i)romised douceur, but he consoled 
 himself with the ])leasures of hope. 
 
 Unfortunatclv, however, he had formed the acauaintance of a 
 
Barbara Villicrs, Lady Castlcma'uic. 
 
 «7 
 
 He wrote 
 irse make 
 vited licr 
 LTc served 
 ch, coy as 
 igagemcnt 
 Nay, the 
 go of ' the 
 irthcr one 
 low ought 
 stipulated, 
 r relations 
 
 le fortune- 
 rdingly an 
 ;, a supper 
 )vided by 
 d — for, be 
 religion as 
 Romanism 
 — and the 
 obey one 
 
 :ntleman*s 
 
 ler friends 
 
 I visit her 
 
 )m time to 
 
 r a cheque 
 
 lations he 
 
 We can 
 
 ; put aside 
 
 ignorance 
 
 ignorance 
 
 J called on 
 
 consoled 
 
 itance of a 
 
 woman of a very different reputation to the real Mrs. Deleau, 
 and the intimacy which ensued was fatal to him. 
 
 When Charles 11. was wandering abroad, he was joined, 
 amoi /thers, by a Mr. and Mrs. Palmer. The husband was a 
 stand, old Romanist, with the ([ualities which usually accom- 
 panied that faith in those days — little respect for morality, and 
 a good deal of bigotry. In later days he was one of the vic- 
 tims suspected of the Titus Oates jjlot, but escaped, and even- 
 tually died in Wales, in 1705, after having been James II. 's 
 ambassador to Rome. This in a few words, is the history of 
 that Roger Palmer, afterwards Lord Castlemaine, who by some 
 is said to have sold his wife - not at .Smithfield, but at White- 
 hall — to his Majesty King Chades II., for the sum of one 
 peerage — an Irish one, taken on consideration; by others, is 
 alleged to have been so indignant with the king as to have re- 
 mained for some time far from court ; and so disgusted with 
 his elevation to the peerage as scarcely to assume his title; and 
 this last is the most authenticated version of the matter. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer belonged to one of the oldest families in 
 England, and traced her descent to Pagan de Villiers, in the 
 days of William Rufus, and a good deal farther among the 
 nobles of Normandy. She w.is tlie daughter of William, second 
 Viscount Grandison, and rejoiced in the appropriate name of 
 IJarb.-ira, for she anild be savage occasionally. She was very 
 beautiful, and very wicked, and soon became Charles's mistress. 
 On the Restoration she joined the king in iMigland, and when 
 tlie poor neglected ([ueen came over was foisted upon her as a 
 bedchamber-woman, in sidte of all the objections of that ill- 
 used wife. It was necessary to this end that she should be the 
 wife of a peer ; and her husband accepted the title of Karl 
 of Castlemaine, well knowing to what he owed it. Pepys, who 
 admired Lady Castlemaine more than any woman in England, 
 describes the husband and wife meeting at Whitehall with a 
 cold ceremonial bow : yet the husband ivas there. A c[uarrel 
 between the two, strangely enough on the score of religion, her 
 ladyship insisting that her child should be christened by a Pro- 
 testant clergyman, while his lordship insisted on the ceremony 
 being performed by a Romish priest, brought about a separa- 
 
8S Quarrels icith the Kinj^. 
 
 lion, and from that time I.ady Casllcniainc, lod^cil in W'liito- 
 li.ill. l)i.',i;an lur empire over the king of Kngland. 'Hiat man, 
 ' wlio never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one,' was 
 the skive of this imperious and most impudent of women. She 
 forced him to settle on her an immense fortune, mii< h (jf which 
 she s(|iiandercd at llie has^el-tahle, often staking a thou.sand 
 ])Oimils at a time, and sometimes losing fifteen llioiisand pounds 
 aniglit. 
 
 Nor did liiT wickeihiess t.iul here. We have some pity for 
 one, who, like Ka \'alliere. ( ould he attracted hy the attentions, 
 of a handsome, fas(inating prince: we pily though we blame, 
 lint l,a;ly Castlemaine was \ icious to the very marrow : not 
 content with a king's favour, she courted herself the young 
 gallant of the town. (}uarrel^ ensue<l between Charles and his 
 mistress, in whi( h the latter invariably came off victoriou.s, 
 owing to her indomitable temjjer ; and the scenes recorded I)y 
 Dc ( Irammont — when she tlireatciied to burn down Whitehall, 
 and tear her (liildrcn in pieces are too disgraceful for inser- 
 tion, .'^he forced the reprobate monarch to consent to all her 
 e.\t(;rlionate demamls : ritlod the nation's pockets as well as hi.s 
 own ; and at every fresh ditVerence, forced Charles to give her 
 some new llen'^ion. An intrigue with Jermyn, discovered .and 
 objected to by the king. broug]it on a fresh and more serious 
 difference, wliiih w.is onl\- jialthed up by a ii;itent of the 
 Duchy of Cleveland. The Duchess of Cleveland was even 
 worse than the Countess of Castlemaine. Abandoneil in time 
 by Charles, and detested by all ])eo[)le of any decent feeling, 
 she consoled herself for the loss of a real king by ta.king up 
 with a stage one. Hart and Coodman, the actors, were suc- 
 ( i.ssi\ely her cavalieri ; the Ibrmer had beeii a captain in the 
 .ainy : the latter a student at Caml)ridge. IJoth were men of 
 the coarsest minds and most depraved lives. (joodman, in 
 alicryears was so reduced that, finding, as Sheridan advised 
 his son to do, a pair of pistols handy, a horse saddled, and 
 llounslow Heath not a hundred miles distant, he took to the 
 pleasant and proiitable pastime of which Dick Turpin is the 
 ])atron saint, lie w.is all but hanged for his daring robberies, 
 but unlbriunately not quite so. He lived to suffer such indi- 
 
 
1 ill Whitc- 
 'rh.it man, 
 ic oiu',' was 
 jnic'ii. She 
 h of which 
 a ihousand 
 ;in(l i)Oun(l,s 
 
 lie |iity fur 
 J attcniions. 
 
 wc blame, 
 arrow : not 
 
 llic young 
 rlc's and his 
 
 victorious, 
 LTordcd by 
 
 Whitehall, 
 1 lor inscr- 
 
 to all her 
 
 well as his 
 to give iier 
 overed and 
 ore serious 
 cnt of the 
 I was even 
 ed in time 
 ent feeling, 
 ' taking up 
 , Were suc- 
 tain in the 
 ere men of 
 jodman, in 
 Ian advised 
 .ddled, and 
 ;ook to the 
 irpin is the 
 ; robberies, 
 
 such indi- 
 
 T! c Bcaits Second Marriage. 89 
 
 genre, that he and another rascal had but one under-garnient 
 between them, and entered into a compact that one should lie 
 in bed while the other wore the arti( le in (piestion. Naturally 
 enough the two fell out in time, and the end of (Joodman — 
 sad misnomer— was worse than his beginning : sudi was the 
 gallant whom the imperious Duchess of Cleveland vouchsafed 
 t'l honour 
 
 The life of the once beautiful Barbara Villiers grew daily 
 more and more dej. raved : at the age of thirty she retired to 
 I'ari.-., shunned and disgraced. After numerous intrigues abroad 
 and at home, she put tiie crowning ])oint to her follies by fall- 
 ing in love with the handsome Fielding, when she herself num- 
 bered sixty five summers. 
 
 \\helher the IJeau still tliought of A)rtune. or whether having 
 OIK e tried matrimony, he was so enchantetl with it as to make 
 it his cacoethes. does not appear : the legend explains not for 
 what reason he married the anti<|uated beauty only three 
 weeks after lie had been uni'ed to the supposed widow. For 
 a time he wavered l)etweeii the two. but that time was short : 
 the widow discovered his second marriage, claimed him, and 
 in so doing revealed the well-kept secret that she was not a 
 widow; indeed, not even the relict of John Deleau, Ks(|., of 
 Whaddon. but a wretched adxenturer of the name of Mary 
 Wadsworth, who had shared with Mrs. Villars the plunder of 
 the trick. 'I'iie iJeau tried to ])reserve his dignitv, and throw 
 over his dupcr, but in vain. The first wife reported the state 
 of affiirs to the second; and the duchess, who had been 
 shamefully treated by .Master I'ielding, was only too glad of 
 an opportunity to gel rid of him. She offered Mary Wads- 
 worJi a pension of ;^ioo a year, and a sum of ^200 in ready 
 money, to prove the ])revious marriage. The case came on, 
 and Beau Fielding had the honour of playing a part in a 
 famous state trial. 
 
 With his usual impudence he undertook to defend himself 
 at the Old Bailey, and hatched up some old story to prove that 
 the first wife was married at the time of their union to one 
 Brady ; but the j^lea fell to the ground, and the fine gentleman 
 was sentenced to be burned in the hand. His interest in cer- 
 
90 'I lie Last Days of Fof's mid Ikanx. 
 
 tain <|iiartcrs savcil him tliis ignominious punishment which 
 would, (l(jul»tlcss, liavc sijoilcd a Hmb of whitth he was particu- 
 larly proud, f Ic was pardoned : the real widow married a far 
 more honourable gentleman, in spite of the unenviable noto- 
 ' ity she had accjuired ; the sham one was somehow cpiieted, 
 .iiiil the <hi(hess died some four years later, llie more peacefully 
 /or being m\ o( her tyrannit al mate. 
 
 '(Iiiis ended a pef;' s( aiidal of iIk.- day, in which all the 
 jfcarties were so dis; that no one < ould feel any sym- 
 
 pathy for a single one ul Uicin How the dupe himself ended 
 is not known. The last flays of fops and beaux are ne\er glo- 
 rious. Uruiiimell died in slovenly penury ; Nash in contempt. 
 Melding lapsed into *he dimmest obscurity ; and as f;ir as 
 evidence goes, there is .is little ( ertainly about his death as of 
 that of the Wandering jew. Let us hope that he is not still 
 alive: tliough his friends seemed to have cared httle whether 
 he were so or not, to judge from a <ouple of verses written by 
 one of them : — 
 
 ' If Kidding is dcatl, 
 
 Ami rests iiiidiT this "jtono, 
 'I'licn 111' IS not .ilivc 
 
 Vdii ni.iy lu't two to one. 
 
 ' I'lit if lii-'s alive, 
 
 And (kx's not lit' then? — 
 \xl liiin !i\i' till lie's lianijcd, 
 l''ur wiiicli nu man will care' 
 
 Ol 
 
 lii.'( 
 
 ."^1 
 
 !'*;;) 
 
>hmcnt which 
 c was particu- 
 niarricd a far 
 ;nviable noto- 
 •how tiuietcd, 
 ore iicaccfully 
 
 which all the 
 Feci any syin- 
 limscir ended 
 ire nc\er glo- 
 in contempt, 
 and as far as 
 s (loalli as of 
 le is not still 
 little whether 
 es written by 
 
 OK CKR'IALN (1.1 
 
 M' I I, UP.- WITS 
 \ E. 
 
 UNDKk 
 
 I hi' I5.><'f-stcak ( liib.- Of riTtain oili.: 1 1„. Kii k.n ( •lub 
 
 Komanc- of the liuwl. The Toasts of ih-' K,t k.it. Th.; Mcnib.rH of the 
 Kit-kal. A good Wit, and a bad Archit.ct. ' WVll-naliind (iarth/ Tli.- 
 lo.ts of the kit-kat. -( harks Montagu. Karl of Haht.x. ( hniKvlInr 
 homm.- Charles Sackville. Lord Uorsct. U-ss tvleliratcd Wits. 
 
 SUn'OSi: that, long before the building of I5abel, 
 man (lis(n\cred that he was an associative animal, 
 with tlie universal motto, ' i: union c\-st h force :' and 
 that association, to be of any use, requires talk. A history of 
 celebratetl associations, from the l)uilding society just mentioned 
 down to the thousands wlii* h are represented by an offu .■ a 
 secretary, and a brass-plate, in the present day, would give 
 curious sdieuie of the natural tendencies of man; whiie tls ■ 
 story of iheir failures- and how many have not failed, .sooner 
 or later: would be a pretty moral les.son to your anthiopo 
 laters who Dabeli/e now-a-days, and believe there is nothing 
 which a company with capital cannot achieve. I wonder what 
 object there is, that twr men can possibly agree in desirin- 
 and whi( h it takes more than one to attain, for which an a.sso 
 ciation of some kind has not l)cen formed at some time or 
 other, since first the swarthy savage learned that it was nece.s- 
 sary to unite to kill the lion which infested the neighbourhood! 
 Ala( k for human nature ! I fear by far the larger proportion 
 of the objects of associations would be found rather evil than 
 good, and, certes, nearly all of them might be ranged under 
 two heads, according as the passions of hate or desire found 
 a common object in several hearts. Gain on the one hand 
 
92 The Origin of Clubs. 
 
 destruction on the other — liavc been the chief motives of cUib- 
 bing in all time. 
 
 A delight fill e\ccj)tion is to be found, though — to wit, in 
 associations for the purpose of talking. I do not refer to ])ar- 
 liaments and philosophical academies, but to those conii)anics. 
 which ha\e been formed for the sole ])urpose of mutual enter- 
 tainment liy interchange of thought. 
 
 Now. will any kind reatler oblige mc with a deri\ation of the 
 won! 'Club ?' I doubt if it is easy to discover. lUit one thing 
 is ceilain, whatever its origin, it is, in its present sense. ];urely 
 English in idea and in existence. Dean Trench points diis out, 
 and, noting the fact that no other nation (he might have c.\- 
 ccjitcd the riiinesc) has any word to express this kind of asso- 
 < iation, he has. with very pardonable natural i)ridc, but unpar- 
 donably bad logic, inferred that the English are the most 
 so( iable people in the world. The contrary is true ; nay, ivas 
 true, e\en in the days of Addison, Swift, Steele even in the 
 days of Johnson, Walpole, Selwyn ; ay, at all lime since we 
 ha'.e been a nation. The fact is, we are not the m()>t scjciable, 
 but ilie most associative race; and tlie eslabliNJimenl of clubs 
 is a proof of it. We cannot, and never < ould. talk freely, com- 
 fortably, and generally, without a company for talking. Con- 
 versation has always been with us as much a bu^ines^, as rail- 
 road making, or what not. It has always (leni:inded certain 
 accessories, certain condiments, certain stimulants to work it 
 ui) to the ])roper i)itch. 'We all know' we are the < leverest 
 and wittiest peoi^le under the sun : but then our wit has been 
 stereoty[)e(l. France has no ' Joe Miller ;' for a bon-mot there, 
 however good, is only api)rcciated historically. Our wit is 
 linnted. not spoken : our best wits behind an inkhorn ha\e 
 sometimes been the veriest logs in society. On the Continent 
 clubs were not called for, because society itself was the arena 
 of conversation. In this country, on the other hand, a man 
 could only chat when at his ease ; coukl only be at his ease 
 among those who agreed with him on the main points of reli- 
 gion and politics, and even then wanted the aid of a bottle 
 to make him comfortable. Our want of sociability was the 
 
Dtivcs of club- 
 
 gh — to wit, in 
 
 I refer to ])ar- 
 
 Dse com])anics 
 
 imitual cntor- 
 
 •rivation of the 
 Uiit one thing 
 .scnhc. ])urely 
 loinls this out, 
 light liave ex- 
 kind of asso- 
 ile, hut unpar- 
 are the most 
 rue ; nay, r^'tw 
 -even in the 
 time since wt 
 nio.-t s()( iahle, 
 meiU of chihs 
 Ik freel}-, com- 
 Lalkiiig. Con- 
 isiness as rail- 
 landed certain 
 Its to work it 
 the cleverest 
 wit lias been 
 bon-mot there, 
 Our wit is 
 inkliorn h.wc 
 the Continent 
 was the arena 
 liantl, a man 
 )e at liis ease 
 jioints of reH- 
 d of a bottle 
 biHtv was the 
 
 T/w Establishment of Coffcc-Hoiiscs. 93 
 
 cause of our chd^bing, and therefore the word ' chib' is purely 
 Knglish. 
 
 'I'his was never so much the case as after tlie Restoration. 
 Religion and politics never ran higher than when a monarch 
 wlio IS said to have died a papist because he had no religion at 
 all dunng his life, was brought back to supplant a furious puri- 
 tanical Protectorate. 'I'hen. indeed, it was difficult for men of 
 oi^posite parties to meet without bickering ; and society de- 
 manded separate meeting-places for those who differed The 
 origm of clubs in this country is to be traced to two causes— 
 the vehemence of religious and political jiartisanship, and the 
 establishment of coffee-houses. These certainly gave the first 
 idea of clubbery. The taverns which preceded'tliem harl given 
 the Knghsh a /est for public life in a small way. 'The Mer- 
 maid' was. virtually, a club of wits long before the first red 
 <hil. was opened, an<l, like the clubs of the eighteenth centurv 
 It had Its presiding geniuses in Shakespeare and Rare Ben. ' ' 
 The coffee-houses introduced somewhat more refinement and 
 less ex-clusiveness. The oldest of these was the 'Grecian' 
 'One Constantine. a Grecian,' advertised in 'The Tntrlli-encer' 
 of January 23rd, 1664-5, that 'the right coffee l^rv or 'choco- 
 late,' might be had of him 'as cheap and as ^ood as'is anywhere 
 to be had for money,' and soon after began to sell the said 
 ' cotiee bery' in small cups at his own establishment in Drve- 
 reux Court, .Strand. Some two years later we liave news of 
 \\ 111 s, the most famous, perhaps, of the coffee-houses. Here 
 Dryden held forth with pe(!anti<- vanity: .md here was Iai<l the 
 lirst germ of that critical acumen whic'h has since become a dis- 
 tinguishing feature in h'.nglish literature. Then, in the ( itv one 
 (xarrawav, of I'x change Alley, first sold 'tea in leaf m.A drink 
 made according to the directions of the mo>t knowings and tra- 
 vellers mto those eastern countries;' an<l thus established the 
 well known ' C.arnuvay-s.' whither, in Defoe's day. 'forei-^n bin- 
 quiers and even ministers resorted, to .Irink the said bc^vern-e 
 kobins,' ; Jonathan's.' and many another, Mere all openal 
 
 i™f ''/l^'' '"^^ ""'' "^^ ^'^ ^■-''- '^o"- 'ifc became genemi 
 
 = thruughout the country. 
 
 Tn these places the company was of course of all classe 
 
 sand 
 
94 
 
 The October Club. 
 
 colours ; but, as tlic conversation was general, there was na- 
 turally at first a good deal of s(iuabbling, till, for the sake of peace 
 and comfort, a man chose his place of resort according to his 
 political principles ; and a little later there were regular Whig and 
 Tory coffee-houses. Thus, in Anne's day, ' The Cocoa-nut,' in 
 St. lames's Street, was reserved for Jacobites, while none but 
 AVhigs fre(iuented ' The St. James's.' Still there was not suffi- 
 cient" exclusiveness ; and as early as in Charles II.'s reign men 
 of peculiar opinions began to appropriate certain coffee-houses 
 at certain hours, and to exclude from them all but approved 
 )iieml)ers. Hence the origin of clubs. 
 
 'I'he October Club was one of the earliest, being composed 
 of some hundred and fifty rank 'lories, chieny country members 
 of Parliament. They met at the ' I'.el!,' in King Street, West^ 
 minster, tliat street in whidi Spenser starved, and I)r>'den's bro- 
 ther kejit a grocer's shop. A j.ortrait of Queen Anne, by Dahl, 
 hung in theVhib-room. This and the Kit-kat, the great Whig 
 (IuIn were ( hielly reserved for jjolitics ; but the fashion of 
 dubbing having once come in, it was soon followed by people 
 of all fancies. ' No reader of the ' Spectator' can fail to remem-^ 
 ber the ridicule to which this was turned by ilescriptions of 
 imaginary clubs for whic h the <iualilications were absurd, and of 
 whidi the business, on meeting, was preposterous nonsense of 
 some kinil. The idea of such fraternities, as the Club of Fat 
 Men, the Ugly Club, the Sheromp Club, the Everlasting Club, 
 the Sighing Club, the Amorous Chib, and others, could only 
 have lleen suggested by real clubs almost as ridiculous. The 
 names, too, were almost as fontastical as those of the taverns 
 in the previous (-entury, which counted 'The Devil,' and 'The 
 Heaven and Hell,' among their numbers. Many derived their 
 titles from the standing dishes preferred at su])per, the J5eef- 
 ste.ik and the Kit-kat (a sort of mutKm-pie), for mstance. 
 
 The beef-steak Club, still in existence, was one of the most 
 famous established in Anne's reign. It had at that time less of 
 a political than a jovial •:haracter. Nothing but that excellent 
 J British fare, from which it took its name, was, at first, served at 
 the supper-table, it was an assemblage of wits of every sta- 
 tion, ,ukI very jovial were they supposed to be when the juicy 
 
 '-3 
 
 I 
 
:re was na- 
 ikc of peace 
 trding to his 
 ar Whig and 
 x.oa-nut,' in 
 e none bul 
 IS not suffi- 
 s reign men 
 offee-houses 
 .It appnjved 
 
 g composed 
 try members 
 street, West- 
 )r}'den's bro- 
 inc, by Dahl, 
 
 great Whig 
 e fashion of 
 :d by peoj)le 
 lil to remem- 
 scriptions of 
 l)surd, and of 
 
 nonsense of 
 Chib of Fai 
 lasting Club, 
 , couhl only 
 :u!ous. 'Hie 
 ' the taverns 
 i; and 'The 
 derived their 
 er, the J5eef- 
 istance. 
 
 of the most 
 it time less of 
 liat excellent 
 irst, served at 
 
 of every sta- 
 len the juicy 
 
 The Pnrf -Steak Club. 95 
 
 dish had been discussed. Early in the century, Estcourt, the 
 actor, was mad.' provider to this club, and wore a golden grid- 
 iron as a badge of office, and is thus alluded to in Dr. King's 
 'Art of Cookery' (1709) : — 
 
 ' He th.-it of honour, wit, and mirth jxirtiikcs 
 M.iy 1)1! .1 fit conipanion o'er bi-cf-stakcs ; 
 His name may he tu future times enrolled 
 In Estcourt's book, whose gridiron'.s framed of gold.' 
 
 i'".stcourt was one of the best mimics of the day, and a keen 
 .satirist to boot ; in fact he seems to have owed much of iiis 
 .success on the stage to his ])ower of imitation, for while his own 
 manner was inferior, he coukl at j>leasure copy exactly that of 
 any celebrated actor. He -.'oiilii be a player. At fifteen he 
 ran away from home, and joining a strolling comi)any, acted 
 Roxana in woman's clothes : his friends jjursued him, and, 
 changing his dress for that of a girl of the time, he tried to 
 escape them, but in vain. Tiie histrionic youth was captured, 
 and bound apprentice in London town ; the ' seven long years' 
 of which di(' not cure him of the itch for acting. ]!ut he was 
 too good a wit for the stage, and amused himself, though not 
 always his audience, by intersjjersing his part with his own re- 
 marks. The great took him by tlie hand, and old Marlborough 
 especially patronized him: he wrote a l)urles(iue of the Italian 
 operas then beginning to be in vogue; and died in I7i2-t3. 
 Estcourt was not the only actor belonging to the F.eef-steak, nor 
 even the only one who had concealed his sex under emergency ; 
 Peg Woffmgton, who had made as good a boy as he had done 
 a giri, was afterwards a member of this club. 
 
 In later years the beef-steak was cooked in a room at the toj) 
 of Covent (harden Theatre, and counte<l many a celebrated wit 
 among those who sat arouml its cheery dish. Wilkes the 
 blas[)hcn!er, Churcliill, and l.onl .Sandwich, were all members 
 of it at the same time. Of the last, Wal[)ole gives us informa- 
 tion in 1763 at the time of Wilkes's duel with Martin in Hyde 
 Park. He tells us that at the Beef-steak Club Lord Sandwich 
 talked so profusely, ' that he drove harlecjuins out of the com- 
 pany.' To the honour of thi- cluh l^e it ad<ied, that his lord- 
 ship was driven out after the harlequins, and finally e.xpelled : 
 
96 
 
 The Kit-Kat Club. 
 
 it is sincerely to be hoped that Wilkes was sent after his lord- 
 ship, 'I'his clul) is now represented by one heUl beliind the 
 ],yceuin, with the tliorouglily British motto, ' ]}eef and Liberty:' 
 the name was Iia])pily chosen and therefore imitated. In the 
 reign of (ieorge II. we meet with a ' Rump-steak, or Liberty 
 Club ;' and somehow steaks and liberty seem to be the two 
 ideas most intimately associated in the Britannic mind. Can 
 any one explain it? 
 
 Other dubs there were under Anne, — political, critical, and 
 hilarious— but the p^alm is undoubtedly carried oft' by the glori- 
 ous Kit-kat. 
 
 It is not every eating-house tliat is immortalized l)y a Pope, 
 though Tennyson has sung 'The Cock' with its ']»lump head- 
 waiter,' who. by the way, was mightily oflended by the Lau- 
 reate's verses- -or pretended to be so -and thought it 'a great 
 
 liberty of Mr. , Mr. , what is his name? to put rc- 
 
 .siiec'able private characters into his books.' Pope, or some say 
 Arbuthnot, explained the etymology of this club's extraordinary 
 title: — 
 
 ■ Whence fleatliless Kit-kat took it^ name, 
 
 Few critics cai! unriddle : 
 Some say from pastryennk it came, 
 And .some from Cut and Mdille. 
 
 ' From no trim hi'anx its name it boasts, 
 
 (Jrey statesmen or tjreen wits ; 
 l?nt from the jiell-nieil pack of toa-ts 
 Of old cats and youni; kits.' 
 
 rrol)abIy enough the title was hit on :i hap-ha/ard, and re- 
 tained because it was singular, but as it has given a ])oet a 
 theme, and a painter a name for jiictures of a ])eculiar si/.e, its 
 etymology h:is become important. Some say that the i)astry- 
 cook in Shire Lane, at whose house it was held, was named 
 Christoi)her Katt. Some one or other was certainly celebrated 
 for the manufacture of that forgotten delicacy, a mutton-pie, 
 which accjuired the name of a Kit-kat. 
 
 ' A Kit-kat is a supper for a lord,' 
 
 says a ( oniedy of 170c, and cerles it afforded at this club eve- 
 ning nourishi.nent for tivniy ■?. rclt'lirati'd ?-!ob-le profl!'-''atc of the 
 day. The supposed sign of the Cat and Fiddle (Kitt), gave 
 
after his lord- 
 d bcliind the 
 Fand Liberty:' 
 ated. In the 
 ik, or Liberty 
 
 be the two 
 ; mind. Can 
 
 I, ( ritiral, and 
 'i liy the glori- 
 
 d by a Pope, 
 'l)lump liead- 
 
 1 by tlie Lau- 
 lit it 'a great 
 e ? to put re- 
 le, or some say 
 i extraordinary 
 
 t/aril, and re- 
 ven a ])oet a 
 :cuhar size, its 
 It tlie pastry- 
 1, was named 
 nly celcl)ratcd 
 a mutton-})ie, 
 
 diis (lub eve- 
 ^fligatc of tlie 
 J ( K-itt), gave 
 
 T/ic Romance of the Boioi cj; 
 
 another solution, but after all, Pope's may be satisfactor'ly re- 
 < eivi'd. 
 
 'I'he Kit-kat was, par CAuUaur, tlie AVhig Club of Oueen 
 Anne's tmie : it was established at the iK-ginning of the "eigh- 
 teenth century, and was then composed of thirty-nine members, 
 nnioiig whom were the Dukes of ^[arlborough, Devonshire,' 
 Crafton, Richmond, and Somerset. \^^ kitcr days it numbered 
 the greatest wits of the age, of whom anon. 
 
 This club was celebrated more than any for its toasts. 
 Now, if men must drink - an<l sure the vine was given us for 
 use, I do not say for abuse- they had better make it an occa- 
 sion of friendly intercourse; nothing can be more degraded 
 than t!ie solitary sanctimonious toping in which certain of our 
 northern brethren are known to in.lulge. 'Hicy had better give 
 to the (luaffing of that rich gift, sent to be a medicine for^the 
 inind, to raise us alwve the peq^etual contemplation of worldly 
 ills, as much of romance and elegance as possible. It is the 
 opener of the heart, the awakener of nobler feelings of gene- 
 rosity an.l ,ove, the banisher of all that is narrow, and sonlid 
 ;nid selfish ; the herald of all that is exalted in man. No won- 
 der that the (ireeks made a god of Dacchus, that the Hindu 
 worshipped the mellow Soma, and that there has been scarce a 
 ]^oet who has not sung its praise. There was some beauty in 
 the feasts of the Greeks, when the goblet was really wreailied 
 with flowers; and even the (lerman siudent, dirty and drunken 
 ;is he m;-y be, removes half the stain from his orgies with ihe 
 '••; i> l^.Tinony of his songs, and the hearty good-fellowship of 
 iHs toasts. AVe drink still, perhaps we shall always drink till the 
 end of time, but all the romance of the bowl is gone : the last 
 ti.Meof its beauty went with the frigid abandonment of the 
 toast. 
 
 There was some ex.aise for wine when it l)rought out that 
 now forgotten expression of good-will. Many a feu.! wis re- 
 < oiu lied m the clinking of glasses ; just as many another was 
 begun when the cup was .Irained too deeply. The first ([uarter 
 of the laM century saw the en<l of all the social glories of the 
 wassail m this country, and though tncn drank as much nuy 
 years later, all its poetry an<l romance had then disappeared. 
 
 7 
 
98 The Toasts of Ihc Kit-kat. 
 
 It was still, however, tlic custom at that period to call on the 
 name of some fair maiden, and sing her praises over the cup as 
 it passed. It was a ])oint of lionoiir for all the company to join 
 the health. Home beauties became celebrated for the number 
 ot' their toasts ; some even standing toasts among certain sets. 
 In the Kit-kat Club the custom was carried out by rule, and 
 every member was compelled to name a beauty, whose claims 
 to the lionour were tlieii discussed, and if her name was aj)- 
 ])rove(l. a separate bowl was consecrated li) her, and verses to 
 iier honour engraved on it. Some of the most celebrated toasts 
 ha<l even their ])ortraits hung in the club-room, an'l it was no 
 slight distinction to be the favourite of the Kit-kat. When 
 only eight years old, T.ady Mary Worlley Montagu enjoyed this 
 ])rivilege. Iier father, Uie Lord Dorchester, afterwards Evelyn, 
 Duke (if K.ing~.lon, in a fit of < aprice, proposed ' the pretty 
 little child' as his toast. The other members, who had never 
 seen her, objected ; the Peer sent for her, and there could no 
 longer be any question. The forward little girl was handed 
 fr(Mn knee to knee, jjetleil. i>robably. by Addison, Congreve. 
 Vanbrugh. (iarlh, and many rinother famous wit. Another 
 celebrated toast of the Kit kat. mentioned by Walpole, was 
 Lady Molyneux, v.iio, he says, died smoking a pipe. 
 
 This clul) was no less celebrated for its portraits than for the 
 ladies it honoured. They, the portraits, were all painted b\ 
 Kneller, and all of one si/e, which thence got the name of 
 Kit-kat : they were Iiung round the club-room. Jacob Tonson, 
 the ])ubl!sher, was secretary to the club. 
 
 Defoe tells us the Kit-kat held the hrst rank among the clubs 
 of the early i)art of the last century, and certainly the names of 
 its members comprise as man\' wits as we could expect to tmd 
 (ollerted in one society. 
 
 Addison must have been past forty when he became a mem- 
 ber of the Kit-kat. His ' Cato' had won him the general ap 
 |)lause of the Whig party, who could not allow so fine a writer 
 to slip from among them. He had long, too, played the cour- 
 tier, and wa:! '([uite a gentleman.' A place among tiie exclu- 
 sives of ihc Kit-kat was only the just reward of su( h attain- 
 ments, ;iiul he had it. 1 shall not be asked to give a notice ol 
 
to call on tlie 
 vcr the cup as 
 impany to join 
 r the number 
 ; certain sets. 
 t by rule, and 
 whose claims 
 lame was a|)- 
 and verses to 
 lebrated toasts 
 .P'l it was no 
 it-kat. When 
 ;u enjoyed this 
 -wards livel)n, 
 j(i 'the pretty 
 ho hail never 
 lere could no 
 1 was handed 
 lOn, Congreve, 
 ,vit. Another 
 ^\'alpoh^ was 
 ipe. 
 
 is than for the 
 ill painted l)y 
 tile name of 
 Jacob Tonson, 
 
 ucng the clubs 
 ■ the names of 
 ^•xpect to find 
 
 ecame a mem- 
 le general ap- 
 ) fine a writer 
 lyed the com- 
 ing the exclu- 
 of su( b attain- 
 ve a notice ul 
 
 TAc Members of the K it-kat. 99 
 
 a man so universally known, and one who ranks rather with 
 the humorists than the wits. It will suffice to sav, that it wis 
 not till .^//,v- the publication of the ' Spectator,' an<l some time 
 alter, that he joined our society. 
 
 Congreve I have chosen out of this set for a separate life 
 f:)r this man happens to present a very averai^e sample of all 
 their peculiarities. Congreve wa.s a literarv man, a poet a wit 
 a beau, and--.what unhappily is quite as much to the purpose 
 a profligate. The only point he, therefore, wan'.ed in com- 
 'non with mo.st of the members, was a title ; but few of the 
 titled members combined as many good and bad qualities of 
 the Kit-kat kind as did William Con-reve. 
 
 Another dramatist, whose name ""seems to l)e inseparable 
 from Congreve's, was that nu-.xtiire of bad and good taste- 
 Aanbrugh. The author of 'The Relapse,' the most licentious 
 I-layevcTacte.l; -the builder of I5lenheim, the ugliest house 
 ever erected, was a man of good family, and Walpole counts 
 hun among those who 'wrote genteel ,-ome.lv, because they 
 hve< ,n the best company.' We doubt the logic of this ; but 
 " 't hohl, how IS it that Van wrote plays whi, h the best com- 
 pany even at that age, <ondemned. and neither good nor bad 
 company (an read in the present day without being shocked? 
 If the conversation of the Kit-kat was anvthin^ like^hat in this 
 members comedies, it must have been hit^hlv edifving. How- 
 ever, 1 h:ne no doubt Vanbrugh passed for a gentleman, what- 
 cNcrhi. <onver.sation, and he was certainlv a wit, and appa 
 rendy s<,niewhat less lirentious in his monds than the rest 
 Vet what Pope said of his literature nuy be sai.l. too, of some 
 acts ot his lite : - 
 
 ' How \m\ watus gr.icc, who n-v.T want-d uit.' 
 
 |^\nd his rpiarrel with 'Queen Sarah' of Marlborough, though 
 
 ithe duchess was by no mean, the mn^: . , ,;,:, ,,,^,,„, j,, ^^e 
 
 iT.orld to deal with, is not mu-h to Win'. h,>nour. When the 
 
 nation voted half a million to build that hideous mass of stone 
 
 the irregular and unsightly piling of which caused Wah.ole to 
 
 |say that the architect ' had emptied .marries r,tl-^r ^1 br^'t 
 
 |hou.es,' and Dr. Kvans to write this epuapl, ,or the builder-' 
 
 7—2 
 
100 A Good Wit and a Had Architect. 
 
 ' l.'w. heavy on liim, Martli, for lie 
 Laid mriiiy a licuy load on tliec,' 
 
 Sarah hnggled over ' scvcn-pcnce lialfpeniiy a 1)Us1k>I ;' Van 
 retorted by (ailing her 'stupid and troublesome,' and 'that 
 witked woman of Marlborough,' and after the Duke's death, 
 wrote that the Duke had left her 'twelve thousand poun«ls 
 a-year to keep herself clean and go to law.' Whether :ihe 
 emjiloyed any portion of it on the former object we do not 
 jireleiid to say, but she certainly spent as much as a mi'-rr could 
 on litigation. \'an himself being one of the unfortunates she 
 attacked in this way. 
 
 The events of Vanbrugh's life were varied. lie began life in 
 the arm)', but in 1697 gave the stage ''J'he Relapse.' It was 
 .sufficiently successful to induce him to follow it up with the 
 'ProvokedAVife,' one of *he wittiest jiieces produced in those 
 days. Charles, ivirl of Carlisle, Deputy I'.arl .Marshal, for 
 whom he built Castle Howartl, made him Clarencieux King-at- 
 arms in 1704, and he was knightei. by C"orge I., 9th of Sep- 
 tember, 17.4. In 1705 he joined Congreve in the manage- 
 ment of the Ilaymarket, which he himself built. (;eorge I. 
 made him Com])troller-general of the royal works. lie had 
 even an experience of the Bastille, where he was confined for 
 sketching fortifications in France. He died ii 1726, with the 
 reputation of a good wit, and a bad architect. His conversa- 
 tion was, certainly, as light as his buildings were heavy. 
 
 Another member, almost as well known in his day, was Sir 
 Samuel Garth, the physician, 'well-natured Carth,' as Pope 
 called him. He won his fame by his satire on the apothecaries 
 in the shape of a i)oem called 'The Dispensary.' When de- 
 livering the funeral oration over Dryden's body, which had 
 been so long unlnnied that its odour began to l>e di.sagreeable, 
 he mounted a tub. the toj) of whit h fell through and left the 
 doctor in rather an awkward position. He gained admission 
 to the Kit-kat in conse<iuence of a vehement eulogy on King 
 William which he had introduced into his Harveian oration in 
 1697.- It was (iarth. too, who e\teiniK)ri/e(l most of the 
 
 i ;ic is.il i„iL Luiu ^\.i.^ 
 
 iiui rounded till 1703. 
 
cct. 
 
 l)ii.shcl ;' Van 
 lie,' mmX 'that 
 Duke's death, 
 usand pounds 
 
 ^\'h^.■ther she 
 ( t \vc <lo not 
 ; a mi'-i-r could 
 fortunatcs she 
 
 e l)cgan Hfe in 
 Ipse.' It was 
 
 up with the 
 need in those 
 
 Marshal, for 
 cieux Kinij;-at- 
 [., 9tli of Sep- 
 II the nianage- 
 l. Cleorge I. 
 rks. He liad 
 ; confuied for 
 726, with the 
 His conversa- 
 iieavy. 
 
 day, was Sir 
 rth,' as Po]je 
 e apothecaries 
 :.' When de- 
 )', wliich liad 
 : disagreeal)le, 
 ;h and left tlic 
 led admission 
 ogy on King 
 an oration in 
 
 most of tlie 
 
 'U\//-u(if/tirJ GartlL 101 
 
 verses whicli were inscribed on the toasting-ghisscs of their 
 <lul), so that lie may, f^ar excellence, be considered the Kit-kat 
 i'oet. He was the physician and friend of AFarlljorough, with 
 whose sword he was knighted by (Jeorge I., who made him liis 
 I.Iiysician ni ordinary, (larth was a very jovial man, and, some 
 siy, not a very religious one. Pope .sai.l he was as good a 
 Christianas ever lived, 'without knowing it.' He certainly 
 had no affectation of i-iety, and if charitable and good-natured 
 ads could take a man to heaven, he deserved to go there. 
 He had his doubt, about faith, and is said to have died a 
 Romanist. This he did in 1719, and the poor and the Kit-kat 
 must both have felt his loss. He was perhaps more of a wit 
 than a poet, although he has been classed at times with (inty 
 and I'rior; he can scarcely take the same rank as other verse- 
 making doctors, such as .\ken..ide, Darwin, and Armstrong. 
 He seems to have been an active, healthy man-perhaps too 
 much so for a poet- for it is on record that he ran a mat. h in 
 the .Mall with the Duke of (irafton, and beat him. He was 
 fon<l, too, of a hard frost, and had a regular speech to intro- 
 <hi< e on that subject : ' Ves, si-, 'fore Clad, very fine weather, 
 sir ver_\- wholesome weather, sir— kills trees, sir— very good 
 for nan, sir.' 
 
 Old Madborough had another intimate friend at the club, 
 who was probably one of its earliest memljers. This was Arthur 
 Maynwaring, a poet, too, in a way, but more cclel)rated at this 
 tune for his liaisou with Mrs. Oldfield, the famous but dis- 
 reputable actress, with whom he fell in love when he was forty 
 years old, and whom he instructed in the niceties of elocution, 
 making her rehearse her parts to him in private. .Maynwaring 
 was born in 1668, educated at O.xford. and destined for the 
 bar, for which he studie-'. He began life as a vehement Jaco- 
 bite, and even supported that i)arty in sundry pieces; bnt like 
 some others, he was easily converted, when, on coming to town 
 he fountl it more fashionable to be a Whig. He held two or 
 three posts nnder the Government, whose cau he now es- 
 pou.sed: had the honour of the dedication of ' Tne Tatler' to 
 
 him 
 fortn 
 
 bv .Stec!i> 
 
 and died siuldentv 
 
 ne between his sister and h 
 
 in 1/12. He divided his 
 is mistre.-,s, Mrs. Oldfield, and 
 
n 
 
 1 02 
 
 The Poets of till Kil-k(Xt. 
 
 ill-) .-.wii 1.) iiic latter. Mrs. ( )l(iricl(l iiaist h;ivc grown rich in 
 licr sinliil ( arccr, for she coukl alVoni, when ill, to rehise to 
 t.ikc he'- .salary I'roiu the theatre, though entitled to it. She 
 .((led best in Vanbriigh'.s ' Provoked Ilu.shantI,' so well, in fact, 
 that the manager gave her an e.xtra fifty ])ounds by way of 
 acknowledgment. 
 
 I'ocli.sing seems to have been as mu< h a polite a( complish- 
 nunl of that age as letter-writing was of a later, and a smatter- 
 ing of scienfe is of the present day. (icntlemen tried to be 
 poets, and poets gentlemen. 'I'he consequence wa.s, that both 
 made fools of themselves. Among the |)0etasters who belong«;d 
 to the Kit kat, we nnist mention Walsh, a coimtry gentleman, 
 member of Parliament, and very tolerable scholar. He dabble<l 
 in odes, elegie.s, epitaphs, and all that small fry of the muse 
 whi( h was then so plentiful. 1 ie wnjtc critical essays on \'irgil, 
 in which he tried to make out mat the shepherds in the days 
 of the Roman poet were very well brefl gentlemen of good 
 eilucation ! He was a devoted admirer and friend of Dryden, 
 and he encouraged Pope in his earlier career so kindly that the 
 little viper a( tually praised him : Walsh died somewhere about 
 1709 in middle life. 
 
 We hav(; not neady done with the jwets of the Kit-kat. A 
 still smaller one than Walsh was .Stepney, who, like (larth. had 
 begun life as a violent Tory and turned coat when he found 
 his interest lay the other way. He was well repaid, for from 
 1692 \<) 1706 he was sent on no less than eight diplomatic 
 missions, chielly to (German (ouns. Meowed this jaeferment 
 to the good luck of having been a schoolfellow of Charles Mon- 
 tagu, afterwards Ivirl of Halifax. He (.i^d about 1707, and 
 had as grand a monument and epitaj)h in Westminster Abbey 
 as if he had been a Milton or Dryden. 
 
 W hen you meet a dog trotting along the road, you naturally 
 expect that his master is not far off In the same way, where 
 you fmd a poet, still more a poetaster, there you may feel cer- 
 tain you will light up-on a patron. The Kit'kat was made up 
 of Mxcenascs and their humble servants ; and in the same 
 club with Addison, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and the minor poets. 
 
 was 
 
n 
 
 iwn ii( Ii in 
 ) re-fuse to 
 to it. .Shu 
 i't'll, in fact, 
 l>y way of 
 
 i( « oniplisli- 
 
 a sniattcr- 
 
 ried to he 
 
 , that both 
 
 liL'long<.'tI 
 L,'iiitlcnian, 
 Icdahhicd 
 
 the niiise 
 s on N'iri^il, 
 
 1 the days 
 1 of good 
 )f Dryden, 
 ly that the 
 liere aljout 
 
 i; kat. A 
 ^lurth, liad 
 he found 
 , for from 
 Hplomatic 
 )refernient 
 tries Moii- 
 [707, and 
 er Abbey 
 
 naturally 
 .!>•. wliere 
 
 leel cer- 
 
 made uj) 
 
 die same 
 
 lur poets, 
 
 Chancellor Somen. 
 
 we are not at all surjirised to find Sir RoI)crt Wal| ole, 
 Duke of Somerset, Halifax, and Somers. 
 
 Il.ilifax was. /<?r ,:xr,/la/i;\ the Majcenas of his day, and 1N> 
 <les(ril)ed him admirably in tiie charafter of IJufo: — 
 
 • I'luuil as Apollo, nil hi, forked liill, 
 Sat full !(li>\vn liiifo, piiffd by every f|uill ; 
 /■\J xcitk so/t dcdiiatiiin all day loiij^, 
 
 1 !i.r,'< •■ .wA 111- w^ ;it hand in hand in >oiil^.' 
 
 'ri)e dedi(alions poured in tliickly. Steele, Tickell, I'hilips. 
 Smith, and a crowd of le.,>(.r li-hts. raised my lord each one on 
 a hi;.;her pimiade ; and ni return the powerful minister was not 
 forgetful of tlie dou( cur uhirh wcll-luned verses were accus- 
 tomed to receive. He himself had trie<I to be a jmet, and in 
 170;, wrote verses for the toasting-cups of the Kit kat. His 
 lines to a I )owager Countess of •'■■••'•% are good enough to 
 make us suqjrised that he never wrote any better. Take a 
 specimen : — 
 
 ' i ' ' ,' 'md in !ur royal stylo ; 
 
 Kiili-i.uid the L:rente.st part of this j;ruat isle ! 
 .N'aturc did nctT .so f(|ually divide 
 .\ ri-rnal" heart twi.xt pioty and pride : 
 Her waitintj-tnaids jircvcn't the peep of day, 
 And all ill order at luT tcjilet lay 
 I'rayer-ho'iks, p.itch-hoxes, scnnon-nofe<!, and paint, 
 .At once finiiirovo iRe .sinner and the saint.' 
 
 A Ma;cenas who paid for his dedications was sure to ])e well 
 spoken of, and Halifax lias been made out a wit and a jioet, 
 as well as a clever state.sm?.n. H.ilifax got his earldom and the 
 garter from George !., and died, after enjoying them less than 
 a year, in 1715. 
 
 Chancellor Somer.s, with uhoin Halifax was a.s.sociated in 
 the impeachment case in 1701, was a far belter man in every 
 re.sped. His wa.. probably the inu-est ( liarai ter among tho.se 
 of a" •>- members of the Kit kat. He was the son of a 
 Worcester attorney, and born in 1652. He wa.s cducatetl at 
 Trmity, Oxford, and rose purely by merit, distinguishing him- 
 self at the lur and ou the bench, unwearied in his application 
 to busines.s, and an e\art and upright judge. At school he 
 
 was a terribly good boy, keeping to his book in j.lay-l 
 
 lours. 
 
'04 
 
 Charles SachviUc. /.or,f Dorsrf. 
 
 'rhrouglioiil life his liahit, v..i« ..mj-k ..u.l u-.ii.u. and his 
 « h;ira( tcr iinhlfmishnl. He slc|H Init hllli-. ami in later years 
 had a reader Id attend him at waking. With siH h habits he can 
 scarcely have been a constant altender at the ( hib ; and as he 
 (hetl a ba( helor, it wouhl be curious to learn what la(h"es he 
 selated for his toasts. In his latter years his mind was 
 weakened, and he (he.l in 17 16 ,,r apoplexy. W'alpoie calls 
 iiini ' one of those «hvini- men who. likj a chapel in a palace, 
 remained unprofaned, while all the rest is tyranny, corruption' 
 and folly.' ' 
 
 A huge stout figure hjHs in now to join tlie toasters in Shire 
 f.ane. In the puffy, on< e handsome face, there are signs of 
 age, for its owner is past sixty; yet he is dressed in superb 
 fashion; and in an Umx or m,, uhen the bottle has l)een <lili- 
 gently circulated, his wit will W brighter and keener than that 
 of any young man present. I do not say it will be rei)eatable, 
 for the talker belongs to a past age, even coarser than that of the 
 Kit-kat. He is Charles Sa( kville,''- famous as a companion of 
 the merriest and most disreputabk of the Stuarts, famous~-or, 
 rather, infamous- for his mistress. N\|| (Awnn. famous for hi.s 
 verses, for his patronage of j-oets. and for'hiswild frolics in 
 early life, when Lord Ilu. khurst. Ko<hester called him 
 
 ' 'I hi- iH-,t j,'(,(ji| in:m uitli xW- uursl-iiaiurvd miiM- ;' 
 
 and Pope says he was 
 
 ' 'ihe scoiirtjc of prido, tlmiisli s.Tnctiru'd or i;reat, 
 Ul fojis III lr,iriiiM.i,' and of knavrs in .-,tatc.'' 
 
 Our sailors .siill sing tlie ball.id which h.' is said to have written 
 on the e\e of the naval engagement between the Duke of York 
 and Admiral Opdam. wl \ begui.s 
 
 ' 'I'o all you ladies now on l.iiid 
 Wo men at sea indite.' 
 
 \^ iih a fine classical taste and a courageous spirit, he had 
 m early days been guilty of as much ini(iuityas any of Clharles's 
 prothgute court, lie was one of a band of young libertines 
 who robbed and murdered a poor tanner on the high-road, and 
 were acciuitted, less on account of the poor excuse they dished 
 
 ■• -'at-'^' of IxirJ Duiacl, see p. Ci. 
 
7. 
 
 ci^iilai, ainl his 
 fl in later years 
 
 li liabit.s Ik- ran 
 liil» ; and as he 
 what ladies he 
 
 his iiiind was 
 
 \\'al|)oie rails 
 
 id in a |)ala(e, 
 
 my, (omi|)tiun, 
 
 oastcrs in Shire 
 re ar<j signs of 
 :sse(l in superb 
 
 has been dili- 
 ■cner than that 
 
 be repcatable, 
 than that of the 
 
 companion of 
 ts, famous— or, 
 
 famous for his 
 \\i!d frohc :i in 
 lied him 
 
 se ;' 
 
 at, 
 
 to ha\e written 
 Duke of York 
 
 sjiirit, he had 
 ly of CHiarles's 
 •ung libertines 
 high-road, and 
 se thev dished 
 
 >* (ilcbradtl Wits, 105 
 
 ! |. for this act than of tlicir rank and fashion. Such fine gen- 
 tlemen could not be hanged for the sake of a mere workman in 
 those days^ no ' .... ' Yet he does not seem to have repented 
 of this transartiM oon after ho was engaged with Sedley 
 
 :"^'l HglnnaM. , n , m. !.,..:,„ u at the Cock Tavem 
 m l.ow-street, win .jky. in 'birthday attire.' made a 
 
 bl.isphemous oration Hum the bah .„., „r (|„- house. In later 
 ye.irs he was the pride of the [.oets : Dryden and Prior. 
 \\y<herley, Hudibras. ami Kymer, wore all on.ouraged bv 
 I'lni. ami repai-l : ,„ u,th praises. I'ope and Dr. King were 
 no loss bountiful m tueir eulogies of this M;ecenas. Mis con 
 vorsationwas so nu.ch appreciated that gloomy William III 
 cho.se him as his companion, as merry Charles had done bo- 
 fore. The famous Irish ball.id. whi. h mv I'ik !e Toby was 
 always humming, ' I.illibuHero bullon a lali.' but which Percy 
 attributes to the .Manjuis of Wharton, another mom!>er of tho 
 Kit kat, was said to have been written bvlUi.khuiM II, iv 
 tinned his wi^ to the last ; and Congrevo, who visited him when 
 I10 w.is .lying, said, ' Faith, he stutters more wit than other 
 I'oople have in their best health.' He .lied at Hath in 1706 
 
 Jiu.khurst .loesnot complete tho list of conspi.uous members 
 of this club, butd.cremain.lorMv:. lossrelobratod for their wit 
 I here was the Duke of Kingston, the f.ithcr of Lady Mary Wort- 
 cy ^ont.!:,ii; Cranville, who imitate.l Waller, and attempte.l 
 t.:> make his • Myra' as celebrated as the court-poet's .Sa.-charissa 
 ^^--\^y the way, was the mother of the Karl of Sun.lerlan.l i 
 the Duke of Devonshire, when W.dpole .-alls 'a patriot among 
 the men. agallant among tin- k.dios.' an.l who founded Chats" 
 ^vorti, ; and other noblemen, .hietly belonging to th.- latter part 
 3t tlK> seventeenth century, and all devoted to William HI 
 ;l.oiigh they ha.l been bred at the .ourts of Chadesand fames' 
 Uith such an array of wits, poets, statesmen, an.l gallants, 
 it can easi^v be behevcd that to be the toast of the Kit-kat was 
 10 .slight honour ; to be a member of it a still greater one ; and 
 •o be one of its most distinguished, as Congreve was, the 
 
 >e ht. . t '" ""•' ''' ''^'''' ''''^' ^'^'^ ^^^^^ beau an.l 
 oet had to that position. 
 
W1I-I,!A.M C()N(; Ri:vK. 
 
 Wlivn and wlicrc was In- born? 'I'lif Middl- 'IVniiili". -foni^'rcvc" finds hi;; 
 Vocation. — Verses toCJiuen Mary. Tlio IVnnis-court 'llicatre. -C'ongrcvu 
 abandons the Drama.- Jeremy i 'oilier. 'I'lie hnmorality of the vStaije. - 
 N'ery iniproj/er 'Ihings.-Congjreve's Writings. Jeremy's ' Short Views.' — 
 Rival 'llieatres. ■ I)r)den's l''uneral.- A '1 ub-1'reaeher. -Horoscopic I're- 
 dietions. — Drycien's Solieite.de for his Son. Conj^reve's Ambition, .\nec- 
 liote of Voltaire and ( '(jnijreve. The I'rofe.viit)!) of .Nbt'cenas. - ( onj^reve .s 
 Private Life.- ' Malbrcjok's' bau.qliler. — Congreve's Death antl liurial. 
 
 nilvN 'Queen Sarah' of Maiiliorougli read the silly 
 epitaph which Henrietta, l)u('!ie.s.s of Marlborough, 
 had written and h.ul engravetl on liie monument she 
 set uj) to Congre\e, slie said, with one of the true Blenheim 
 sneers, ' 1 know not wliat /iap/>iii(Ss she might have in his com- 
 ])any, l)Ut I am sure it was no liouour^ alluding to her ilaughter's 
 eulogistic phrases. 
 
 (Jueen .Sarah was right, as she often was when condenination 
 was called for : ami howe\ er amusing a companion the drama- 
 tist may have been, he was not a man ttj respect, for lie had 
 not only the common \ices of his age, but atUle<l to them a fop- 
 pish vanltv, toadyism, and fuie gentlemanism (to coin a most 
 necessary word), which we scarcely expect to meet with in a 
 man who sets up for a satirist. 
 
 It is the fate of greatness to have falsehoods told of it, and 
 of nothing in connection with it more so than of its origin. If 
 the converse be true, C'ongreve ought to have been a great man, 
 for the i)lace and time of his birtli are both subjects of dispute. 
 Oh I happy (HiYord ! or happy C'roker ! why did you not--per- 
 haps you did — go to work to set the world right on this matter 
 
 \!.)u. It) wliom 'X (!:ite discoNered is the hiuliest ')alm (no ')un 
 
 intended, 1 assure you) of glory, and who would rather Shakes- 
 
IV/icn and Jl7h-;r zcas Jtc Born / 
 
 107 
 
 ongreve finds hij 
 leatre. — (Jongreve 
 ty of the Stage. - 
 ; ' Short Views. ' 
 -Iloroncopic I'n- 
 Anibition. -Ancc- 
 eiKis. — ( 'onijrevc's 
 h ami IJurial. 
 
 read the silly 
 Marlborough, 
 rnonunu'iU she 
 true Blenheim 
 .ve ill hi.s com- 
 ' her daughter's 
 
 condemnation 
 ion the drama- 
 xt, for he had 
 to them a foj)- 
 o coin a most 
 neet with in a 
 
 told of it, and 
 fits origin. If 
 ■n a great man, 
 .'cts of dispute, 
 you not — per- 
 on this matter 
 
 iiilni Inn niin 
 I '. — j-"-i 
 
 rather Shakes- 
 
 ])crc had never written ' Hamlet,' or Homer the ' Iliad,' than that 
 some miserable little forgotten scrap which decided a year or a 
 ])lace should have been consigned to flames before it Veil into 
 your hands? Why did you not bring the thunder of your 
 abuse and the poji-gunnery of your satire to bear upon the 
 question, 'How, when, an<l where was William Congreve 
 born ?' 
 
 It was Lady Morgan, I think, who first 'saw the light' (that 
 IS, if she was born in the day time) in the Irish Channel. If 
 It had been only some one more celebrated, we should have 
 had by (his time a series of ])hilo.sophicaI, geographical, and 
 ethnological pamphlets to prove thai .she wis J'.nglish or Irish, 
 according to the fancies or i)rejudices of the writers. It was 
 certainly a very Irish thing to do. which is one argument for 
 the Milesians, and again it was done in the Irish Channel, 
 v.hich is another and a stronger one ; and altogether we are not 
 m. Iiiied to go into 1 ,rty-five pages of recondite facts and fine- 
 drawn arguments, mingled with the most vehement abuse of 
 anybody who ever before wrote on the subject, to prove that 
 tins country ha<l the honour of producing her ladyslup—the 
 \\ild Iri^h (iirl. We freely give her up 'to the sister islami. 
 lUit iK.t so W illiam Congreve, though we are e(iually indifferent 
 U) the honour in his case. 
 
 'I'he one party, tlien. assert that he was born in this country, 
 the other that he breathed his fmst air in the I-nierald \.C 
 AVhichever be the true state of the ca.se, we, as Knglisluueii, 
 prefer to agree in the commonly received opinion th.u hecamj 
 into this ^^i(ked world at the village of Bardsea, or J5ardsev, 
 not far trom Leeds in the county of \-ork. Let the i;,ii-d-,e_\ans 
 immediately erect a statue to hi.s honour, if thev Ii.ae been re- 
 miss enough to neglect him heretofore. 
 
 But our difficulties are not ende.l. for there is a similar doubt 
 about the year of his birth. Hi. earliest biographer a.ssures us 
 he was born m 1672, and others that he was baptized three 
 years before, in 1669. Such a proceeding might well be taken 
 as a proof of his Hibernian e.xtrac tion, ancfaccordingly ue 
 nnd Maiune supporting the earlier date, producing, of course, 
 a ( ertihcate of baptism to sui)port himself: and as we have a' 
 
io8 
 
 The Middle Temple. 
 
 very great respect for his autliority, we beg also to .sui)port Mr. 
 Malonc. 
 
 Tliis being settled, we have to examine who were his parents', 
 and this is satisfactorily answered by his earliest biographer, 
 who informs us that he was of a very ancient family, being 
 ' the only siir\ iving son of William Congreve, J'"-S([. (who was 
 second son to Ki( hard Congreve. I'-si]., of Congreve and Stret- 
 ton in that ( ounty),' to wit, Yorkshire. Congreve /</■<• lield a 
 jnilitary command, which took him to Ireland soon after the 
 dramatist's birth, and thus young \\'illiam had the incom])arable 
 ad\antage of being educated at Kilkenn_\-, and afterwards at 
 'I'rinity, Dublin, the ' silent sister.' as it is commonly called at 
 oar universities. 
 
 At the age of nineteen, this youth sought the classic shades 
 of the .Middle Temjjle, of which he was entered a student, but 
 by the honourable society of wlii( h he was never called Ui the 
 b.u" ; but wliether this was from a disinclination to studv 'Coke 
 upon l._\ ttleton,' or from an incapacity to digest the requisite 
 number of dinners, the devouring of which (]ualify a young 
 gendeman to address an enliglitened ISritish jur\-, we have no 
 authority for deciding. He was certainly not die fust, nor the 
 last, yoimg Templar who has (juitted spec ial i)leadiiig on a cru- 
 ;ade to the heights of Parnassus, and he began earl\- to try 
 the nib of his jien and the colour of his ink in a no\el. I'lheu ! 
 h(r,v many a nc)vel has issued from the dull, dirty chambers cif 
 that s;une Temjile 1 The waters of the Thames just there seem 
 to ha\e been augmented by a mingled ilow of sewage and 
 iielicon. though the former is undoiibtedlv in the greater ])ro- 
 portion. 'I'his ncnel. called ' Incognita; or, l.ove and Dutv 
 Reconciled,' seems to ha\e been- for I confess that I have .lOt 
 read niorc than a chapter of it, and hope I never may be forced 
 to do so — great rubbish, wiUi gootl store of villains and ruffians, 
 love sick maidens who tune their lutes — always conveniently at 
 hand and love-sick gallants who run their foes through the 
 body with the greatest imaginable ease. It was, in fact, such 
 a novel as James might have written, had he lived a century 
 and a half ago. It brou-hl il^ audior but little fame, and ac 
 cordingly he turned his attention to another branch of litera- 
 
) support Mr. 
 
 J lii.s parents', 
 t biograjjhcr, 
 family, bciiiL,^ 
 Isq. (who was 
 ;vc and Strct- 
 (.'/<■/'(• lield a 
 oon after tlie 
 incomparable 
 afterwards at 
 )nly (ailed at 
 
 lassie shades 
 I student, but 
 railed to the 
 
 study ' t'oke 
 
 the reijuisite 
 ilify a youn,!,^ 
 •, we have no 
 
 lirst, nor the 
 linir on a ctu- 
 
 early to try 
 io\el. Mheu ! 
 
 chambers of 
 St there seem 
 
 sewage and 
 c greater pro- 
 ve and Duty 
 lat 1 have .lOt 
 nay be forced 
 s and ruffians, 
 :)nveniently at 
 , thn,)ugh the 
 
 in fart, snrh 
 ved a century 
 fame, and ai 
 .mch of litera- 
 
 G>//_!^-n':r I'inds his Vocation. 109 
 
 ture, and in 1693 produced ' The Old Ilachelor,' a play of whi.h 
 Dryden, his friend, had so high an opinion that he (ailed it 
 the ' best rir.,t-play he had ev. r read.' However, before bein. 
 but on the stage it was submi e.l to Dryden, and l>y him an.l 
 others prepared for representation, so that it was well fathered 
 It was successful enough, and ( A.ngreve thus found his voca- 
 tion. In his ded.ration~a regular piece of flummery (.f those 
 days, for which authors were often well pai:l, either in (ash or 
 interest- he acknowledges a debt of gratitude to Lord llalifix 
 who appears to have taken the young man by the hand ' ' 
 1 he young Tem].lar couhl do ntnhing better now than write 
 another play. Play-making was as fashionable an amusement 
 ■n those (lays of Ol.l Drury, the only patented theatre then ,s 
 novel-wnt.ng ,s in ,860; and when the young ensi.n.x'in- 
 brugh. could write comedies and take the direction of a' theatre 
 it uas no derogation to the dignity of the Staffordshire squire s 
 grandson to ,lo as much. AcordingU-. in the following year 
 he brought out a better comedy. -The'Double Dealer' with\ 
 prologue which was spoken by the famous Anne JiracegirdlJ 
 Hk- must have been eighty years old when Horace Walpo^. 
 y(Heof her to that other Horace^ Mann : 'Tell Mr. Chute 
 that his fnend Dracegirdle breakfasted w„h me this mornin^^ 
 As.he^v.ntout an.l wanted her rlogs.^^^^ 
 
 ' V ir 'T '"' ''^' \^^^^^ tl.evused to rail. Mrs 
 
 OldHeldschair: Airs. Rirn-'s clogs ! and Mrs. V...J.^r^^, 
 
 l-.ens:'yrhese three ladies were all IniriedmWestmmt 
 -M be>. and, exxept .Mrs. Cbber. the most beautiful and most 
 Mufu of t em all- though they were n(,ne of them spotle" 
 -;• he only actresses whose ashes and memories are hallowed 
 
 honour. ' ' "' ^'" "■"•'"'^' ^^'>- '''''' ^'->- ^'- '^ -- '' 
 Tlie success of ' The I )onble Dealer,' was at first moderate 
 yl'lH, gh that highly rope, table woman, Queen Afary honoure;! 
 
 n-t her augu.presen.e. wh;(h,V.rthwith. ailed u~ 
 
 ■o^^aclulatory style, though with less ,^ 
 llKai those addre.ssed to the Virgin ( )iieen : 
 
 ' Wit is again tho nxc of 
 
 in:iir-tv. ' 
 
T lO 
 
 1 ^i-rsrs to Qitccu Mary. 
 
 said the poet, and 
 
 '■J'hns n()uri^li(?d wit in our forcfntliors' ;isc, 
 And tliUi the Roman ;ind Athenian htagc-. 
 Wliosc wit is best, we'll not ])rebunic to tell, 
 I'.iit this we know, our aiidienci; will cxeell ; 
 I'or never was in Kotne, nor Athens seen 
 So fair a circle, and so bright a qiii-en.' 
 
 llul this was nul enoiiL;Ii. for when Her Majesty departed for 
 anotlier realm in the same year, C'ongrevc put her into a hi^d^ly 
 eulogistic pastoral, under tlie name of I'aslora, and made s(jnie 
 ( oinjiliinents on her, w]ii( h were considered the fuiest strokes 
 of poetry and llattery ( oml)ined, thil an a!j,e oi' addresses and 
 eulogies could prothice. 
 
 ' As lofty IMUCS o'ertop tlie lowly steed. 
 So did lii'r tjraeeuil heit,'ht all nymphs exceed, 
 To which excelling hi'iglil she bore a mind 
 
 Ilninble as (x^ier--, bjnding to the wind. 
 
 t * ' » 
 
 I mourn I'aslora deail ; let Albion .aourn, 
 Anil sable clouds her clialkie clifl's ad<jrn.' 
 
 This plav was dedicated to Lord Halifax, (jf whom we ha\e 
 spoken, and who continued to be Congreve's patron. 
 
 The tame of the xoimg man was now made ; l)ul in the fol- 
 lowing vear it was destined to shine out more brilliantly still. 
 Old Hetterton- one of the best Hamlets that ever trod the 
 stage, and of whom IJooth declared that when he was playing 
 the (Ihost to his Hamlet, his look of siu'iJrise and liorror was 
 so natura.l. that lloolh could not for some minutes recover him- 
 self was now a veteran in his sixtieth year. For forty years 
 he h;;d walked the boards, and maile a fortune for the patcnteevs 
 of Drury. It war. very shabby of them, therefore, to give some 
 of his best parts to yoimger actors. Eetterton Avas disgusted, 
 and determined to set up for himself, to which end he managed 
 to procure another patent, turnetl the Queen's Court in 
 Tortiigal Row, Lincoln's Inn, into a theatre, and o])cned it on 
 the 30th of A[)ril, 1695. The buililing had been before used 
 as a theatre in the days oi the Merry ISIonarch, and Tom 
 Killegrew had acted liere some twentv vears before ; but it had 
 again l)ecome a ' tennis-iiuatre of the lesser sort,' says Cibber, 
 and the new tlK':Urc was not very grand in fiibric. I'ut Better- 
 
departed for 
 into a Iiiglily 
 I made some 
 "in est strokes 
 Idres.ies And 
 
 m we lia\e 
 
 n. 
 
 It in the fol- 
 
 illiantly still. 
 
 ,-er trod the 
 
 was |)layin,i( 
 horror was 
 recover him- 
 )r forty years 
 he patentees 
 to give some 
 IS disgusted, 
 he managed 
 I Court in 
 )l)ened it on 
 before used 
 , and Tom 
 
 ; but it had 
 says Cibl)er, 
 
 iUit P>etter- 
 
 T/w Tennis Court Theatre. \ \ \ 
 
 ton drew to it all the best actors and actresses of his former 
 company; and Mrs. IJarry and Mrs. Bracegirdle remained true 
 to the old man. Congreve. to his honour, espoused the same 
 cause, and the theatre oi)ened with his play of • Love for J.ove,' 
 which was more successful than either of the former. The 
 veteran himself sjmke the pn,I.igne, and fair J'.racegirdle the 
 epilogue, in whi.h the poet thus alluded to their chan-e of 
 stage : 
 
 'Aiu! lliii, our au(ii,-iio', which <\v\ ^^^v^^• ,-,.., ,rt 
 'lo shiiiini,' theatres to .see our sport, 
 Now find us tust into a tonnis-c<jurt. 
 Thus fromihe jw^t, wo hupi- for future "r.ue ■ 
 I beq: it '■' 
 
 .•\rul boiiie here know I h.r.e,. /.■/(,•.■ 
 
 >V 
 
 The king himself completed the success of the openin- 
 attendnig it, and the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Liehls might have 
 rumed the older house, if ii had not been f.jr the rapi/litv with 
 which Vanbrughand (Jibber, who wrote for Old Drury, marn-ed 
 to concoct their pieces : while Congreve was a slower, thoT'h 
 perhaps brtter, writer. 'Love fbr Love' was hereafter'a 
 favourite ol bctterton's. and when in 1709, a vear before his 
 death, the company gave the old man-then in ill lu-alth p,,or 
 circumstances, ami bad .spirit.s- a benefit, he chose this play 
 and himself, though more than seventv. acte<l th- p i-t of 
 \alenline, supported bv M,n. l^racegirdle a. Angelina, and 
 Mrs. i;arry a.s J'rail. 
 
 The young dramatist with all his success, was not satisfied 
 with his fame, and resolved to .show the world that he hid ,s 
 much po.try as wit in him. This he failed to do; and like 
 better writers, injured lu's own fame, by not being contented 
 ^■'ti' what he had. Congreve-the wit. the dandv, the man 
 ;>l">iU town- took it into his hea.i to write a tragedv. In 1697 
 • Ihe Mourning bride ' was a.ted at the Tennis Court Theatre. 
 1 he author Mas wise enough to return to his former muse and 
 some tune alter produced his best piece, so some think 'The 
 W lyot the Worl.l,' which was also performed bv lietterton's 
 <<"npany; but, alas: {ox overwriling-that cacoethes of im- 
 prudent men— It was almost hissed off the sta-.v wi„..!,,.. this 
 ^^as owing to a weariness of Congrcve's st-.le,' or whellier at the 
 
 I 
 
1 12 Coiigrcvc Abandons the Drama. 
 
 time of its first nppcaranrc Collier's attacks, of which anon, had 
 already <lis<,nistc(l the public with the obscenity and immorality 
 of this writer, I do not know : but, whatever the cause, the 
 <onse(iuence was that Mr. William Ojngrevc, in a fit of piiiue, 
 made u]) his mind never to write another piece for the stage — a 
 A\ise resolution, perhaps — and to turn fuie gentleman] instead. 
 Willi the exception of composing a mas(|ue called the ' Judg- 
 ment of I'aris,' and an opera ' Ciemele,' whi( h was never per- 
 formed, he kept this resolution very honestly; and so Mr. 
 A\'illiam Congreve's career as a playwright ends at the early age 
 of thirty. 
 
 but ihougli he abandoned the drama, he was not allowed to 
 retire in peat e. There was a certain v.orthy, but peppery little 
 man, who. though a Jacobite and a clergyman, was stanch and 
 true, and as sujjcrior in character - even, indeed, in vigour of 
 writing— to ('ongre\e, as Somers was to e\ ery man of his age. 
 This very Jercmv Collier, to whom we owe it that there is any 
 Knulish drama fit to be acted before our sisters and wives in 
 the ])resent da\-. Jereiii}-. the pcp|)ery, purged the stage in a 
 succession of Jeremiads. 
 
 Hornin i65o,educated atCambridgeasa ])oorsch(jlar, ordained 
 at the age of twenty-six. presented three years later with the living 
 of Amptoii, near liury St. iMlmunds. Jeremy had two qualities 
 to r'<ommeiid him to I'lnglishmen— resjiectability and [)luck. In 
 an age when the clergy were as bad as the blackest sheep in 
 their Hocks, Jeremy was distinguished by ])urity of life ; in an 
 age when the only safety lay in adopting the princii)les of the 
 \'ic;ir of brav, Jeremy was a Nonjuror, and of this nothing 
 could (lire him. 'i'he Re\'olution of i6S8 was scarcely effected, 
 when the fiery little jiarti/an published a pamjihlet, which was 
 rewarded by a residence of some months in Newgate, not in 
 capacity of chaplain. l)Ut he was scarcely let out, when again 
 went his t'urious pen, and tor four years he continued to assail 
 the new goveniment. till his hantls were sliackled and his 
 mouth closed in the i)rison of 'The Ciate-house.' Now, see 
 the character of the man. lie was liberated upon giving bail, 
 but had no sooner rellecti'd on this liberation than he came ii.> 
 the conclusion that it was wrong, by ottering security, to re- 
 
Iiicli anon, had 
 md immorality 
 the cause, the 
 I a fit of i)i(ivic, 
 )r tlic stage — a 
 eman', instead, 
 lied the 'Judg- 
 ,-as never ])er- 
 ; and so Mr. 
 t the early age 
 
 lot allowed to 
 : pei)pery little 
 /as stanch and 
 d, in vigour of 
 nan of his age. 
 It tliere is any 
 s and wives in 
 the stage in a 
 
 holar, ordained 
 witli the living 
 1 two <iu,ililies 
 and ijluck. In 
 :kest shee]) in 
 ,' of life ; in an 
 incijiles of the 
 tliis nothing 
 u'cely elTecled, 
 let, which was 
 ewgate, ///'/■ in 
 It, when again 
 nueil to assail 
 :kled and his 
 ;e.' Now. sec 
 on giving hail, 
 111 he came to 
 ecurity, to re- 
 
 yarmy Collier. u^ 
 
 ™«"'f<: "'.- ■^"•I'ority of ,„,,gi„r.,.cs .|,p„;,„o,l l,y a murpcT, as 
 
 , ? . "f ''°"'''''-' ''^' >"' ••■S'i" commillcl, but tl„V. .imc 
 I" to k,„g,, llencl,, ,.,ml >v„„l,l ,lo„Uless h, a f.„- v.ars have 
 i.a.ic.lK..o,,r„f ,1,0 ,,o„.,on prisons, if |,is cnomijs I,,,, „, 
 ..■en .a..l of ,ry,n„,i,„. Cko ,„„ro a, ,,„o,-,y, ho pas,o,l I o 
 next three years \n retirement. 
 
 Art.T ,693, Jeremy Colliu's name was not brought before 
 the puhhc. t,ll X696, when he ,,uhli, ly absolved Sir Joh Fr n 
 a.u..Myn,iam,Vrkins, at their execution. ..,.ini^"'^^^^^ 
 ■n a plot to assassmate Kmg William. His ' Kssays on M,.ral 
 
 . •;. I..t the only way to put out a firebrand like this is to 
 1 nt alone, and Jeremy, bci.,., no longer persecuted, be-MU 
 
 a las,, tothrnkthegamewasgn^wnstupill. andgaJehC 
 He was a weil-meanmg man, h.owever, and as long as he h d 
 the luxury of a grievance, would injure no one 
 
 He found one now in the immorality of his age, and if he 
 
 -' 1^'t I'oht.cs to then,selves from the first, he might have 
 
 done much more good than he dul. Against the vices of 
 
 cour^ an<l courtly circles it was useless to start a crusadc^si-H;. 
 
 ande.I ; but h.squa.nt clever pen might yet dress out a pou;,- 
 
 f 1 JeremuK agamst those who encouraged the licentiousness 
 
 ;'^'la|a,ob,te,andwemay, therefore, believe that the cause 
 vas a goo.l one, when we find him adopting preciselv tl)e .mx^ 
 ■ncas the Puritans had done before hin. 1,^ '6,S he p isl e 1 
 to he . sgust of all Dnu. and iancoln's inn, his ' Ln ^ V ' 
 ot he luunorahty and JTotaneness of the Kngh.h Stage to- 
 gc .r wnh the bense of .\nti,ui,y upon this A;;;ument.'^ 
 
 h.lethekmgnf Xaples is supplying his annent Venu.es 
 
 V th gowns, an.l puttn.g his Marses and Herculeses into pan 
 
 t^ foons. there are-such are the variet.es of opinion-rc^p" . 
 
 ahle .nen u, th,s country who call Paul ,ie Kock the .Juest 
 
 -H wnter of h,s age. an.l who wot.ld yet hke to see 1 ^l 
 
 ':;^'^:^:'^'!'''''r^ ^^^^"^ ^'"^''-^ specimens ;:f 
 
 ^^.' i.n.v, I-arqunar, and even of iJeaumont and Fletcher 
 acted at the Prtncess's and the Haymarket in the >ear o^^S 
 
 8 
 
11^ ]\yy I Jiipyopo' Things. 
 
 iS6o. I am not writing 'A Short View ' of tliis or any other 
 moral .suhJLCt ; but this 1 must say— the effect of a siglit or 
 sound on a human lieing's silly little passions must of necessity 
 be relative. Staid people read 'Don Juan,' Lewis's 'Monk,' 
 the plays of Congreve, and any or all of the publications of 
 JIolysvLlI Sirccl, withiuit more than ilisgust at their obscenity 
 and admiration for their beauties. but could wc be pardoned 
 for pulling these works into the hands of "sweet seventeen,' or 
 making Christmas presents of them to our boys? Ignorance 
 of evil is, to a certain extent, virtue : let boys be boys in i)urity 
 of mind as long as they can: let the unrefmed 'great un- 
 washed' be treated also much in tlie same way as young 
 l)eople. i maintain that to a coarse mind all imijroper ideas, 
 however beautifully clothed, suggest only sensual thoughts — 
 nay, the very modesty of the garments makes them the more 
 insidicnis ihe nuMe dangerous. I would ralher give my boy 
 John, .Massinger, or ISeaumont and l"i -tcher, Avhose very im- 
 jiroper things 'are c:alled l)y their jiroper names,' than let him 
 dive in the jirurient innuendo of these later writers. 
 
 J3ut there is no need to argue the ciuestion — the public has 
 decided it long since. '.WikX, e.\ce[it in indelicate ballets, and oc- 
 casional rather J'rauh passages in farce, our modern stage is 
 free from imniorality. Kven ji darrick's days, when men wore 
 not much more refined than in those of (^ueen Anne, it was 
 found impossil)le to put the old drama on the stage without 
 considerable weeding. Indeed 1 dcjubt if even the liberal up- 
 holder of l'\uil de Kock would call Congreve a moral writer; 
 but 1 c-onfess I am not a competent judge, S.ox lisumtauatis, 
 my critics, i have not read his works since 1 was a boy, and wi. t 
 is more, 1 jiave no intention of reading them. I well remember 
 getting into my hands a large thick volume, adorned with 
 miserable woodcuts, and bearing on its back the title ' Wycher- 
 Ky, Congreve, N'anbrugh, and Faniuhar.' I devoured it at lirst 
 with the same aviditv with which one miulil v.elcome a ])0ltle- 
 im[i, who at the hour of one's dulness turned up out of the 
 carpet and offered you delights new and old for nothing but a 
 {ether v'A your soul : and wiili a like horror, boy though I was, 
 I recoiled from it when any Itetter mcment came. It seen.ie 1 
 
 
 fl 
 
 i le. 
 . 1 ... 
 
or any otlicr 
 of a sight or 
 it of necessity 
 .vis's 'Monk,' 
 iihlications uf 
 icir obscenity 
 \)C jjardoned 
 seventeen,' or 
 ? ignorance 
 boys in purity 
 (I ' great un- 
 'ay as young 
 i])roper ideas, 
 il tlioughts— 
 em the more 
 give my boy 
 lose very im- 
 ' than let him 
 s, 
 
 he pubhf lias 
 allets, ai.d i" 
 Ddern stage is 
 hen men were 
 I Anne, it \vas 
 stage without 
 the liberal un- 
 moral writer ; 
 lis urn tenia t is, 
 boy, and wl". t 
 veil remember 
 adorned with 
 title * Wycher- 
 )ured it at iirst 
 come a bottle- 
 up out of the 
 nothing but a 
 
 <!-. ^ti cA'>. T wn <-• 
 l^iUi:U:i 1 M .13, 
 
 ;. It seemed 
 
 '-"-;:■ >vl.e„ I ,-„,l ,l,i,s 1,00k, as if lire „',,,. ,o„ „„,„ ,„^ 
 
 iKrc n.,s „one— as far as 1 re.nemi.ei „f that amial.ie «■,.■,!.• 
 "ess, of ,l,a, better se„,i,„e,„, „i,icl, i„ „,„ jZ tr Mnt' 
 s .er re..„,K- . ,,s ,o „.„,,„ „a„,re. ,f ,r„.i 1.:". te ! of 
 
 111 iM\e re.Kl, snire borA-c tc 
 
 "- ->■ i>oys „a,„|s tl,a„ Congreve .tnd Fa ^l,'" ,„,"']: 
 .n read nstra. again and again .iti, deli,-,,, f„r a , ,/ , 
 
 J'erlKips, then, Jeremy was not far wron- when )„. .t. , i , 
 .>.ese s„eei„.e„s of tl.e dra.na „„,, a. „:;;; !'\- ,:' 
 
 t he „.as not be ore Ins age. ,. ,vas less ,„. oi.-.t^' ;! 
 I K» ol d.ese proiluelions will, wlnel, l„. r,„„„l fnill llv,„ , 
 <le..u,ral,.n,g tendency in a direction , w ,,' ^ 
 
 l'erlu|«, ...nsi.l.r inno, uo„s. Certunlv l], ■ T ' 
 
 ;;;;..i;.^P-..,u,„t„o.s.^ri;::i'^™: :::;:: 
 -u,eu.dDryden,„;:e:;::npon^ l,;:i"-s„t*';"^- "^ 
 
 ; ;"'<-^' I'..U.„s and Thackenay, with the exce,,. ,,uh ;/"a 
 -■-S l.eoHe went along with Jerenn. wlK.rcs X fct 
 
would do mure than smile at the zeal of any one who tilted 
 aj^ainst our modern pets. Jer-'my, no <loubt, was bold, but he 
 wanted tad, and so g ive his enemy occ asion to blaspheice. 
 He made out cases v.here there were none, and let alone what 
 we moderns sIkmiM deuouni e. So Congrcvc took up the 
 cudgels against liiui with unu h wit and much coarseness, and 
 the iWD 1. lUght out die battle in many a pamphlet and many a 
 letter, llut Jeremy was not to be beaten. His ' Short \'iew ' 
 was followed by * A Defence of the Short View,' a 'Second 
 I )efence of the Short \ie\v,' 'A FarUier Short View,' and, in 
 .short, a number of 'Short Views,' which had been better 
 merged iiUo one ' Long Sight.' Jeremy grew co irse and bitter ; 
 {.'ongreve i oarser and bitterer ; and the whole . ntroversy made 
 a i)retty c liapter for the ' Qu.irrels of Authors,' But the Jere- 
 miad triumphed in the long ri. i, because, if its method was bad, 
 it^, cause was good, and a succeeding generation voted Congreve 
 immoral. I'.nough of Jeriiny. ^\'e owe him a tribute for his 
 [)iuck, and though no one reads him in the present day, we may 
 be thankful to him for liaving letl the way to a better state of 
 things. ■' 
 
 Congreve defended himself in eight letters addressed to Mr. 
 Moyle, and we can only say of them, that, if anything, they are 
 \el coarser than the [jlays he would e\( use. 
 
 'I'he works of the young Templar, and his connection with 
 I'lellerton, introduced him to all the writers and wits of his day. 
 He and Vanbrugh, though rivals, were fellow-workers, and our 
 glorious 1 la_\ uiarkL-t Theatre, which has gone on at times when 
 l)nir\- and C'ovent (larden ha'e' been in desi)air, owes its origin 
 to their confederacy. But Vanbrugh's theatre was on the site 
 of the itrescnt Opera House, and ///«■ Haymarket was set ui) as a 
 rival concern. Vanbrugh's was built in 1705, and met the 
 usual late of theatres, being burnt down some eighty-four years 
 afur. It is curious enough that this house, destined for the 
 ' legitimate drama ' — often a very illegitimate performance — was 
 opened by an opera set to Italian music, so that 'Her Ma- 
 jesty's" has not much departed from the original cast of the place. 
 
 * Drydcn, in the Pn-face to his Fables, ticknowkdgcJ that Coliior ' had, in 
 many points, ta.xed him justly." 
 
 *.-• 
 ? 
 
 r4 
 II 
 
,' who lilted 
 l)ol(l, bill he 
 I Maspheire. 
 ;t alune what 
 ook up the 
 arscness, and 
 t an<l many a 
 Short \'iew ' 
 ,' a ' Second 
 ^icw,' and, in 
 
 been belter 
 >e and bitter ; 
 roversy made 
 [Jut the Jere- 
 lliod was bad, 
 ted Congreve 
 ibule for his 
 
 day, we may 
 letter state of 
 
 ressed to Mr. 
 Iiing, they are 
 
 iinection witli 
 its of his day. 
 rkers, and our 
 it times wlien 
 Dwes its origin 
 as on the site 
 •as set up as a 
 and met the 
 ;lity-four years 
 stined for the 
 niiiance — was 
 hat ' Her Ma- 
 st of the place. 
 
 ; Coilior ' luul, in 
 
 r^yyikiis Death. 117 
 
 Perhaps Congreve's best friend was Drvden. This man's 
 "e and death are pretty wdl known, and even his funeral has 
 l>een dcsrr.bed time and again. l!ul Corinna--as she was 
 M}led gave of the latter an account wliich lias been called 
 '■'>'"ant.c, and mu, h discredited. 'I'here is a deal of , haractcr- 
 ' •"■ humour in her story of the funeral, and as it has long been 
 lost sight of. ,t may not be tmpalatable here: Dryden died on 
 AK!V-(.ay, ,701, an.l Lord Ilalitax* undertook to give his body 
 ;i pnvilc funeral in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 'On the Saturday follosving,' writes Corir >, ' the Company 
 ^.Hue. The Corps was put into a Vebet Hearse, and eighteen 
 •Moummg Coaches fille.l with Company attending. When 
 Jiist beA.,re they began to nmve. l.onl Jeffreys,t ivith some of 
 us rr.kish Companions, comini; by. in AVine. ask'd whose 
 Ijuneral ? And being told ; " What !" cries he, "shall Dryden, 
 tie greatest Honour and Ornament of the Nation, be buried 
 a tcrilus prnate Manner? Xo, (lentlemen ! let all that lov'd 
 M>. Dryden, an-1 Iionour his Memory, alight, and join with me 
 in gaining my Lady's Consent, to let me have the Honour of 
 Ins Interment, which shall be after another manner tlnn this 
 •""II ^vlll bestow/-, 000 on a >ronument in the Abbey for 
 li'"|- I lie (Gentlemen in the Coacb.es, not knowing of the 
 '•^ix'pol Ko.he.ter-. l-avour, nor of Lord I Ldifax's generous 
 >e.Mgn (these two noble Spirits hjvin- out of Respect to the 
 ;"n,ly, enjom'd Lady Klsabeth an.] her .Son to keep their 
 lavour concealed to the World, and let it pass for her own Fx- 
 i'cns,,. rea.hlycame oil of the Coaches, and attended Lord 
 J^'flre). up to the Lady's Ded.Mde. who was then sick. He re- 
 peated the purj.ort of what he had luhMe said, but she abso- 
 lutely relusmg, he fell on his knees, vowing never to rise till his 
 request was grante.l. The rest of the Company, by his Desire 
 kneeled also; she being naturally of a timorous Disposition' 
 ami then un.ler a su-lden surprise, fainted away. As soon as 
 she recover'd her Speech, she cry'd, '• Xo, no!" " Knough 
 gentlemen," reply'd he (rising briskly), - My Lady is very good, 
 
 t t-on of Judge Jcllnos : satirized by l'uix> under the name ' Bufo.' 
 
n8 Jh-jihu's /•'iinira/. 
 
 sIio says, flo, go !" .Slic repeated her former Words with all 
 her Strength, but ahis m vain I her feeble vuii e was lost in tlieir 
 Actlainationsof Joy ! and I-ord Jelfreys orderM the Ikarsenian 
 to ( arry the (Jorps to Russell's, an undertaker in tJheapside, 
 and leave it there, till he sent orders for the lunbaiment, which, 
 he added, should be iil'ter ihe R(>>.il .NbmiKr. His 1 )ire(.tions 
 were obeyVI, the Company dis[)ci^ed, and I,ad) I-ilsaljeth ami 
 yix. Charles remained Inc onsoiable. Next Morning Mr. Charles 
 wailed on Lord Ilalifix, iVc, to exf use his Mother and self, by 
 rehitiii.i; the real Truth. Hut neither his Lordship nor the 
 HiNJiop would admit of any I'ka ; f^pceially the latti'r. who had 
 the Abbey lighted, the ground ojiLii'd, the Choir attending, an 
 Anthem ready set, and himself wailing for some 1 lours, without 
 any Cor[is to bury. Russell, after three days' hlxpertance of 
 Ortlers for Mmbalment, without receiving any, waits on Lord 
 Jeifieys, who, pretending Ignoranc e of the Matter, turn'd it off 
 with an ill naturcd Jest, saying, " 'I'hose who obseived the orders 
 of a drunken Frolick. deserved no better; thai he remembered 
 nothing at all of il, and he might do what he please<l with the 
 Corps," On this Mr. Russell waits on Lady Llsabeth and Mr. 
 Dryden; but alas, it was not in their ]>ower to answer. The 
 scMMjn was very hot, ihe Pecea-.'d had liv'd high and fast; and 
 being corinilent, and abounding wilh gross Humours, grew very 
 oUensive. The rn<lerlaker, in short, threaten'd to bring homo 
 the Corps, and .set it before the Door. It cannot be easily 
 imagin'd what grief shame, and confusion seized this unhapi»y 
 Ivanil). They begged a Din's Respite, which was granted. 
 Mr. Charles wrote a very handsome Letter to Lord Jeffreys, 
 who returned it with this tool Answer, '• He knew nothing of 
 the Abater, and would be troubled no more about it." He 
 then addressed the Lord Halifax and ISishop of Rochester, who 
 were both too justly tho' tmhappily incensed, to do anything in 
 It. ^ In this exlream Dis; ss. Dr. Carth, a man who entirely 
 lov'd Mr. Dryden, and w,' wirhal a Man of Cenerosity and 
 great 11 um.uiiiy, sends for the Corps to the College of Phy- 
 sicians in Warw i< k Lane, and proposeil a Funeral by Suljscrip- 
 lion, to which himself set a most nol)!e cxanvde. V.r. W'vrher- 
 ley, and several ui'-crs, among whom must not be forgotten 
 
'ords with all 
 IS lost in their 
 ic Ik-nrscmaii 
 in Clica))si(lo, 
 ilnicnt, which, 
 lis l)irc( tiuns 
 l';isal)cth and 
 ig Mr. Cliarks 
 .•r and self, by 
 l>hi|) nor the 
 :llcr. who had 
 aiicnchng, an 
 louTs, willioiit 
 ■!\]>e(tancc of 
 aits on Lord 
 r, turn'd it off 
 \c(l the orders 
 .• reinenil)ered 
 ■ased with the 
 ibeth and Mr. 
 answer. 'Hie 
 and fast ; and 
 urs, L^ixw very 
 
 bring home 
 
 not be easily 
 
 this un]ia])])y 
 
 was granted. 
 
 ,ord JeflVeNs, 
 
 jw nothinir of 
 )0ut it." He 
 .ochester, wlio 
 lo an)thing in 
 
 1 who entirely 
 enerosity and 
 .lie-'- of Phy- 
 1 b) .'■^ubscriji- 
 
 A.Tr. Wyrlv.r- 
 be forgotten 
 
 
 A Tub rirac/u-r. i i.^ 
 
 Henry Cromwell, Ksq., Cai-tain (;il)bons, and Mr. Christopher 
 Mettalfe, .Mr. |)ry<len's Apothecary and intini.ite Iriend (since 
 :i Ccillegiate I'hysician), who witli many others contriljutcd 
 most largely to the Subscription ; and at last a Day, about 
 three weeks after his Decease, was appointed for the Interment 
 M the Abbey. Dr. (iarth pronounced a tine I .uin Oration 
 over the Corps at the College; but the .\u.hen< e being nume- 
 rous, and the Room large, it was recjuisite the Orator should be 
 clev.ite.l, that he might be heard. IJut as it unhukily hap- 
 pen'd there was notliing at hand but an old lleer-H.irrel, wiiich 
 the Dodor witli nuich good nature m..inUed; and in the mid^t 
 ot his Oration, beating 'Jiinr i > ■■ \. , ,?nt with his Fool, the 
 Head broke in. and his Feet sunk lo ihc l!(.ttom, whi( h occa- 
 sioned the mali( ious Rfi-ort of his Fnemies, " That he was 
 turne.l a Tub-l'reac her." However, he finished the Oration 
 with a sui)erior grace ami genius, to the loud Acclamations of 
 Mirth, which inspir'd the niix'd or lailur .Mob .Vuditor.s. 'iiie 
 I'rocession began to iiiosr, a nunuroiis Train of Coaches at- 
 tended the Hearse : Hut, good ( i.,d : in what Disorder can only 
 be expressM by a Sixpenny J'.un|,hkt. soon alter publiNhed, 
 entitled '• DrydciVs Funeral." At last the Corps arrived at the 
 Abbey, which was all unlighted. No Organ played, no Anthem 
 sung; only tuo of the Sin.^ing b„ys precede<l the Cor[;s, who 
 sung an Ode of I lor,.,,., with cadi a siiull candle in their 
 Hand. The llutchers and other Mob broke in like a Deluge, 
 .so that only about eight or ten Centlenien couh' lin A<lmis- 
 sion, and those foned to cut the Way with their u...>vn Swords. 
 The Coffin in this Diso' -was kt down into Chaucer'^ (irave, 
 with as much confusion. tie Ceremony, as was po.v-i- 
 
 iheuiselves from the CienUeinen's 
 I lie Mob. \Vhi_n the Funeral was 
 hallenge lo Lord Jeffreys, who re- 
 .; several others, and went often him- 
 ,.(i I Feller deliver'd, noi A^,:nittance to 
 le re^olveil. since his Lordship refu 
 answer him like a Gentleman, he would watch 'pponumty 
 
 to meet hun. and fight off liand, tho' witii 
 
 ble ; every one glad to 
 Swords, or the C! ' 
 <'\er, Mr. CharK 
 fusing to answer 
 self, but could 1 
 speak to him. ti; 
 
 Honour ; which hi.s Lordship hearing, 
 
 k.ff fV 
 
 T 
 
 ie-) oi 
 
 ad Mr. 
 
120 Drydciis Solicitude for his Son. 
 
 Charles could never hue the satisfaction to meet him, the' he 
 sought it till his death with the utmost Application.' 
 
 Dryden was, perhaps, the last man of learning that believed 
 in astrology; though an eminent l*^nglish author, now living, 
 and celebrated for the variety of his acquirements, has been 
 known to procure the casting of horoscopes, and to consult a 
 noted ' astrologer,' who gives opinions for a small sum. The 
 coincidences of prophecy are not more remarkable than those 
 of star-telling; and Diydcn and the author I have referred to 
 were probably both captivated into belief by some fatuitous 
 realization of their lioroscojjic i)redictions. Nor can we alto- 
 gether blame their credulity, when we see biology, table-turning, 
 rai)i)ing, and all the funily of imposture, taken up seriously in 
 our own time. 
 
 C)n the bird) of his son Charles, Dr}'den immediately cast his 
 ]ioros( ope. The following account of Dryden's paternal soli- 
 citude for his son, and its result, may be taken as emljcllished, 
 if not ai)ocryphal. Evil hour, in(leed--Jupiter, A'enus, and 
 the Sun were all ' under tiie earth ;' Mars and Saturn were in 
 square: eight, or a multiple of it, would be fatal to the child 
 —the S(iuare foretold it. Jn his eighth, his twenty-third, or his 
 Ihirly-second year, he was certain to die, though he might pos- 
 sibly linger on to the age of thirty-four. The stars did all diey 
 could to keep up their re])Utation. AVhen the l)oy was eight 
 years old he nearly lost his life by being buried under a, heap 
 of stones out of an old wall, knocked down l)y a stag and 
 hounds in a hunt. JJut the stars were not to be beaten, and 
 though the c hild recovered, went in for the game a second time 
 in his twenty-third year, when he fell, in a fit of giddiness, from 
 a tower, and, to use Lady Elsabeth's words, was 'mash'd to a 
 uiunnny.' Still the battle was not over, and the mummy re- 
 turned in due course to its human form, though considerably 
 tlisligured. ]\Iars and Saturn were naturally disgusted at his 
 recovery, and resolveil to fmish the disobedient youth. As we 
 have seen, he in vain sought his fate at Uie hand of Jeffreys; 
 but we nuisl conclude that the ofiended constellations took 
 Neptune in ])artnership, for in due course the voutii met with 
 a waterv i:ra\-e. 
 
;l him, tlio' lie 
 
 n.' 
 
 : tlKit l)elievcd 
 
 r, now living, 
 
 nts, has been 
 
 I to consult a 
 
 II sum. The 
 )le than tliose 
 ve referred to 
 ome fatuitous 
 r can we alto- 
 table-turning, 
 
 ip seriously in 
 
 lately cast his 
 paternal soli- 
 embellished, 
 , \'enus, and 
 aturn were in 
 to the child 
 ty-thir<l, or his 
 le might j»os- 
 rs did all they 
 )oy was eight 
 mder a. heap 
 y a stag and 
 I beaten, and 
 I second time 
 iddiness, from 
 'mash'd to a 
 : mummy re- 
 considerably 
 justed at his 
 outh. As we 
 1 of Jeffreys; 
 nations took 
 
 mth nii't iiitli 
 
 Coitgrci <cs A vibition. \ 2 1 
 
 After abandoning the drama, Congreve appears to liave come 
 out m the light of an independent gentleman. He was already 
 suhicicntly mtroduced into literary society; J'ope, Steele, Swift, 
 and .\ddison were not only his ftiends but his admirers, and we 
 < an well bcheve that their admiration was considerable, when 
 we tmd the one dedicating his ' Mi.scellany.' the other histmns- 
 lation of the 'Iliad,' to a man who was qualified neither by 
 rank nor lortune to ])lay Mxcenas. 
 
 At what time he was admitted to the Kit-kat 1 am not in 
 a position to state, but it must liave been after 1715, ami ])y 
 that timehewasami.Mlc-.iged man, his fame was long since 
 ar hieved ; and whatever might be thought of his works and his 
 controversy with Collier, he was recognised as one of the lite- 
 rary stars at a period when the great courted the clever, and 
 Mit was a passi)ort to any society. Congreve had plenty of that 
 an<l probably at the Kit kat was the life of the party when 
 Vanbnigh was away or Addison in a graver mood. I'ntroubled 
 by conscience, he could hiun. h out on any subject whatever; 
 and his early lue, spent in that species of so-called gaiety whicli 
 was then the routine of every young man of the world, gave 
 h'ni iinple experience to dr.uv upon. But Congreve's ambition 
 was greater than his talents. \o man so little knew his real 
 value, or so grossly asserted one which he had not. Cay hand- 
 some, an<l m good circumstances, he aspired to be, not Congreve 
 the poet, not Congreve the wit, not Congreve the man of nn'nd 
 but simply Congreve the fine gentleman. Such humility would 
 be clKunung if it were not ab.urd. It is a vice of scribes to 
 .seek a character for whi. h they have little claim. Moore loved 
 to be thought a ,Imcr-out rather than a poet; even lUron 
 al'C( ted the fast man when he might liave been content with 
 the name of ^genius ;■ but Congreve went farther, an<l was 
 asliamed <;t bemg poet, dramatist, genius, or what yoti will 
 An amv.lote of him. i.!d by Xoltaire, who may have been an 
 -'lu liar, but had no temptation to invent in su( h a case as 
 tnis, IS so consistent with what we gather of the man's cha- 
 racter, that one cannot but think it is tri-.?. 
 
 The plnlosopher of Ferney was anxious to see and converse 
 with a brother dramatist of such celebrity as the author of 
 
122 Anecdote of Voltaire and Congrcvc. 
 
 ' 'I'hc AV:iy of the AVoiid.' He expected to find a man of a 
 ];een satiric al mind, who would join hini in a laugh against 
 luinianity. Ik^isited Congreve, and naturally began to talk 
 (if his works. The fine gentleman spoke of them as trifles 
 utterly beneatli his notice, and told him, with an affectation 
 which ])erhaps was sincere, that he wished to be visited as a 
 gentleman, not as an author. One can imagine the disgust of 
 his brother dramatist. Voltaire replied, that had Mr. Congreve 
 been iiotliing more than a gentleman, he should not have 
 taken the trouble to call on him, and therewith retired with an 
 expression of merited contempt. 
 
 It is only in tlie present day that authorship is looked upon 
 as a profession, though it has long been one. It is amusing 
 to listen to the sneers of men who never. wrote a book, or who, 
 lia\ing written, have gained thereby -- .me more valuable ad- 
 vantage than the publisher's cheque. The men who talk with 
 horror of writing for money, are glad enough if their works 
 introduce tlicm to the notice of the intluential, and aid them 
 in procuring a j)lace. In the same way, Congreve was not at 
 all ashamed of fulsome dedications, which brougb.t him the 
 fa\()nr of tlie great. "S'et we may ask, if, the labourer being 
 worthy of his hire, and the labour of the brain being the highest, 
 fmesl, and most exhausting that can be, the man who straight- 
 forwardly and widiout afteclation takes guineas Irom his pub- 
 lisher, is not honesler than he who counts upon an indirect 
 reward for his toil ? I'ortunately, the rjucstion is almost settled 
 by the example of the hrsl writers of the present day; but 
 there are still people who think that one should sit down to a 
 year's- ay, ten )ears' — hard mental work, and exjjcct no re- 
 tin-n but fame. \\'hether such objectors have alwa}s private 
 means to return to. or whether they have never known what it 
 is to write a book, we do not care to examine, but they are to 
 be found in large numbers among the educated; and indeed, 
 to this present day, it is held by some among the ui^per classcfi 
 to be utterly derogator)- to write for money. 
 
 A\ hether this was the feeling in Congreve's day or not is not 
 now ilir on.,jsii(>n. 'I'hosc wcrc glorioits days for an author, 
 who did not mind playing the sycophant a little. Instead of 
 
nd a man of a 
 a laugh against 
 / Itcgan to talk 
 
 ihcm as trifles 
 '■\ an affectation 
 be visited as a 
 le the disLTUst of 
 .d Mr. Congrevc 
 lould not have 
 
 retired with an 
 
 is looked upon 
 It is amusing 
 a book, or who, 
 re valuable ad- 
 n who t>ilk with 
 1 if their works 
 , and aid them 
 re\'e was not at 
 rough.t him the 
 la])<)urer being 
 •iiig the highest, 
 m who straight- 
 i from his pub- 
 pon an indirect 
 is almost settled 
 esent day ; but 
 1 sit down to a 
 . expect no re- 
 al\va\s private 
 ■ known what it 
 l)Ut the\ are to 
 ;d ; and indeed, 
 le upi)er classes 
 
 ay or not is not 
 
 for an author, 
 
 le. Instead of 
 
 '-J 
 
 T/ir Profession of JMccccnas. 
 having to trudge from door to door in Paternoster Row, humbly 
 requesting an interview, which is not ahvays grante.l-instead of 
 sendmg that heavy parcel of MS., which costs you a fortune for 
 i'ostage, to publisher after imblisher. till it is so often 'returned 
 with thanks' that you hate the very sight of it. the young author of 
 those days had a much easier and more comfortable part to play 
 An mtroduction to an inlhiunial man i,i town, who again would 
 introduce you to a i)atr(,n, was all that was neccssarv. The 
 I'rofession of Afx-cenas was then as recognized and established 
 as that of doctor or lawyer. A man of monev couhl alwavs 
 "uy bmms; and most noblemen considered an author to be 
 as necessary a yxn „f his e>tal)lishment as the footmen who 
 ushere.1 them into n.y lonl's presence. A fulsome .ledication 
 >n the largest type was all that he asked : an<l if a writer 
 were suhu luuly profuse in his adulation, he might dine at Ma:- 
 cenas's table. <lrink his sa< k and canary without^stint, and apply 
 to lum for cash whene\er he found his pockets empty. Nor 
 was this all : il a writer Nsere sufficiently successful in his works 
 to reflect honour on his patron, he was eagerly courted bv others 
 of the noble profession. He was oflere-l. if not hanl i ash as 
 good an equivalent, in the shape of a comfortable go\ernment 
 smecure ; and if this was not to be ha-l. he was sometimes even 
 I'.lged and boarde<l by his obli:;ed .k.hVatee. Jn this ^K.^^■ he 
 rv,as introdu-eu into the hi::he>t society; an.l if he had wit 
 Knoughto . , -rt the character, he soon fouml himself /;..7/c- 
 ."/v-vcvA ui a circle of the highest nobility in the land "'I'hus 
 H .s that m the clubs of the day we Ihid title and wealth min- 
 ^.Uling with wiland genius : and the writer who ha.l begun life by 
 |a cringing dedication, was now rewanled bv the <lrvolion and 
 ^s.iduity of the men he had once flattered. When Steele, Swift 
 ^\dd.son, rope, an.l Congreve were the kings of their sets, it 
 kas tune for authors to look and talk big. Eheu ! those happy 
 "ilays are gone \ ^^ 
 
 ()ur<lramatisl. therefore, soon discovered that a good play 
 ^Nas the key to a good ,,lace, and the Whigs took care that he 
 Miould have It. Oddly enough, when the Tories came in they 
 m not turn hmi out. l^-rhaps they wanted to gain him over 
 lo themselves; perhaps, like the Vicar of Brav, lie did not 
 
124 Cougrci'cs Private Life. 
 
 mind turning liis coat once or twice in a life-time. However 
 this may be, he managed to keej) his a[)])ointnient without 
 oltenchng Iiis own party ; and when tlie latter returned to power, 
 he even induced them to give him a comfortable little sinecure, 
 Avhich went by the name of Secretary to the Island of Ja- 
 maica, and raised the income from his ai)j)ointmcnts to ;!£^i20o 
 a year. 
 
 From this period he was little before the public. lie could 
 afford now to indulge his natural indolence and selfishness. 
 His ])rivate life was perha])s not worse than that of the majority 
 of his contemporaries. Me had his intrigues, his mistresses, 
 the same love of wine, and the same addiction to gluttony. 
 He had the reputation of a wit, and with wits he passetl tiis 
 time, sufficiently easy in his circumstances to feel no damping 
 to his spirits in the cares of this life. The Island of Jamaica 
 ])robably gave him no further trouble than that of signing a few 
 papers from time to time, and giving a receii)t for his salary. 
 His life, therefore, presents no very remarkable feature, and he 
 is henceforth known more on account of his friends than for 
 aught he may himself have done. The best of these friends 
 was Walter Moyle, the scholar, who translated parts of Lucian 
 and Xenophon, and was pretty well known as a classic. He 
 ■was a Cornish man of inde[(endenl means, and it was to him 
 that Congreve addressed the letters in which he attemi)ted to 
 defend himself from the attacks of Collier. 
 
 It was not to be ex])ected that a wit and a ])oet should go 
 through life without a ])latonic, and accordingly wc find our 
 man not only attached, but devoted to a lady of great dis- 
 tinction. This was no other than Henrietta, Duchess of Marl- 
 borough, the daughter of ' Malbrook ' himself, and of the 
 famous ' Queen Sarah.' Henrietta w\as the eldest daughter, 
 and there was no son to inherit the i)rowess of Churchill and 
 the parsimony of his wife. The nation — to which, by the way, 
 the Marlboroughs were never grateful — would not allow the 
 title of their i)et warrior to become extinct, and a special Act 
 of Parliament gave to the eldest daughter the honours of the 
 duchy."-' The two Duchesses of Marlborough hated each other 
 
 * Sec Burke's ' Peerage. ' 
 
}. However 
 
 lent without 
 led to power, 
 ttle sinecure, 
 sland of Ja- 
 
 tS to ;j{,'l200 
 
 He could 
 I selfishne.ss. 
 ' the majority 
 s mistresses, 
 
 to gkittony. 
 le passetl his 
 no damping 
 1 of Jamaica 
 signing a few 
 ir Iiis salary, 
 iture, and he 
 nds than for 
 these friends 
 ts of Lucian 
 ( lassie. He 
 
 was to him 
 litem pted to 
 
 jt sliouUl go 
 
 wc fmd our 
 
 of great dis- 
 
 less of Marl- 
 
 and of the 
 
 :;st daughter, 
 
 ;hurchill and 
 
 by the way, 
 
 ot allow the 
 
 . special Act 
 
 nours of the 
 
 .'d each other 
 
 ll 
 
 'Mil I brook's Danditcr. 
 
 125 
 
 cordially. Sarah's temper was probably the main cause of their 
 bickering ; but there is never a feud between parent and child 
 in which both are not more or less blameable. 
 
 The Duchess Henrietta conceived a violent fancy for the wit 
 and poet, and whatever Ikt husband, Lord Godolphin, may 
 have thougl;t of it, the connection ripened into a most intimate 
 friePidshii), so much so that Congreve made the duchess not 
 only his executrix, but the sole residuary legatee of all his i)ro- 
 perty.-'' His will gives us some insight into the toadying cha- 
 racter of the man. ( )nly four near relations are mentioned as 
 legatees, and only /;"54o is divided among them; wherea.s, 
 after leaving ^200 to Mrs. Bracegirdle, the actress ; ^100, 'and 
 all my apparel and linnen of all sorts' to a Mrs. Rooke, he di- 
 vides the rest between his friends of the nobility, Lords Cob- 
 ham and Shannon, tlie Duchess of Newcastle, Lady Mary 
 Godolphin, Colonel Churchill (who receives 'twenty i)Ounds, 
 together with my gold-headed cane'), and, lastly, 'to the poor 
 of tlie i)arish,' the magnificent sum of Av pounds. ' IJlessecl are 
 those who give to the rich ;' these wonls must surely have ex- 
 pressed the sentiment of the worldly Congreve. 
 
 However, Congreve got something in return from the 
 Duchess Henrietta, which he might ivjt have received from 
 'the ])Oor of the jjarish,' to wit, a monument, and an inscrij)- 
 tioii on it written by her own hand. I have already said what 
 '(^ueen Sarah' thought of the latter, and, for the rest, those 
 who care to read the nonsense on the walls of Westminster 
 A I. bey can decide for themselves as to the honour the poet re- 
 ceived from his titled friend. 
 
 The latter tlays of ^\'illiaPl Congreve were passed in wit and 
 gout : the wine, which warme<l the one, jirobably brought on 
 the latter. After a course of ass's milk, which does not seem 
 to have done him much good, the ex-dramatist retired to liath, 
 a very flishionable place for de[jarting life in, under easy and 
 elegant circumstances, but he not only drank of the springs 
 beloved of King Illadud, of apocryphal memon,", but even went 
 so far as to imbibe the snail-water, which was then the last 
 species of quack cure in vogue. This, probably, despatched 
 
 * The Ducliess of M.irl!)0'(nii;li received /^lo.ooo by NTr. Congrcve's will. 
 
126 
 
 Congnvcs Jhri/Ii aud Jhiriai. 
 
 li'in. I!ut It IS only just to thai disagreeable little reptile that 
 infeMs oui-MHiens, an.Mvhose slime was supposed to possess 
 peciinarly strengthening properties, to state that liis death wis 
 materially liastened hy l.eing (nerturned when driving in his 
 chariot. He was close upon sixty, had long I .en blind from 
 cataracts in his eyes, and as he was no longer .ither useful or 
 crnamental to the world in general, he could perhaps be spared. 
 Hcdied.sor.n after this a.cident in Jamuirv, 1719. \U had 
 the sense to die at a time uheii Westminster Abbey, being re- 
 garded as a mausoleum, was open to re- eive the corpse of anv 
 one who had a hule distinguished himself, ami even of some 
 who ha.l no distinction whatever. He was buried there with 
 .^n-at pomp, and his ,lear duchess set up his monument. So 
 'nuch for Ins body, \\-hat became of the .soul of a dissolute 
 vain, witty, and unprm, ipled man, is no concern of ours /vV- 
 >ima^U lu /^acc, if there is any peace for those who are buried 
 in W estmmster .\bbev. 
 
 I 
 
 •^-5^.^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 "^ImeP 
 
It. 
 
 little reptile that 
 'osed to possess 
 It Ills death was 
 11 driving in liis 
 I .'cn blind from 
 v-ither useful or 
 -■rhaps be spared. 
 17-9- He liad 
 \i)bey, being re- 
 e corpse of any 
 1 ewn of some 
 uied tiiere with 
 monument. So 
 of a tlissolute, 
 n of ours. Rc- 
 who are buried 
 
 f 
 
 i 
 
 i5i:Ai; \.\sii. 
 
 Kini,'of nath. — N.ish nt Oxf,,nI 
 
 My l!oy Dick.' Oircrsof K, 
 
 fW.KV. is nothing neu un.ler the sun, said A\-alpole, by 
 way of a very original remark. ' X,,,' whispered 
 (.eorgc Sehvyn, ' nor under the grandson, either.' 
 Mankind, as a bo ly, lias proved its silliness in a thousand 
 ways, but ,n none, perhaps, so ludicrouslv as in its re.spe. t for 
 a man s roat. I le is not always a tbol that knows the value of 
 < rcss ; and some of the wi.est and greatest of men have be^n 
 <land.e.s o( the first w.^ter. King Solomon was one, and \leV 
 ander the (Jreat wa. another ; but there never w.:s a more de- 
 potie monarch, nor one more humbly oi)eved bv his subjects 
 than the king of Ihth, and he won his dominion's 1 y the cut ot' 
 H.s coat. P,H as Hercules was killed by a dress-sl.at, so the 
 beaux ol the modern world have generally ruined themselves 
 l>y their wardrobes, and brought remorse to their hearts or 
 '^onteinpt trom the very people who oncx- worshipin.d th'em. 
 e husband of Mrs. Damer, who appeared in a new suit 
 M<-c a-day, and whose wardrobe soM for ^,s,ooo. blew his 
 bums out at a coliee-house. ]!eau Fielding, IJeau Nash, and 
 Lean L.ummell all exjated their contemptible vanitv in ob- 
 --ure old age ot ^vant and misery-. As the world is full of iollv 
 ^he history or a foo! ,s as good a mirror to hohl up to it a 
 another; but m the case of p..,,, v..u .t, . ., ' . .' 
 ,.,.,, ,_ ,. ,. " -''"^'^ "'^' only que.vuon IS. 
 
 .^'.cuier ..e or his subject, were the greater Tr Is. So no,. ,ur 
 
I2« TItc King of Bath. 
 
 a pi. tinv of as nnu.h folly as roul.l well he crammed into tint 
 Iiot hasin m the Somersetshire hills, of which more anon 
 
 ft .s a hani thing for a man not to have luul a father-harder 
 stm like poor Savage, to have one v.h,.n he cannot get hold 
 of ; I;ut perhaps It ,s hardest of all, ulun yon have a father 
 ^'"d that parent a very respectable man. to W tohl that you' 
 never had one. This was Nash's case, and his lather wai so 
 iittic known, and so seldom mention^, that the- splendid Heau 
 
 uas thought almost to have dropj.ed Iron) the clouds, ready 
 
 dressed and powdered. Ih- dropped n, realiiv from anything 
 H.t a heavenly place-the shippiiig tou-n of Swansea : so that 
 
 Wales can clann the honour of having produced the hne'st 
 
 Iteau of his age. 
 
 |»'-1 Nash was, perhaps, a he.ter geruleman than his son ; 
 '"'t w,th far le.-, preien>ion. He was a partner in a glass'- 
 |nanufu.tor>. The IJeau. in alter years. o,t, n got rallied ^n the 
 inlerionty of h,s origin, and the least ohnoxiuus answer he ever 
 made was to Sarah of Marlborough, as rude a creature as him- 
 scll who to, I lum he was ashamed of his parentage. • \o 
 madan, replied the King of i;,,th. .( seldom mention 'nn- 
 fa her, m company, not because ! iKue anv reason to be 
 ashamed of him, but because he has somJ reason to l)e 
 ashamed o me.' Nash, though a fop and a fool, was not a 
 bad-hearted man. as we shall see. And if there were no other 
 vdceming point m his r^ltaracter, it is a great deal to sav for 
 J^'"^- that m an age of toadyism, he treated rank in the same 
 n^anner as he did the want of u. ami did his ],est to remove 
 the cKhous distinctions which pride wouhl h.ive kept u,. in his 
 Jlommions. In fact, King Nash may be thanked for havin.: 
 i'V his energy m this respect, introduced into society the tlrsJ 
 chMnei^ts o, that middle .lass whi.h is found alone in England. 
 
 ivl ! ^r^-f'f^ f^^ '•> ^'^^' --•• -as niece to that Colonel 
 
 ;nc .ho defended Pembroke C-astle in the davs of the first 
 
 kevolution-was one of those sillv uku who want to make 
 
 gemlenua. of their sons rather than good n.en. He had l.is 
 
 N. h. His son R.hard was a ycry fine gentleman, no doubt • 
 
 , fortunately, the s.neciivun,.aiK-es that raised hin^t^ 
 ■• 'o.,,.,! p,;-t;(,i,. also maUe him a gambler and a 
 
nmcd into that 
 ore anon. 
 : father— Imnler 
 annot get hold 
 liave a father, 
 told tliat you 
 father was so 
 •spIencHd Mean 
 clouds, ready 
 from anything 
 tnsea : so that 
 ced the finest 
 
 than his son ; 
 i^r in a glass- 
 
 rahicd on the 
 nswer he c\er 
 ature as him- 
 •■ntage. ' \o, 
 
 mention my 
 reason to be 
 reason to l)e 
 3l, was not a 
 k-ere no other 
 eal to say for 
 in the same 
 it to remo\-e 
 pt U[) ill his 
 1 for having, 
 iety the first 
 in England, 
 that Colonel 
 s of the first 
 nt to make 
 He iiad his 
 , no doubt; 
 lised him to 
 iibler and a 
 
 A'as/i at Oxford. ,,^. 
 
 l"-oni^tte. (^h : foolish papas, wlien will you learn that"a 
 
 ;-' to sehool and then to OxR.rd. to be ml^^g 2l :" 
 
 r r ^^^^^^^ -' i-- College, the haunt ^f h Wd^f 
 
 in my day, this quiet little ,,laee was celebrated for little mo o 
 
 - the Inunble poverty of its members, one-third of \ cm 
 
 -J ;n the cognon.en of Jones. They were not renow e 
 
 < e ness, :m , u was a standing joke with us silly bovs o 
 
 , : ; \ '^' t"; r '''"' ^^'- J""^'^ ^^-'^^ '^-1 - tooth-brush' ' U 
 - ge had the san.e eha.aeter then. Nash must luve asto^ 
 
 the) thought It better to get rid of him ' 
 
 i.s fuher could ill aftbrd to keep him at OxfbnI. and fondly 
 'Ol-ul he would <hstinguish himself ' My boy Di, k' did so 4 
 
 Ihson'httV'^'r^ "^r ^^ ""^^'^^^^ '^ '^' ^' ^'-- ^'- ng 
 > ]^l>s of that academical city, who are alwavs on the look-ou^ 
 
 m^Lrslt^. A\ hether he ever, m after-life, made another offer 
 
 n^.-rncd. mA that the connections he formed in later years wre 
 '-'r inore disreputable than his first love affairs 
 
 ll>c worthy glass manufacturer, having failed to make his 
 ^on a ^ntlcman m one way. took the best step to make 1 
 • blackguard, and, n. spite of the wild inclinations he ha 
 
 '.cady evince.l, bought him a com.m-ssion in the army n 
 tl^'>^' new position the in, ipicnt 15eau did everythim^ but his 
 ^uty; dressed superbly, but would not be in t, e fo; j ^^c b 
 spent more n.oney than he had, but did not obey orderr nd 
 
 Papa was now disgusted, and sent the voung Honcless to 
 •■'f ;;or lumself What could a we.l-disposJd. haLsoTc yomh 
 
 . , .^V:"'"'-'; (' J'i^ton- of Bath.' p. ■,f,f\ ,nv= ■ \.,. ., ...- , . . . 
 
 n 
 
130 Offers of Ktiit^hthoihl, 
 
 do to keep body and, not boul, Imt dotlies together? lie had 
 hut une talent, and that was for dress. Alas, for our degenerate 
 days! When we are piti heel upon onr own bottoms, we must 
 work; and that is a highly ungentlemanly thing to do. JJut in 
 the beginning of the hist century, such a degrathng resoun e 
 was <)iiite unnecessary. There were always at hand jjlcnty of 
 establishments where a youth ( ould obtain the necessary funds 
 to |jay his taih)r, if fortune favoured him ; and if not, he could 
 follow the fashion of the day, and take to what the Japanese 
 call * the hajipy Despatdi.' Nash i)robably suspected that he 
 had no brains to blow <iii'. and he determined the more reso- 
 lutely to make fortime liis mistress. He went to the gaming- 
 table, and turned his one guinea into te;\ and his ten into a 
 Iwndred, and was soon bla/ing about in gnld l:ue, and a new 
 sword, the very delight of dandies. 
 
 lie had entered his name, by way of excuse, at the Temple, 
 and we can (jiiile belu .e that he a.te all the reipiisite dinners, 
 though it is not so certain that he ]>aid for them. He soon 
 found that a fme coat is not -o very far beneath a good brain 
 in worldly estimation, and when, on the ac(-ession of W illiam 
 the 'J'hird. the Templars, according to the old custom, gave his 
 Majesty a ban(iuet, Nash, as a promising lleau, was selected to 
 manage the establishment. It was his first experience of the 
 duties of an M.C., and he conducted himself so ably on this 
 occasion that the king even offereil to make a knight of him. 
 Probably Master Richard thought of his empty ])urse, for he 
 replied with some of that assurance which afterwards stood him 
 in such good stead, ' I'lease your majesty, if you intend to make 
 me a knight, I wish I m.iy be one of your poor knights of 
 ^\■indsor, and then 1 shall have a fortune, at least able to sup- 
 l)ort my title.' William did not see the force of this argument, 
 ;uid Mr. Xash remained Mr. X;is]i till the (hiy of his death. 
 He had another chance of the title, however, in days when lie 
 could have better maintained it, but again he refused. Queen 
 Anne once asked him why he declined knighthood. He re- 
 ])lied : 'There is Sir William Read, the mounteltank, who has 
 just been knighted, anil I should have to call him ''brother.'" 
 The honour was, in fact, rather a cheap one in tho.se 'lays, and 
 
 If 
 
;ollicr? He had 
 )r our degenerate 
 lottoiDs, we must 
 g to do. J!ut in 
 'grading resoun e 
 . liand i)lLnty of 
 
 nrcessary funds 
 
 if not, lie could 
 at the Japanese 
 ispected that he 
 
 (he more reso- 
 t lo the gaming- 
 1 liis ten into a 
 
 lace, and a new 
 
 , at the Temple, 
 e(iui.site dinners, 
 hem. He soon 
 Ih a good I) rain 
 sion of William 
 iistom, gave his 
 was selected to 
 jicrience of the 
 so al)ly on this 
 I knight of him. 
 ty jiurse, for lie 
 ivanls stood him 
 
 I intend to make 
 jioor knights of 
 ast able to sup- 
 f lliis argument, 
 ly of his death. 
 
 II days when he 
 cfused. Queen 
 ihood. He re- 
 el)ank, who has 
 lim "brother."' 
 those days, and 
 
 Doiurr pcuaucc at York: ,,, 
 
 ho know.s whether a man w!>o had ,!one sue h signal .service to 
 
 Ins country dul nr.t look forward to a pe.:;.e? Worse , In 
 
 tl>an even Jkau Nash have had it. ' '" 
 
 Weil. Nash could affoni to defy rovaltv, for he was to be 
 
 .msel a monarch of all he surveyed,' and a good c^ , L' 
 
 -^njrewen.lowhmUo,.uh,letusgivethe^ 
 
 I.npnmis, his accounts at the TcmpK. were ^,o deficient 
 Now I .lon't mean that Xash was not as m-at ali.r v ,' 
 
 ;>Mns craiUnU the truth of this tale ^:;'U,^X^^^^^^^ 
 .'-Spectator,' though Nash took delight in rep.-atu Ig 7 ' 
 
 Come huher, yoimg man,' .said the J5enchers coolh • 
 ^^ liereunto this deficit ? ' ^ ' 
 
 ''■'•i'thee. good masters.' quoth Nash, ' that /".o wis s,.ent 
 on makuig a man happy.' '^' ^^"^ 
 
 'A nian ha})py, young sir, f.ri'thee explain.' 
 Ulds donners,' ,,uoth Nash, -the /ellow said in n.y hear.ng 
 .s-^ and banns were stanang, and ^.^ 
 1 . t happ.cst man s,a> s./r, and on su< I» an occasion as Plis 
 -M>i.lest) s accession, could I refuse it him '^' 
 
 V,sh was proverbially more generous than just. 1 f.. woul.l 
 '^"M'Hva.id. ,fh. .ouldhdp u. butuoudgive h V 
 ^^""^""^ '-> tlH.' first friend that begged it There wUl 
 
 '.^ne iricnd bothered h,m (ay and ni^'ht for y%<. ,i . 
 to /.,,,,.■ il,o monc-y, • to rc-licvc \m m^M ,„■, c,;,;,.. ■ , 
 
 i'crhapsthe King of Bath would not hive tolcr,t.<l • 
 - ■- ...1«, ,osl .1, ),..s ,„c„.,. at York, the Beat, n^iJno,^^ 
 
132 Days of Folly. 
 
 ' 'to pciinnrc' o.t the minster door for that sum. He afconlingly 
 ;irr.iyi.(l himself— not in sackcloth ami ishcs hut in an ahle- 
 huditil blanket, and nothing else, and took his stand at the 
 lorrh, just at the Iiour when tin.- dean would be K"'"fi' '" ^<^ 
 read service • He, ho,' died that dignitary, who knew him, 
 •Mr Nash in niasfiuera<lL / -Only a Yorkshire jjenanc e, 
 Mr. IKmu,' (juoth the reprobate; 'for keeping bad company, 
 too,' point ing therewith to the frientls who had come to see 
 the sjiort. 
 
 This nii-lil ])e tolerated, l)Ut when in the eighteenth century 
 a young man emulates the hardiness of (iodi\a, without her 
 men iful In irt, we may not think (|uite so well of him. Mr. 
 Ricluuil Nash, ]5eau l-'.xtraordinary to the Kingdom of P<.ith, 
 v.wvx:: rode through a village in that < o.>tume of whi( h even our 
 fust ])arenl was ratl.er ashamed, and that, too, on the bac k of 
 a cow : The wager was. 1 believe, considerable. A young 
 i'.nglishman did something more respectable, yet tjuite as .a 
 traordinary, at I'aris. not a himdred years ago, for a small bet. 
 lie was one of the stoutest, thickest-built men possible, yet 
 being but cigliteen, liad neither whisker nor moustache to mas- 
 culale his clear I-aiglish (omplexion. A the .M,i -,on Doree 
 one night he offered to ride in the ("hamps Klysees in a lady's 
 habit, and not be mistaken fur a man. .\ friend undertook tf) 
 dress him, and went all over I'aris to hire a habit that would 
 fit his round figure, ll was hopeless for a time, but at last a 
 good-sized body was {o\\\m\. and added thereto, an ample skirt. 
 l''elix dressed his hair with nia'nitc jilats and a ;/(/. lie looked 
 perfect, but in coming out ot the hairdresser's to gel into his 
 liy, unconsciou.sly pulleil up his skirt and displayed a sturdy 
 pair of well-trousered legs. A crowd— there is always a read) 
 < rowd ill r.iris — was wailing, and the laugh was general. This 
 hero reached the horse-dealer's 'mounted,' and rode down 
 the Champs. 'A very fine woman that.' said a Frenchman in 
 the promenade, 'but what a back she has!' It was in the 
 return bet to this that a now well known diplomat drove a goat- 
 ( h.'.ise and six down the .same fashionable resort, with a monke}', 
 dressed as a footman, in the back seal. Tlie ^^.y\< of folly did 
 po;, iipti.nently end with I>e;uj Nash. 
 
 
'{ca<cor(linc[ly 
 )tit in an able- 
 s stand at the 
 
 goinK in to 
 ho knew liim, 
 <liire pcnant (.', 
 had company, 
 
 1 conic to soc 
 
 tccnth ccnturv 
 1. \vithoiil Irt 
 of Iiini. Mr. 
 lorn of Ikitli, 
 lii< Ii even our 
 n the bac k of 
 le. A youncf 
 ■t ijtiile as », \ 
 )r a small bet. 
 possible, yet 
 Uache to nuis- 
 laison Dorec 
 jes in a lady's 
 undertook to 
 )it that would 
 l)Ut at last a 
 1 ample skirt. 
 ] Ic looked 
 
 get into his 
 yed a sturdy 
 Iways a read) 
 en end. This 
 
 1 mdc down 
 ''renchman in 
 t was in the 
 drove a goal- 
 ith a monkc}', 
 s of folly did 
 
 H 
 
 A Viry Romaitdc Story. \^y 
 
 There is a Ion;,' i;unuia in the history of this worthy's life, 
 whi.li may have been -Ih ' up wy a residen. e a a spunj^ing 
 house, or by a temporary appointment as billiard marker ; but 
 the heroie iJeau arrounted for his disappear.uu c at this time in 
 a nuK h more romantic manner. He useil to relate that he w.is 
 once a.sked to <linner on board of a man-ofvvar under orders 
 for the Mediterrancui. and th.it su( h was the alfei ti(jn thj 
 oftlrers entertained for him, that, having mde him drunk un 
 diffuult matter- they wei-hcd am hor, set .sail, and (arrie<l the 
 Mucessor of King Hhuhul away to the wars. Having gone so 
 tar, Nash was not the man to neglet t an opportunity mr iina- 
 gmary v,dour. Ilrtlierdore continued to relate, that, in the 
 apocryphal \ '. lu,- was onte engaged in a yet more apocy- 
 J)lial encouuLer. and wounded in the leg. This was a liUle loo 
 nuK h for the good Jkuhoniars to believe, but Nash silenrcd 
 ''u'lr doubts. On one occasion, a lady who was present when 
 he was telling this story, expressed her in( redulity. 
 
 ' I i'rotest. madam.' < rie ' ' au, lifting his leg up, • ,t is 
 
 true, and if 1 . annot be believed, your ladyship may, if you 
 please, rec eive further in< )rr aion .>.id icd the ball in my leg." 
 AVherever Nash may ha\. . ,!ssc-' the intervening years, may 
 1h; an interesting spe< ulaliui )r a derm .n professor, but is of 
 little moment to us. \Vc Und him .gain, ai ih-- age of thirty, 
 takmg first steps towanls die complete subjugation U tlie kiii-! 
 dom he afterwards ruletl. 
 
 There is, among the hills of .Somersetshire, a huge basin 
 
 formed by the rivr Avon, and conveniently supplied with a 
 
 natural gush of hot wafer, which '-.m be turned on at any time 
 
 ! a- the cleanMiig of diseased bodies. This hollow presciits 
 
 1 lany cairious anomalies; though sought for centuries for the 
 
 ■ike of health, it is one of the most unheahhily-situated places 
 
 lu the kingdom ; here the body ami the pocket are alike cleaned 
 
 (Hit, but the spot itself has been noted for its (Urtiness since the 
 
 days of King IJIadud's wi.se pigs; here, again, the diseased 
 
 llesh u.,ed to be healetl, hut the healthy soul widun it speedily 
 
 bcsickened: you came to cure r'niuaid rheumatism, :•• i (an-ht 
 
 m e.vchange dice fever. 
 
 Hie mention of those i-igs reminds tnc that it would be a 
 
134 
 
 Sii-kiicss and Civilization. 
 
 .slKimcful omission to speak of this ( ity without giving the story 
 of that apocryphal British monarch. King BkuUul. ]5ut let me 
 be the one exception ; let me respect the good sense of the 
 reader, and not insult him by supposing him capable of believ- 
 ing a mythic jumble of kings and pigs and dirty marshes, which 
 he will, if he cares to, fmd at full length in any • liath Guide'— 
 j)rice sixpence. 
 
 but whatever be the case with respect to the Celtic sove- 
 reign, there is, I presume, no doubt, that the Romans were 
 hoc, and ])robal)ly the centurians and tribunes cast the alca in 
 some pristine assembly-room, or wagged their plumes in some 
 well built Pump-room, with as much, sjMrit of fashion as the 
 full-bottomed-wig exijuisites in the reign of King Nash. At 
 any rate Bath has been in almost every age a common centre 
 lor h.ealth-seekers and gamesters — two antipodal races who 
 always flock together— and if it has from time to time declined, 
 It has only been for a period. .Saxon churls and Norman lords 
 were too sturdy to catch nuu h rheumatic gout ; crusaders had 
 Ijettci things to think of than their imaginary ailments; good- 
 health was in fishion under J'laiitagenets and 'I'udors ; doctors 
 were not believed in ; even emiuriis had to ])raise tlicir wares 
 with mu< h wii, and Morrison himself must have mounted a 
 bank and dressed in Astlcyian costume in order to find a 
 customer; sack and sm;;!! bver were harmless, when homes 
 were not comfortable eujugh to keep earl or c hurl by the fire- 
 side, and 'out-of-doors' was the ])roper dniwing-room for a 
 man : m short, sickness came in with civilization, indisposition 
 with immoral habits, fevers with fine gentlemanliness, gout with 
 greediness, and valetudinarianism — there is no Anglo-Saxon 
 w(M-d for that^^with what we falsely call refinement. So, what- 
 ever Bath may Iiave been to jxxmpered Romans, who over-ate 
 themselves, it had little importance to the stout, healthy middle 
 ages, and it was not till Uie reign of c:harles II. that it began 
 to look ui). Doctors and touters— the two were often one in 
 those days— thronged there, and fools were found in plenty to 
 i>)llow them. At last the blessed countenance of j)ortly Anne 
 smiled on the pig styes of King JSladud. In 1703 she went to 
 Bath, and fi-nm that faie 'people of distinrtion' Hocked there.. 
 
ving the story 
 . lint let me 
 sense of the 
 ble uf beh'uv- 
 larslies, whicli 
 5atli (iuide'— 
 
 e CeUic sovc- 
 vomaiis were 
 St the alca in 
 nies in some 
 ishion as the 
 1,1; Nash. At 
 nmon centre 
 il races wlio 
 ime declined, 
 s'orman lords 
 rusaders had 
 nents ; good- 
 lors ; doctors 
 ; their wares 
 J mounted a 
 :\ to fuid a 
 when homes 
 by the fire- 
 ;-room for a 
 indisposition 
 ss, gout with 
 Anglo-Saxon 
 :. So, what- 
 -vho over-ate 
 'althy middle 
 liat it began 
 3ften one in 
 in j)lenty to 
 ])ortIy Anne 
 she went tO' 
 3cked there.. 
 
 \ 
 
 Nash Descends Upon Bath. 131; 
 
 Tlic assemblage was not perhaps very brilliant or very refmed 
 llif visitors danced on the green, and plaved privately at 
 lia/ard. A few sharpers found their way down from London ; 
 and at iast the Duke of JJeaufort instituted an M.C. in the per- 
 son of Cai.tain AVebster -Xash's predecessor- whose main act 
 of glory was in setting up gambling as a public amusement. 
 It remained for Xash to make the place what it afterwards was, 
 when Chesterfield could lounge in the Pump-room and take 
 snutlwith the Beau; when Sarah of Marlborough, Lord and 
 Lady Hervey, the Duke of W harlon, Congreve, and all the 
 httie-great of the dav thronged thither rather to kill time with 
 less ceremony than in London, than to cure complaints more 
 or K'.^s imaginary. 
 
 'Die doctors were only less numerous than the sharpers ; the 
 place was siiU uncivilized ; the company smoked and lounged 
 without etiquette, and played without honour: the place itself 
 lacked all coinfort, all elegance, and all cleanline ... 
 
 Upon this delightful i)]are. the avatar of the (kxl of Kti- 
 qnetic. personified in Mr. Ri.liard Vash, descen.Ied some- 
 where about the year 1705, for the purpose of regenerating the 
 barbarians. He alighted just at the moment that one of the 
 do( tors we have alluded to, in a fit of disgust at some slight on 
 the i,arl of the town, was threatening to destrov its repu'tation, 
 or, as he politely expressed it, ' to throw a toad' into the .spring ' 
 'J he Jlathonians were alarmed and in consternation, when 
 young N':ish, w!io must have already distinguished himself as a 
 macaroni, stei^pcd forward and offered to render the angry 
 physician impotent. M\c1l (harm his toad out again with 
 music,' ,iuolh he. He evidently thought very little of the 
 watering-place, after his town experiences, and i)repared to 
 treat It accordingly. He got xxx^ a band in the Pump-room 
 brought thither m this manner the healthy as well as the sick' 
 and soon raised the renown of }!ath as a resort for gaiety a.s 
 well as for mineral waters. ]n a word, he dispkived a surpris- 
 mg talent tor setting everything and everybody 'to rights, and 
 was, therefore, soon elected, by ta( it voting, the King°of Bath 
 He rapidly proved his (lualifications for the j^osition. First 
 he secured hi..; Orphean harmony Ijy collecting a band-subscrip- 
 
I3<5 jYcis/is C/tcf.d'mrvrc. 
 
 tion, which gave two guineas a-picre to six performers ; then 
 he engaged an oflic.al pumper for tlie J'um])-room • and listlv 
 linding that the bathers still gatliered under a booth to drink 
 the:rteaand talk their scandal, he in.luced one Harrison to 
 Inuld assembly-rooms, guaranteeing him three guineas a week 
 to be raised by subscription. 
 
 All this dernande.l a ^•ast amount of impudence on Mr 
 Nashs part, and this he possesse.l to a liberal extent The 
 subscriptions flowed in regularly, and Nash felt his power in- 
 crease w,th h,s responsibility. .Su, then, our minor monanh 
 resolved to be despotic, and in a short time laid down' laws frr 
 tne guests, which they obeyed most obsecpiiously. \ash h 'd 
 not much wit, though a great deal of assurance, but these laws 
 Were his c/nj d\vurn\ Witness some of them :— 
 
 I. 'That a visit of ceremony at first comin- and another ^ 
 going away, are all that are expected or dcMred by ladies of 
 • luanty and fashion- except impertinents. 
 
 4. ' That no person takes it ill that any one goes to another's 
 play or breakfast, and not theirs— except captious nature. 
 
 5- ''liut no gentleman give his ti( ket for the balls to any 
 In.t genUewomen. N.lJ.-Unless he has none of his acnuai-- 
 ance. ^ 
 
 6. • That :r;'ntlemcn crowding before the ladies at the l-'l 
 show ill manners; and that none do so for the future-excr J 
 such as respect nobody but themselves. 
 
 0. ' 'I'hat the younger ladies take notice how many eyes ob- 
 serve them. N. n.— This does not extend to the Jlavcat-alls 
 
 10. "i^hat all whisperers of lies and scandal betaken for 
 their authors.' 
 
 Really this law of Nash's must have been repealed some time 
 or other at Ikuh. Still mure that which follows :— 
 
 11. 'That repeaters of such lies and scandal be shunned 
 by all company, except sucli as have been guilty of the si'ne 
 crime.' 
 
 ■I"iiere is a certain amount of satire in these Lvcrrms sti- 
 "tcs that shows Nash in the light of an observer",, .society- 
 but, query, whether any frequenter of Ikith would not have \l 
 vised as good i* 
 
erformers ; then 
 om ; and lastly, 
 booth to drink 
 ne Harrison to 
 guineas a week 
 
 idence on IVTr. 
 ■il extent. Tlie 
 t his jjower in- 
 minor monarch 
 down' laws for 
 ily. Xasli liad 
 but these hiws 
 
 md another at 
 -d by kidies o( 
 
 )es to another's 
 s nature, 
 e balls to any 
 'lliis acciuaini- 
 
 ■s at the br.Il, 
 uture— exce; t 
 
 lany cj-es ob- 
 Jlavc-at-alls. 
 l)e taken fur 
 
 led some time 
 
 1 be shunned 
 of the same 
 
 I-yn'n^us sta- 
 r Oi society ; 
 not have (ie- 
 
 J nc Hall. J 57 
 
 ;ihe dances of tliose days must have been somewhat tedious. 
 Incy began with a series of minuets, in which, of course, only 
 one couple danced at a time, the most distinguished opening 
 me ball. Ihese solemn iKTformances laste.l about two hours 
 ^'nd we can easdy imagine that the rest of the company were 
 dc.ghted when the country dances, which included everybody 
 began. The ball opened at six ; the country ,\:.n,^, hAnaJ 
 eight : at nu,e there was a lull for the gentlemen to offer their 
 partners lea; ,n due course the dances were resumed, and at 
 eleven Nash held up his hand to the musicians, and under no 
 <^rct.mstances M-as the ball allowed to continue after that hot.r. 
 Nash well knew t.e value of early liours to invalids, and he 
 would not destroy the healing reputation of Bath tbr the sake 
 ot a little more pleasure. On one occasion the Princess 
 Ameha nnplored hint to allow one dance more. The .lespot 
 phec , that Ins laws were those of i ,ycurgtis, and could not be 
 abrogated for any one. Wj this we see that the APC. was 
 -iilready an autocrat in his kingdom. 
 
 Nor is it to be supposed tluu hi"s majesty's laws were con- 
 t ned to such merely j.rofessional arrangements. Not a bit of 
 <t : m a very short time his impudence gave him undenied right 
 of .nterterencewuh the coats and gowns, the habits and m'm 
 ^^ors, even the daily actions of his subjects, for so the visitors 
 at^La^h were con^pelled to become. Si parru co.nponcre ,na,na 
 ><aht, we may acun.t that the rise of Nash a,id that of \;no- 
 eon were owmg to similar causes. The French emperor found 
 l-rance >n a state of disorder, with which sensible people ee 
 grow.ng tnore and n.ore disgusted ; he offered to r store o d r 
 
 Is carl) dcx:rees ; then, when he had got them into the habit of 
 ^bechencc., he could make what laws he liked, and t.e h ! 
 P.n.^ without fear of opposition. • The Eath em eror /bb we 
 the same cour.e, and ,t may be a.sked whether it does not de- 
 
 nli ach^i^r T '""'"^ "' '•""^^«^' ^^^"""-' P--v:^-t 
 admmu.trafve power to subdue several lutndreds of ICnglid 
 
 I- < hcs and gentlemen as to rise st.preme above some millio 
 
 cflrench repubhcans. Yet Nash experienced less )J~. 
 
13^ Improvcviciits in the Ptimp-lloLvn. 
 
 th.in Xapolcon; Nash reipicd longer, i;ntl liad no infcrii.;l 
 
 niadiint prepared to l)Io\v liini up. 
 
 Jsveryl.ody was deliglite.l with th" imi-rovemcnts in the 
 
 i'liniproom, the l)alls, the ]-ronienade.s, the chairmen — the 
 
 /iW.,r rultians of the mimic kingdom- whom he rechiccd to sub- 
 mission, and therefore nobody com])hiined when I'.mperor Nash 
 went further, and made war uj.on the wliito aprons of the ladies 
 and the boots of the gentlemen, 'i'lie society was in fart in a 
 very barbarous conch'tion at the time, and jieople who came for 
 pleasure hked to be at ease. Thus ladies lounged into the 
 balls m their riding-hoods or morning dresses, gentlemen in 
 lioots, with their pipes in their mouths. .Such atrocities were 
 intolerable to the late frciuenter of London society, and in his 
 unpcrious arrogance, tlie new monarch used actually to ])ull off 
 the white aprons of ladies who entered t!ie assembly-rooms 
 witli that ///vvr.i.v article, and throw thein upon the back sc."ts. 
 lake the k'rench emperor, again, he treated high and low ia 
 the same manner, and when the Duchess of Quecnsberry ap- 
 peared in an apron, coolly pulled it off. and told her it was'only 
 lit lor a maid-servant. Her grace made no resistance. 
 
 The men were not so submissive; bu.t the .M.C. turned them 
 into rulicule, and whenever a gentleman ajipeared at the as- 
 sembly rooms in boots, would walk up to him, and in a loud 
 \oice remark, '.Sir, I think you have forgot your horse.' To 
 'omplete his triumph, he jnit the offenders into a song called 
 'i'rentinella's Invitation to the Assembly.' 
 
 'fomo, one nnrl all, 
 To Hoytkii 11, ill, 
 _ I'or t'luTc's the .^s^or.^hIv■ tin's iiiglit : 
 N'ono but [iroml fools, 
 Mind maniHTS and nilis ; 
 
 Wo Ifoydt'iis do dcceiuy bli-ia. 
 
 • Conn trollop< .ijid slitlcrns, 
 ('o( k! l;.il-, and white nprons ; 
 '1 his Ijcst our niotifsty buils : 
 I'or why should not wc 
 In .T dress be as free 
 .•\s liogs-Xorton squires in boots?' 
 
 and as tliis was not enough, got up a puppet-show of a sufficient 
 coarseness to suit the taste of the time, in which the luactice of 
 wearing bocn.^ was s.itiri/ed, 
 
HI. 
 
 i<i no infcriK'.I 
 
 cnienls \\\ tlic 
 chairmen — the 
 reduced to sub- 
 ilinperor Nash 
 iis of the ladies 
 vas in fart in a 
 .' wlio came for 
 ingcd iiUo the 
 gentlemen in 
 atrocities were 
 ety, and in iiis 
 ally to j)'.ill off 
 ssembly-rooms 
 le hack seats. 
 ,di and low in 
 necnsberry ap- 
 her it was only 
 mcc. 
 
 '. turned them 
 "cd at the as- 
 uid in a loud 
 r horse.' To 
 a song called 
 
 of a sufficient 
 le i:)ractice of 
 
 Life at Bath in Xas/is Time. i^^ 
 
 His next onslaught was upon tiiat of carrj-ing swords- ami 
 ■n this respect Nash became a inii.lic benefactor, for in those 
 day.', though Chesterfiel.l was the writer on etiquette, people- 
 were not well-bred enough to keep their tempers, and rivals ior 
 a lady's hand at a minuet, or gamblers who disputed over their 
 ' ards, invariably settled the matter by an option between suicide 
 <»'• murder under tin; polite name of <luel. The M.C. wisely 
 saw that these affairs would bring bah m bad repute, and deter- 
 mined to supplant the rapier by Vac less dangerous cane \n 
 this he was for a long time opposed, until a notorious tor. h- 
 hglU duel between two gamblers, of whom one was run through 
 the body, ami the other, to show his < ontrition, turne<l ( Juaker 
 brought his opponents to a sen.e of the danger of a weapon 
 nhy. ys at hand ; and henceforth the swor-l was aboli.^hed. 
 
 'Incse i)oints gained, the autocrat laid down rules for the 
 employment of the visitors' time, and these, from settin- the 
 la.hion to some, soon became a law to all. 'J'hc first thing to 
 .'c done was, sensibly enough, the os/aisi/-/, ol^je. t of their 
 rcMdence in IJath, the use of the baths. At an early hour lo„r 
 h'My c hairmen waited on every ladv to carrv her, vnu.pcd in 
 naimels, in ' ~ ^ 
 
 'A iittlc hi.ick box, ju,t tl'" s,/i: of ;i coffin, ' 
 
 to one of the five bath.. Here, on entering, an attendant 
 H.H cd beside her a floating tray, on which were set her hand- 
 keirhiel. boiuiuet, and w/z/M-.v, for our great-great-grand- 
 mothers a:j take snutf ; an<l here she found her friends in the 
 same bath of naturally hot water. It was. of course, a retmiun 
 <or society on the plea of health ; but the e.arly hours ami -x- 
 ercise secured the latter, whatever the baths ,nay have d,MK- 
 A walk in the Pump-room, to the music of a toleral^le band 
 was the next measure ; and there, of course, the gentlemen' 
 '"'",.'Ic<l with tlK- la.lies. A coffee-house was ready to rec e.ve 
 those of either sex; fnr that war, a time when madame and 
 miss hved a great deal in public, ami K...h-.h j,eor,le w.rv n,.. 
 ashamed of eating their breakfast in pi.bhe comp.uiy. These 
 breakfasts were often enlivened by concerts paid for by the rich 
 antl enjoyed by all. 
 
 Supposing the peacocks now to be dressed out and to have 
 
I40 -'/ Compact i.'iih the Duke of ncanjort. 
 
 tl-.cir tails sjjrcad to the l)ost advantage, we next find some in 
 ihe public promenades, others in the reach ng-rooms," the huh'es 
 having their ehibs as well as the men; others riding; others, 
 pcrchan<-e, already gambling. .Mankind and womankind then 
 <Iine<l at a reasonable hour, and the evening's amusements 
 began early. Nash insisted on this, knowing the value of health 
 io those, and they wc-re many at that time, who .sought IJalh on 
 its a( ( ounl. The balls began at six, and took place every 
 Tuesday and Friday, jmvate balls filling up the vacaiU i :-hts. 
 About the <()mmencement of his reign, a tli. ttr.- was buil^'an i 
 whatever it ma\- have l)een, it aftcr\v;irds b. , .vu,- celebrued as 
 the nursery of the London stage, and now, *; /a.-i^o passrUo ! !•; 
 almost abandoned. It is needless lo add that ihe ganu'n,. 
 tallies were thronged in the evenings. ^ ' 
 
 It was at them that Nash n.,Mle ihe mcney whi. h suffued to 
 keei, "P iHs stale, vl:'. h wa. v,:igarly regal. I!c drove about 
 m a chanol, llammg with heral(lr\-, and draw^ l,y ^ix gray- w^th 
 (>utri<!ers, running fx.lmen, and al! the ap. emiages n'hirh made 
 an mipressi..ii on the vulgar minds of th.> visitors of .hi:, king- 
 don:. His dress was magnilicenl ; hi. goid la^c !..,l,mite<i, liii^ 
 < >:ds evrrnew; hi- hai alone was always of the same colour— 
 7VAV/.'; ;miu as the emperor Alexander was distinguished by his 
 purt.K. 'unic and iJrummel! by his bow, fanpcror X.i.di'was 
 knov, :i a!! Kngland over jjy his white hat. 
 
 ll is due to the King of iJalh to say th, .!. however much he 
 gamed, he always j.layed fiir. He eve.; patronized yuun- 
 players, and after lleeeing them, kindly advise:,! them to play no 
 more. 'When he found a man fixed upcm ruining himself, he 
 did his best to keep him from that suicidal act. 'i'his Mas'the 
 case with a young Oxonian, to whom he luid lo.st money, and 
 whom he invited to supper, in urder to give him his parental 
 advK-e.^ The fool woidd not take the Beau's counsel and ' came 
 to grief l:;ven noblemen sought his j.rotection. The Duke 
 of Beaufort entered on a compact with him to save his juirse, 
 if^ not his soul. He agreed to pay Nash ten thousand guinea.s,' 
 \vheiK\er he lost t!ie same amount at a sitting. It was a com- 
 lortable treaty for our Beau, who accordingly watched his grace. 
 Yet It must be said, to Xash's honour, that he once saved him 
 
 ■A- 
 
 \\ 
 

 f^'/l 
 
 5' V »*.-•>: 
 
 njort, 
 
 lext find sonic in 
 rooms, the ladies 
 •s riding; others, 
 uonuuikind then 
 ig's amiiscnicnts 
 ic vahio (jf liLaltli 
 > sought Uath on 
 3ok place every 
 ic vacar.t i-'j^lits. 
 ■': was buiU, an : 
 ia eelebrued ;: , 
 
 'JUlpO /"JSSd/o ! 1 ■ 
 
 lat iht," ganiiii: 
 
 hi( h sunued to 
 le drove about 
 y six grjAs, with 
 ^'es wliirh n-iade 
 )r.s of \\\u king- 
 e ;;iihinited, his 
 
 same colour — 
 iiguishcd by his 
 -ror \:i.di was 
 
 wever niiu li he 
 ronized young 
 lem to jjlay no 
 ing himseU; he 
 'i'his was the 
 St money, and 
 ini his jxirental 
 iscl and 'came 
 1. The Duke 
 ■iave his purse, 
 tisand guineas, 
 It was a com- 
 bed his grace. 
 iK'c saved him 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 Cam ill i^ ijf BatJi. j^ | 
 
 from losing eleven thousand, when he had already lost eight 
 by remuiding him of his compact. Such was {.lav in those- 
 days : It is said that the duke had afterwards to pay the fine, 
 irom losing the stijiulated sum at Newmarkrt. 
 
 He displ.iyefl as much honesty with the voung Lord Towns- 
 hend, wlio lost him h,-; whole fortune, his estatJ, and even his 
 carnage and horses what madm-'n are gamblers : -and a< tually 
 cancelled tue whole debt, on condition my lonl should pay 
 hun ;^5ooo whenever he .hose to claim it. To Nash's honour 
 It must be Slid that he never came down upon the nobleman 
 d'»-mg his life. lie , laime.l the .sum from his exe- utors, who 
 paid ;l. ' Honourable to both ])artics.' 
 
 ]!utan ^xu\ was put to the gaming at IJath and evcrvwhere else 
 —except in a ivva/ faAm; and Nash swore that, as he was a king 
 r.ath came un<ler the head of the excei)tions~ bv an Act of 
 Parliament. Of course Nash and the sharpers who fre.|Uented 
 ^''■'ih an<l their name was I.egion-foun.l means to evade this 
 law fH- a time, by the invention of new games. J]ut this could 
 not last, and the Ueau's fortune went with the death of the dice. 
 Sti!!. liowever, the very prohibition increased the zest for play 
 lor a iimc, and Nash soon discovered lliat a private table was 
 more mmfortable than a public one. He entered into an ar- 
 rangement wiUi an old woman at Bath, in virtue of whi, h he 
 was to receive a fourth share of the profits. This was probably 
 not the only 'heir-keeping transaction of his life, and he had 
 once before .juashed an -^.tion against a c heat in consideration 
 of a handsome bonus; an.l. in flict, there is no saving what 
 aniount ot dirty work Nash would not have done for a l^indred 
 or so, especially when the game of the t.tble was shut up to 
 'ym. i he man was immensely fond of money; he liked to 
 saow h,s gold laced coat and superb new waistcoat in the Grove, 
 he Abbey Ground, and Bond Street, and to be known as Le 
 (^rand Na.sh. Ikit, on the other hand, he did not love money 
 for use f. an.l ne^■er hoarded it. It is, indeed, something to 
 -N ash s lionour, that he died poor. He delighted, in the poverty 
 o his mmd to di.splay his great thick-set person to the most 
 a.han age; he was as vain as any fop, without the affectation 
 of tnat ( haractcr, for he was always blunt and free-spoken, but 
 
l/\2 AnirdofiS of N'as/i. 
 
 as Ir,ng as he had cnougli to satisfy his vanity, he cared nothing 
 for niLTc wealth. He had generosity, though he neglected the 
 ])re(:ei)t about the rigiit hand and the left, and siiowed some 
 ostentation in his charities. When a poor ruined fellow at his 
 elbow saw him win at a throw ^'200, and murmured "How 
 happy that would make me !' \ash tossfil the money to him, 
 and said, 'Oo and be hai)i)y then.' I'robal.Oy the witless beau 
 did not see the deli( ate satire nii])lied in his speech. It was 
 only the triumph of a gamester. On other occasions he col- 
 lected subscription.-! for jioor curates, and so forth, in the .'^ame 
 ja'irit, and did his beNt towards founding an hospital, whii h has 
 sine e i»ro\ed of great value to those afilicted with rheumatic 
 gout. In the same spirit, though himself a gamester, he often 
 attempted to win yomig ;ind inexperienced boys, who came to 
 toss away their money at the rooms, from seeking their own 
 ruin ; and, on the whole, there was some goodness of he irt in 
 this goKM.xced bear. 
 
 That he was a bear there are anecdotes enough to show, and 
 wheth.er true or not, they suffu iently prove what the reputation 
 of the man must have been. 'I'hus, when a lady, afflicted with 
 a curvature of the spine, told him that ' She ha«l come st>ai:;ht 
 from London that day,' Nash replied with utter heartlessness, 
 ' 'I'hen, ma'am. )ou've been danniably warpt on the road.' The 
 lady had her revenge, however, for meeting the beau one dav 
 in the drove, as she toddled along with her dog, and being im- 
 pudeiitly asked by him if slie knew the name of Tobit's dot;, 
 slie aiiswered (piickly, * ^■es, sir, Ju's name was Xa.sh, and a moiit 
 imjtudent dog he was too.' 
 
 It is due to Xash to state tliat he made many attempts to i)u.t 
 an end to the periietual system of scandal, which from some 
 biiMen cause seems always to be connecteil with mineral s])rings; 
 but as lie did not banish tlie old maids, of course he failed. 
 Of the young ladies and their reputation he t ok a kind of 
 paternal care, and in that day they seem to have needed it, for 
 even at nineteen, those who ha.d any money to lose, staked it 
 at tlie tables with as much gusto as the wrinkled, puckered, 
 greedy-eyed ' single woman,' of a certain or imcertain age. 
 Nash pirotected and ca'ationed tliem, anil even gj've them tlie 
 
 
 ^' 
 
 r^f 
 
e cared notliing 
 ; riL'glc'ctcd the 
 1 showed some 
 (1 fellow at his 
 iirimired ' How 
 money to him, 
 le witless beau 
 pecfli. It was 
 I asions he col- 
 li, in the same 
 jital, which has 
 with rheumatic 
 lester, he often 
 , who came to 
 ;ing their own 
 .'ss of heu't in 
 
 h to show, and 
 
 the rei)utati(jn 
 
 .', afflicted with 
 
 come strai^^ht 
 
 heartlessness, 
 
 leroad.' The 
 
 beau one day 
 
 and being im- 
 
 f 'Tobit's dog, 
 
 ish, and a most 
 
 Utempts to put 
 ch from some 
 ineral sj^rings; 
 rse he foiled, 
 ok a kind of 
 needed it, for 
 lose, staked it 
 led, puckered, 
 ncertain age. 
 ive them the 
 
 'Miss Sylvia' 143 
 
 a'lvantage of his own unlimited experience. Witness, for in- 
 stance, the care he took of ' Miss Sylvia,' a lovely heiress who 
 brought her face and her fortinie to enslave some and enri( h 
 others of the loungers of iiath. She had a terrible love of 
 hazard, and very little j^rudence, so that Xash's good offu es 
 were much needed in the case. The young lady soon became 
 the standing toast at all the dubs and suppers, and lovers (jf 
 her, or her ducats, crowded miuid her ; but though at that time 
 she might have made a brilliant match, she (hose, as \onng 
 women will do. to fix her affections upon one of the worst men 
 m Hath, who, naturally enough, did not return them. When 
 this individual, as a climax to his misadventures, was dapt into 
 prison, the devoted young creature gave the greater part of her 
 fortune \\\ order to pay otT his debts, ami fau'ing into disrepute 
 troin this act of geiiero^aty, which was, of course, interpreted 
 after a worldly fashion, she seems to have lost her honour with 
 her fame, and the fair Syl\ ia took a position which could not 
 be < reditable to her. At last the poor girl, wearv of slights, 
 and overcome with shame, took her silk sash and hangedlier' 
 sell. 'I'he terrible event made a nine hours'- w/ nine days' — 
 sensation in Iiath, which was too busy with mains and aces to 
 c.iiv about the file of one who had long sunk out of its circles. 
 When .\a>!, ivarhcd the /eiiilh of his power, the adulation 
 he received was somewhat of a i)arody on the tlattery of .-.Mir- 
 tiers. True, lie had his bards from Crub Street who sang his 
 praises, and he had letters to show from Sarah of Marlborough 
 aiul others of that calibre, but his chief worshij.pers were cooks, 
 ii>i!^;' i.uis, and even imprisoiicl highwaymen-^one of whoin 
 disdosed the secrets of the cnift to him-who wrote him dedi- 
 cations, letters, i)oems, and what not. 'I'he gooil city of Bath 
 set up his statue, and did Xewton and Pope* the great honour 
 of playmg ' su[,]HHters' to him, which dicited from Chcsterf.dd 
 some wdl known lines:— 
 
 'Tliis statiU" [il.icnl the hu=,ts betv.. . :i 
 
 Ailds to t!u' satin- strength ; 
 Wisdom and Wit are littli- seen, 
 Hut FoHvat full length.' 
 
 * A full-ien.^th st v 
 Tope. 
 
 •i :i W.-15 placed beUvceii inist'i ol Newton 
 
 and 
 
144 
 
 /1 Cnn'io/ts A if. 
 
 Mcninvliilc Iiis private < hai ulcr was Jionc of ilic ucst. lie 
 had in early life had one attachment, besides that unfortunate 
 affair for whieh his friends had removed him from Oxford, and 
 in that had behaved with gr-at magnanimity. '1 he young lady 
 had honestly told him that he hid a rival ; the J'eau sent for 
 him. settled on her a fortune e',iial to that her father ii, tended 
 for her, and himself ] resented her to tlie lavoured suitor. 
 Now, howLAcr, lie seems to have given u|)all thoughts of matri- 
 mony, and g:i' ■• hi'^nself up to niislrcs:, uho I are(' more for 
 liisguldth. ■ .'if Jt w.t . ,.n awkward conclusion to 
 
 Nash's L,' net'.. . a. in tnat one t asc, that before a year had 
 passed, the bride ran away with lier husband's footman ; yet, 
 though it thsgustetl him with ladies, it does not seem to liuve 
 ( Jirl him of his attachment to the hcx in general. 
 
 in the heiglit of his glorv Na-'- was never ashamed of re- 
 <eising adulation. IK; .'. .u-) as lond of .lattery as I-e (Irand 
 MonaniU' and lie i)aid for it too — whether it came from a 
 ])rin( e or a (hair-man. J'ls .tv day b'-oughi l:ini some fresh 
 meed of J 'raise in ]iroM' oi' \t.i.^e. and Na^h was always d' 
 lighted. 
 
 i'.tit his sun was to set in time. His foriune went when 
 gaming was ])Ut down, for he had no other means of subsist- 
 ence. ^■ct he lived on : lie had not the good sense to die; 
 and he vea( hed the patriaii hal age of eighty-seven. In his old 
 age he was not only garrulou.s, but bragging : he told stories of 
 hiN exploits, in which he, ^ir. Richard Nash, came out as the 
 firt swordsman, swinuncr, leaper. and what not. 1-ut by this 
 ti; people !»egan to doubt Mr. Richard NaslVs long l)o\v, and 
 th',' N.'ins he spun were \\<. .led to with impatience. He trrew 
 
 rude ami testv in his 
 
 (juiu, the actor, wiio 
 
 was living at Math, of an inlenuon ; supplant him; made 
 <:oarsc, impertinent repartees to the vibiua., at tliat city, and in 
 general raided up a dislike to himse!:. Yet, as other monan hs 
 have h ui ihi ir eulogists in )ber min !, Nash had liis in one of 
 the most .'raved: and \nstev, ' e low-minded author of 
 •I'he New liath Chiide,' panegyri7ed h;m a short time attei iii> 
 tleath in the ^ "' nvint' \ers.- : - 
 
A Panegyric. 
 
 the ucst. Ik- 
 
 lal unforUiiKilc 
 
 111 OxJonJ, and 
 
 he young lady 
 
 Ikau sent fur 
 
 athcr ii.icndtMl 
 
 ivoiircd suitor. 
 
 uyhtsof nintri- 
 
 arc(' more for 
 
 conrlusion to 
 
 irc a year had 
 
 footman ; yet, 
 
 seem to have 
 
 shamed of re- 
 
 as I-c (Irand 
 
 came from a 
 
 Ml some fresh 
 
 as always d<- 
 
 le went when 
 ms of sul)sist- 
 sense to die ; 
 ■n. In his old 
 told stories ol 
 ne nut as the 
 ilut by this 
 long- bow, and 
 ce. He '•'■ A 
 he actor, \vi;o 
 it him ; made 
 It ( ity, and in 
 ther monan hs 
 
 '.lis in one of 
 led author of 
 
 time aftei iiis- 
 
 Yof luTc no confiiMnn— no tumult is known • 
 iMir onl.T an<l Ixmuiv fst.ihli,h tli.-ir tlir'>n.> • 
 lororilir, ami Uauty, and just reknilaf ion. ' 
 Su|>|xnt al! tin. -...rk. uf this nmnlr . .M,,n, 
 j-nr thi-., HI compulsion to m 
 The i,'()(ls, their {xxul-ar favoi: 
 Sont llcnn.s to li.ith in llie s' , 'beau • 
 
 Ihat Kran.Kon ..f Atlas cam,- ,. .n i.uin above 
 lo )i,-ss all thr rfi,'i,.ns „f plfasurc and low • 
 In liM, tin. f.„r nym|.!i thro th.- various man-. 
 HriKht txMuty to marshal, his ^lory and pnusc ; 
 lo K^. <m, ifiipruvi', and ad.jrn tht; Rav .sc-nc 
 Uy thr <,rao> instrueii-d, and Cvpnan'qucrn ; 
 As when in a ttanlen delightful .-ind gay. 
 %\ hm- Flora is u,,nt all h,r charms to display 
 III." swivt h\ iciiithus with pli-nMirc w.' viiw ' 
 C oritond with narcissus in d.hcati- bur • 
 lhc«ardfu-r. industrious, trims out his'boRkr 
 » uts e;u-h (HJorifcrous plant in its order ; 
 1 he myrtle he ranges, the rose and the lilv 
 VViih ins, ,111(1 eniciis, and daflh-down-dilfv ; 
 >vveet jxas and sweet oranges all he disi 
 At once to r».j,'aie both ymir eves and Vo 
 Lontj reijjn.l the ^reat .V.Lsh.'ihis omnii., ; 
 Kesix;eted by youth, anrl by parents ador . 
 ror him not onoi!,;li at .i ball to preside, 
 The umvary and o.-aiinfiil nymph would h. 
 Ult tell her a tal.', how the credulous maid 
 liy man, by [xrliiions man, is betrayed • 
 iaui;|,r ( hanty s 1 ,nd to relieve the- distrest 
 \\ hile WAX. h.ave his tend,- eon.pas.sion ,\presf • 
 l>ut alxs ! he iv, ironc, , 
 Huw in years and in -I 
 llirti mouriKl all the lirv.i : 
 Hiai Avon drplnrd, hini il, 
 '111 • crvsiallin.,- stn.ims. 
 Then }x'rr>h his pictua>--Iiis statue decay 
 A tribute mere la-tinq; the Muses >hall iwv 
 If true wlr.f ..lMios„ph..rs all will .insure us, 
 .;V'?:r ' ' Ik' doctrine ot.;re..t Kpicurii, 
 
 ,"'•'' ""•, ■ "mortal (as poets alloui : 
 
 n re^^.,rd .,1 In. lab. urs, his virtue and pains, 
 ■ '■IS footmi; It now m the Klysian plain- 
 ly ''ulge.l as .a t.,ken of I'roserpines favour. 
 
 '■"at h.-rballsinacr. ,ii,^,,;.,„ri| In-avei 
 ' liisashes-YKii upiirest, 
 
 'iehapha-ni\ :..,.,.., .; ip,in h; 
 iw-n has sent us another pruf.-.-,,i 
 
 '45 
 
 'lit 
 
 guide 
 
 can tc 
 ■<\ hefr" 
 
 ■ rtiiii -, inoiiiit 
 "f the fuunt 
 
 '! It [>r' 
 The!. 
 
 SlIK'r 
 
 Knd I 
 ho f. 
 
 > the step- uf liis <rr,. ,( 
 
 ■sor. 
 
 The end o th lleau u,. somewhat less tragical than 
 
 Ihat of his J.HK.u. .ucces^'^ ummell. N.>Ii. in h,s old 
 r.;c and poverty, hung about .,. . iubs antl supper-tables, but- 
 lon holed youngsters, who thon .ht hiin a bore, spun hi 
 ^ains, and tried tu m.ist on te flishions. when n. 
 
 nu 01 hi-^ hie s century. 
 
14^ 
 
 N(u/is Fionrnl. 
 
 The f lcrc7 took nv>rc «arc ol liim than llio youn'^slcrs. 
 They heard that Nash was an octoj^cnarian, ami likely to tlic 
 in his sins, an<l resolved to do their best to shrive him. W or 
 thy and well-meaning men arcordingly wrote him long letter^, 
 in u'.idi there was a deal of warning, and there was nothing 
 which Nash dreaded so much. .\^ long as there was immediate 
 fear of death, he was pious and humble ; the moment the fear 
 had passed, he was jovial ami indiilcrent again. His especial 
 delight, to li.e last, seems to h.ive been swearing against the 
 doctors, whom he treated like the in<lividual in Ansley's ' Halh 
 duide,' shying their medicines out of window upon their own 
 heads. iUit the wary old I'.eckoner < ailed him in, in «lue tinu.-, 
 with his broken, empty-chested voire; and Nash was forced to 
 obey. IK uh claimed him - and nnu h g(jod it got of him • in 
 1761, at the age of eighty-seven: there ,ire few beau.\ who 
 lived so long. 
 
 Thus ended a life, of whit ii the iiiomI lay, so to sjteak, out 
 of it. Tlie worthies of r.ath were true to the worship of lolly, 
 whom Anstey so well, though indelicately, describes as there 
 conceiving l''a>]uon ; and though Nash, old, slovenly, disre- 
 spected, had long ceased to i)e either beau or monarc h, treal'.d 
 his huge unlovely cor[)se with the honour due to the g; ' - 
 or little. His funeral a.is as glorious as that of any hero, . ud 
 f u- more show '. , though mu( h less solenm, than the buri.d of 
 Sir ]ohn .Moore. rerha]is for a bit of j-ros.. tliuunier}. by v. , 
 orcontra>t to Wolfe's hue- on the latter e\ent, there i^ little to 
 equal the account in a t ontemporary ] >aper :-' .Sorrow sate 
 upon every fue, and even children li-pcd that their sovereign 
 was no more. The awfthJiess of the sulenmity raiide the deep- 
 est im])ression on the minds of the distressed inhabitants. 
 'I'he ])easant disccntinued his toil, the ox rested from the 
 l)':ough, all nature seemed to sympathise with their loss, ar.d 
 the muffled bells nmg a pe il of bob-major.' 
 
 'I'he lieau left little beiiind him, ;;nd that liltle not worth 
 nuich, even including his renown. Most of the presents 
 which fools or tlatleiers had made him. had loug since been 
 sent tv'i'i; nui Iu/iIl ; a lew trinkets and pictures, anu a icw 
 
 A 
 
/lis Chaycictcyiatics. 
 
 147 
 
 youiv^'stcrs. 
 liki-Iy t(j (lie 
 • him. Wor- 
 
 long Icttci 
 
 was nothing 
 as immediate 
 lent the fear 
 
 His especial 
 ; agairir^t the 
 nstey's * IJath 
 )ii their ouii 
 
 in due time, 
 
 vas forced to 
 
 t of him - in 
 
 W..\\\ who 
 
 to speak, out 
 ihip of lolly, 
 ibes as iheie 
 jvenly, disre- 
 
 Kinii, tt"e;i'' d 
 
 ) the K' 
 ny hero. ,id 
 the burial of 
 iner_\'. by \v, ) 
 jre is little 10 
 ' Sorrow sate 
 leir sovereign 
 ide the ileep- 
 1 inhabitantri. 
 i.L'd from t!ie 
 icir loss, and 
 
 books, uhi(h probably he h.id ne\er read, constitiited his little 
 store.* 
 
 it.itli mkI Tunbridge— for lie had annexed th.it lesser kingdom 
 to hi-1 own— had reason to mourn him, for he had .dmost made 
 them u hat they were ; but the country has not mm h ( aiisc to 
 thank the ujiholder of gaming, the in->titutor of silly fashion, 
 and the high-priest of folly. Yet Nash was free from many 
 vices we should expert to find in such a man. He did not 
 drink, for instance; one glass of wine, and a moderate '|uantity 
 of small beer, beinL; his allow.uue for diiiiuT. \\\- was early 
 in his hours, and made others sensible in theii *. He w.is gene- 
 rous and (haritable when he had the money; and when he 
 had not he took care to make his subjects subsc ribe it. In a 
 word, there have been worse men and greater fools ; and we 
 may again ask whether tho^e who obeyeil and flattered him 
 were ncjt more contemptible than IJean Xash himself 
 
 So mu( h tor the powers of impudence and a fuie coat ! 
 
 * In \W 'Aiiniial Ficpstrr,' (vol. v. p. 37), it is ■Jtriti'd tli u ,1 I«•n=^i(m of t.-ti 
 KuincMi a month w.u |;,U(J to N'.uh duiini; \\w l.uter ytMr^ of hi^ lilc 1-) tlio (or- 
 punition of iJ.itli. 
 
 ¥ 
 
 uo not v.'orlh 
 
 the presents 
 
 Og since been 
 
 :s, and a few 
 
 IB 
 
 10- 
 

 m 
 
 '^^^^^(/^^^. 
 
 :» 
 
 PHILIP, DUKE OF WHARTON. 
 
 Wharton's Ancestors. -Hi-, I^arly Years. -Marriage at Si.vtecn. Wharton taku-i 
 leave of his 'lutnr.- 'llu- Young Manjuis anil the Old Pretender. -Frolics 
 at I'.iris. — /eil for the ()ran,i;e Cause. -A Jacobite Hero.— 'I he Trial of 
 .Atlerlniry. Wh.iriDns Defence of the Bishop. - I hpocritical Si.!,'ns of 
 I'enititice. Sii Robert Walpole duped. - Wry Tninp. -The Duke of 
 Wharton's 'Wh.ii,.' Military lilory at (iibraftar. —' Uncle Horace. 
 Wharioii to 'Liule Horace.' The Duke's Impudence.— Hij;h Tri'ason. - 
 Wharton's Ueady \Yit. Last I'.xtremities, Sad Davs in Faris.— His Last 
 Journey to Spain.- His Death in a lieriiardine Convent. 
 
 ^V an illustration were wanted oftliat characterun stable 
 as water which shall nut excel, this duke would at 
 once supply it : if we hatl to warn genius against 
 sell" indulgence— some clever boy against extravagance— some 
 poet against the bottle— this is the 'shocking example' we 
 should select : if we \\ished to show how the most splendid 
 talents, the greatest wealth, the most careful education, the 
 most unusual advantages, may all prove useless to a man who 
 is too vain or too frivolous to use them proivrlv, it is enou"h 
 to cite that nobleman, whose acts gained for him the name of 
 the hiJiV)ious Duke of Wharton. Never was character more 
 mercurial, or life more unsettled than his ; never, jjcrhaps, wen.; 
 more changes crowded into a fewer number of years, more fame 
 and infimy gathered into so short a space. Suftice it to say, 
 that when Poi)e wanted a man to hold \\\> to the scorn of the 
 world, as a sample of wasted abilities, it was Wharton that he 
 <hose, and his lines rise in grande'ur in i)roportion to the vile- 
 ness of the theme : 
 
 ■ Wharion, tlie scorn and wonder of nnr flav.s, 
 Who.se rulin.ij jiassion was a lose of |)raiso. 
 Rorn willi uli-ue'er could win it from tlie wisi 
 
 W 
 
 onuMi and IucjI.s luusi like him or \v 
 
 J 
 

 TON. 
 
 i-n. Wliarton taki-s 
 Pretender. -Frolics 
 Hero.— 'Iho Trial of 
 >I>ocritieal Si^s of 
 iiifj. -The Diike of 
 ' Uncle 1 lorace.'— 
 Hii;h 'I'rea.son.— 
 n I'aris.-- -His Last 
 
 aracter unstable 
 duke would at 
 
 gcniu.s against 
 vagance — some 
 g example ' we 
 e most splendid 
 
 education, the 
 to a ni.m who 
 ly, it is enough 
 111 the name of 
 cliaractcr more 
 ', perhajKS, were 
 ears, more fame 
 juffice it to say, 
 le scorn of the 
 'harton tliat he 
 on to the vile- 
 
 1 1 'liar foils ^ I iicrsfors. 
 
 Though raptured senates liunq; on al! ho spoke, 
 The club , Hist hail liini master of the juke. 
 Siiall iiar\, so various aim ;it nothini( new? 
 He'll shine a Tully and a Wilniot too. 
 
 * • * » 
 
 Tims with each gift of nature and of art, 
 And wantinij n(jthinK but an h(jnest heart ; 
 Groun all to all, from no one vice e.xemjtt, 
 And most contrniptible, to shun contempt; 
 His passion still, to covet general jiraise, 
 His life to forfeit it a thoiisind wavs ; 
 A constant bounty which no friend has inadc ; 
 An angel tongue which no man can pepMiadc ; 
 A fool with more of wit than all mankind ; 
 Too rash for thought, for action too refined." 
 
 149 
 
 And then those niemoraMe 1 
 
 ines- 
 
 ' .\ tyrant to the wife liis heart approved, 
 A rebel to the very king he loved ; 
 He dies, sad outc.i-t ofcuh church and .state ; 
 And, harder still ! flagitious, yet not great.' 
 
 'I'hough it may l)e doubted if tlie ' lust of praise' was the cause 
 of his eccentricities, so much as an utter restlessness and insta- 
 bility of character, Pope's description is sufficiently correct, and 
 will jirepare us for one of tlie most disapi)ointing lives we could 
 . well h;ue to read. 
 
 rinhp, Duke of AVharton, was one of those men of whom an 
 Irishman would say, that they were fortunate before they were 
 born. His ancestors be(iueathed him a name that stood high 
 in England for bravery and e.\( elleiice. The first of the house, 
 Sir Thomas ANhuton, had won his peerage from Henry \'III. 
 for routing some 15,000 Scots with 500 men, and other gill.int 
 deeds. From his father the manjuis he inherited much of his 
 talents ; but for the heroism of the former, he seems to have 
 received it only in the e.vtravagant form of foolhardiness. Wal- 
 pole remembered, but c(nild not tell where, a ball.id he wrote 
 on being arrested by the guard in St, James's Park, for singing 
 the Jacobite .song, 'The King shall have his own again,' and 
 (juotes two lines to show that he was not ashamed of his own 
 cowardice on the occasion :— 
 
 ' The duke \v drew out half his sword, 
 Ilie gu.ird drew out the rest.' 
 
 At the siege of Gibraltar, where he took up arms against his 
 
 i 
 
'50 His Early Years. 
 
 oun king and country, he is said to have gone alone one night 
 to the very walls of the town, and challenge.! the outpost. They 
 asked hun who he was, and when he re,,lied, openly enot.gh, 
 lie Duke of Wharton,' they actually ahou-cl him to return 
 without either firing on or capturing him. The story seems 
 somewhat apocrypha], hut it is .,uite possiMe that the English 
 sokhers may have refrained from violence to a well-known mad- 
 cap nobleman of their own nation. 
 
 Pliili]., son of the Marquis of Wharton, at that time only a 
 baron, was horn in the last year I;ut one of the seventeenth 
 century, and came into the world endoue.l with everv .juality 
 wh:ch m,ght have n.ade a great man, if he ha<l onlV Llded 
 sdom to them. His father wished to n.ake him a 'brilliant 
 atesman, and to have a better chance of doing so, kept him 
 at nome,and had hun educated under his own eve. He seems 
 
 have eas.Iyand rapi.ily ac,,nire,l a knowledge of classical 
 an uages; an. us memory was so goo.l that when a boy of 
 
 1 urteen he coul. repeat the greater part of the > .llnei.!' an.l 
 of Horace by heart. His father's keen perceptiu.i ,li.l not 
 adow hun to st.)p at 'classics; an.l he wisely prepared him for 
 
 dTr ,'';''■'' '"""'-^ '^•■^^'■"■'' '•>' '''^ study of history, 
 anaent and uK^lern, an.l .>f llnghsh literature, an.l by teachi.ig 
 hrm, even at that early age. the art of thinking an.l writing on 
 anyg.ven subject, by proposing themes for essays There is 
 certaudy no surer mo.le of .level.,ping the reflectiv; and reason- 
 Hi^ powersol the muul ; an.l the boy progr...l with a nipi.iity 
 
 " i .vas almost alannmg. Oratory, too, was of curse culti 
 
 wM, and to th,s aul the y<>ung noi,Nan,n. was n.,de ,o recite 
 I>elo.ea small au.hence pa.v.ges tr<.m -Shakspeare, an.l even 
 speeches whKh ha.l been .lelivere.l in che House of Lorc^ 
 
 •n<lue niaybecertam he showed no bashfulness in this .lis- 
 play. 
 
 Ho «s ,,rccorio„s I.c.von.I n,ca,,„rf, ;.n,l at mm.,c„ was a 
 
 JaBlUc, .,1 a .\Iajur-(;.,KT,,l Holmes; ,,,,.1 ,l,o,a.|, there is 
 
 , ,,., ^^,.^ ^.j ^^^ ^_ ^^j ^^j^,^^ fortunately very few 
 
n<, 
 
 alone one ni^ht 
 le outpost. 'I'liey 
 
 openly enough, 
 1 him to return 
 'he story seems 
 that the Knglish 
 veil known niad- 
 
 lat time only a 
 the seventeenth 
 th e\XT)- ([uality 
 lad only added 
 him a brilliant 
 ig so, kept him 
 eye. lie seems 
 dge of classical 
 \vhen a hoy of 
 : ' .Kneid' and 
 e])tion did not 
 e])ared him for 
 ndy of history, 
 nd l)v teachinir 
 md uritiiig on 
 ays. 'i here is 
 ve and reason- 
 with a rajiidity 
 )f course culti- 
 niade to recite 
 •■are, and even 
 use of Lords, 
 CSS in this dis- 
 
 sixteen was a 
 'light, of man- 
 love with the 
 ough there is 
 us have been 
 iteiy very few 
 
 Mtirn'(7gc at Sixtctn. 1 5 i 
 
 do in a first love affair, he married tlie adored one. Earlymar- 
 riagesareolten extcjjled, and jur^lly enough, as safeguards against 
 l)rotligate habits, but Uiis one seems to have had the contrary 
 effect on yoiuig I'hilip. His wife was in every sense too good 
 for him : he was madly in love with her at first, but soon shame- 
 fully and ojjenly faithless. Pope's line — 
 
 ' A tvrant to \.\w u ifi- 
 
 Ids hc:irt ; ;-prr)vc(l, 
 
 requires explanation here. It is said that she did not present 
 her boy husband with a son fi)r three years after their marriage, 
 and on this child he set great value and great ho])es. About 
 that time he left his wife iii the country, intending to amuse 
 himself in town, and (ordered her to remain behind with the 
 child. The ])Oor deserted woman wi'll knew what was the real 
 object of this journey, and could not endure the .separation. In 
 the hope of keej)ing her young husband out of harm, ;md none 
 the less because she loved him very tenderly, she foUou'ed him 
 soon after, taking the little Maniuis of Malm.sbury, as the young 
 live branch was called, with her. The duke was, of course, dis- 
 gusted, but his anger was turned into hatred, when the child, 
 which he had hoped to make his heir and successor, rauglit in 
 town the small-pox, and died in infancy. He was finaous with 
 his wife, refused to see her for a long time, and treated her with 
 imrelenting coUlness. 
 
 The early marriage was mufh to the di.staste of Philip's Hither, 
 who had been lately made a maniuis, and who hoped to arrange 
 a very grand 'alliance' for his petted son. He was, in fact, so 
 much grieved by it, that he was fool enough to die of ■ in 
 1715, an<l the marchioness sin\ived him only about a year, 
 being no less di:>L;u>trd uitli the licentiousness which she al- 
 ready disc overed in her \"oung Hopeful. 
 
 .She did what she could to set him right, and the young 
 married man was shi{)ped off with a tutor, a French Huguenot, 
 who was to take him to ('.ene\a to be educated as a I'rotestant 
 and a Whig. The young scamp <le( lined to be either. He was 
 
 en, by way of .seeing the world, to tb.e petty courts of (kr 
 ;. .ny. and of course to that of Hanover, whifh hat! kindly scsit 
 us the worst family that ever disgraced the Knglish thro"" and 
 
 m 
 
 i 
 
152 / / ' hay ton takes L cave of his Tutor. 
 
 In the various princes and gran.l-clukes received with all the 
 
 honours due to a young ]5ritish nobleman. 
 
 The tutor and his charge settled at last at Geneva, and my 
 
 yc^ung lord amused himself with tormenting his strict guardian 
 
 Ualiiole tells us that lie once roused him out of bed only to 
 
 I'orrmv a j^m. There is no doubt that he led the worthy man 
 a sad life of it; and to put a climax to his conduct, ran away 
 
 rom him at last, leaving with him, by way of hostage, a young 
 iK-ar-cub-probably (,uite as tame as himself-which he hid 
 l'icke<l up somewhere, and grown very fond of-birds of i 
 fcatner, seemmgly-uith a n,essage, wInVh showed more wit 
 tiKm good-nature, to this effect :-' J !.ing no longer able to 
 
 .ear with your ill-usage, J think proper to be gone from you • 
 however, that you may, not want company, 1 l^n-e left you thj 
 'ear, as the most suitable .companion in the world that could 
 |je picked out for you.' 
 
 The tutor had to console himself with a tu ,/no</m; for the 
 young scapegrace had found his way to Lyonsin October, 17,6 
 and then did the very thing his fathers son should not have 
 d.>.ie. I he Chevalier de St. Cleorge. the ( )ld Pretender, James 
 II ..or by whatever other ahas you j.refer to call him, havin-^ 
 «a.led in his attempt 'to have his own ..gain' in the precedin-^ 
 year, was then holdmg high court in high dudgeon at Avignon" 
 -\.iy adherent wouhl, of course, be welcomed with open arms' 
 and when the yoimg mar,,uis wrote to him to offer his allegi- 
 ance sending w,ih his letter a hne entire horse as a peace off^- 
 ^n^i. he was warmly responded to. A person of rank was at 
 once („ ,ed to bring the youth to the ex-regal court- he 
 r^V^'^r^;:" ' '"^'' "'"'■'' •^"'''^•^i^«", and the t^iipty title of 
 IP^. of N^ortluunberland at once, most kindly, coliferred on 
 h<m. However, the young manjuis does not seem to have m/A^ 
 tiH' ex.le s court, for he stayed there one day only, and reUirn- 
 'yons, set ot( to enjoy himself at Paris. With much 
 nidence. and a plentiful supply of money, which he 
 ;r with the recklessness of a boy just escaped from 
 i'c could not fail to succeed in that capital; and 
 the iMighsh received him with oi)en arms. Even 
 ■ ■'■•'=' ^^'O^oH iie nau nearu rumours of 
 
 1 
 
 li 
 
.^!*^.> 
 
 :d with all the 
 
 ■ncva, and my 
 strict guardian, 
 f bed only to 
 ic worthy man 
 luct, ran auay 
 stage, a young 
 A-hich he had 
 f— birds of a 
 ved more wit 
 3nger able to 
 le from you ; 
 .' left you the 
 Id that could 
 
 0(/tn; tor the 
 rtober, 1716, 
 lid not have 
 ender, Janies 
 him, having 
 le ];receding 
 at Avignon, 
 open arms ; 
 ■r his allegi- 
 peace offer- 
 rank was at 
 il court ; he 
 iipty title of 
 inferred on 
 o have.i,'-(v;/'t' 
 and return- 
 With much 
 .', which he 
 caped from 
 pital; and, 
 ms. Even 
 rumours of 
 
 J( 
 
 'VllAlMii.Ns i;u(,t isu i.i;j:>j;.\t. 
 
 *«•)). 152. 
 
Fo/liiS at Paris. 153 
 
 his wild iloings, invited Iiim repeatedly to dinner, and did his 
 l)e-.t, hy advice and warning, to keep him out of hamvs way. 
 Young Philip had a horror of pre* ejjtor.s, paid or gratuitous, and 
 treated the i)lenipotentiary with the same coolness as he had 
 served the Huguenot tutor. When the fonner, praising the late 
 manjuis, expressed -by way of a slight hint— a hope ' that he 
 would a»llow so illustrious an example of fidelity to his ])rin( e. 
 and affection to his country, hy treading in the same htcp>,' 
 the young scamp replied, ( ievcrly enough, 'That he thanked 
 his excellency for his good a<lvice, and as his excellency had 
 al.vj a worthy and deserving father, he hoped he would likewise 
 copy so bright an example, and tread in all his steps ;' the pert- 
 ness of which was perthicnt enough, for old Lord Stair had 
 taken a disgraceful jart again^,! his sovereign in the massacre 
 of (ilencoe. 
 
 His frolics at Paris were of the most reckless character for a 
 yoimg nobleman. At the ambassador's own table he would 
 occasionally send a ser\ant to some one of the guests, to ask 
 him to join in the Old Chevalier's health, though it wa> almost 
 treason at that time to mention his name even. And again, 
 when the win<lows at the embassy had been broken by a young 
 luiglish Jacobite, who was forthwith committed to Fort rKvOcjue, 
 the hare-brained nuinjuis i)ro[)osed, out of revenge, to break 
 them a second time, and only aliandoned the project because 
 he could get no one to join him in it. l.oi.l Stair, however, 
 had too much sense to be offended at the follies of a boy of 
 seventeen, even though that boy was the reiireseniative of a 
 great Knglish family ; he, probably, thought it would be better 
 to recall him to his allegiance by kindness and advice, than, 
 by resenting his i)c;i; -.iir, to drive him irrevocably to the 
 opl)Osite party; bur h.e was doubtless considerably relieved 
 when, after leading a wild life in the caoital of France, spend- 
 ing his money lavishly, and doing precisely everything which 
 a young Fnglish nobleman ought .'ot to do, my lord maniuis 
 took his dei)arture in December, 17 10. 
 
 'Hie political education he had rece.v.d now ma<lc the un- 
 stable youth ready and anxious to shine in the State ; but lieing 
 yet under age, he could not, of course, take his seat in the 
 
' 54 Zeal for the Orange Cause, 
 
 Ho.se of Lords. Perhaps he was Conscious of his own won- 
 
 c ul ah.hfcs ; perhaps, as Pope .le.lare. he was thir^in. for 
 
 prase, an.l w.shed to display them; .ertainly he was itd^ing 
 
 • -o'nc an orator, and as he cculd not sit in an Kn^hsh 
 
 as l.arl of kathternhanie and Marquis of Catherlo-rh, and off 
 
 he se to see ,f the Milesians would stand upon somewhat ,f 
 
 ceenmnj^^ He u,,s not disappointed there. Mlis hrilliant 
 
 ho ,11 tr r'r ^^ --"te.nporary writers, I.ut rather, we 
 
 should th.nk, h,s reputation for wit an.l er.entnVi.v, 'found 
 
 avour n. the eyes of Ilihemian -pnVkMlvers, and in spite of 
 his years, he was admitted to the Irish H.Hi.e of Lords ' 
 
 MK-n a fnen.l had reproa, he<l hin^., l,efore he left Frnnre 
 
 - .m.leh.y to the prin.iples so Ion, espoused hyhis^mn; 
 ; s e, ,,,,, „ , ,.^,j,,i^.,,^ rhararteris.i.ally enough, thaJ 
 
 "^ luu p.wued h,s priiuiples to Cordon, the Chl-vaHer's 
 
 -anker, for a .on.ideral.le sun. and. till he couhl repav m 
 he must be a Jaeohi.e ; ln,t when that was done, he wo kl 
 aganyeturntotheWhi,s.> It is as hkeiy as not thlu h' lu 
 
 owed from (.ordon on the stren,,tl, of the Chevaher's favour 
 ^>r.hou,haman|uisinhisoun ri.ht, he was even at ^^ 
 
 I-eerh, ex dHtu.g ti,e grossest want of anv sense of honour I 
 n t orough keepn.g with his afterdife. Hut whether he 'i 
 (.onion on h,s return to I-n.land-whieh is hi.hlv improb hie 
 - ...whether he had not honour enough to keep his rompart- 
 -!.Kh ,. extren>ely hkely-there is no .loul.t that nn- lord nnr- 
 qms hegan at this period, to ,|ualify himself for the post 'of 
 ]'ansh-weather<-ock to St. Stephens. * 
 
 Mis early defection to a man who, whetlier riuhtful heir or 
 
 -• i^;<l th.. of romance m his history which .s eten now ^.t;;: 
 "^"' ">nuke our youuK ladies ' thorough Jacobites' at heart 
 -s easv to he excused, on the plea J^ youth and hi h 
 
 VVh.-r. ni which there IS no romance at all-the moment 
 '>^' ^-^ 1- seat in the Iri.h House of Lords. Ther is "v 
 
 --vay to expL.in the .eal with which he now advo^'rUe 
 Urunge cans,.- I,,. ,,.,,.. i > i •, "^.ucdine 
 
 ^ " '""^" ''-^^^ '^^"^■" ^"iier a very designing 
 
)f Ill's own won- 
 A.is thirsting' for 
 
 he was itching 
 t in an Knglish 
 rage in Ireland, 
 lerldgh, and off 
 I somewhat less 
 'His brilliant 
 
 I'lit rather, \vc 
 itnViiy, 'found 
 iiid in spite of 
 f Lords.' 
 he left France, 
 I by his flimily, 
 y enough, that 
 he Chevalier's 
 I'I'l repay him, 
 lone, he would 
 )t that he bor- 
 •NaliLT's fivour, 
 > even at this 
 ther hand, the 
 -■ "f h(Miour, is 
 lether he i)aid 
 dy improbable 
 his compact — 
 t my lord mar- 
 "■ the post of 
 
 ghtful heir or 
 ven now suffi- 
 ites' at heart, 
 iih and high 
 I>i<l return to 
 —the moment 
 There is only 
 I'lvorated the 
 -ly designing 
 
 ^ Jacohitc Hero. 
 
 5:? 
 
 he . lu ,,0 [,„t ,1 ,l„knln,„ r„r „.|,i,.|, |,e ,li,l not care u,,! I 
 .,•..,,,„.„„, of any very ,1.,. n.onve. On .l.e"..,.. I, , 
 f l.rai,,, „, he w,s snfl,. ,en.iy a cowanl. \\ l,en .s„,,|,l,Vate.l 
 
 eTl,a,„ ,e rare,l ,or no.l.i,,, 1„„ ,„ ,,„„„■,, ,„ J °^^_ 
 
 l"|'|mlromist c bes with . ,.„,. ,,.;,r, „r 1 '"»'"■"• •l'^ /> 
 
 ,nvf,..„. II , ' " "'"'" '"•' I'lamjes n.s 
 
 - mne He was a l.o,- ami a peer, a,„l he >vo„l.l ,„akc nrelty 
 
 .cs '■;!";?"":■. , 'i: "-' "-"'-^"»^- '^.i-.s. and' j;! 
 
 »»l>por[ ot tile government. 
 
 , l-or the next lo"r years he was cmplove.h r,n the one hand 
 ;,;■;"■■■'>;' "- ""- ;■> |.ro,h«a,e,',ife. „e .hone hi 
 
 M"! of |,ul,h,: deeen.y he ,i,.,,layed i„ his vires. ,S,„I, 1 „ro 
 n-,K youth, adherin, ,0 the governntent. tneriied s „ n ™k 
 
 of It, esteem, and a«a,rdn,,ly, hefore attaining , he a..c of twentv 
 o"e-, he >«s raised ,0 a diil^edoin. liein.- of a-e iu. , I 
 
 tl c , re "' " '•""'^' ""' ''■"' "'« '-» '""=,' 
 
 h,' ireis ■ " "■■'■^ """ "'■" '•^' «^""--"' ">«' "f 1H» 
 
 so,n^;i'';e::"";vT'r"'!,''''' ''«" °" "■= '^"""''> "-^e 
 
 IK-r od , , : h , " ""; ""■■""^■'■'^ ''"-"!■' «'-red at this 
 Thr'o I ■,, :''■''"' " " ™"''' "'" l'^'^---- l-vn s,„-,.e.s.,f„h 
 
 too late V ;;"-'■;'""■■ ,'"" "'""■ ""■■ '^"""" '■'■^■'■-■"'l- • 
 t"o late. .At the ,,en„,i „r the first an, in|,|. ii,e ,|„ h ,d had 
 
 ,:..';::;r™>'"^'f''-'--->'-oi,,hs:'n,iu,i; , ' 
 
 M . ,or«„,ten the one and gro„n ae,.„stonie,l ,0 thcoth 
 
 ■ira^w' o,:':r :,:; ;t,:!;r:™:" -- ■'- ;«- 
 
 ndicule of the vtifear ; and pediaps no;,;;;;;, ^nid It^'l:;: 
 
 ■I 
 
150 
 
 If 
 
 Tlu- Trial of Attcrbmy. 
 n..-o /-.vournhic f.. , „ ating n rc.tonnfon of ,' 
 AUartonlKHlha.ia.n.u.h uu-rgy and . uns,.t. , 
 
 talcn.m.lnnpu.lcme, l.c.MiKluhavciuncrnmh luua,, 
 UuMr.il.lo, or undcsirahlc (.iid. 
 
 'I'licKninil <|iicslioii at this tini • i' ii , 
 
 K"hcT U .l,„A, TI,o ,aa„ I, „| ,, ,| ,,,„„,, ^,^ ; ^' 
 
 i.;^ . d.n,k.r The s„„ or a ,n „ „!,„ ,„i,l„ I,,., ,,,,:,"; 
 
 "■' .'I '!". t„,u. i,. ,„„s, have iK-u, .early s. Uv,, i o, 1 
 
 »,.h c„„„e,u ,,,L.,„s, ,,r,„.„rc,l hi,,, „„.. a „,„i , ,t , 
 anollKT, 1,11 hore,,.hc,i the hearl, at the i-e , f f.f ■ 
 
 ^"«'"';"^''""" -• '^''^ ^'''- Ins dcv^uionju: display J Z 
 
 pnnnp,esn.orM.!dly. .e,u.ed,o.,ntlKM)^ 
 
 -Imps, .-^n. 1, uas .omeu-lKU ...viK.lv UKul. ,o a.,u>c (L ! 
 
 hcI.rstoftcnddi,yofthcKstaNi.,..dCIn.rd. ssuM 
 
 .< urate of („.avcscn.l n.r three years because he allowed e 
 
 Di.Uh to have a serv,. e performe.l \n his , httrrh, and . ven it 
 
 -a,d, on the death of Anne, oOered to prodai.; Kin; ^;;:Js 
 JII., nnd head a proression himself in his lawn sleeves' The 
 
 end of th,s and other vagaries was, that in .;.., theci.n 
 mcnt sent hnn to the Toner, on snspi,:ion of being co.n. 
 -^Hh a plot n.f.vour of the Old Chevalier. The rase exeuea 
 no m, i<»-.tn.tslon, sin.eabi.hophadbeen 
 
 cu, ..,i .uh high treason; U wa. adde.l that his gaolers used 
 '!";; ■;Mc.y ; and, ^^^ short, public sympathy rather uent alon^^ 
 ' --^ n. tor a tm.e. in Alarch, 17.3, a bill was presented to 
 
 ^;. '"""r;.'?'' ''""'^•^'"" "^"^"^ P^i"^ and petKdties on 
 l.a n.l.ord 1 shop of Ro.hester. and it passed that House 
 n .Ap ,1 ; bu ,K-n <amed u,, to the I.onls, a defence was re- 
 solved on. 1 he bill was read a third ti.ne on Mav ,5th. and 
 on hat occasion the Duke of Wharton, then onlv -tuentv-four 
 
 I Ins oration far more resembled that of a lawyer sunnuing ;,p 
 
the Sh' 
 ncy 
 
 'i tuuaui.s 
 
 ir 
 
 I" i-ic.' was the 
 aiKifd ],y Sir 
 
 as restless as 
 c I'cen the ori- 
 
 I'oct, Kss of a 
 '>rn in 1O62, so 
 cirsoid. He 
 terest, tcvcther 
 'itilnicnt nfier 
 fly one, in the 
 iseir in se\ eral 
 and 1))' sundry 
 
 .!isi,Ii\e.! Iiis 
 
 of the 
 
 ■ c (Icorije 
 
 h, suspended 
 
 e allowed the 
 
 •md even, it 
 
 King James 
 iK'cves. The 
 
 the CIo\eM 
 ig com 
 case exeiteu 
 >]J had been 
 gaolers nsed 
 ■ Went al(jng 
 I'lVsented to 
 I'cnalties on 
 
 tliat House 
 -lice was re- 
 ly 151!). and 
 
 twenty-four 
 
 the bishoj). 
 iuraming up 
 
 '■ 'h.ui of 
 -' ral ''-Mi . It w ' 
 •uei.f, the -.vonuc/ 
 case-;incl ra])id w 
 
 /Wrm' of ';, l^isluf. :- 
 
 arhaineni.ii orator enlarging on tnc 
 
 "r'-.d '> for the clearness of its argu- 
 
 1 focts di^jiLiyed, and the 
 
 vnrini,« «.,>." nuiihilated the testimony of 
 
 vanous witnes.e. exan.u.e.i before the Ho,: ■. I, ,, ,, xr(,\LnA 
 
 n'oderate, able and sufficient, but seuns to h U^^ 
 
 enthusiasn, we might expect from one who » ,. 
 active a parti . of the Chevalier's cause. In • 
 'S it cannot be sai. .■ the duke any . I 
 
 ;;'';^'T'"'V'^"'"' ■■innetlut I „,ve 
 
 ' : '^""^^•' '''''^^^'"^'>' ^.'^.•"^"^''■^' '^^' "^'"i^'I't have turned out 
 
 'ihr^-'t Ic rof 1 le Opposition. 
 
 Neither this spee. h nor the bishop's able defence su ,„, • 
 and ,n the following month he u,: , ; ',,.1 „.. kin , . 1' 
 pass 1 the rest of his days in Paris. ^ "' '"''' 
 
 AMiarton, however, w;-.s not content w 
 •irena of political agitation. Jfe was no, 
 matured his principles thoroughlv. and he 
 the c ause of the exiled familv. I le anius, 
 ing throughout the country, influencing el 
 
 rds so 
 
 . -ing .as 
 
 to the title 
 
 have 
 
 'Iou.se as an 
 
 "uugh to have 
 
 ■tely espoused 
 
 po..arity by becoming a^ne;;;i- 
 
 P- . L ,s a proof of lus great abilities, so shamefully thrown 
 
 '!'';" ,. "'^' ''''^ '''""'^•' ^■^•^•'■y Monday and Fridav 
 
 vnuen I, l,„nself; and contaming varied and 'ensibl^^^^^ 
 
 '"cnt. m support of his opinions, if not displaying any vast 
 
 mo.:. o,Kd genius. This paper, on the' modd o^T^ 
 
 I a.le , he Spectator,' ^:c., had a considerable sale, and at 
 
 ained no lutle celebrity, so that the Duke of Uharton acouired 
 
 thc^^putation Of a lueiary man as well as of a politk^d 
 
 Piit, whatever he might have been in either capacity, his dis- 
 graceful hfe soon destroye<l all hope of success in th^m He 
 uas now an a. knowledge.l wit about town, and what was then 
 aI.no.st a recognued < on- omitan. of th character, an ac-know- 
 
 ':^.^^f^% ''^ -^"--' '- '•>'^e fortune in the Z. 
 rtck:e.. anaiooh.sh mamier : tiiou a married, his moral con- 
 
MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART 
 
 ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No 2 
 
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 13.2 
 
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 IMO 
 
 1.4 
 
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 zo 
 
 1.8 
 
 1.6 
 
 ^ ^jPPLIED IfVHGE 
 
 '653 East Moin streel 
 ■Rochester, New York Uf 
 
 "'6) 482 - 0300 - Phcr.. 
 
 '16) 288- 5989 -To, 
 
 Inc 
 
15S ITypocrit'ual Signs of Penitence. 
 
 (lui.l was as bad as that of any bachelor of the <lay : and such 
 was Ills extravagance and open licentiousness, that, having 
 wasted a ])rincely revenue, he was soon caught in the meshes of 
 Chancery, which very sensibly vested his fortune in the hands of 
 trustees, and compelled him to be satisfied with an income of 
 twelve hundred jjounds a year. 
 
 'i1ie yijuiig rascal now showed hypocritical signs of penitence 
 — he was always an ade])t in that lino — and [)rotested he would 
 go abroad and live (luietly, till his losses should be retrieved. 
 There is little doubt that, under this laudable design, he con- 
 cealed one of attaching himself (loser to the Chevalier party, 
 and even espousing the faith of that unfortunate prince, or pre- 
 tender, whichever he may have been. He set off for Vienna, 
 leaving his wife beliind to die, in April, 1726. He had long 
 since (juarrelled with her, and treated her with cruel neglect, 
 and at her death he was not likely to be much afflicted. It is 
 said, that, after tliat event, a du( al family offeretl him a daughter 
 and large fortune in marriage, and that the Duke of Wharton 
 declined the offer, because die latter was to be tied up, and he 
 could not conveniendy tie up the former. However this may 
 be, he remained a widower for a short time : we may be sure, 
 not long. 
 
 The hypocrisy of going abroad to retrench was not long un- 
 discovered. The fliscinating scapegrace seems to have de- 
 lighted in playing on the credulity of others ; and Walpole 
 relates that, on the eve of the day on whii h he delivered his 
 famous s])eech for Atterbury. he sought an interview with the 
 minister, Sir Robert AN'alpole, expressed great contrition at 
 having espoused the bishop's cause hitherto, and a determina- 
 tion to speak against him the following day. The minister was 
 taken in. and at die duke's request, supplied him widi all the 
 main arguments, ])ro and con. The deceiver, having got these 
 well into his brain — one of die most retentive — repaired to his 
 London haunts, passed the night in drinking, and the next day 
 produced all the arguments he had digested, in the bishop's 
 favour. 
 
 At Vienna he was well received, and earned out his private 
 mission successfully, but was too restless to stay ia one place, 
 
A Fresh Love, 
 
 159 
 
 y : and sucli 
 that, having 
 he meshes of 
 the hands of 
 n income of 
 
 of penitence 
 ted he wouhl 
 be retrieved, 
 sign, he con- 
 ;valier party, 
 rince, or pre- 
 ' for A'ienna, 
 -le had long 
 riiel neglect, 
 licted. It is 
 ini a daughter 
 of Wharton 
 ;d up, and lie 
 ;ver this may 
 may be sure, 
 
 ; not long un- 
 to have de- 
 and Wali)ole 
 deHvered his 
 view with tlie 
 contrition at 
 a determina- 
 minister was 
 I with all the 
 zing got these 
 epaired to his 
 the next day 
 7 tlic bishofs 
 
 )ut his private 
 in one place, 
 
 and soon set off for Madrid. Tireil now of politics, he took a 
 turn at love. lie was a poet after a fa^nion, for the pie( es he 
 has left are not very good : he was a fine gentleman, always 
 spending more money than he had, and is said to have been 
 handsome. His portraits do not give us this imiiression : the 
 features are not ver}' regidar ; and though not coarse, are cer- 
 tainly //('/ refined. 'J'he mouth, somewhat sensual, is still nuu h 
 fniner than |his character would lead us to e\pc( t ; the nose 
 shar]) at the point, but cogitative at the nostrils; the eyes long 
 but not large ; while the raised brow has all that openness whi( h 
 he displayed in the indecency of his vices, but not in any 
 honesty in his politi<al career. \w a word, the Lwi^. is not 
 attractive. \'ct he is described as having had a l)rilliant com- 
 plexion, a lively, varying expression, and a charm of person and 
 manner that was ([uite irresistible. \\'hether on this account, 
 or for his talents and wit, which were really shining, his new 
 Juliet fell as deeply in love with him as he witii her. 
 
 She was mai<l of honour— and a highly honourable maid — to 
 the Queen of Spain, i'he Irish regiments long ini]il()\\.Hl in 
 the Spanish service had become more or less naturalized in that 
 country, which accounts for the great number of thoroughly 
 Milesian names still to be found there, some of them, as 
 ()i)onnell, owned by men of hi:;h distinction. Among other 
 officers who had settled with tiieir families in the Peninsula was 
 a Colonel O'liyrne, who, like most of his countrymen there, 
 died penniless, leaving his widow with a pension and his 
 (laughter without a sixjience. It can well be imagined that an 
 offer from an English duke was not to be snee/ed at bv either 
 iSIrs. or Miss C^'lJyme ; but tluTe were some gnue obstacles to 
 the match. The duke was a I'rotestant. lUit what of that? — 
 he had never been encumbered with religion, nc^r even with a 
 <lecent observance of its institutions, for it is said that, when in 
 England, at his country seat, he had, to show how little he cared 
 for resi)ectability, made a point of haviiig the hounds out on a 
 Sunday morning. lie was not going to lose a pretly girl for 
 the sake of a faith witl) which he luul got disgusted ever since 
 his Huguenot tutor tried to make him a sober Christian. He 
 had turned coat in politics, and would now try his weathercock 
 
i6o VcV drying. 
 
 rai)nl)ilitics at religion. Nothing like variety, so Romanist he 
 
 became. 
 
 lUit this was not all : his fr. jnds on the one hand objected 
 to his marrying a ])enniless girl, and hers, on the other, warned 
 her of his disreputable character. r.iU when two ])eo;,;Ie have 
 made u]) their miiids to be one, siu h tritlcs as these are of no 
 consequence. A fu' more trying obstacle was the ubsulute re- 
 fusal of her Most Catholic Majesty to allow her maid of honour 
 to marry the duke. 
 
 It is a marvel that after the life of dissipation he had led, 
 this man Nhould have retained the pijvver of loving at all. lUit 
 everything about him was extravagant, and now that he enter- 
 tained a virtuous attachment, he was as -.vild in it as he had 
 !)een reckless in less respectable connections. He must have 
 been sincere at the time, for the (jueen's refusal was followed 
 by a fit of (lei)res3ion that brought on a lew fever. The ([ueen 
 heard of it, and, touched by the fonx- of his devotion, sent him 
 a cheering message, 'i'he moment was not to be lost, and, in 
 spite of his weak state, lie hurried to court, threw himself at 
 her Majesty's feet, and swore he must have his lady-love or die. 
 Thus pressed, the (jucen was forced to consent, but warned 
 him that he would repent of it. The marriage look place, and 
 the cou|)le set off to Ron:e. 
 
 Here the Chevalier again received him widi open arms, and 
 took the opportunity of dis])laying his imaginaiy sovereignty 
 by bestowing on him the Order of die Carter— a ])oliteness the 
 duke returned by wearing while there the no less unrecognised 
 tiik of Duke of Northumberland, which 'His Majesty" had 
 formerly conferred on him. But James HI., though no saint, 
 had more respect for decent conduct than his father and uncle; 
 the duke ran off into every species of excess, got into debt as 
 usual — 
 
 'When Wlinrton's just, niul leu pay his debts, 
 
 And reput.ition dwells ;il .Motlu-r !-i"trs, 
 * * * 
 
 TlnMT, C'flia, sh.iU my cn:..,tant passion cease, 
 .And Miy jjoor Mit'f'rint; heart shall be at peace,' 
 
 says a satirical poem ol the day, < ailed 'The Duke of Whar- 
 ton's IV/iais' — was taithless to the wife he had lately been dying 
 
 agams 
 
Romanist he 
 
 and objected 
 Dllicr, warned 
 ))co;.;Ie have 
 esc are of no 
 . u'oftulute re- 
 aid ol honour 
 
 he had led, 
 g at all. liiit 
 that he enter- 
 it as he had 
 [ie must have 
 was followed 
 . The ([ueen 
 tion, sent him 
 e lost, and, in 
 ■e\v himself at 
 .ly-love or die. 
 t, but warned 
 iok ;[)lace, and 
 
 )en arms, and 
 y sovereignty 
 ])oliieness the 
 unrecognised 
 Majesty' had 
 )ugh no saint, 
 ler and uncle; 
 t into debt as 
 
 'uke of Whar- 
 -■l}' been dying 
 
 Military Glory at Gibraltar. i6i 
 
 for ; and in .short, such a thorough blackguard, ihat not even 
 the Jacobites could tolerate liim, and they turned him out of 
 '!ie Holy City till he should learn not to bring dishonour on 
 the court of their fictitious sovereign. 
 
 The duke was not the man to be much ashamed of himself, 
 though his poor wife may now have begun to think her late 
 mistress in the right, and he was ])robabIy glad of an excuse 
 fir another change. At this time, 1727, the Spaniards were 
 determined to wrest (libraltar from its English defenders, and 
 were sending thither a powerful army under the command 
 of Los Torres. The Duke had tried many trades with more 
 (ir less success, and now thought that a litde military glory 
 v.ould tack on well to his highly honourable biography. At 
 any rate there was no\elty in the din of war, and for novelty 
 he would go anywhere. It mattered little that he .should fight 
 against his own king and own countrymen : he was not half 
 blackguard enough yet, he may have thought ; he had playefl 
 traitor for some time, he would now play rebel outright — the 
 game was worth the candle. 
 
 So what does my lord duke do but ■vite a letter (like the 
 Chinese behind their mud-walls, he was abvays bohl enough 
 wh.en well secured under the protection of tti'^ post, and was 
 more absurd in ink even than in action) to the King of Spain, 
 offering him his scr\'ices as a volunteer against ' Gib.' Whether 
 his Most CaUiolic Majesty thought him a traitor, a madman, or 
 a devoted partisan of his own, dut not ajjpear, for without 
 waiting for an answer — waiting was always too dull work for 
 ■\MKirton — he and his wife set off for the camp before Gibraltar, 
 introduced themselves to the Conde in Command, were re- 
 ceived with all the honour — let us say honours — due to a duke — 
 and established ihcmsehcs comfortably in the ranks of the 
 enemy of England. Hut all the duke's hopes of prowess were 
 blighted. He had good opportunities. The Conde de los 
 Torres made him his aide-de-camp, and sent him daily into the 
 trenches to see how matters went on. When a defence of a 
 certain Spanish outwork was resolved upon, the duke, from his 
 rank, was chosen for the command. Yet in the trenches he 
 got no worse wpund than a slight one on the foOt irom a •q)linter 
 
 ti 
 
1 62 
 
 Uncle Horace' 
 
 of a shell, and this he aftcrwanls made an excuse for not fight- 
 ing a duel with swords; and as to the outwork, the English 
 alKUidoned tiie attack, so that there was no glory to l)e found 
 in the defence. He soon grew weary of such inglorious and 
 rather dirty work as visiting trenches before a stronghold ; and 
 well he might ; for if there he one thing duller than another 
 and less satisfactory, it must be digging a h.jle out of which to 
 kill your brother mortals ; and thinking he shoul.l amuse himself 
 better at the court, he set off for Madrid. I lere the king, by way 
 of reward for his brilliant services in doing nothing, made him 
 A;/cWi-A/i:i:/r-<//f- whatever that may be - of an Irish regiment; 
 a very poor aggregate, we should think. Ikit my lord duke 
 wanted something livelier than the connnand of a band of 
 llispanioli/.ed Milesians; and having found the military career 
 somewhat uninteresting, wished to retiiip. to that of politics. 
 He remembered wiUi gusto the frolic life of the Holv City, .^nd 
 the political excitement in the Chevalier's court, and sent off a 
 letter to ' His Majesty James 111.,' expressing, like a rusticated 
 Oxonian, his i)enitence for having been so naughty the last 
 lime, and offering to come and be very good again. It is to 
 the praise of the Chevalier de St. Ceorge that he had woddly 
 wisdom enough not to trust the gay i)enilent. He was tired, as 
 everybody else was, of a man who could stick to nothing, and 
 dill not seem to care about seeing him again. Accordingly, he 
 replied in true kingly style, blaming him for having taken up 
 arms against their common country, and telling him in polite 
 language — as a policeman does a riotous drunkard — that he 
 had better go home. 'J'he duke thought so too, was not al all 
 offended at the letter, and set off, bv way of returning towards 
 his I'enates, for Paris, where he arrived in May, 1728. 
 
 Horace Walpole— not /'//6- Horace-" but 'Uncle Horace,' or 
 'old Horace,' as he was called, was then ambassador to the 
 ( ourt of the Tuilerics. Mr. Walpole was one of the Houghton 
 ' lot,' a brother of the famous minister Sir Robert, and though 
 less celebrated, almost as able in his line. He had distin- 
 guished himself in various diplomatic ai)pointments, in Si)ain, 
 al Hanover and the Hague, and having successfully tackled 
 Cardinel rieui), the successor of the Richelieus and Mazanns 
 
]V hart on to ' Uiick Iloracc." 
 
 163 
 
 for not fight- 
 , the l-'.nglish 
 y to be found 
 iglorious iinil 
 3nghold ; and 
 than another 
 ; of which to 
 :umisc himself 
 ; king, by way 
 ng, made him 
 ish regiment ; 
 ny lord duke 
 )f a band of 
 nilitary career 
 It of politics, 
 loly City, .Tnd 
 uid sent off a 
 .e a rusticxvted 
 ighty the last 
 lin. It is to 
 e had worldly 
 e was tired, as 
 ) nothing, and 
 ccordingly, he 
 .ing taken up 
 him in polite 
 kard — that he 
 was not at all 
 irning towards 
 [728.' 
 
 e Horace,' or 
 •assador to the 
 the Houghton 
 •t, and though 
 le had distin- 
 ::nts, in Spain, 
 ssfully tackled 
 and Mazarins 
 
 a 
 I 
 
 at Pari , lie was now iii high favour at homo. In after years 
 he was celebrated for his duel witii Chetwynd, who, when 
 'I'ncle Horace' had in the House expressed a hope that the 
 (juestion might be carried, had ex'„laimed, ' I hope to see you 
 hanged first !' ' Vou hope to see me hanged first, do you ?' 
 (Tied Horace, with all the ferocity of the Wal[)oles ; and there- 
 upon, seizing hin) by thr most prominent feature of his foce, 
 shook him violently, 'i'his was matter enough for a l)racc of 
 swords and coffee for four, and Mr. Chetwynd had to rei)ent 
 of his remark after being severely wounded. In those days 
 our honourable House of Commons was as much an arena of 
 wild beasts as the .\nierican senate of to-day. 
 
 To this minister our noble duke wrqte a hypoc' .1 letter, 
 which, as it shows how the man coii/il write penitently, is worth 
 transcribing. 
 
 ' Lions, June 23, 1728. 
 
 'Sir, — Your excellency will be surpris'd to receive a letter 
 from me ; but thi^ clemency with which the government of 
 Kngland has treated me, which is in a great measure owing to 
 your brother's regard to my father's memory, makes me hope 
 that you will give me leave to express my gratitude for it. 
 
 ' Since his present majesty's accession to the throne I have 
 absolutely refused to be concerned with the Pretender or any 
 of his aftairs ; and during my stay in Italy have behaved my- 
 self in a manner that Dr. Peters, Mr. (lodolphin, and Mr. Mills 
 can declare to be consistent with my duty to the present king. 
 1 was forc'd to go to Italy to get out of Spain, where, if my 
 true design had been known, I should have been treated a little 
 Severely 
 
 ' I am coming to Paris to put myself entirely under your 
 excellency's protection; and hope that Sir Robert W'aljjole's 
 good-nature will prompt him to save a fomily which his gene- 
 rosity induced him to spare. If your excellency would permit 
 me to wait upon you for an hour, I am certain you would be 
 con\inc'd of the sincerity of my repentance for my former mad- 
 ness, would become an advocate with his majesty to grant me 
 his most gracious pardon, which it is my comiort I shall never 
 
 II — 2 
 
i« 
 
 164 
 
 The Dukes Ivipudciicr. 
 
 be rcfjuircd to ])ur( liasc by any stcn uinvortliy of a man of 
 honour. I do not intend, in rase of tlie king's ;!llowing me to 
 ])ass the evening of my days under tlie shadow of liis royal 
 ])rotectIon, to see England for some years, but shall remain 
 in France or (icrmany, as my friends sliaH advise, and enjoy 
 country sports till all former stories are ' iricd in oblivion. I 
 beg of your excellency to let me receive your orders at Paris, 
 wiiidi I will send to your lioslel to receive. The Dutchess of 
 Wharton, who is with me, desires leave to wait on I\Irs. Wal- 
 pole, if you think proper. 
 
 * I am, .V'c.' 
 
 :\fter this, the ambassador could do no less than receive him; 
 but he was somewhat disgusted when on leaving him the duke 
 frankly told hinv— forgetting all about his penitent letter, pro- 
 bably, or too reckless to care for it— that 'he was going to dine 
 with the Dishop of Rochester— Atterbury himself, then living 
 in Paris— whose society was interdicted to any subject of King 
 Cieorge. The duke, with his usual folly, touched on other 
 subjects equally dangerous, his visit to Rome, and his conver- 
 sion to Romanism ; and, in short, disgusted the cautious Mr. 
 "VValpole. There is something delightfully imjnulent about all 
 these acts of Wharton's ; and had he only been a clown at 
 Drury Lane instead of an l'"nglish r.obleman, he must have 
 been successful. As it is, when one reads of the petty hatred 
 and humbug of those days, when liberty of siieech was as un- 
 known as any other liberty, one cannot but admire the imini- 
 dcnce of his (Irace of Wharton, and wish that most dukes, 
 without being as profligate, would be as free-spoken. 
 
 With six hundred pounds in his pocket, our young Lothario 
 now set up house at Rouen, with an establishment ' equal,' say 
 the old-school writers, ' to his position, but not to his means.' 
 In other words, he undertook to live in a style for wliich he 
 could not pay. Twelve hundred a year may be enough for a 
 duke, as for any other man, but not for one who considers a 
 legion of servants a necessary appendage to his i)osition. My 
 lord duke, who was a good French scholar, soon fountl an 
 ample numl)cr of friends and ac(juaintances, and not being 
 
of ;i man of 
 owing nie to 
 
 of his royal 
 
 shall remain 
 le, and enjoy 
 
 oblivion. I 
 lers at Paris, 
 
 Dutchess of 
 on Mrs. ^Val- 
 
 1 receive him; 
 lini the duke 
 U letter, pro- 
 going to dine 
 :f, then living 
 hjcrt of King 
 led on other 
 d his (onvor- 
 cautious Mr. 
 lent about all 
 .■n a clown at 
 iic must have 
 : jictly hatred 
 :h was us un- 
 lire the imjju- 
 t most dukes, 
 en. 
 
 )ung Lothario 
 It ' equal,' say 
 :o his means.' 
 for -which he 
 enough for a 
 o considers a 
 position. My 
 oon found an 
 ind not being 
 
 //■/>/; Treason. 165 
 
 ]xirticular about cither, managed to get through his half-year's 
 income in a few weeks, l-'.vil consecjuence : he was assailed 
 by duns. French duns know nothing about forgiving debtors ; 
 ' your money first, and then my ])ardon,' is their motto. My 
 lord duke soon found this out. Still he had an income, and 
 < ould pay theni all off in time. So he drank and was merry, 
 till one fine day came a disagreeable piece of news, which 
 startled him considerably. 'I'iie government at home had 
 heard of his doings, and determined to arraign him for iiigh 
 treason. 
 
 He could expect little else, for had he not actually taken up 
 arms against his sovereign? 
 
 Now Sir Robert Walpole was, no doubt, a vulgarian. Ik- 
 was not a man to love or symi)athise with ; but he 7oas good- 
 natured at bottom. Our 'frolic grace' had reason to acknow- 
 ledge this. He could not complain of harshness in any mea- 
 sures taken against him, and he had certainly no claim to con- 
 sideration from the government he had treated so ill. Yet Sir 
 Robert was willing to give him every chance; and so far did 
 he go, that he sent over a coui)le of friends to him to induce 
 him only to ask pardon of the king, with a promise that it 
 would be granted. For sure the Duke of Whorton's character 
 was anomalous. The same man who had more than once 
 humiliated himself when unasked, who had written to Walpole's 
 brother the letter v.e have read, would not now, when entreated 
 to <lo so, write n few lines to that minister to ask mercy. Nay, 
 when the gentleman in (luestion offered to l)e content even 
 A\ ith a letter from the duke's valet, he refused to allow the man 
 to write. Some people may admire what they will believe to 
 be firmness, but when we review the duke's character and sub- 
 secjucnt acts, we cannot attribute this refusal to anything but 
 obstinate pride. The conseciuence of this folly was a stoppage 
 of supplies, for as he was accused of high treason, his estate 
 was of course sequestrated. He revenged himself '~v writing 
 a paper which was published in ' Mist's Journal,' a. c: which, 
 imder the cover of a Persian tale, contained a species of libel 
 •on the government. 
 
 His position was now far from envi.ablc; and, assailed by 
 
iC,6 
 
 W/tarions Kt'ih/v ]\'it. 
 
 duns, he liad no resource Iml to lunnMe hiniseir, not hcfor^ 
 those he had offended, hut hcfore the Chcvaher, to whom hi- 
 wrote in his thstress, and who sent him /,"2,ooo, whi( h lie soon 
 frittered away in follies. This gone, the duke beggetl and 
 borrowed, for there are some people such fools that they would 
 rather lose a thousand pounds to a peer than give sixpence to 
 a pauper, and many a talc was told of the artful manner in 
 whi( h his grace managed to cozen his friends out of a louis or 
 two. His ready wit generally savetl him. 
 
 Thus on one occasion an Irish toady invited him to dinner : 
 the duke talked of his uavdr(jl)e, then sadly defective ; what 
 suit should he wear? The Hibernian suggested black velvet. 
 'Could you recommend a tailor?' 'Certainly.' Snip came, 
 an expensive suit was ordered, i)Ul on, and the dinner taken. 
 In due course the tailor called for his money. The duke was 
 not a bit at a loss, though he had but a few francs to his name. 
 'Honest man,' (juoth he, 'you mistake the matter entirely. 
 Carry the bill to Sir Peter ; for know that whenever I consent 
 to wear another man's livery, my master pays for the clothes.' 
 and inasnuich as the dinner-giver was an Irishman, he did 
 actually discharge the account. 
 
 .\\. other times he would give a sumptuous entertainment, 
 and in one way or another induce his guests to i)ay for it. He 
 was only less adroit in coining excuses than Theodore Hook, 
 and had lie lived a century later, we might have a volume full 
 of anecdotes to give of his ways antl no means. Meanwhile 
 his unfortunate duchess was living on the charity of friends, 
 while her lord and master, when he could get anyone to pay for 
 a band, was serenading young ladies. Yet he was jealous 
 enough of his wife at times, and once sent a challenge to a 
 Scotch nobleman, simply because some silly friend asked him 
 if he had forbidden his wife to dani e with the lord. He went 
 all the way to Flanders to meet his ojiponent ; but, perhaps 
 fortunately for the duke, Marshal Berwick arrested the Scotch- 
 man, anil the duel never came off. 
 
 Whether he felt his end ajjproacliing, or whether he was sick 
 of vile ])ieasures which he had recklessly pursued from the age 
 of lifteen, he now, thouglt only thirty years of age, retired Uv: 
 
li 
 
 Last Extremities. 
 
 167 
 
 If, not before 
 to whom he 
 ■\w\\ he soon 
 begged and 
 it they would 
 sixpence tf> 
 ;1 manner in 
 af a luiiis or 
 
 n to dinner : 
 ective ; wliat 
 bkuk velvet. 
 vSnij) <anu', 
 1 inner taken, 
 he duke was 
 
 to his name, 
 ttcr entirely, 
 er 1 consent 
 
 the clothes,' 
 man, he did 
 
 nlertainment, 
 y for it. He 
 odore Hook, 
 . volume full 
 -Meanwhile 
 ty of friends, 
 3ne to pay for 
 ■ was jealous 
 lallenge to a 
 d asked him 
 il. lie went 
 but, })erhaps 
 I the Scotch - 
 
 r he was sick 
 from the age 
 
 a time to a convent, and was looked on as a penitent and de- 
 votee. I'enurv, doubUess, cured him in a measure, and 
 j.overty. the porter of the gates of lieaven, wa.ned him to look 
 forward beyond a life he had so shamefully misused. But it 
 was only a temporary re|)entance ; and when he Kit the re 
 ligious house, he again rushed furiously into every kind ut di.s- 
 sipation. 
 
 At length, ucterly redu« etl to the last extremities, he be- 
 thought himself oi his colonelcy in Spain, and determined to 
 set out to join his regiment. I'he following letter fr.^ma friend 
 who accompanied hiui will best show what cir. ums lances he 
 
 was in : — 
 
 ' P.u.-, June I. 1729- 
 
 . Dear Sir,— I am just returned from the f.ates of DeaUi, to 
 return you rhanks for your last kind Letter of Accusations, 
 whi.h I am i)ersuaded was intended as a seasonable Help to 
 mv Recollection, at a Time that it was neccssars f,.: me to send 
 an IiKiuisitor (uueral into my Conscience, to examme and 
 settle ail the Alnises that ever were committed in that little 
 Court of Kciuity; but I assure you, your long Letter did not 
 lay so much my Faults as my Misfortunes before me, which be- 
 lieve me. dear , have fallen as heavy an.l as thi.k uixmrne 
 
 as the Shower of Hail upon us two in K Forest, and has 
 
 left me much at a Loss which way to turn myself The Pilot 
 of the Ship 1 eml)arked in, wlio industriously ran upon every 
 Ro(k, has at last split the Ves.-,el, and so much of a sudden, 
 that the whoL- Crew, I mean his Domestic ks, are all left to 
 swim for their Lives, without one friendly Plank to assist them 
 to Shore. In short, he left me sick, in Debt, and without a 
 Penny ; but as I begin to recover, and have a hltle time to 
 Think, I can't help considering myself, as one whisk'd up be- 
 liind a Witch upon a Broomstick, and hurried over Mountains 
 and Dales through confus'd Woods and thorny Thickets, and 
 when the Charm is ended, and the poor W^retch dropp'd in a 
 Desart, he can give no other Account of his enchanted Travels, 
 but that he is much 0.::,:ued in Body and Mind, his Cloaths 
 torn, and worse in ai. other Circum.stances, without being ot 
 the lea.st Service to iimi.-:>eil or any uuuy eise. i--.it. 1 ""• ■ '••• •- 
 
 \ 
 
lG8 I lis Last Jounuy to Spain. 
 
 your Advice with an active Resolution, to retrieve my bad For- 
 tune, and almost a Year iniserulily misspent, 
 
 ' I lilt notwilhstanilinf,' what I have suffered, and what my 
 IJrother Mad man has done to unilo himself, and every body 
 wlio was .so unhu ky to ha\c tlic least (Joncern with him, I 
 could not but be inovinj^ly touch'd at soextraonlinarya VicisM 
 tude of I-'ortune, to see a ^;reat Man fallen from that shining 
 la^Iit, in whit h I beheld him in the House of Lords, to su';h a 
 Degree of C)bs< iirity, that I have observ'd (he meanest Com- 
 moner here <le( line, and llic i'tw he would sometimes fasten 
 on, to be tireil of his ComiKiny ; for you know he is but a bad 
 Orator in his Cups, and of late he has been but selilo'" sober. 
 
 'A week before he left Paris, he was so reduced, that he had 
 not one single Crown at Conunand, and was forc'd to thrust in 
 with any Ac(iuaintance for a Lodging; Walsh and I have had 
 him by Turns, all to avcjid a Ci(jwd of Duns, whi( h he had of 
 all Sizes, from i'ourteen hundred Livres to Four, who hunted 
 him so close, that he was forced to retire to some of the neigh- 
 bouring Villages for Safely. L J^it^k as I was, hurried about 
 Paris to raise Money, and to St. (lennain's to get him Linen ; 
 I bought him one Shirt and a (ravat, whic h with 500 Livres, 
 his whole Stock, he and his Duche.ss, attended by one Servant, 
 set out for Spain. All the News I have heard of them since is 
 that a Day or two after, he sent for Cajjtain Jirierly, and two or 
 three of his Domesticks, to follow him ; but none but the Cap- 
 tain obey'd the Summons. \\'licre they are now, I can't tell ; 
 but fear they nuist be in great Distress by this Time, if he has 
 no other Supplies ; and so ends my Melancholy Story. 
 
 ' I am, dvic' 
 
 * 
 
 Still his good humour did not desert him; he joked about 
 their poverty on the road, ami wrote an amusing account of 
 their journey to a friend, winding u[) with the well known 
 lines : — 
 
 ' Ho kind to my rcninins, .ind oil ! ch.-f'.'nd, 
 Ag.iinsi your judijiiicnt, your dep;irtcd friend.' 
 
 His mind w.is as vigorous as ever, in sjjite of the waste of 
 many debauches; and when recommended to make a new 
 
His Death in a luriiafiiinc Convent. 
 
 169 
 
 : my bad For- 
 
 iind wli.il my 
 1(1 every body 
 wiili him, I 
 nary ;i Vicissi- 
 I that hhinliig 
 rds, to sucli a 
 licanc^it Com- 
 ictimcs fasten 
 ; is but a l)ad 
 cldo'" sober. 
 1, that lie had 
 d to thrust in 
 1 I liavc had 
 \ \\ he liad (;f 
 , wlio liunted 
 of the neigli- 
 liurried about 
 t liini Linen ; 
 I 500 I.ivres, 
 ' one Servant, 
 them sin(X' is 
 ly, and two or 
 but the C'ap- 
 I tan't tell ; 
 lie, if he has 
 itory. 
 &c.' 
 
 joked about 
 g account of 
 : well known 
 
 ; nslation of * Telcmarhus ;' he a( tually devoted one whole day 
 I . the work; the next he forgot all about it. In the :.a nc 
 iii.tnner he be^ an a play on the story of Mary (Jtieen of Scots, 
 and Lady .\L \V. Monlaj^u wrote an cpiIoj.;ue for it, but the 
 piere nfcr got beyond a few s( cncs. 1 [is genius, perhaps, was 
 not for either jiDctry or the drama. His mind was a keen, 
 « tear one, better suited to argument and to grapple tough po- 
 lemic s'lhjects. ]fad he but been a sober man. he might have 
 heen a fair, if not a great writer. The ' True I'.riton,' with many 
 faults of license, shows what his ca[)abilities were. His absence 
 of moral sense may be guesse<i from his poem on the preaching 
 of Atterlniry, in whii h is a parallel almost blasphemous. 
 
 At length he reached Dilboa and his regiment, am! had to live 
 on the meagre pay of eighteen pistoles a month. Tiie I)i:ke 
 of Onuond, then an exile, took pity on his wife, and sup- 
 pniti'l her for a tiiiie : she afterwards rejoin'd her UKJlher at 
 Madrid. 
 
 Meanwhile, the year 1730 brought about a salutary change 
 in the duke's morals. His health was fast giving way from the 
 eftects of divers excesses; and there is nothing like bad health 
 for I'urgiiig a bad soul. The end of a misspent life was fast 
 drawing near, and he could only keep it ui) by broth with eggs 
 beaten up in it. He lost the use of his limbs, but not of his 
 gaiety. In the mountains of Catalonia he met with a mineral 
 spring which did him some good ; so much, in fad, that he was 
 ahle to rejoin his regiment for a time. A fresh altac k sent him 
 back to the waters ; but on his way he was so violently attacked 
 that he was forced to slop at a little village. Here he found 
 himself without the means of going farther, and in tlie worst 
 state of health. 'I'he monks of a I'ernardine convent took pity 
 on him and received him into their house. He grew worse 
 and worse; and in a Mx-ek died on the 31st of May, without a 
 friend to pity or attend him, among strangers, and at the early 
 age of thirty-twG. 
 
 Thus ended the life of one of the deverest fools that iiave 
 ever di.sgraced our peerage. 
 
 the waste of 
 make a new 
 
LORD HKKVKY. 
 
 Georpc II. arriving from H;\novfr. — Hi; Mcetin.LC with the Quocn.— Lady 
 .Saff(.li<.— (Jii'.'cn {"arolinc— Sir RoIkti Walpolo. -Lord llcrvcy.— A scl of 
 I'ine (iontk'nu'ii.— An I'^a-ntric Race— Carr, Lord HcrvfV.— A Fragile 
 Bov -UescTiptiun of fitorgc II. s Family.— Anne Brett.— .\ Bitter Cup.— 
 Tlie Darling of tiie I'aniiiv.-- Fvenings at St. James's. — Frederick, Pnnce 
 of Wales —.\inelia Sojiliia Walmoden. — Boor (Jueen Carolme !- Nocturnal 
 Diversions of Mauls of Honour.— Neighbour (ieorge's Orange Chest.— 
 Marv LeiH'l, Ladv Ileivev.— Rivalry.— Ilervey's Intimacy with Lady Mar)-. 
 — Ri-la.xations of the Rovil Household,— B.icon's Opinion of '1 wiekenhain. 
 — A Visit to Bope's Villa.— The Little Nightingale.- The F.ssence ol Small 
 Talk. — Ilervey's Affectation and ICffeminacv.— BniK,-'s Quarrel with Hervey 
 and Ladv M'arv. - I lervev's Duel with Bulteney.— ' 'Ihe Death of Lord 
 Hervey. 'a Drama.— Queen Caroline's last Drawing-room.— Her Illness 
 and Agonv. — A Painful Scene.- -The Truth discovered.— The Queen's 
 Dviiig Fieq'uest.s. -The King's Teinpor.—Arclibishop I'otter is sent for.— 
 The Duty of Reconciliation.— Ihe Death of (Jueen Caroline.— .\ Change in 
 Ilervey's' Life.— Lord Heney's Death.— Want ol Cliristianity.— Memoirs of 
 his Own Time. 
 
 Ill': village of Ken.sington was disturbed in its sweet 
 rei)ose one day, more than a cenUiry ago, by the 
 
 rumbling of a ponderous coach and si.x, with four 
 
 outriders and two equerries kicking up the dust ; whilst a small 
 body of heavy dragoons rode solenuily after the huge vehicle. 
 It waded, with inglorious struggles, through a deep mire of 
 mud, between the Talace an<l Hyde Park, until the cortege 
 entered Kensington Park, as the gardens were then called, and 
 began t') track the old road that led to the red-brick structure 
 to whit h William 111. had added a higher story, built by Wren. 
 There are two roads by which coaches could approach the 
 house: ' one,' as the famous John, Lord Hervey, wrote to his 
 mother, ' so convex, the other so concave, that, by this extreme 
 of faults, they agree in the common one of being, like the high 
 road, impassable.' The rumbling coach, with its plethoric 
 steeds, toils slowly on, and reaches the dismal pile, of which no 
 association is so precious as that of its having been the birth- 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
he Queen. — Lady 
 Ik'ivey. — A set of 
 crv(^y. — A I'Yagili: 
 — Al'iitter Cup.— 
 -Frciicrick, Prince 
 ■oline ! — Nocturnal 
 Oraii.i;c Clu.st. — 
 f with Lady Mar)-, 
 n of 'I wickcnhani. 
 e Ksscncu of Small 
 narrel with Ilervey 
 he Death of Lord 
 oom.— Mcr llhiess 
 ■('(1. — The Qneen'.s 
 jtler is sent for. — 
 inc.— .\ Change in 
 initv. --Memoirs of 
 
 .'(1 in it.s sweet 
 ry age, by ihc 
 
 si.\, with four 
 ; whilst a small 
 : huge vehicle. 
 . deep mire of 
 til the cortege 
 hen called, and 
 -brick structure 
 
 built by Wren. 
 [ approach the 
 ey, wrote to his 
 by this extreme 
 g, like the high 
 h its plethoric 
 ile, of which no 
 been the birth- 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 George IT. Arriviug^froiH Hanover. 171 
 
 place of our loved Victoria Rcgina. All around, as the em- 
 l)la/uncd carriage impressively veers round into the grand 
 LiiUiiice, savours of William and Mary, of Anne, of Bishop 
 llurnet and Harley, Atterbury and liolingbroke, l?ut those 
 v.cre pleasant days com])ared to those of the second George, 
 wliose return from Hanover in this mountain of a coach is now 
 described. 
 
 '11 le panting steeds are gracefully curbed by the state coach- 
 man in his scarlet livery, with his cocked-hat and gray wig 
 uiulerneath it: now the horses are foaming and reeking as if 
 they had come irom the world's end to Kensington, and yet 
 they have only been to meet King (leorge on his entrance inli) 
 London, whiih he has reached from Ilelvoetsluys, on his way 
 from Hanover, in time, as he e.\[)ects, to sjjcnd his birthday 
 among his English subjects. 
 
 It is Sunday, and repose renders the retirement of Kensing- 
 ton and its avenues and shades more sombre than ever. 
 Suburban retirement is u.sualiy so. It i.i noon ; and the inmates 
 of Kensington Palace are just coming forth from the chapel in 
 the palace. The coach is now stopping, and the equerries arc 
 at hand to offer their resjicctful assistance to the diminutive 
 figure that, in full Field-marshal regimentals, a cocked hat stuck 
 crosswise on his head, a , ird dangling even down to his 
 heels, imgraciously heeds tnem not, but stepjiing down, as the 
 great iron gates are thrown open to receive him, looks neither 
 like a king or a gentleman. A thin, worn face, in which weak- 
 ness and pas.^ion are at once piitured ; a form buttoned and 
 padded up to the chin ; high Iles.-,ian boots without a wrinkle; 
 a sword and a swagger, no more constituting him the military 
 character than the 'your majesty' from every lip can make a 
 ])Oor thing of clay a king. Sut h was George II. : brutal, even 
 to his submissive wile. Stunted by nature, he was insignil'icant 
 in form, as he was petty in ( h.irai ter ; not a trace of royalty 
 could be found in that silly, tempestuous physiognomy, with its 
 hereditary small head : not an atom of it in his made-up. paltry 
 little jjresence; still less in his bearing, language, or (jualities. 
 
 The ([ueen and her court have come from chapel, to meet 
 the royal absentee at the great gate: tiie consort, who was to- 
 
 5 
 
172 
 
 His Meeting ivitlithc Queen, 
 
 his gracious majesty like an elder sister rather than a wife, 
 bends down, not to his knees, hut yet she bends, to kiss the 
 liand of her royal husband. She is a fair, fat woman, no longer 
 young, scarcely comely ; but with a charm of manners, a com- 
 posure, and a savoir Jairc that causes one to regard her as 
 mated, not matched to the little creature in that cocked-hat, 
 which he does not take off even when she stands before him. 
 The i)air, nevertheless, embrace : it is a triennial ceremony 
 ])erformed when the king goes or returns from Hanover, but 
 suffered to lapse at other times ; but the condescension is too 
 great: and Caroline ends, where she began: 'gluing her lips ' 
 lo the ungracious hand held out to her in evident ill-humour. 
 
 They turn, and walk through the court, tli'.;i up the grand 
 staircase, into the (lueen's apartment. The king has been 
 swearing all the way at J'.ngland and the I'.nglish, because he 
 has been obliged to return from Hanover, where the German 
 mode of life an<l new mistresses were more agreeable to him 
 than die iMiglish customs and an old wite. He displays, there- 
 fore, even on this supposed hapjiy occasion, one of the worst 
 outbreaks of his insufferable temper, of which the ([ueen is the 
 first victim. All the company in the palace, both ladies and 
 gentlemen, are ordered to enter: he talks to them all, but to 
 the queen he says not a word. 
 
 She is attended by Mrs. Clayton, afterwards 1 ,ady Sundon, 
 whose lively manners and great good temper and good will — 
 lent out like leasehold to all, till she saw what their friendship 
 might bring, -—are always usefid at these trisks rencontres. 
 Mrs. Clayton is the amalgamating substance between chemical 
 a'^ents which have, of themselves, no cohesion ; she covers 
 with address what is awkward ; she smooths down with some- 
 thing pleasant what is rude; she turns off —- and her olhce 
 in that respect is no sine( ure at that court — what is indecent, 
 so as to keep the small majority of the company who have 
 respectable notions in good humour. To the right of (lueen 
 Carohne stands anoUier of her majesty's household, to whom 
 the most deferential attention is paid by all present ; neverthe- 
 less, she is queen c'" the co'.irt, but not the queen of the royal 
 master of that court. It is Lady Suffolk, the mistress of King 
 
:r llian a wife, 
 ids, to kiss the 
 man, no longer 
 limners, a com- 
 I regard her as 
 lat cocked-hat, 
 ids before him. 
 ir.ial ceremony 
 1 Hanover, but 
 scension is too 
 t^hiing her lips' 
 it ill-humour. 
 1 up the grand 
 king has been 
 ish, because he 
 Lire the (Jennan 
 ^Tecable to him 
 displays, there- 
 ne of the v»'orst 
 lie (pieen is the 
 hoth ladies and 
 them all, but to 
 
 l.ady Simdon, 
 md good will — 
 their friendship 
 risfcs rencontres. 
 ::t\veen chemical 
 on ; she covers 
 lown with sonie- 
 -and her oflice 
 v'hat is indecent, 
 pany who have 
 J right of Queen 
 ehold, to whom 
 .'sent ; neverthe- 
 ecn of the rny.il 
 iiibtress of King 
 
 q 
 
 !?CKNK BKFOUE KKNSIM.IO.V PALACE— frK'JIiUE II. AM) iJlfEX CAROLI.VE. 
 
 See p. 172. 
 
J.ady Suffolk. ^7% 
 
 Ccorc^c II., and lonr; mistress of the robes to Queen Caroline. 
 She is now past the bloom of youth, but her attractions are not 
 i,i their wane ; but endured until she had attained her seventy- 
 ninth year. i)i a middle height, well made, extremely fair, 
 ^vith very fine light hair, she attracts rcganl from h.er sweet, 
 frc.h face, which had in it a comeliness independent of rcgu- 
 1 iritv of feature. According to her invariable custom, she is 
 .Iressed with simplicity ; her silky tresses ^re drawn somewhat 
 l.ick from her snowy forehead^ and f\ill in long tresses on her 
 shoulders, not less transparently white. She wears a gown of 
 rich silk, opening in front to display a chemisette of the most 
 (lelicate cambric, which is scarcely less delicate than her skin. 
 Her slender arms are without bracelets, and her taper hngers 
 without rings. As she stands behind the queen, holdmg her 
 majesty's f^m and gloves, slie is obliged, from her deafness, to 
 lean her fair face with its sunny hair first to the right side, then 
 to the left, with the helpless air of one exceedingly deaf— for 
 .slie had been afflicted with that infirmity for some years : yet 
 one cannot say whether her appealing looks, which seem to 
 sav, ' Enlighten me if you please,'— and the sort of softened 
 manner in which she accepts civilities which she scarcely compre- 
 hends do not enhance the wontlerfiil charm wliich drew every 
 one who knew her towards this frail, but passionless woman. 
 
 The (]ueen fomis the centre of the group. Carohnc, 
 daughter of the Maniuis of I'.randenburgh-Anspach, notwiih- 
 stan'Jling her residence in England of many years, notwithstand- 
 ing her' having been, at the era at which this biography begins, 
 ten years its Veen— is still (krman in every attribute. She 
 retains, in her tair and comely face, traces of having been hand- 
 some : but her skin is deeply scarred by the cniel small-pox. 
 She is now at that time of life when Sir Robert Walpole even 
 thought it expedient to reconcile her to no longer being an 
 object of attraction to her royal consort. As a woman, slie 
 has ceased to be attractive to a man of the character of (ieorge 
 11.; but, as a queen, she is still, as for as manners are con- 
 cerned, incomparable. As she turns to address various mem- 
 bers of the a.ssembly, her style is full of sweetness as well as 
 of courtesy, yet on other occasions she is majesty ilb>.lf. Irie 
 
 
174 
 
 Si'y Robert Walpolc. 
 
 tones of her voice, willi its still foreign accent, are most cap- 
 tivating ; her eyes penetrate into every countenance on which 
 they rest. Her figure, plump and matronly, has lost nuich of 
 its contour ; but is well suited for her part. Majesty in women 
 should be ciubonpoint. Her hands are JjcautifuUy white, and 
 fauUIcss in shape. The king always admired her bust ; and it 
 is, therefore, by royal coiumand, Ic^lerably exposed. Her fair 
 hair is u])raised in full short curls over Iier brow : her dress is 
 rich, and distinguished in that resped from that of the Countess 
 of Suffolk. — ' Her good Howard' — as she was wont to call her, 
 when, before her elevation to the [jcerage, she was lady of the 
 bed( hamber to Caroline, had, when iti that capacity, been often 
 subjected to servile offices, which the .[uecn, though apologizing 
 ill the sweetest manner, delighted to make h.er perform. * My 
 good Howard' having one day i)laced a handkerchief on the 
 I)ack of her royal mistress, the king, who half worshipped his 
 intellectual wife, pulled it off in a passion, saying, 'Because 
 you have an ugly neck yourself, you hide the queen's!' All, 
 however, that evening was smooth as ice, and ]ierha()S as cold 
 also. The company are qui( kly ilismissed, and the king, who 
 has scar<ely spoken to the ([ueen, retires to his closet, where 
 he is attended by the subservient Caroline, and by two other 
 ]iersons. 
 
 Sir Robert Waljtole, i)rime minister, has accompanied the 
 king in his carriage, from the very entrance of London, where 
 the famous statesman met him. He is now the privileged com- 
 l)anion of their majesties, in their seclusion for the rest of the 
 evening. His cheerful face, in its full evening disguise of wig 
 ;ui(l tie, his invariable good humour, his frank manners, his 
 wonderful sense, his \ lews, more i)ractical than elevated, suffi- 
 ciently account for the inlluence which this celebrated minister 
 obtained over Queen C.laroline, and tiie readiness of King George 
 to submit to the tie. ]Uit Sir Robert's great source of ascend- 
 .in( y was his temper. Never was there in the annals uf our 
 country a minister so free of access : so obliging in gi\ing, so 
 unoffending when he refused ; so indulgent and kind to those 
 dependent on him ; so generous, so foithful to his friends, so 
 lorgiving to his Iocs. 'I'his was his ch.aracter under one phase : 
 
arc most flip. 
 ancc on which 
 i lost iniu.h of 
 jcsty in women 
 ully white, and 
 L-r bust ; and it 
 >se(l. 1 Icy fair 
 V : her (ht'.^s is 
 of the Countess 
 'ont to call her, 
 vas lady of the 
 city, been often 
 igh apologizing 
 perform. ' My 
 cerchief on the 
 worshipped his 
 yiiig, ' IJecause 
 queen's !' All, 
 lerhaps as cold 
 1 the king, who 
 is closet, where 
 d by two other 
 
 rompanied the 
 London, where 
 ])rivile^ed com- 
 the rest of the 
 
 disguise of wig 
 k manners, his 
 
 elevated, suftl- 
 .'bratcd minister 
 of King George 
 urce of ascend- 
 e annals of our 
 ng in giving, so 
 
 kind to those 
 
 his friends, so 
 ider cue phase : 
 
 /.on I Ifcrviy. ^75 
 
 even his adherents sometimes blamed hi-; easiness of temper ; 
 i!ie impossibility in hi:, nature to cherish the remembrance of a 
 wrong, or even to be roused by an insult. Hut, whilst such were 
 ihe amiable traits of his < haracter, history has its lists of accu- 
 - itiuns against him for corruption of the most shameless tlescrip- 
 )n. The eml of this veteran statesman's career is well known. 
 The fraudulent (ontra<ls whit h he gave, the pei ulation and 
 profusion of the secret service money, his undue intluence at 
 . 'eciions, brouglit around his later life a storm, from which he 
 ;, treated into the Uj^per House, when created Karl of Orford. 
 1 1 was before this timely retirement from office that he burst 
 forth in these wor.ls : ' I oppose nothing ; give in to everything; 
 am said to do everything; and to answer for everything ; and 
 yet, (lod knows, I dare not do what I think is right.' 
 
 \\'ith his jiublic cai)acily, however, we have not here to *lo : 
 it is in his c haracter of a courtier that we view him following 
 the ijueen and king. I lis round, complacent face, with his small 
 glistening eyes, arched eyebrows, and with a mouth ready to 
 break out aloud into a laugh, are all subdued into a resi)eclful 
 gravity as he listens to RingOeorge grumbling at the necessity 
 for his return home. No I'.nglish cook could dress a dinner ; 
 no Ilnglish cook could select a dessert; no I'.nglish coachman 
 (ouldd.rlve; nor Knglish jockey ride; no Englishman— such 
 were his habitual taunts -knew how to come into a room; no 
 Kngli.shwoman understood how to dress herself, ".he men, he 
 said, talked of nothing but their dull politics, and the women 
 of nothing but their ugly clothes. Whereas, in Hanover, all 
 ib.cse things were at perfection: men were patterns of })olite- 
 ness and gahantry ; women, of beauty, wit, and entertainment. 
 His trooi-s there were the bravest in the world ; his manu'u - 
 turers the most ingenious ; his ]>eoi)le the hai)piest : in Ilano/er, 
 in short, plenty reigned, ri< lies Ihnved, arts nourished, magr.uV- 
 cence abounded, everything was in abundance that c(juld nu";e 
 a jjrince great, or a i)eople blessed. 
 
 There was one standing behind the (jueen who listened to 
 these outbreaks of the king's bilious temper, as he called it, 
 widi an ap'parently respectful solicitude, but with tlie dee[)est 
 disgust in liis heart. A slender, elegant figure, in a court suit, 
 
 g 
 
faultlessly and rarcfiilly perfect in that ( ostume, stands behind 
 the (jueen's rhair. It is Lord Hervey. His lofty forehead, his 
 features, whicli iiave a refinement of character, his well-turned 
 mouth, and full and (lini|)le(l chin, form his claims to that 
 beauty wliif h won the heart of the lovely Mary Lci)cl ; whilst 
 the somewhat thoughtful and pensive eNpressi(m of his physiog- 
 nomy, v.'hen in rc])ose, indicated the sympathising, yet, at the 
 same time, satirical character of one who won the affections, 
 perhaps unconsciously, of the amiable Princess Caroline, the 
 favourite daughter of C.eorgc If. 
 
 A general air of languor, ill concealed by the most studied 
 artifice of countenance, and even of posture, characterizes 
 l-ord Mcrvey. He v.-ould have abhorred robustness; for he 
 belonged to the clique then called Maccaronis ; a set of fine 
 gentlemen, of whom the present world wouhl not be worthy, 
 tricked out for show, fitted only to drive out fading majesty in 
 a stage coach ; extjuisite in every personal appendage, too fine 
 for the common usages of society; point-dnncc, not only in 
 every curl and ruflle, but in every attitude and step; men with 
 full satin roses on their shining shoes ; diamond tablet rings on 
 their forefingers ; with snuff-boxes, the worth of which might 
 almost ])urchase a farm ; lace worked by the delicate fingers of 
 some religious recluse of an ancestress, and taken from an altar- 
 clot'^; old i)oint-lacc, dark as coffee-water could make it; with 
 embroidered waistcoats, wTeathed in cx(iuisite tambour-work 
 round each capricious lappet and pocket ; with cut steel but- 
 tons that glistened beneath the courtly wax-lights : with these 
 and fifty other small but costly characteristics that established 
 the reputation of an asi>irant IMaccaroni. Lord Hervey was, 
 in truth, an effeminate creature : too dainty to walk ; too pre- 
 cious to commit his frame to horseback ; and prone to imitate 
 the somewhat recluse habits which C.erman rulers introduced 
 within the court : he was disposed to candle-light pleasures and 
 cockney diversions : to Marybone and the Mall, and shrinking 
 from the athletic and social recreations whicli, like so much 
 tliat was manly and English, were confined almost to the Wn^- 
 lish s(iuire///rr/j-//;///t' after the Hanoverian accession ; when 
 so much degeneracy for a while obscured the English character, 
 
./// Ju ecu trie Raic, 
 
 ^77 
 
 stnnds behind 
 )' forehead, his 
 his well-fiirncd 
 iaims to that 
 
 Lepel ; whilst 
 of his pliysiog- 
 ng, yet, at the 
 the afifcrtions, 
 
 Caroline, the 
 
 most studied 
 
 characterizes 
 itncss ; for he 
 
 a set of fine 
 ot be worthy, 
 ing majesty in 
 dage, too fine 
 ', not only in 
 ep ; men with 
 al)lct rings on 
 
 which might 
 ;atc fingers of 
 from an altar- 
 nakc it ; with 
 tambour-work 
 nit steel but- 
 s : with these 
 It established 
 I Hervey was, 
 alk ; too pre- 
 3ne to imitate 
 rs introduced 
 pleasures and 
 md shrinking 
 ike so much 
 t to the Kng- 
 ession ; when 
 ish character, 
 
 debused its tone, enervated its best races, vilified its literature, 
 ( omipted its morale, duuigctl its costume, and degraded its 
 ;''''hitecture, 
 
 leneath the effeminacy of the Maccaroni, Lord Hervey was 
 one of the few who united to intense //z/^'n' in every minute de- 
 tail, an acute and c ultivated intellect. 'I'o ]icrfc( t a Mat ( aroni 
 it was in truth advisable, if not essential, to imite some smat- 
 tering of learning, a pretension to wit, to his super-dandyism; 
 to he the author of some ])er;ional scpiib, or the translator of 
 some classic. (Jueen Caroline was too cultivated herself to 
 suffer fools about her, and Lord Hervey was a man after her 
 own ta?)te ; as a courtier he was essentially a fine gentleman ; 
 and, more than that, he could be the most delightful companion, 
 the most sensible adviser, and the most wiiuiing friend in the 
 court. His ill health, which he carefiilly concealed, his fastl- 
 • liousness, his ultra-delicacy of habits, formed an agreeable con- 
 tr.i^l to the coarse robustness of 'Sir Rohcrt,' and constituted 
 a relief afier the society of the vulgar, strong-mintled minister, 
 who was born for the hustings and the House of Commons 
 nither than for the courtly drawing-room. 
 
 John Lord Hervey, long vice-chamberlain to Queen Caroline, 
 was, like Sir Robert AN'alpole. descended t'rom a commoner's 
 family, one of those gootl old stpiires who lived, as Sir Henry 
 '".Votton says, 'without lustre and without obscurity.' The 
 Duchess of Marlborough had procured the elevation of the 
 Herveys of Ickworth to the peerage. She happened to be in- 
 timate with Sir 'I'homas Felton, tlie fitlier of Mrs. Hervey, 
 afterwanis Lady Bristol, whose Inisbaud, at first created Lord 
 Hervey, and afterwards Earl of Jiiistol. expressed his oblig.a- 
 tions by retaining as his motto, when raised to the ])eeragti, the 
 words ' Je n'oublieray jamais,' in allusion to the service done 
 him by the Duke and Due hess of Marlborough. 
 
 The Herveys had alwa\s been an eccentric race; and the 
 classification of 'men, women, and Herveys,' by Lady ^hlry 
 Wortley Montagu, was not more witty than true. There was 
 in the whole race an eccentricity which bordered on the ridi- 
 culous, but did not imi*ly want of sense or of talent. Indeed 
 this third species, ' the Herveys,' were more gifted than the 
 
 12 
 
 g 
 
1 78 Carr, Lord Ihrvcy. 
 
 generality of ' men and U(jiiil.ii.' 'J'Iil- father of Lord flervcy 
 hal l)cen ;i < ouiitry gentleman of good fortune, living at Ick- 
 worlli, near IJnry in Suttblk, and rei»resenting the town in par- 
 liament, as Ills father had before him, imtil raised to the peerage. 
 IJefure that elevation he had lived on in his own county, unitmg 
 the character of tiie English sfjuire, in that fox-hunting county, 
 with that of a perfect gentleman, a scholar, and a most ad- 
 mirable member (jf society. He was a poet, also, aflecting the 
 style of Cowley, wlio wrote an elegy upon liis uncle, ^Villiam 
 llervey, an elegy compared to -Milton's ' Lycidas' in imagery, 
 music, and tenderness of thought. The shade of Cowley, whom 
 Charles 11. pronounced, at his death, to be 'the best man in 
 England,' haunted this peer, the first V.xx\ of Ilristul. He as- 
 ])ired especially to the jjoet's 7i'/V; and the ambition to be a wit 
 flew like wililfire among his family, especially infecting his two 
 sons, Carr, the elder brother of the .subject of this memoir, and 
 J/tid Hervey. 
 
 It would have been well could the Ivarl of Ilristol have trans- 
 milted to his sons his other (jualities. He was pious, moral, 
 aUcctionate, sincen; ; a consistent ^^■hig of the old .school, and, 
 as such, disapproving of Sir Robert \Valpole, of the standing 
 army, the corruptions, and that doctrine of expediency so un- 
 blushmgly avowed by the ministers. 
 
 Created Ivirl of Bristol in 17 14, the heir-apparent to his titles 
 and estates was the elder brother, by a former marriage, of 
 John, Lord Hervey; the dissolute, clever, wliimsical Carr, Lord 
 Jkrvcy. I'ope, in one of his satirical appeals to the second 
 Lord Her\'ey, speaks of his friendshij) with C;irr, 'whose carl\- 
 (ieath deprived the family' (of Llervey) ' of as much wit and 
 honour as he left behintl him in any part of it.' The 7iv/ was 
 a family attribute, but the //cw.v/- was dubious: Carr was as 
 deistical as any Maccaroni of the day, and, perhaps, more dis- 
 solute than most : in one respect he has left behind him a cele- 
 brity which may be as (juestionable as his wit, or his honour ; 
 he is reputed to be the father of Horace Wal[)ole, and if we 
 accept presmuptive evidence of the fact, the statement is clearly 
 borne out, for in his wit, his indifference to religion, to say the 
 least, his sauricai turn, his love of tiie work!, and his contem]»t 
 
Lord Hcrvcy 
 living at Jck- 
 
 town in ]);ir- 
 ) the pccni^'c. 
 oinity, unitnig 
 ntinj; county, 
 il ;i most ;iil- 
 , aftccting tlio 
 ncle, AS'illiam 
 >' in imagery, 
 Jowley, whom 
 
 licst man in 
 stol. lie os- 
 on to be a wit. 
 cling liis two 
 > memoir, and 
 
 tol have trans- 
 pious, mom I, 
 
 d scliool, and, 
 tlie stan(Hng 
 
 dienry so un- 
 
 ;nt to his titles 
 ■ marringe, of 
 cal Carr, Lord 
 to the secoih/ 
 ' wliose earl\- 
 iiuch wit and 
 U'he 7ivV was 
 
 Carr was as 
 ips, more dis- 
 id him acelc- 
 
 liis honour ; 
 
 le, and if we 
 
 uent is clearly 
 
 )n, to say the 
 
 his conteni];t 
 
 if all 
 
 ./ I-'rai^ih' Boy. i^g 
 
 lliat was great and good, he strongly resciiibles his re- 
 
 puted son; whilst the levity of Lady Waii/ole's character, and 
 Sii- RoIhii's laxity an.l dissoluteness, do not furnish any reason- 
 able duuht to the statenunt made hy Lady Louisa Stuart, m the 
 uitroduction to Lord Wharm litfe's ' Life of Lady Mary Wortley 
 iMontagi- ' Carr, Lord ilervey, die»l early, and'his half-brother 
 su( ( eedt,' him in his title and expectations. 
 
 Joim, Lord Heivey, was educaied first at Westminster School, 
 under Dr. Frcind, die friend of Mrs. Montagu; thence he was 
 removed to Clare Hall. Cambridge: he graduated as a noble- 
 man. ;'nd became M.A. in 17 15. 
 
 At Cambridge Lord Ilervey might have a<iiuired some manly 
 jirowes, ; but he had a mother who w.is as strange as the family 
 nito which she had m irricd, and who was passionately devoted 
 to her son : she evinceil her affection by never letting him have 
 a (hance of being like other Knglish boys. When his father 
 uas at Newmarket, Jack Hervey, as he was called, was to ride 
 a race, to j. lease his father ; but his mother couM not risk her 
 dear boy's .safety, antl the ra< e was won by a jo( key. I^fe was 
 a-, precious and as fragile as j.orcelain : the elder brother's death 
 made the heir of the Herveys more valuable, more effeminate, 
 and more (ontrolled than ever by his eccentric mother. A 
 < "wrt was to be his hemisphere, and to that all his views, early 
 m life, tendeil. 1 le went to Hanover to pay his court to (ieorge 
 I.: Carr had done the same, and had come back enchanted 
 with Ceorge, the heir-presumptive, who made him one of the 
 lords of the beilchamber. |a( k Hervev also returned full of 
 enthusiasm for t!ie I'rince of Wales, after^vards Ceorge H., and 
 the Princess ; and that visit influenced his destiny. 
 
 'le now proposed making tiie grand tour, which comprised 
 i'.Tis, Cennany. and Italy. P,ut his mother again interfered : 
 she wept, she exhorted, she prevailed. Means were iet\ised, 
 and the stripling was re< ailed to hang about the court, or to 
 loiter at Ickworih, s( nbMing verses, and causing his father un- 
 easiness lest he should be too much of a i)oet, and too little of 
 a public man. 
 
 Such was his youth : (lisa[)pointe(l by not obtaining a com- 
 mission in the Cuards, he led a desultory butterfly-like life ; 
 
 12 — 2 
 
 Q 
 
I So Di'scription of (icoi\>^t' II' s lamHy, 
 
 (UK c! \ .ii Ki« hin(;n(l with (Jiiccn Caroline, then Princess of 
 Wales; anotlu r, ;il Pope's villa. :it Twi* kenham ; sometimes in 
 the House of Common,, in \vhi< h he succeeded his elder bro- 
 ther as member lor Hiiry ; and, at the period when he has been 
 ' ribcd as forming one of the ([uartett m Queen Caroline's 
 ■ ,( at *<!. lunch's, as vice-chamberlain to his partial and royal 
 patrol 
 
 Ills early marria^< ' iih Mary Lepel, the beautiful maid of 
 honour lo (Jueen C. insured his fcli( ity, though it did not 
 
 (urb liis jjredilectioni i-i .■- .cr ladies. 
 
 litip 'V-rth j.oid Ilervey lived all the year round in uh.it 
 Were tiKii < illed !■ ^Igings, that is, apartments appropriated to 
 the royal household, r even to others, in .St. James's, or at 
 Rii liniond, or at Windsor. In order fully to comprehend all 
 the intimate relations which lie had with the court, it is necessary 
 to present the reader with some account of the family of Ceorgc 
 11. I''ive daughters had been the female issue of his majesty's 
 m,irii:tgc with (J'.Kcn Caroline. 'I'livee of these princesses, the 
 three elder ones, had live<l, during the life of Ceorge 1., at S' 
 James's with their grandfather ; who, irritated by the differences 
 between him and his son, then Prince of ^\'ales, atlopted that 
 measure rather as showing his authority than from any affection 
 to the >iiung princesses. It was, in truth, diftu nil to say whic h 
 of these royal ladies was the most imfortunate. 
 
 .\nne, the eldest, had shown her spirit early in life whilst re- 
 siding with (ieorge I. ; s!ie had a proud, imiierious nature, and 
 her temper was, it nnist be owned, put to a severe test. The 
 only lime that Ceorge I. did the I'.nglish the //o/ioiir of choos- 
 ing one of the beauties of the nation for his mistress, was during 
 the last year of his reign. The object of his choice was Anne 
 Hrett, the eldest daughter of the infamous Countess of Mac- 
 clesfield by her second husl>and. The neglect of Savage, the 
 poel, her son, was merels' one passage in the iniiiuitous life of 
 La.ly M.u( lesfield. I'.ndowed wilh singular taste and judg- 
 me;U, (onsulted by Colley Cibber on every new play he pro- 
 du( ed, the mother of Savage was not only wholly destitute of 
 all virtue, but of all shame. One day, looking out of the win- 
 dow, she Viert.ened .i \er\- JKUuLsome iv j. ■ 'aulted by some 
 
I I'rincoss of 
 sometimes in 
 lis cider hro- 
 I he has l)een 
 :n Caroline's 
 tial and royal 
 
 tifiil maitl of 
 iigli if dill not 
 
 mid in what 
 )roi)rialL-(l to 
 mies's, or at 
 nprehend all 
 t is necessary 
 ily of (ieor<,'e 
 his majesty's 
 iiK esses, til- 
 rge I., at S 
 ie differences 
 adojited that 
 any affection 
 to say whicli 
 
 fe whilst re- 
 nature, and 
 c test. 'I'he 
 vr of ( hoos 
 s, was (Uirini^ 
 ■e was -Anne 
 ess of Mac- 
 
 ■ Savagf, the 
 litous life oi' 
 e and judg- 
 play he pro- 
 
 ■ destitute of 
 ; of the win- 
 ted by some 
 
 Anf/c Brett 
 
 i8i 
 
 I 
 
 li.nh'iis who were goin.u to arrest him : sijc paid his debt, re- 
 K |^^d. and nvarried him. The hero of thi.s story was Colonel 
 Hrett, tlie fathe- of Atine Brett. 
 
 The child of .uich a mother w.is not likely to be even de- 
 ( entlyre-.pe< table ; and .\nii > wis proud of her di.>^,iaceful pre- 
 emineiK e and (»f her di.sgustii and royal lover. S'"- .as dark, 
 and her llaviiing black eyes r^ -.inblid those of :i. Spanish beauty. 
 Ten years . .'terlhe death ..i .-^^ i., , ... found a husband in 
 .Sir Willi.un I.eman. of Nurt^.ili, my\ was announced, on that 
 occasion, as the half-sister <• Richard > 
 
 i"o the .society of this woman, wh^ii ,a .-.i. j.uiiL->-,, .is 
 ' Mistress iJrett,' the three prince^sc were subjectetl : at the 
 same time the Dik lie^s of Kendal, the king's t lerman mistress, 
 occupied other lodgings at St. James's. 
 
 Miss Brett was to be rew.inled with the coronet of a coui\ 
 I ^ ti.r her degradation, the king being absent on the occasion 
 at liJiiover; el.ited by her exfiectations, she took the libertv, 
 • luring his maje.st)'s absem e. of ordering a door to be broken 
 out of her ;ip;irtment into the royal garden, where the princesses 
 w.ilked. The I'rinr ess Anne, not deigning to associate with 
 her, commanded that it slioiild be forthwith closed. Miss Brett 
 imperiously reversed that order. In the midst of the alfair the 
 king died suddenly, and Anne i!iett"s re^gn was over, .m i r 
 inlluence soon as much forgotten as if she had never r, 1. 
 The Princess Anne was pining in the dulness of her royal hon.c, 
 when a marriage with the Prince of ( )ninge, was proposeil f ■ 
 the consideration of his ])aients. It was a miserable mate . 
 as well as a miserable prosjjec t, for the |>rince's revenue 
 amounted to no more lian /'i j,ooo a year ; and the state and 
 pomp to whieh the Princess Royal had been accustomed could 
 not be contemplated on so small a fortune. It was still worse 
 in point of that poor consideration, haiipiness. The Prince of 
 < trange was both deformed and disgusting in his person, though 
 his tace was sensible in exj)re>sion ; and if he inspired one idea 
 more strongly than another when lie ai-peared in his uniform and 
 ■<-ocked hat, and spoke bad French, or worse English, it w s 
 <hat of seeing before one a dressed-up baboon. 
 
 It was a bitter cuj) tor the jmncess to drink, but she drank 
 
 5 
 
l82 The Darling of tlic I'ami'y. 
 
 it : she rcl]c( toil that it might 1)0 the only way of (luitting a 
 court where, in case of her father's death, she would be depend- 
 ent on her hrolher i'"redenc, or on that weak prince's strong- 
 minrlod wile. So slie consented, and took the dwarf; and that 
 consent was regarded liy a grateful ])eo])le, and by all good 
 courtiers, as a sacrifice for the sake of J'rotestant principles, 
 tlie House of Orange being, f^ar c\ui/'-ni,: at the head of the 
 ortliodox <lynasties in I'.urope. A dowry of _,/?8o,ooo was 
 forthwitli g'anted by an admiring Connnons— just double what 
 had ever been given before. That sum was happily lying in the 
 exchecjuer, being tlie ])urchase-money of some lands in St. 
 (."hrislo|iIicr's' wliich liad lately been sold; and King George 
 was thankful to gel rid of a d.Hightcr \vho,>e haughtiness gave 
 him Iroulilc. In pcrs(.in, too. tlie princess royal was not very 
 ornamental to the (,'ourt. Slie was ill-made, with a propensity 
 lo grow fat ; her complexion, otherwise very tine, was marked 
 with the small-])0x ; she had, however, a lively, clean look — one 
 (jf her chief beauties — and a certain royalty of maimer. 
 
 The I'riiK cSt Amelia dieil, as the world thought, single, but 
 consoled herself with various love flirtations. The Duke of 
 Newcastle made love to her, but her affections were centred on 
 the Duke of Grafton, to whom she was ijrivately married, as is 
 confidently asserted. 
 
 The I'riiicess Caroline was the (lading of her family. Even 
 the king relied on her truth. ^Vhen there was any dispute, 
 he used to sav. 'Send fjr Caroline; she will tell us the ridit 
 story.' 
 
 Her fite had its clouds. Amiable, gentle, of unboundetl 
 charity, witli strong alTections, which were not suffered to flow 
 in a legitimate channel, she became devotedly attached to Lord 
 Hervey : her heart was bound up in him ; his death drove her 
 into a permanent retreat from the world. No debasing con- 
 nection existed between them ; but it is misery, it is sin enough 
 to love another woman':, husband — and that sin, that misery,, 
 was the lot i,)f t!ie ro\-,d and otherwise virtiujus Caroline. 
 
 The Princess .Mary, another victim to conventionalities, was. 
 united to Frederick, Landgrave oi Hesse Cassel ; a barbarian, 
 bom whom slvj esciped, whenever she could, to come, with a. 
 
of quitting a 
 1(1 be (lepcntl- 
 rimc's strong- 
 varf ; and that 
 
 I by all good 
 lilt i)rincij)lcs, 
 J head of th.e 
 ;;^So,ooo was 
 t double what 
 ily Iv'ing in the 
 : lands in St. 
 
 King George 
 
 ightiness gave 
 
 was not very 
 
 a prujjensity 
 ?, was marked 
 L-an look — one 
 .uiin;r. 
 
 .ht. ^i^L;Ic. but 
 I'he Duke of 
 jre Centred on 
 married, as is 
 
 family, l-'ven 
 s any dispute, 
 
 II us tbe right 
 
 (;f unbounded 
 ft'ered to How 
 ;ached to Lord 
 ath drove her 
 debasing con- 
 t is sin enough 
 1, that misery,, 
 aroline. 
 ionalities, was. 
 ; a barbarian, 
 come, with a 
 
 Evciiiii^i^s at S/. ycjjncss. 183 
 
 bleeding heart, to lier lOnglish home. She was, even Horace 
 Walpole aiiows, 'of the .softest, mildest temper in the world,' 
 and fondly beloved by her sister Caroline, and by the ' Butcher 
 of Culloden,' ^Villiam, Duke of Cumberland. 
 
 Louisa became Queen of ])enmark in 1 746, after some years" 
 marriage to the Crown Prince. ' We are lucky,' 1 lorace AValpolc 
 writes on that occasion, 'in the death of kings.' 
 
 The two princesses who were still under the iialernal roof 
 wltc contrasts. Caroline was a constant invalid, gentle, sincere, 
 unambitious, devoted t.) her mother, whose death nearly killed 
 her. Amelia affected ])opularity, and assumed the esprit fori — 
 was fond of meddling in politics, and after the death of her 
 mother, joined the Bedford faction, in op])osition to her father, 
 But both thc-c priiicrs^rs were outwardly submissive when Lord 
 Dervey became the (Queen's chamberlain. 
 
 The evenings at St. James's were siient in the same way as 
 those at Kensington. 
 
 Quadrille formed her majesty's pastime, and. whilst Lord 
 Ilcrvey played pools of cribbage with the Princess Caroline and 
 tile maids of honour. tJie Duke of Cumberland amused himself 
 and the Princess Amelia at ' buffet.' On Mondays and Fridays 
 there were drawing-rooms held ; and these receptions took 
 place, very wisely, in the evening. 
 
 I5eneath all the show of gaiety and the freezing ceremony of 
 those stately occasions, there was in that court as much misery 
 as family dissensions, or, to .si)eak accurately, fiimily hatreds can 
 engender. Endless jealousies, which seem to us as frivolous as 
 they were rabid; and contentions, of which even the origin is 
 still unexplained, had long severed the (iiieen from her eldest 
 son. Ceor^-e H. had .dways loved his mother : his affection for 
 the unhappy Soi)hia Dorothea w;is one of th.e very few traits of 
 goodness in a character utterly vulgar, sensual, and entirely sel- 
 fish. Plis son, Frederick, Prince of Wales, on the other hand, 
 hated his mother. He lo\ed neither of his i)arents : but the 
 ({ueen had the preeminence in his aversion. 
 
 The king, during the year i 736, was at Hanover. His return 
 was announced, but under circumstances o( danger. A tre- 
 mendous storm arose just as he was prepared to embark at 
 
 Q 
 
184 Frederick, Prince of Wales. 
 
 i le!vocl>Inys. y\ll London was on the look out, wcatlicr-cocks 
 \vci"i; \vat< hcil ; tides, winds, and nio(;ns formed the only sub- 
 jects of convers:iti(jn ; hut no one of his majesty's subjects was 
 so demonstrative as the I'rince of Wales, and his cheerfulness, 
 and his triumph even, on the occasion, were of cotirse resent 
 fully heard of by the (|ueen. 
 
 l)uriiii; the storm, when anxiety had almost amounted to 
 fe\er, I .(ivd llervcy dined wiUi Sir Robert W'alpole. 'J'heir 
 eonveis.iti(jn naturally turned on the state of affairs, ])ros])ec- 
 tively. Sir Robert calletl the prince a ' jjoor, weak, irresolute, 
 false, 1\ ini;, contemptible wretch.' Lord Hervey did not defend 
 him, liiit suiij^csted that I'rederii k, in case of his father's death, 
 mi^hl be more iiiiluenced by the (|ueen than he had hitherto 
 bLHii. ' Zounds, my lord !' interrujjted Sir Robert, ' he would 
 tear the ilesh off her bones with red-lujt irons sooner! 'l"he 
 (listin( lions >^:e shows to }OU, too, I believe, would not be for- 
 t^otteii. 'i'hen the noti(jn he has of liis great ric:hes, and the 
 desire he has of fingering ihem. wcnild make him pin<h her, 
 anil pini h her again, in order to make her buy her ease, till she 
 had not a groat left.' 
 
 \\\\\\V a jiirture of a lu.'artless and selfish character I The 
 ne\l d:iy the (lueen sent for Lord Hervey, to ask him if he knew 
 the parti* iilars of a great dinner which the prince had given fo 
 the lord ma\'or the iirc ions dav, whilst the whole countrv. and 
 the court in jjartic ular, was trembling for the safety of the king, 
 his fither. Lord Hervey tokl her that the prince's speech at 
 the dinner was the most ingratiating piece of popularity ever 
 heard; the healths, of course, as usual. 'irea\ensl' crie<l the 
 (luecn : 'popularity always makes me sick, but J'ritd's popu- 
 larity makes me \omit ! I hear that yesterday, on the prince's 
 side of the blouse, they talked of the king's being cast away with 
 the same saz/^^fre/t/ as you would talk of an overturn ; and that 
 my good son strutted aljout as if he had been already king. 
 Did you mark the airs with which he came into my drawing- 
 room in the morning? though he does not think fit to hono\ir 
 me with his presence, ox en n 11 i me with his wife's, of an even- 
 ing? I felt something here in my throat that swelled and luilf- 
 chukeii me." 
 
 i i 
 
 I 
 
/eatlicr-cocks 
 lie only suh- 
 sul)j(jrts was 
 clicerfulness, 
 cmrsc rcsciit 
 
 amounted to 
 [)ole. 'J'heir 
 airs, prospec- 
 k, irresolute, 
 id not defend 
 uher's death, 
 Iiad hitherto 
 It, ' he would 
 ooner ! 'J1ie 
 1 not lie for- 
 hes, and the 
 1 pinrh lier, 
 ease, till she 
 
 -acter ! The 
 m if he knew 
 had given io 
 countrv. and 
 ' of the king, 
 e's speech at 
 ipularity ever 
 s !' cried the 
 Fritzs popu- 
 i the j)rince's 
 1st away with 
 rn ; and that 
 dreaily king. 
 my drawing- 
 fit to honour 
 of an even- 
 ed and half- 
 
 A India Sophia JVainwdcii. 
 
 l8^ 
 
 m 
 
 Poor Queen C'aroline I with su( h. a son, and such a husband, 
 she must have been posses.-,eil of a more than usual share of 
 derm.:!) imperturbability to sustain her t hecrfulness, writhin-, as 
 .she o{w\\ was, under the pangs of a longroncx^aled disordiT, of 
 w!ii< li eventually she died. J-lven (jn the occasion of the king's 
 return in time to spend ]n"s birthday in luigland, the (iueen".> 
 temper had been sorely trie(k Xothing had ever vexed her 
 more than the king's admirati(;n for Amelia Soi)hia Walmoden, 
 A\ho. alter the death of Caroline, was ( reated Counters of Yar- 
 mouth. Madame Walmoden had been a reigning belle among 
 the, married women at Hanover, when (leorge 11. vi.^ited that 
 < oimtry in 1 7;,5. Not that her majesty's affections wen: wounded ; 
 it was her ]iride that was hurt by the idea that peoi)le would 
 think that this Hanoverian lady had more influence than she 
 had. In other resj.ects the king's absent e was a relief: she had 
 the ('(■/(// of the regency; she had tiie comfort of having the 
 hours which her royal torment dec reed were to be passed in 
 amusing his dulness, to herself; she was free from his '(pioti- 
 dian sillies of temper, which.' as ].(jrd 1 lervev rehUes, 'let it 
 be charged by what hand it would, u^ed always to discharge its 
 liottest fire, on some pretence or other, ujjon lier.' 
 
 It is cjuite true that from the fir>t dawn of his preference for 
 Madame A\'almoden, the king wrote circumstantial letters of 
 fifty or sixty pages to the ([ueen, informing her of e\cry ;,tage 
 of the attair ; the queen, in reply, saying that she was only o/ic 
 woman, and an old woman, and adding, ' that he might love 
 wore and yoiuii^cr -icuviioi: In return, the king wrote, ' ^^ul 
 nuist love the Walmoden, for she loves jw/,' a c ivil insult, which 
 he accompanied with so minute a description of his new favou- 
 rite, that the cpiecn. liad she been a painter, might have drawn 
 her [lortrait at a hundred miles' distance. 
 
 'I'he queen, subservient as she seemed, felt the humiliation. 
 Suc:h was the debased nature of (leorge II. that he not only 
 wrote letters unworthy of a man to write, and unfit for a woman 
 to read, to his wife, but he debited her to show them to Sir 
 Robert Walijole. I le used to ' tag several paragraphs,' as I .ord 
 Mervey exjjresscs it, with these words, ' Montrn ari, d consultcz 
 lii-tlcssiis tic i^ros /lom/nr,' meaning Sir Robert. Rut this was 
 
 
 
1 86 
 
 Poor Oiicoii Caroline ! 
 
 onlv a portion of the (lis;^iistinL; di.srlosurcs made by the vulgar, 
 licentious monarch to liis too degraded consort. 
 
 In the bitterness of her mortification tlie (|ueen consulted 
 Lord Hervev and Sir J\ol)ert a.s to the possibility of lier hjsing 
 her inlhienc e, should she resent the king's delay in returning. 
 'I'hiv agreed, that her taking the 'filrr turn' would ruin her 
 witli her royal consort; Sir Robert adding, that if he had a 
 mind to flatter her into her ruin, he might talk to her as if she 
 Avere t\vent\--fiVL. anrl try to makr her imagine tint she could 
 iiring the king back by the a])pre!iLiis!on of losing her affection. 
 He said it was now too late in her lite to try new methods ; she 
 must persist in the soothing, coaxing, sultmissive arts which had 
 been ])ractised with success, and even i)ress his majesty to Itring 
 this woman to England! 'Me taught her.' says Lord Ik-rvc}-, 
 'this hard lesson till she T. •;//.' Nevertheless, the ijUcen e\- 
 ])ressed her gratitude to the minister for his advice. ' Mi- 
 lord,' said "\\'alpo!e to Herve}-. 'she laid her thanks on me so 
 thick that I found T had gone too far. for I am never so mucli 
 aiVaid of her rebukes as of her commendations.' 
 
 Such w:is the state of affairs between this singular cou])le. 
 Nevertheless, the <]ueen, not trom attachment to the king, but 
 from the horror she had of her son's reigning, felt such fears (jf 
 the prince's succeeding t() the throne as she could hardly ex- 
 l)ress. lie would, she was (onvinced. do all he could to ruin 
 and injure h.er in case of his accession to the throne. 
 
 The consolation of such a friend as Lord Hervey can easily 
 be conceived, when he told her majesty that he had resolved, 
 in case the king had been lost at sea, to have retired from her 
 ser\ i( e. in order to prevent any jealousy or irritation that migh' 
 arise from his su]iposed influence with her majesty. The (jueen 
 slopped him sliorl. and said, ' No, my lord, I should never 
 have suffered that ; you are one of the greatest pleasures of my 
 lite, but did T love vou less than I do, or less like to have 
 you about me. I should look upon the suffering you to be taken 
 from me as such a meanness and baseness that you should not 
 have stirred an inch from me. '^'ou.' she at'.ded, ' should have 
 gone with me to Somerset House ;' (which was hers in case of 
 the king's death). She then told him she should have begged 
 
: l)y the vulgar, 
 
 iccn consulrcd 
 / of lier losing 
 ly in returning, 
 vould ruin her 
 it if he hail a 
 () her as if she 
 Llv.it slie could 
 g her affection. 
 
 methods ; slie 
 arts which had 
 :iaje>ty to hring 
 i 1,1)1(1 I ler\c\-, 
 
 tlie (jUeen ex- 
 advice. ' M)' 
 anks on me so 
 never so m-.ich 
 
 ingular couple. 
 the king, but 
 ■It such fears of 
 nild hardly e\- 
 e could to ruin 
 one. 
 
 :rvcy can easily 
 e had resolved, 
 etired from her 
 tion that might 
 i.y. 'i'lie (juecn 
 should never 
 pleasures of my 
 ss like to have 
 ■ou to be taken 
 Vou should not 
 , ' should h;;vc 
 lers in case ot 
 !d have begged 
 
 Nocturnal Diversions of Maids of Honour. 1 87 
 
 .Sir Rol)ert Walpole on her knees not to have sent in his 
 # resignation. 
 
 I'he animosity of the JMince of Wales to Lonl Hervey aug- 
 mented, there can be no doubt, his unnatural aversion to the 
 (|ueen. an aversion whi( h he evinced eridy in life. There was 
 a beautiful, giddy maid of ho)iour. who attracted not only the 
 attention of Freilerick, but the rival attentions of other suitor.-;, 
 and among them, the most favoured was said to be Lonl 
 Hervey, notwithstanding that he had then been for some years 
 the husband of one of the hnelicNt ornaments of the court, the 
 sensible and virtuous .Mary i.epel. .Miss \'ane became evenlu- 
 nlly tiie avowed favourite of the prince, and after giving birth 
 to a son, who was christened Idt/- Frederick \'ane, and who 
 die.l in 17;/., his unhappy mother died a .^ew months at'ter- 
 wardi-;. it is melancholy to read a letter from Lady Hervey to 
 Mr->. Hov.ard. ])ortraying the frolic and levity of this once joy- 
 (uis ( reature, among the other maids of honour; and her stric- 
 tures . .low at once the unrcfmed nature of the pranks in which 
 tiiey indulged, and her once sobriety of demeanour. 
 
 .'^lie speaks, on one oc( asion. in which, however, Miss \'ane 
 dil not share the nocturnal <liversion, of some of the maids of 
 honour being out in the winter all night in the gardens at Ken- 
 sin-ton -opening and rattling the windows, and trying to 
 frigluen jieople out of their wits; and she gives Mrs. Howard a 
 hull that t!ie (jueen ought to be informed of the way in which 
 her young attendants amused themselves. After levities such 
 as these, it is not surpriMug to fmd poor Miss \'ane writing to 
 Mrs. Howard, with complaints that she was unjustly a.,persed, 
 and referring to her relatives. Lady JJetty Nightingale and Lady 
 ILw.t, in testimony of th^' falsehood of reports which, un- 
 happily, the event veritied. 
 
 'Hie prince, however, never forgave Lord Hcr\ev for being 
 his rival with Miss Vane, nor his mother for her'favours to 
 Lord Hervey. In vain did the ([ueen endeavour to reconcile 
 Frit/, as she called him, to his father ;— notlu'ng could be done 
 m a case where the one was all doggcil selfishness; and wliere 
 the other, the idol of the opposition i)arly, as the prince !ud 
 
 P 
 
 ever oeen, so /<;y('vv dc (cfe as to sw.ill 
 
 owall tr.c adulation oiTerec 
 
i.SS Nc'rj^Jibonr George s Oraiii;c-Chcst. 
 
 tr liim, and to Lclicvc- himself a dcrniL^vOil. *'J'he queen's dread 
 of a rival,' Horace AN'alpole remarks, 'was a feminine weakness: 
 the ])ehavioiir of lier eldest son was a nal ihorn.' Sometime 
 1/efore his marriage to a princess who was supposed to augment 
 his haired of his mother. Frederick of Wales had contemijlateil 
 an a( t of disobedient e. Soon after his arrival in l'',ngl;ind. 
 .Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, hearing that he was in want of 
 monev, h.id. sent to offer him her granddaughter, Lady Diana 
 Spencer, with a fortune of ^loo.ooo. The jirince accepted 
 the >oung la<!y, and a ila\' was ilxed for h.:s inarriage in the 
 duciiess's lodge at the (ireat Park. Windsrn-. I5ut Sir Robert 
 Walpole, getting intelligence of the p'lot. the nuptials were 
 stopped. 'J"he ducliess never forgave either Walpole or the 
 nvai fimiiv. and took an early opjiortunily of insulting the 
 laller. When the I'nni e of Orange came over to marry the 
 Princess Royal, a sort of boarded gallery was erected from the 
 wind(nvs of the great drawing-room of the palace, and was con- 
 •structed so .IS to cross the garden to the Lutheran chapel in 
 the I'"riar\, where the durhess lived. The I'rince of Orange 
 being ill, went to ibth, and the marriage was delayed for some 
 weeks. Meantime the widows of Marlborough House were 
 darkened by ihe gallery. ' I wonder,' cried the old duchess, 
 ' vvhen my neighbour Oeorge will lake away his orange-chest 1' 
 'I"he stru( ture, with its i)entdiouse roof, really resembling an 
 or.iiige-( best. 
 
 Mary Lei)el, Lady Hervey, whose attractions, great as they 
 
 were, proved insufficient to rivet the exclusive admiration of 
 
 the accomplished Hervey, had become his wife in 1720, some 
 
 lime before her husband had been completely enthralled with 
 
 the gilded prison dnors of a court. Shi; was endowed with that 
 
 inlellerlual beauty calculated to attract a man of talent : she 
 
 was higlily educated, of great talent ; ])0ssessed of savoir fain, 
 
 infu-iite good temper, and a strict sense of duty. She also 
 
 derived from her father, Brigadier Lepel, who was of an ancient 
 
 family in Sark, a considerable fortune, (loud and correct as 
 
 she was, Lady Hervey viewed with a fashional)le com])Osure 
 
 the v.rrious intimacies formed during the course of their married 
 
 life by his lordship. 
 
qucun's dread 
 line weakness : 
 1.' Soiiiu lime 
 c(l to augment 
 contemplated 
 1 ui I-",ngland, 
 was in want of 
 r, Lady Diana 
 rince accepted 
 larriage in the 
 iut Sir Robert 
 nuptials were 
 Kilpole or the 
 insulting tlie 
 to marry the 
 ec.ted from the 
 , and was con- 
 eran chapel in 
 ice of Orange 
 ayed for some 
 1 House were 
 e old duchess, 
 orange-chest 1' 
 resembling an 
 
 , great as they 
 admiration of 
 in 1720, some 
 nthralled with 
 3wed with tliat 
 of talent : she 
 of sin'oirfaiir, 
 uty. She also 
 s of an ancient 
 and correct as 
 ble com])osure 
 if their married 
 
 fl 
 
 Mary Lcpd Lady Ifcnry. 1.S9 
 
 ^ Tile fact IS. that the aim of both was not so mu< h to insure 
 t.ieir domestu: fehnty as to gratify their ambition. Probably 
 ihcy were <lisap]>omted in both these aims--,ertainly in one 
 '-' llK-.n ; talented, indefatigable, popular, lively, and courteous 
 -ord Hervey, m the House of Conmu.ns. a.lvocated in vain in 
 brilliant orations, the measures of \\'alpole. Twelve ve mn 
 fourteen years elapsed, and he was left in the somewhat subor- 
 dmate position of vice-chamberlair.. in spite of that high order 
 «.t ta.ents which he i.ossessed. and which woukl have been dis- 
 I'l^iycd to advantage in a graver scene. The fact has be.-n 
 cxp amed : the (lueen could not do without him ; she confided 
 )n him; her daughter loved him; ami his inlluence in that 
 < ourt was too powerful for Walpole to .lispense with an aid so 
 valuable to lus own plans. .S.„ne episodes in a life thus frit- 
 uTe.l awa.y, until, too late, promotion came, alleviated hi. exis- 
 ten.e and jrave his wile only a passing uneasiness, if even 
 mdeecl they imparted a pang. 
 
 One of these was his dangerous passion for Miss Vane • 
 ^uiuuier, h,s piatonic attachment to i.ady Mary Wortlev 
 .MmUagu. ^ 
 
 ^\•hil.st he h\ed on the terms with his wife which is described 
 evenbythe 1-rench as being a • J/,v;,,v.- ./^ y^,/vV,' Lord Ifer- 
 ^^•y. tound m another cjuarter the sympathies which, as a 
 
 ui..I>and. he was too well-bied to require. It is probable that 
 he alwajvs admired Ins w,le more than any other person, for she 
 I'-u 'l^-ahties that were .,uite congenial to the tas'es o*" a wit 
 and a beau in tho.e times. J,ady Hervey was not only si.vni- 
 
 aru- captivating, young, gay. and handsome; but a complete 
 
 ;'odel also 01 tne polished, courteous, high-bred woman of 
 iashion Her manners are said by Lady Louisa Stuart to have 
 
 IKU a foreign tmge. which some called affected ; but thev were 
 j;cntle, easy, and altogether exc,uisitely pleading.' She (vas in 
 s^a-eta Jac:ob,te-.nd resembled in that respect mo.t of the 
 'me lad.es m (,reat Hntam. Whiggery and Walpolism were 
 vulgar: it was Juwt ton to take offence when James H was 
 anathematized, and quite good taste to hint that some p.. lie 
 ^vished well to the Chevalier's attempts : and th,. u- ' 
 
 ' ■ ■ Jii 
 
 P 
 
 Q 
 
 m 
 
 b owed Its lashion probably to Liederitk of Wul 
 
 <;! speak- 
 
 es, whose 
 
IQO Rival ry. 
 
 ir.tLrcst in Ilur.i Macdonald. ami wIiosl' concern for the exiled 
 family, wltc amonL; llic K w amiable traits of his dis|)Osition. 
 rerhajis they arose fnjin a wish to plague his parents, rather 
 than from a :;reatness of character foreign to this prince. 
 
 I.ady ifervey was in the bloom of youth, Lady Mary in the 
 zenith of lier age, when they became rivals: Lady ^hlry had 
 GUI e c\' ited the jealousy of (Jiieen Caroline when Princess of 
 \\'ales. 
 
 ' Mow liecomlngly Lady .NLiry is dressed to-night,' whispered 
 (Jeorge JL to his wife, whom he had called up from the card- 
 table to impart to her that important conviction. * Lady >L>ry 
 always (h•e^ses well,' was the cold and < urt reply. 
 
 1.1/1(1 ifervey had been married a'ho'.it seven years when 
 Lady .\Lary Wort ley Montagu re-ai)peared at the court of Queen 
 Caroline, after her long residence in Turkey. Lord Hervey 
 was thirty-three year.^ of ag„ ; Lady Mary was verging on forty. 
 She was still a ]>retty woman, with a jiiquant, neat-featured face ; 
 which does not seem to have done any justice to a mind at 
 once masculine and sensitive, nor to a heart capable of benevo- 
 lence— capable of strong attaciiments, and of bitter hatred. 
 
 Like Lady flervey, she lived with h-r husband on well-bred 
 terms: there existed no (|uarrel between them; no avowed 
 ground of coldness ; it was the icy boundary of fro/en feeling 
 that severed them ; the sure and lasting though polite destroyer 
 of all bonds, indifference. Lady Mary was full of repartee, of 
 lioelry, of anecdote, and was not averse to admiration ; but she 
 was essentially a woman of common sense, of views enlarged 
 b}- travel, and of ostensibly good princijiles. A woman of 
 (leli( acy was not to be found in t'.iose days, any more than other 
 productions of the nineteenth century: a telegraphic message 
 would have been a.lmost as startling to a courtly ear as the 
 refusal of a fme lady to suffer a double cutaidrc. Lady Mary 
 was above all scruples, and Lord Hervey, who had lived too 
 long with Cieorge IL and his queen to have the moral sense in 
 her perfection, liked her all the better for her courage— her 
 merry, indelicate jokes, and her putting things down by theii 
 right names, on which J.ady Mary jilumed herself: she was 
 what they term in the north of i-.ngland, ' Emancipated.' They 
 
the uxiled 
 
 isposition. 
 
 iits, nithcr 
 
 cc. 
 
 nry in ilic 
 
 Mary hail 
 
 'rincess of 
 
 whispered 
 1 the card- 
 ,;iily Mary 
 
 cars wlicn 
 of (Jiiccn 
 il Ilervey 
 ; uii fort)-, 
 ured face ; 
 a mind at 
 of bcnevo- 
 Ured. 
 I well-bred 
 
 avowed 
 i:n feelini; 
 ' (iestroyer 
 jpartee, of 
 i; but she 
 
 1 enlarged 
 woman of 
 than other 
 : message 
 :ar as the 
 ,ady Mary 
 
 lived too 
 I sense in 
 rage — her 
 1 by theii 
 ; sh>" \v;is 
 
 xV They 
 
 llc-rviys Iiitiinacy 7i.<ith Lady Mary. \c^\ 
 
 formed an old af(iuaintan(e with a confidential, if not a tender 
 friendshi]); and that their intimacy was unjjleasant to Lady 
 ilervey was proved by her refusal -when, after the grave had 
 closed over Lord Hervey, late in life. Lady ALiry ill, and broken 
 down by age, returned to die in Lngland -to resume an ac- 
 Muaintance which had been a painful one to her. 
 
 I .'.ni 1 Icrvey was a martyr to illness of an epileptic character ; 
 nnd Lady Mary gave him her sympathy. She was somewhat 
 of a doctor and being older than her friend, may have had the 
 ;a- cf soothing sufferings, which were the worse' because they 
 were concealed. Whilst he writhe<l in pain, he was obliged to 
 -ive vent to his agony by alleging that an attack of cramp bent 
 him double: yet he lived by rule -a rule harder to adhere to 
 than that of the most conscientious hornceopath in the ]. resent 
 day. \\\ the midst of court gaieties and the duties of office, he 
 thus wrote to Dr. Cheyne : — 
 
 . . . 'To let you know that I continue one of your most pious 
 votaries, and to tell you the method I am in. Li the first place, 
 I never take wine nor malt drink, nor any li(j,uid but water and 
 nulk-tea; in the next, I eat no meat but the whitest, youngest, 
 and tenderest, nine times in ten nothing but chicken, and never 
 m< -re than the (luantity of a small one at a meal. I seldom eat 
 any sui^per, but if any, nothing absolutely but bread and water; 
 two days in the week 1 eat no ilesh ; my breakfast is dry biscuit,' 
 not sweet, and green tea ; T have left off butter as bilious; I 
 eat no salt, nor any sauce but bread-sauce.' 
 
 Among the most cherished relaxations of the royal house- 
 iiold v.crc visits to Twickenham, whilst the court was at Ki( h- 
 ■aond. 'I'hc River I'hames, which has borne on its waves so 
 I'lu.h misery in olden times— which was the highway from the 
 Starchamber to the tower— which has been belaboured in our 
 days with so much wealth, and sullied with , much impurity ; 
 that river, whose current is one hour rich as the stream of .i g(dd' 
 river, the next hour, foul as the pestilent churchyard,— was then, 
 especially between Richmonil •imi 'J\v1(!;ii,r(^,, ., .^i^,.,... , i--.: i 
 Stream, reflecting on its margin ilie chestnut-trees of stately 
 
 
 P 
 
 1 
 
io„' /hiiV/is Opitiicii of 'J'li'ichcfiJiam. 
 
 11.1111, ;in<l the rccds and wild tlowcrs whi( h grew undisturbed 
 in the tLitile meadows of retersh.nn. 
 
 Lord llcrvey, with the huHes of tlic fourt, Mrs. Howard as 
 their (ha!)cron, delighted in being wafted to that village, so rich 
 in names whi( h give to 'I'wickenluun undying associations with 
 the departed great. Sometimes the effeminate valetudinarian, 
 llervey, was content to attend the Trincess (Jaroline to M.irble 
 llill only, a villa residence built by (ieorge II. for Mrs. Howanl, 
 and oftLii referred to in the correspondence of that period. 
 Sometimes the royal barge, with its rowers in scarlet jackets, 
 was seen conveying the gay party; ladies in slouched hats, 
 ]iointed over fair brows in front, with a fold of sarsenet round 
 lluMi. terminated in a long bow and ends behind- with deej) 
 filling mantles over dre.^xes never cognizant of c rinoline : gen- 
 tlemen, with cocked-hats their bag-wigs and ties appearing 
 liehind ; and beneath their puce-( oloured coats, deHcate silk 
 lights and gossamer stockings were visible, as they trod the 
 mossy lawn of the P.ilace (iardeiis at Richmond, or, followed 
 iiy a tiny greyliound, prepared for llie l./y jileasures of the 
 day. 
 
 Sometimes the visit was jirivate ; the sukly I'rineess Caroline 
 had a fancy to make one of the group \vh<j ari- IkhukI to Poi)e's 
 villa. Twickenliam, where thai great little man had, sim e 1715, 
 established himself, was jironounced by Lord I'.acon to be the 
 Unesl i)lace in the wodd for study. "Let 'i'witnam Park,' he 
 wrote to his steward, Thomas iUishell, 'which 1 sold in n.v 
 younger davs, be purchasc('. if possible, fo'" a residence fur 
 such deserving persons to siiidy in, (since I experimentally 
 found the situation of that jilace much convenient for the trial 
 ot my philosophical conclusions)— expressed in a ])aper sealed, 
 to the trust— which I myself had jiut in jjractice and settled the 
 same by act of parliament, if the vicissitudes of fortune had not 
 iiUerwaied and prevented me.' 
 
 Twic kenham continued, long after F.acon had ]:)cnncd this 
 injunction, to be the retreat of the jioet, the statesman, the 
 scholar ; thxi haven where the retiretl actress, and broken 
 novelist, found ]icaco ; the abode of Henry FieUling, who lived 
 in one of the back-streets ; the temporary refuge, from the world 
 
 by tlu 
 
uiulistiirbcd 
 
 Howard as 
 lage, so ri( h 
 ialions with 
 ctiulinarian, 
 e to Marble- 
 rs. Howard, 
 ihat period, 
 rlct jackets, 
 IK hcd hats, 
 senct round 
 -with dec']) 
 lolinc : gcn- 
 s appearing 
 ilchcalc silk 
 ey trod the 
 or, folhnved 
 .iircs ot' the 
 
 ess Caroline 
 lid to Pope's 
 , since 1715, 
 n to he the 
 n Tark; he 
 sold in n.y 
 i^sidence for 
 perinientally 
 for the trial 
 apcr sealed, 
 d settled the 
 line had not 
 
 penned this 
 itesnian. the 
 md broken 
 I, who lived 
 )m the world 
 
 A l'uu( to /V'/.'j- Villa. \- 
 
 ofl.ondon, of Lady Mary Wortlcy Montagu, , 
 liDMie of Tope. 
 
 Let us picture to ourselves a \isit from the prini c 
 \ nil :— As the barge, following the gentle bendings (H irvtt, 
 Twifkenhan), a rirher green, a summer brightness, in<li- 
 I 'is it is a])i)roa(:hing that s|)()t of which even Bishop War- 
 Imrton says that 'the beauty of the owner's poetic genius ap- 
 peireil to as much advantage in the disposition of these ro- 
 mantic materials as in any of his best-contrived i)oenis.' And 
 tlie loveil toil wliich formed the (|uincun\, whi( h [lerforated 
 ,d extended the grotto imtil it extended across the road to a 
 
 'den on the opjiosite side — the toil which showed the gentler 
 [^rl-, of Pope's better nature — has been resjjected, and its 
 ( ftects ))reserve(l. The enamelled lawn, green as no other 
 
 !ss save that by the Thames side is green, was swefit until 
 I ic sens l)y the light boughs of the famed willow, luery 
 nicuiorial of the bard was treasured by the gracious \vmmU 
 into which, after i 744, the classic sjjot fell — those of Sir William 
 Stanhope. 
 
 In the subterranean passage this verse appears ; adulatory it 
 nni.ii be confessed : — 
 
 ■ The finnilili' roof, thopanleii's vcnity liiif, 
 111 suit tin- ,1,'fniu'' of tliL- lirinl diviiie ; 
 Hut fancy now assunu'S a fairer scoix', 
 Ami Stanhopes 1)1.iils unfulil the .soul of Pope." 
 
 li >liould have been Stanhope's 'gold,' — a metal which was not 
 :-o Uiundant, nor indeed so much wantcil in INijie's time as m 
 our own. Let us picture to ourselves the poet as a host. 
 
 As the barge is moored close to the low steps which lead u|) 
 from the river to the villa, a diminuti\ e figure, then in its prime, 
 (if jirime it (7(V had), is seen moving impatiently forvvard. I'.y 
 I'aat young-old face, with its large hit id >peaking eyes that light 
 it up, as does a rushlight in a cavern — by that twisted figure 
 witli its emaciated legs —by the large, sensible mouth, the 
 pointed, marked, well-defined nose — by the wig, or hair pusheci 
 oif in masses from the broad forehead and falling behind iti 
 tresses — by tlie dress, that loose, single-breasted black coat — 
 by the cambric baud and plaited shirt, without a frill, but fine 
 
 '3 
 
 p: 
 
 o 
 
104 
 
 The Lit I! 
 
 ^•.• 
 
 v./<- 
 
 and wliitc, for the [loor pod ha:-, i.ikcn iiitinilc i>ains that diy 
 in self .iil(;ninit'iit by the dehratc riiflle on thai large thin haiul, 
 and still more by the dear, most niiisical voice whic h is heanl 
 wchoniiiif^ his royal and noble j^uests, as he stanils bowing low 
 to the Princess Caroline, and bending to kiss hands— by that 
 voire \vhi(h gained him more esj/ecially the name of the little 
 nightingale is i'ope at once recognized, and I*o]>e in the per 
 fection of his days, in the very zenith of his fame. 
 
 One \v(jtild gladly hive been a sfirite to listen from some twig 
 of that then stripling willow which the jioet had planted with 
 his own lia!id, to talk of those who (hatted for a while under 
 its shade, before they went in-doors to an elegant (hnner at the 
 usual hour of twelve. IIow delightful to hear, unseen, the 
 repartees t)f l.ady .Mary AVoitley .Nb)ntagu, who < ornes down, it 
 is natural to ( one hide, from her villa near to lh.it of I*o|)e. 
 Mow fuie a study might one not dr.iw of the fine gentleman and 
 the wit in Lord Hervey, as he is commanded by the gentle 
 Princess Caroline to sit on her right hand ; but his heart is 
 across the table, with Lady M.iry ' IIow amusing to observe 
 the dainty but not sumj)tuous repast contrived with Pope's ex- 
 (juisite taste, but rcgnl.iled by his hal>itu,il econoni)' - for his 
 late lather, a worthy Ja(obite hatter, erst in the Strand, dis- 
 dained to invest the fortune he had amassed, from tlie extensive 
 sale of cocked hats, in the Funds, over which an Hanoverian 
 stranger ruled; bit hail li\cd on his cipital of ^20.000 (as 
 spendthrifts do, wilhcjut eillvjr moral, religious, or .mliiifal 
 reasons), as long as it lasted him ; yet he was no si)endthrift. 
 Let us look, " erefore, with a liberal eye, ncjting, as we stand, 
 how that foi. .e, in league with nature, who made the poet 
 crooked, liad maimed two of liis fingers, such time as, j)assing 
 a bridge, the jjoor little poet was o\ertuined into the river, and 
 he would have been drowned, had not the i)Ostilioii broken the 
 coach window and dragged the liny body th.rough llie ajierture. 
 AVe mark, however, that he generally contrives to hide this 
 defect, as he would fain have hidden every other, from the 
 lynx eyc's of Lady Mary, who knows him, however, thoroughly, 
 anil reads every line of that poor little heart of his, enamoured 
 of iivr as it was. 
 
 '.:a^ 
 
 -^n 
 
 -1-f^-/ 
 
I 
 
 < that (lay 
 
 iliin liand, 
 
 I is heard 
 owing low 
 . Ity that 
 ; liic little 
 
 II the per 
 
 some twig 
 nted with 
 hile under 
 ncr at the 
 iseen, the 
 s down, it 
 . i)f l*()i)e. 
 lenian and 
 tlie gentle 
 is heart is 
 o observe 
 l'o|)e's ex- 
 y— for his 
 trand, dis- 
 ; extensive 
 [anoverian 
 20.000 (as 
 r ^ 'ii'ilif.il 
 pendthrift. 
 we stand, 
 ; the poet 
 s, passing 
 
 ri\cr, and 
 )roken the 
 u- ajjerture. 
 
 hide this 
 , from tlie 
 horoughly, 
 .-namoured 
 
 
 -^^''>'z?c:=^ 
 
 i'fil'K A I HIS \II.IA ril>l iNfitlslll r) V[^ITl>l{S. 
 
 C3 
 
 t6 
 
 .v.. |i. nu. 
 
 i 
 
 
 t> 
 
 i 
 
 ■ 
 
 iBl 
 
 t 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
TJic Essence of Small- Talk. 195 
 
 Then tlie conversation ! How gladly would we catch here 
 smiic (Iroj.s of wh.it must have been the very essence of Small- 
 talk, and small-talk is the only thing fit for early dinners ! 
 Our host is noted for his easy address, his engaging manners, 
 his delicary, politeness, and a certain tact he had of showing 
 every guest th:it he was wcl< onie in the < hoicest expressions 
 nnd most elegant terms. Tlien Lady Mary! how brilliant is 
 her slightest turn ! how she banters Pope — how she gives double 
 entendre for deiilde entendre to Hervey ! How sensible, yet how 
 iray is all she says ; how bright, how cutting, yet how polished 
 is the ei/uire'/iie of the witty, high-bred IIer\ey ! He is happy 
 thra (lav away from the cojise, ])assionate king, whom he 
 hiieil with a hatred that burns itself out in his lordship's 
 'Memoirs;' away from the somewhat exacting and pitiable 
 queen ; away from the hated I'elham, and the rival Grafton. 
 
 And conversation never flags when all, more or less, are con- 
 geui;il ; wlicn all are well-informed, well-bred and resolved to 
 please. \'et there is a canker in that whole assembly ; that 
 cuiker is a want of confulence ; no one trusts the other; Lady 
 Mary's encouragement of Hervey surjn-ises and shocks the 
 Princess Caroline, who loves him secretly ; Hervey's attentions 
 to the queen of letters scandalizes Pojie, who soon afterwards 
 makes a dei laration to Lady Mary. Pope writhes under a lash 
 just held over him by I.ady Maiy's hand. Hervey feels that 
 the iioet, though all suavity, is ready to demolish him at any 
 moment, if he can ; and the only really happy and com])lacent 
 person of the whole party is, perhaps. Pope's old mother, who 
 sits in the room nevt to that occupied for diimer, industriously 
 spinning. 
 
 This happy state of things came, however, as is often the 
 case, in close intimacies, to a painful conclusion. There was 
 too little reality, too little earnestness of feeling, for the friend- 
 ship between Pope and Lady Mary, including Lord Hervey, to 
 last long. His lordship had his affectations, and his etVeminate 
 nicety was proverbial. One day being asked at dinner if he 
 would take some beef, he is reported to have answered, ' Beef? 
 oh no ! faurdi ! don't vnu know 1 never eat beef, nor /lorsr, nor 
 currj', nor any of those things ?' Poor man ! it was probably a 
 
 13-2 
 
 
\(/j ]'opcs Quanrl ivitJi Ilcrvcy niid Lady Mary. 
 
 ])leasant way of tuniiii,:^' off wlial lie may liaw deemed an assault 
 on a diLjfstion tli:it could hardly confiucr Any solid fooil. This 
 alTcctalion offended i-ady Mary, whose mot, that there were 
 three speries, 'Men. women, and Herveys' — im]ilies a perfect 
 perception of the er( entricities even of her gifted friend, Lord 
 Hervey, whose mother"> friend she had been, and the object of 
 whose admiration she undtnibtedly was. 
 
 Tope, who w.is the most irritable of men, never forirot or for- 
 ga\e even the mo>l trillini; offence. Lady IJolinglirokc truly 
 said of him that he played the ])olitician about cabbages and 
 sahids. and e\e!\l)od\' agrees that he coidd hardly tolerate the 
 wil that was more successful than his own. It was about the 
 Veir iTj;, that he beiran to hate Lord Her\ev with such a 
 liatred .is only he could feel : it was unmitigated by a single 
 touch ofgenero^ity or of compassion. Tope afterwards owned 
 that his acquaintance with Lady Mary an<l with Liervey was 
 discontinued, merely because they had too much wit for liim. 
 Towards the l.ilter end (A 17,1-'. 'The Imit.ition of the .'^econd 
 Satire of the first Jiook of Horace,' appeared, and in it Tope 
 attacked Lady .Mary with the grossest and most indecent coup- 
 let ever p>rinteil : she w.is called Sajipho, a.nd Hervey, Lord 
 l"'annv ; and all the world knew the (~har,icters at once. 
 
 in ret.diation for this satire, appeared 'X'erses to the Lriitator 
 of llonu e ;' said lo ha\e been the jcjinl |)roduction of Lord 
 Hersey and Ladv NLiry. This was followed by a piece entitled 
 ' Letter from a Nobleman at Hami)ton Court to a Doctor of 
 L)ivinit\-.' 'I'o this conijiosition Lord Hervey. its sole aiuhor, 
 added ihese lines, by w.iy, as it seems, of extenuation. 
 
 l'o]ie's first repl}' was in a prose letter, on \\hi( h Dr. Johnson 
 has ji.issed a condemnation. 'It exhibits,' he says, 'nothing 
 but tedious malignity.' Hut he was partial to the Llerveys, 
 Thom.is mm\ Henry ller\ey. Lord Her\ey"s brothers, having 
 been kind to him - " If you call a dog Ilcncy^ he said to Jlos- 
 well. ' 1 sha.ll love him.'' 
 
 Next ( ame the epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, in which every in- 
 hrmity and peculiarity of Hervey are handed down in calm, 
 cruel irony, a.nd pc^.lished. verses, to juisterify, '!"he verses are 
 almost too disgusting to be revived in an age which disclaims 
 
MiDJ. 
 
 iL'd an assault 
 , fooil. This 
 t iIktc were 
 lies a perfect 
 1 friend, Lord 
 the object of 
 
 fori^'ot or for- 
 igbroke truly 
 ■abbages and 
 ' tolerate the 
 as aljoiit the 
 
 with such a 
 1 1)}' a single 
 wards owned 
 
 Hervey was 
 
 wit for him. 
 f the Second 
 (1 in it I'ope 
 idecent coup- 
 Id ervey, Lord 
 once. 
 
 J the Imitator 
 :lion of T^ord 
 piece entitled 
 
 a Doctor of 
 ; solo author, 
 tion. 
 
 1 Dr. Johnson 
 
 ays, ' nothing 
 
 the Ilerveys, 
 
 others, having 
 
 said to JjOS- 
 
 licli every in 
 lown in calm, 
 'he verses nn- 
 lich disclaims 
 
 Ilcrvcys Dud -d'itJi Piil/cNcy 
 
 197 
 
 Ni urrility. After the most" personal rancorous invective, he thus 
 writLi of Lord ILtvcv's conversation : — 
 
 ' Iii> \\A .III Ml- -.tw ii Ai'i-ii Uii> ami l/ui! - 
 Non lii^li, ii'Av low— now w;./j7('r up, now inifs — 
 And he liitr.iclf one vile antiUiCbis. 
 
 « • « • 
 
 Flip at the toilet, flatterer at the boanl, 
 
 Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. 
 
 Kve's tenipiiT, thus the rabbins have expressed— 
 
 A eheriili's face -a reptile all the n-^ 
 
 lii'.iuly that --hoeks vou, facts t!i."l i; ' ', 
 
 Wit ill, It can ■ ■■■;•■.•■■ , ■ ■ 
 
 'h is imfiossilde,' Mr. C'roker thinks, 'not to admire, how- 
 ever we may condemn, the art by \vhi( h acknowledged wit, 
 beauty, and gentle manners --the ipieen's fivour — and even a 
 valetudinary diet, are travestied into the most odious oftences.' 
 
 Tope, in two lines, pointed to the intimacy between Lady 
 Mary and Lord Ilervey : — 
 
 'Once, and but once, this heedUss yiuth was hit, 
 And liked that dangerous thing, a female wit.' 
 
 Nevertheless, he if/Zrrr.'an/s ])retended that the name Sa/'p/io 
 WIS not a])j)lied to Ladv ^L^ry, but to women in general ; and 
 . ' tc'l with a degree of mean prevarication which grjatly added 
 b) tile amount of his offence. 
 
 'lite ([uarrel with Pope was not tiie only attac k which l,()rd 
 Ib-rvcv had to encoun' jr. Among the most zealous of his 
 foes was Pultenev, afterwards J,ord Hath, the ri\al of .Sir Robert 
 W'alpole, and the confederate with iiohngbroke in o[)po>ing 
 that minister. The ' Craftsman,' contained an attack on I'td- 
 teney, written, with great ability, by lier\ey. It jirovoked a 
 /v''//i' from I'ultenev. In this composition he spoke of Ilervey 
 as 'a thing below contemiit,' and ridi( uled his personal appear- 
 ance in the grossest terms. A duel was the result, the parties 
 meeting behind Arlington House, in I'iccatlilly, where Mr. 
 I'lilteney had the satisftction of almost running Lord Hervey 
 through with Itis sword. Luckily the poor man slipped d(jwn, 
 
 ' the blow was evadeil, and the seconds interferei! : Mr. I'ul- 
 teiicy then embraced Lord Hervey, and e.xpix-ssing his regret 
 fur their ([uarrel, de( lared that he would never again, either in 
 
 
iqS 
 
 ' The Death of Lord Ihrviy : A Drama' 
 
 speech or writing, attack his lordshii). Lord Hervey only 
 bowed, in silence ; and thus they parted. 
 
 The (|ueen having observed what an alteration in the palace 
 Lord Hervey's death would cause, he sai<l he could guess how 
 it would be, and he produced ' 'I'iie 1 >ealh of Lord Ilervey; 
 or, a Morning at Court; a Drama:' the idea being taken it is 
 thought, from Swift's verses on his own death, of whiih Hervey 
 niighl have seen a surrejttitious copy. 'Ihe following scene 
 will give some idea of the plot and structure of this amusing 
 Httle ])iece. The part allotted to the Trincess Caroline is 
 in unison with the idea pre\alent of her attachment to Lord 
 Hervey : — 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 S( KNP; : The Queen's GalUry. The time, nii.r in the mcrniir^. 
 Knlcr t/ie gcKKN, I'kincks.s i:.\ui.v, I'KINCESS Cauoi.im ./■.v. .\v>//'j I.(jKI) 
 
 LiiiuKU, ««</Mks. Pck( i:i 
 
 Queen. Mon Dieu, quelle clialeur ! en vt'iiiL- on t.Houflo 
 iuUjws. 
 
 Prav oiK-n a huk- 
 
 tho^c wiiuluws. 
 
 /..;•./ Lijft'id. Ila.'.ri your Majosiy licara Cc luub ; 
 
 Queen. \\'liat luws, iiiv dear I.unl? 
 
 L.'rd I.ipid. Dat my'l.e.rd Ilerv. y, a-. \\vs\.\-^ coming last night to tcne, was 
 rob and n7urdered Ijy liighwaynun ai.il irun in a diteh. 
 
 I'rin^esi Catvlini'. V\\ I grand Dieii ! 
 
 Queen strikim^ her hand up,>n her kiiec.\ Comment e^t-il verit;iblement niort :■ 
 rurctl, inv angel, shall 1 not have a little hreakl.r-t ? 
 
 Mrs. I'ureet. \\'\\.\\ wnukl your ^laje^ty j>leaM' to have? 
 
 Queen. A little ehoeolate, mv soul, if \oii give me leave, and a liltli- 
 cr.am, and some fruit. ' i /•.■.iv7 Mrs. rck. i.i.. 
 
 Queen {t<> Lord I.ifford.} I'.h Men ! my Lord I.iftord, dite^-nou^ lui ]» u eon: 
 nieiit ee'.a est arrive. I cannot imagine what he h.id to do to W piittiiig hi- 
 th> re. Sculenient pour un sot voyage avec ee jietit mousse, eh bim .-' 
 
 l.erd l.iffvrd. Madame, on seait <|Ucl(jUi' elK^-t- de crlui de Mon. Maran, (jUi 
 d'abord (juil a vu les voleurs s'est entin venu a grand galoppe a Londres, an-: 
 after dat a waggoner taki- \ip the body and put it in liis eart. 
 
 {h/een. |A' I'ldNC K.ss h'.MU.V.i .\re you not aaianii'd, Anialie, to laugh? 
 
 J'rinee.M Emily. 1 only laughed at ihe eart, mamma. 
 
 Queen. Oil ! that is a very \m\v plaisanterie. 
 
 I'nneesi limilv. I'>ut if I'may .say it, mamma, 1 :im not very sorry. 
 
 Quee)i. Oh ! fie done 1 l-".h blen f my Lord Lifford ! My Gud ! where is th:- 
 cliocolate, I'ureel ? 
 
 .■\s Mr, Crokcr remarks, Oueen Caroline's l)reakfast-table. 
 am! her p trentheses, reuuiids one of the ca.rd-ta.ble conversatio!^ 
 of .'^wift : — 
 
 ' Tlie Dean's dead : (pray what are trumps ?) 
 
 'Ihi-n Lord li.sve mercy on liis soul ! 
 (L.ailies, 111 \enture for the vule,) 
 Si\ DrM!!-, tl!< V --av, mii-t bear the jiall ; 
 (1 wish I knew what kuig to call.)' 
 
II a. 
 
 crvey only 
 
 the palace 
 guess how 
 1(1 Hervey; 
 taken it is 
 ii( h Hervey 
 )\ving scene 
 lis amusing 
 (.'aroline is 
 .nt to Lord 
 
 OKI! Ill X- 
 
 UiywcJly LoKi) 
 \y open ;i little 
 
 ^Iit to /.'/,•(•, was 
 ;'.l)k;nH'iit niort ? 
 
 nl a little. sour 
 Mks. I'lKri;],. 
 us mi [»'ii com- 
 Hittiii.i; his nose 
 lien ? 
 
 1)11. Maraii, (jui 
 a Londrcs, and 
 
 to laugh ? 
 
 lOrn'. 
 ! wluTe is this 
 
 jakfast-table, 
 conversation 
 
 Qhccu Carolines last Draiviug-Rcom. 199 
 
 Inmile as was Lord Hervev's constitution, it was his lot to 
 witness the dcath-heil of the ([ueen, for whose amusement he 
 had penned the jeu d"es]irit just ([uoted, in which there was, 
 perhaps, as much truth as wit. 
 
 The wretched Queen Caroline had, during fourteen years, con- 
 cealed from every one, except Lady Simdon, an incin-able dis- 
 onler. that of hernia. In November (1737) she was attacked 
 with what we should now call I'.iiglish cholera. Dr. Tessier, her 
 hou.ie-physician, was called in, and gave her Dalley's eli.xir, 
 whit h was not likely to afford any relief to the deFi)-seated 
 cause of her sufferings. She held a drawing-room that night 
 for the last time, and playe<l at cards, even cheerfully. At 
 length she whisiiered to Lord Hervey, ' 1 am not able to enter- 
 tain people.' 'For heaven's s;ike, madam,' was the reply, 'go 
 to your room : would to heaven the king would leave otf talk- 
 ing of the Dragon of ^\'antley, and release you 1' The Dragon 
 of Wantley was a burles(jue on the Italian opera, by Henry 
 Carey, and was the theme of the fashionable world. 
 
 The next day the ipieen wa^ in fearfid agony, very hot, and 
 willing to take anything proposed. Still she did nut, even to 
 Lord Hervey, avow the real cause of her illness. None of the 
 .iinst learned court physicians, neither Mead nor \Vihnot, were 
 called in. 1 .ord Hervey sat by the tiueen s bed-side, and tried to 
 soothe her, whilst the Princess Caroline joined in l)egging him 
 l(j gi\e her mother something to relieve her agony. At length, 
 in mter ignorance of the case, it was proposed to give her .some 
 snakeroot, a stimulant, and, at the same time, Sir Walter Ra- 
 leigh's cordial ; so singular was it thus to fmd that great mintl 
 still intluencing a court. It was that very medic ine whic h was 
 a■llnini^lered by Queen Aime of Denmark, however, to Lrince 
 Henry; that medicine which Raleigh said, 'would (tire him, or 
 any other, of a disease, except in case of poison.' 
 
 However, Ranby, house-surgeon to the king, antl a favourite 
 of Lord Hervev's, assuring him that a cordial with this name 
 or that name was mere (juat kery, some usquebaugh was givem 
 instead, but v/as rejected by the ipieen soon aflerwartls. At 
 last Raleigh's cordial was adnnnistered, but also rejected abuui 
 an hour afterwards. Her fever, after taking Raleigh's cordial, 
 
 ¥»««• 
 
 \ 
 
20O 
 
 //(•;• Illiti'ss auiJ A •'■t^iiv. 
 
 was so mucli increased, that she was uideie,! instantly to 1)0 
 bled. 
 
 Then, even, the ([iieen never disclosed the fact that could 
 alone ili( tale the course to be ])ursued. (leoi^o 11., with more 
 foeliiiLj than judgment, slept on the outside of the queen's bed 
 all that night ; so that the unhappy invalid could get no rest, 
 nor change her jjosition, not daring to irritate the king's temper. 
 
 'I'he next day the (jueen said touchingly to her gentle, affec- 
 tionate daughter, herself in def lining health, ' Poor Caroline ! 
 you are very ill, too : we shall soon meet again in another 
 ])lace.' 
 
 Meantime, though the <|ueen declared to every one that she 
 was sure nothing could save her, it was resolved to hold a lcvii\ 
 The foreign ministers were to come to court, and the king, in 
 the midst of his real grief, did not forget to send word to his 
 ])ages to be sure to have his last new rullles sewed on the shirt 
 lie was to |)Ut on that day ; a tritle which often, as Lord 1 lervey 
 remarks, shows more of the real character than events of ini- 
 l)ortance, from which one fre<|ucntly knows no more of a per- 
 son's slate of mind than one does of his natural gait from 
 his dancing. 
 
 Lady Sundon was, meantime, ill at Bath, so that the f[ueen's 
 secret rested alone in her own heart. ' I have an ill,' she said, 
 one evening, to her dauLditer Caroline, 'that nobodv knows of.' 
 Still, neither the princess nor Lord I lervey could guess at the 
 full meaning ot that sad assertion. 
 
 The famous Sir ILms Sloane was then called in ; Init no 
 remedy except large and repeated bleedings were suggested, 
 an 1 blisters were ])ut on her legs. There seems to have been 
 no means left imtried by the fl.iculty to hasten the catastrophe — 
 thus worki'.ig in the dark. 
 
 The king now sat u[) with her whom he had so cruelly 
 wounded in every nice feeling. On being asked, by Lord 
 Hervey, what was to be done in case the Prince of Wales 
 should come to in(iuire after the queen, he answered in the 
 following terms, worthy of his ancestry — worthy of himself. It 
 is difiicult to say which was the most piainful scene, that in the 
 (luunber where the (jueen lay in agon\'. or without, where the 
 
 ( MT^C 
 
laiitly to be 
 
 t that cuuhl 
 ., with more 
 <|Uccn"s l)e(l 
 \;cl no rest, 
 ng's tcmiier. 
 ,'cntle. at'fec- 
 ir Caroline ! 
 I in another 
 
 )nc tliat she 
 hold a /('■a; 
 the king, in 
 word to his 
 on the shirt 
 ,ord Ilervey 
 vents of im- 
 3re of a ]ier- 
 il gait from 
 
 the (lueen's 
 ill,' she said, 
 ly knows of 
 guess at the 
 
 in ; Init no 
 e suggested, 
 ) have been 
 itastrophe — 
 
 1 so rrticlly 
 .'d, by Lord 
 ce of A\'ales 
 k'ered in the 
 ' himself It 
 that in the 
 t, where the 
 
 A Pain fid Scene. 201 
 
 ( ui>c of family dissensions came like a ghoul to hover near the 
 lied of death, and to gloat over the royal corijse. 'I'his was the 
 roval dictum : "If the liuppy should, in one i>f his imp'.rtinent 
 iijis (jf duly and affection, dare to ( ome to St. Janie.s's, I order 
 \()ii l(j go to the scoundrel, ami tell liim 1 wt)nder at his im- 
 pudence for daring to come here ; that he has my orders al- 
 ready, and knows my pleasure, and bill him go about his 
 business ; tor his poor mother is not in a con<lition to see Iiim 
 .i( I his false, whining, cringing tricks now, nor am I in a hu- 
 mour to bear with his impertinence ; and bid him trouble me 
 with no more messages, but get out of my luni^e.' 
 
 In the evening, whilst Lord Ilervey sat at tea in the -pieen's 
 outer apartment ..'th the Duke of Cumberlaml, a i)age < ame to 
 the duke to speak to the prince in the jiassage. It was to 
 prefer a reipiest to see hi^ mother. This message was conveyed 
 by Lord Ilervey to the king, whose reply was uttered in the 
 most vehement rage possible. 'This,' said he, 'is like one of 
 his scoimdrel tricks ; it is just of a piiece with his kneeling down 
 in the dirt before the mob to kiss her hand at the coach door 
 when she came home from I lampton Court to seethe I'rincess, 
 though he had not spoken one word to her during her whole 
 visit. I always hated the rascal, but now I hate him worse 
 than ever. Me wants to come and insult his poor dying mo- 
 ther ; but she shall not see him : you have heard her, and all 
 my daughters have heard her, very often this year at Hampton 
 Court desire me if she should be ill, and out of her senses, that 
 I would never let him come near her; and whilst she had her 
 senses she was sure she should never desire it. No, no 1 he 
 shall not come and act any of his silly plays here.' 
 
 In the afternoon the ([ueen said to the king, she wondered 
 the (ir'itj, a nickname she gave to the prince, had not sent to 
 imjuire after her yet ; it would be so like one of his paroitns. 
 'Sooner or later,' she added, ' I am sure we shall be jilagued 
 with some message of that sort, because he will think it will have 
 a good air in the world to ask to see me ; and, perhaps, hoi)es 
 1 ^hali be fool enough to let him come, and give him the plea- 
 sure of seeing the last breath go out of my body, by which 
 
 *•« 
 
2o: 
 
 The Truth Discovirctl. 
 
 means lie would have the joy iA knowing I was dead five 
 niiniites sooner tiian he could know it in Tall Mall.' 
 
 She aUrrwards declared thai nothing would induce her to see 
 him exiej/l the king's absolute commands. 'Therefore, if I 
 grow worse,' she said, 'and should J he weak enough to talk of 
 Seeing him, I hcg you, sir. to ( onclude that I doat — or rave.' 
 
 The king, who had long since guessed at the ([ueen's disease, 
 urged her now to permit him to name it to her physicians. She 
 begged him not to do so ; and for the fu'st time, and the last, 
 the unhapjiy woman spoke iieevishly and warmly. Then Ranby, 
 the house surgeon, who had by lhi>> time discovered the trulli, 
 said, 'There is no more time to be lost ; your majesty has con- 
 cealed the truth too long : 1 beg another surgeon may be called 
 in inmie<lialely.' 
 
 The (|ueen, who had, in her ] mission, started up in her bed, 
 lay down again, turnt-d her head on the other side, and, as the 
 king told Lord Ikrvey, 'shed the only tear he ever saw her 
 shed whilst she was ill.' 
 
 At length, too late, other and more sensible means were re- 
 sorted to : bui the ([ueen's strength was failing fast. It must 
 have been a strange scene in that chamber Ki{ death. Much as 
 the king really grievci' fur the (|ueen's state, he was still suffici- 
 ently collected to grieve also lest Richmond Lodge, which was 
 settled on the (pieen, sliould go to the hated Crijf:* and he 
 actually sent Lord Herveyto the lord chancellor to inquire 
 about that point. It was decided that the (jueen could make a 
 Will, so the king informed her of his imjuiries, in ortler to set 
 her mind at ease, and to assure her it was impossible that the 
 jirince could in any way benefit i)ecuniarily from her death. The 
 PriiKxss I'lmily now sat U]) with her mother. The king went to 
 bed. 'i"he Princess Caroline slept on a couch in the ante- 
 chamber, and Lord Ilervey lay on a mattress on the lloor at 
 the foot of the Princess Caroline's couch. 
 
 On the following day (four after the first attack) mortification 
 came on, and the weei)ing Princess Caroline and Lord Hervey 
 Were informed that the ([ueen could not hold out many hours. 
 Lord ilervey waa orileied lo wiiiidiaw. The king, the Duke 
 
 * PriiK-c )''redcrick. 
 
,vas (lead five 
 
 TJic Qua lis Djiit^^ Bctjucsts. 203 
 
 nf Ciimlicrland, and the (lueen's four daughters alone remained, 
 tlic (|ueen begging them not to leave her until she expired ; )et 
 her life was prolonged many days. 
 
 \\ lien alone with her family, she took from her fmger a 
 nily 1 ag, which had been jilaced on it at the time of tiietoro- 
 niti'n, and gave it to the king. 'This is the last thing,' she 
 slid, 'I have to give you ; naked I came to you, and naked I 
 go from you; 1 had everythi ,^ I ever possessed from you. and 
 to you whatever I have I return.' She then asked for iier keys, 
 and gave them to the king. To the Princess (Caroline she in- 
 tiiMcd the care of her younger sillers; to \\w. Duke of C.'um- 
 i. ri.uid, that of kee|)ing up tlie credit of the family. ' Attempt 
 r.oilu'ng again.st your brother, and endeavour to mortify him by 
 iiiowing superior merit,' she said to him. She advised the king 
 t J marry again ; he heard her in sobs, and widi much diftu ully 
 got out this sentence : '■ A\>ii, faiirai dcs iiiai/rcssrs.'' 'i'o which 
 the ijueen made no other re|ily l!ian '^7//, nioii nhn ! ccla 
 licnipiclh- pas' ' 1 know,' says Lord Ikrxcy. in his Memoirs, 
 •that this episode will hardly be ( rediled, but it is literally 
 true.' 
 
 She then fmcicd she could sleep. The king kissed her, 
 and wept over her ; yet when slie asked for lier watch, \\hi(h 
 hung near the cliimney, that she might give him these.d to take 
 <are of, his bnital temper broke fortii. In the midst of his tears 
 he called out, in a loud voice, ' Lut it alone ! hioii Dicn ! the 
 queen has such strange flxncies ; who should meddle with your 
 seal ? It is as safe there as in my ] 
 
 The ([ueen then thought she could ^.. , , and, in fact, sank to 
 rest. She felt refre.shed on awakening and saiil, ' I wish it was 
 over; it is only a reprieve to make me suffer a little longer; I 
 cannot recover, but my nasty heart will not break yet.' She had 
 an impression that she should die on a Wednesday : she had, 
 she said, been born on a Wednesday, married on a Wednesday, 
 crowned on a Wednesday, her first child was born on a Wed- 
 nesday, and she had heard of the late king's death on a Wed- 
 nesday. 
 
 On the ensuing day she saw Sir Robert Walpole. ' My good 
 Sir Robert,' she thus addressed him, ' you sec me in a very in- 
 
 1" n 
 
204 
 
 A ir/ih's//of> /',>//. /■ is sriif fcr. 
 
 (litktiiu silii.itioii. I li.nc nolhiiii; to s.iy to you hut to re- 
 tommcml the kin-, my diildrcn, ami the kin.L;.h)m to your 
 
 care. 
 
 I 'inl llervey, when the minister retired, asked Iiiiii what he 
 thun^lit of tl;e (|Ueeli's state. 
 
 ' My lord.' was the reply, ' she is as niurh dead as if slie was 
 in hercoHin; if ever I hf:ni a corpse speak, it was just now 
 in that room !' 
 
 It was a sad, ;.n awful death I)e<l. The I'lince of Wales 
 havinu; sent to in^iuire after the luallh of his dvin^r mother, the 
 queen bet ame uneasy lest he should hear iiie true state of her 
 case, askin;^' ' if no one would send tho.s "-avens,' meaning the 
 prince's attendants, out of the hinise. ' They were only,' she 
 said, ' watchiuL,' her death, and would j,dadly tear her to pieces 
 whiUt she was alive.' Whilst thus she spoke of her son's cour- 
 tiers, that son was sittiuL,' uj. all ni-lu in hi-. hou-,e in Tall Mall, 
 and sayin^^ when any messeUL^er came in from St. James's, 
 ' Well, sure, we shall soon have good news, she cannot hold out 
 much longer.' .\nd the princesses were writing letters to pre- 
 vein the I'rincos Royal from coming li; I'aigland. where she 
 was certain to meet with hrutal unkindness from her fuller, who 
 could not endure to be put to any expense. Orders were, in- 
 deed, sent to stop her if she set out. .She came, however, 
 on pretence of taking the Ihth waters : ]>ut (ieorge II., furious 
 at her disobedience, obliged her to go direct to and from Bath 
 without stopping, and never forga\e her. 
 
 Notwithstanding her predictions, the (|ueen sur\ ived the fatal 
 Wednesday. I'ntil thir, .ime no jirelate had been called in to 
 pray ])y her majesty, nor to administer the Holy Communion 
 and as people about the court began to l)e scandalized by this 
 omi.ssion. .Sir Robert Walpiole advised that the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury should be sent for : his opiinion was couched in the 
 following terms, characteristic at once of die man, the times, 
 and the court : — 
 
 'Pray, madam.' he said to the Princess Fauilv, * ler this farce 
 be played ; the an hbi.shop will act it very well. You may bid 
 him be as -^hort as you will : it will <hj llie (iuecn no hurt, no 
 more than any good ; and it will satisfy all the wise and good 
 
him what he 
 
 Tlii Duty of RccoiicUiiitiim. 2.1; 
 
 ^".'v who will rail us atheists if wc don'i j-kIciuI lo lnjas-rtvU 
 s they arc' 
 
 I'nhappily, Lord Ifcr\-ey, who relates this anf;c(lotc, was 
 liim>elf an uni.elicvcr ; yet the srolthig tone adopted by Sir 
 Robert seems to have shocked even him. 
 
 In (onseiiuence of this advice, Archbi^hoj) i'otler j)rayed by 
 the (|ueen morning and evening, the king always (initting the 
 11 -ni when his gnu e entered it. Iler children, however, "knelt 
 by her bedside. Still the whisperers who censured were unsa- 
 tisfied— the concession was thrown aw.iy. Why did not the 
 (|iieen receive the communion ? \Va« it, as the world believed, 
 cither ' that she had rea.soned herself into a very low and cold 
 .i>>cnt to Christianity ?' or 'that she was heterodox ?' or ' that 
 the archbishop refused to administer the sa« rament until she 
 should be lecoiK iled to her son?' I'.vi'U Lord Ilervey. who 
 rarely left the antechamber, has only by his silence proved that 
 she (h'd //('/ take the communion. That antechamber was 
 crowde'I with j-ersons who, as the jirelate left the chamber of 
 death, crowded around, eagerly asking, 'Has the (jueen re- 
 ( cived ?' 'Her majesty,' was the evasive reply. ' i-> in a heavenly 
 disposition :' the iniblic were thus deceived. Among those who 
 were near the (|ueen at this solenui hour was Dr. liuller, author 
 of the ' Analogy.' He had been made clerk of the ( ioset, and 
 l>c( ime. ifter the queen's death, Dishop of L-ristol. He was in 
 a remote living in Durham, when the ([ueen, remembering that 
 It was long since she had heard of him, asked the Archbishop 
 of York 'whether Dr. Tiutler was dead ?'—-' Xo, machmi,' re 
 plied that j.relate (Dr. IJlackburn), 'but he is Imried ;' upon 
 whic h she had sent for him to court. Yet he was not courageous 
 enough, it seems, to speak to her of her son and of the duty of 
 re<onciliation ; whether she ever sent the prince any message or 
 not is uncertain ; Lord Hervey is silent on that point, so that it 
 is to be feared that Lord Chesterfield's line— 
 
 ' And, unforgiving, unforgivcn, dies !' 
 
 liad biu too sure a foundation in fact ; so that Tope's sarcastic 
 \erses — 
 
 ' Hanp tbp s.id wrso nn f "o.rolina's um. 
 .And hail Wx pa.-^sage to the ro.ilnis of rest ; 
 All parti performed and xiU her children blest," 
 
 o 
 
.'^, 
 
 Tii: /\\i/'i of Oitcct! Civoli'h'. 
 
 lu.iy li.'ive been Init loo jii'it, llioii^h (ruclly hitter. The queen 
 liii;,'crc'<l till tlic 20\\\ of Nowiiilior. During that interval of 
 agony her (onsort was perpetu.illy honsting to every one of her 
 virtues, In I , her palieiu f, her soflner.s, her iklieacy; and 
 
 ending with the praise, ' Coini/ic elk sonknoit sa di^^nitc avcc gnue, 
 a; ci polili'ssi'^avix (fotiHiir !^ \e\ertheless he srarcx'ly ever went 
 into her room. Lord Hervey slates that lie flid, even in this 
 moving situation, siiuh her (or something or other she did or said. 
 (Jne morning, as she lay w ith her eyes fixed on a point in the air, 
 as jjeople sometimes do when tlicy want to keep their thoughts 
 from wandering, the king loarsely told her 'she locked like a 
 calf whirh had just had its throat rut.' He expeeled her to 
 die in stale. Then, with all his hursts of tenderness he always 
 mingled his own praises, hinting that though she was a good 
 wife he knew he had (le-ier\ ed a good one. and remarking, when 
 he extolled hi r understanding, that he did not 'think it the 
 worse for her ha\ ing kept him (:om[)any so many years.' To all 
 this Lord llervey listened with, douhtless, well-concealed dis- 
 gust ; for cal)als were even then forming for the future intluence 
 that might or might not he oht, lined. 
 
 'I'he <|ueen's life, meantime, was softly ehhing away in this 
 atmosphere of selfishness, brutality, and unbelief. Oiu- even- 
 ing she asked Dr. Tessier impatiently how long her state might 
 continue. 
 
 ' \'uur Majesty,' was the reply, 'will soon be released.' 
 
 'So iiiiK li the better,' the ([ueen calmly answered. 
 
 At ten oVI()( k that night, whilst the king lay at the foot of 
 her bed. on the lloor, and the Princess Kmily on a couch-bed 
 in the roum, the fearful tleath-ratlle in the throat was hc:;rd. 
 IMrs. Purcell, her chief and old attendant, gave the alarm : the 
 Triniess Caroline and Lord llervey were sent ("or; but the 
 jjrincess was loo ! te, her mother h.ul exi)ired before .she arrived 
 All the dying (jueen said waj;, ' I have now got an asthma; o])en 
 the window :' then she adde<l, Tray." That was her last 
 word. As the Princess Emily began to read some prayers, the 
 sufterer Iireathed her last sigh. The Princess Caroline held a 
 lookin: ;> her lips, and finding tliere was no' damp on it, 
 
 said, \ \ et she shed not one tear upon the arrival of 
 
//, 
 
 (»l \'. ih( 
 
 ' ''■• 207 
 
 1 iuui cost her so many heart 
 
 til. It event, liic i^rosijc 
 n;;i!ing sohs. 
 
 I he king kissed the lifeless f.irc iind li.m.l.s of his often- 
 I :/!ie(l wife, and then relire<l to hi^ own ai.artuient, ordering 
 t:;.;i J page should sit up with him for that and several othc'r 
 nij^hts, for his Majesty was afraid of apparitions, :;iil feared to 
 he left alone. Ho caused himself, however, to he buried l.y 
 the side of his queen, in Henry VII. 's chapel, and ordere»l 
 t' ' '>t his ( offni and of hers should he withdrawn ; 
 
 civl HI that state the two (olhn.; were discovered not many 
 
 vt.irs ago. 
 
 With the death of Oueen Caroline, Lord llervey's life, as to 
 rourt, was changed. He was afterwards nia.le lord j.rivy seal, 
 and had conse(iuentIy to enter the politic al world, with the dis- 
 advantage of knowing that much was expected from a man of 
 
 > hi-!i a reputation for wit and learning. He was violently 
 oi.;Kj>,cd hy I'elham, Duke of .Newcastle, who had been adverse 
 to his entering the mini.stry, and since, with W'alpole's favour, 
 it was im[)0s:,il»le to injure him hy fair means, it was resolved 
 to oppose I. Old Ilervey l.y foul ones. One evening, when 
 he was to speak, a j)arty of fahhionable Ama/ons, with two 
 tliK hesses— her grace of C^ueensberry and h.:r grace of Ancas- 
 tcr--at their head, stormed the House of Lords and disturbed 
 the debate with noisy laughter and sneers. Poor Lord Ilervey 
 V. ■. comijletely daunted, and spoke miserably, .-vfter .Sir Ro- 
 bert Walpole's f,:!! I.<.rd Ilervey retired. The i.-wing letter 
 from him to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu fuli^^ describes his 
 pu.iition .uid circumstances 
 
 '1 must now,' he writ . 'since you take so friendly a 
 
 I'.iit 111 what concern jve you a short account of my natural 
 
 ■'■;'' I">liti<al he ■ :,i when I siy I am siill alive, 'ind still 
 
 jTivy seal, it ih 1 i .an say for tiie pleasure of m the 
 
 honour of the ot' • r; tor since Lord (Jrfurd's retiring, as i am 
 too i)roud to licr my service and friendship where I am not 
 sure they win i.e accei)led of, and too inconsidmble to have 
 those ad ••: made to nie (th(ni^_,h I never t .. l or failed to 
 return an> obligation I ever received), so I reniain as illustrious 
 "• ; iii tiiis onlce as ever iilleu 11 r>;ncf. it .as erected. 
 
 
?oS 
 
 Lord Ilcrvcys Death. 
 
 There is one iKnefil. liowever, I enjoy from tliis loss of my 
 rourl interest, which is, that all those tlies which were buzzing 
 about me in the summer sunshine and full ripeness of that 
 interest, iiave all deserted its autumnal decay, and from think- 
 iuL,' my natural death not far off, and my i)olitical demise 
 already over, have all forgot the death-bed of the one and the 
 coffm of the other.' 
 
 Ai,'ain he wnHc to her a characteristic letter: — 
 
 ' I have been confmed these three weeks by a fever, which 
 is a sort of annual tax my detestable constitution ])ays to our 
 detestable climate at the return of every spring ; it is now much 
 abated, though not quite gone off 
 
 He was long a helplcs- invalid: and on the 8th of August, 
 174;,. his short, tmiirofitable, brilliant, unhappy life was closed. 
 lie ilied at Ickworth, attended and deplored by his wife, who 
 had ever held a secondary part in the heart of the great wit 
 and beau of the court of (leorge 1 1. After his death his son 
 Cicorge returned to L;idy Mary all the letters she had written to 
 bis father: the packet was se;\leil : an assurance was at the 
 same time given that they h:ul not been read. In acknowledg- 
 ing this act of attention. Lady Mary wrote that she coiJd 
 almost regret that he bad not glanced bis eye over a corre- 
 spondence wiiich might have shown him what so young a man 
 might perhajjs be inclined to doubt — 'the ])Ossibility of a long 
 and steady fricndshij) subsisting between two persons of different 
 sexes without the least mixture of love.' 
 
 Nevertheless .some expressions of Lord Her\-ey's seem to 
 ba\ e bordered on the tender style, when writing to Lady Mar)' 
 in such terms as these. She bad complained that she was too 
 old to inspire a passion (a sort of challenge for a compliment), 
 on which he wrote : ' I sbotild think anybody a great fool that 
 said he liked spring better than summer, merely because it is 
 further from autumn, or that they loved green fruit better than 
 ripe only because it was further from being rotten. I ever did, 
 and believe ever shall, like woman best — 
 
 ' "Just ill llie luxm of life- tlioso golden days, 
 W'iien the niiiul ripi'iis ere the form deeays." ' 
 
 Certainly this looks very unlike a pure Platonic, and it is not 
 
lis loss of my 
 li were buz/.iiif' 
 pcness of that 
 1(1 from think- 
 olitical demise 
 e one and the 
 
 a fever, which 
 )n pays to our 
 it is now much 
 
 Sth of August, 
 life was closed, 
 y his wife, who 
 f the great wit 
 s death his son 
 
 had written to 
 ire was at the 
 [n acknowledg- 
 hat she coi.ld 
 
 over a corre- 
 young a man 
 )ility of a long 
 ons of different 
 
 Toy's seem to 
 to Lady Mar)- 
 lat she was too 
 a compliment), 
 great fool tliat 
 y because it is 
 ruit better than 
 II. I ever did, 
 
 Memoirs of his O-ivit Time. 209 
 
 to he wondered at tliat Lady liervey refused to call on Lady 
 Mary, when, long after Lord Hervey's death, that fa.scinating 
 woman returned to England. A wit, a cotu'tier at the very 
 k.unt of all politeness, Lord Hervey wanted tlie genuine source 
 ol all social (lualities— Christianity. That moral refrigerator 
 which checks the kindly current of neighbourly kindness and 
 which prevents all genial feeling from expanding, produced its 
 I usual etfect-misanthropy. Lord Hervey's lines, in his 'Satire 
 ' after the manner of Pcrsius,' describe too well his own mental 
 (anker : — 
 
 • Mankind I know, tlieir motives and llieir art, 
 1 lu'ir vice their own, their virtue best apart 
 1 ill played so oft, that all the clieat can tell, 
 And danijerous only when 'tis acted well.' 
 
 Lord Hervey left in the possession of his family a manuscript 
 w(jrk, consisting of memoirs of his own time, written in his 
 own autograph, which was clean and legible. This work, which 
 has furnished many of the anecdotes connected with his court 
 hie m the foregoing pages, was long guarded from the eye of 
 ;iny but the Hervey family, owing to an injunction given in his 
 will by Augustus, third Karl of Bristol, Lord Hervey's son, that 
 It should not see the light until after the death of his Majesty 
 (-corge HL It was not therefore ])ublished until 1S48, when 
 tiicy were edited by Mr. Croker. They are referred to both by 
 Horace Walpole, who had heard of them, if he had not seen 
 them, and by Lord Hailes, as affording the most intimate por- 
 traiture of a court that has ever been presented to the English 
 l'C(jple. Sudi a delineation as Lord Hervey has left ought to 
 < ause a sentiment of thankfulness in every British heart for not 
 being e.xposed to such inlliiences, to such examples as he gives, 
 111 the present day, when goodness, affection, puritv, benevo- 
 iL'uce, are the household deities of the court of our beloved 
 inestimable Que jn Victoria. ' 
 
 
 c, and it is not 
 
 14 
 
THILIP DORMER STANHOPE, 
 FOURTH EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 The Kinp of Table Wits. — I-"arly Years.— Ilcrvey's Description of liis Person.— 
 Resolutions and Pursuits. - Study of Oratory.- The Duties of an Ani- 
 l)as'-ador. — Kins^ (jeorge II.'s Opinion of his ( lironiclers.-- Life in the 
 Country. — Melusina, Countess of ^Valsinf;ham. -- George II. and his 
 I'atlier's Will. - Dissohing \'ie\vs. -Madame du P.oueliet. — The Rroad- 
 pjottonied Administration. -I-ordT.ieutenant of Ireland in Time of I'eril.— 
 Reformation of the ( Calendar.- -C'hesterfield I loiise.-K.xclusiveness. — Re- 
 commending 'Johnson's Dictionary.'— ' Old Samuel,' to Cliesterfiekl.— 
 Defensive Pride. — The (ilass of Pavhion. — Lord Scarborough's I'riendship 
 for Chesterfield. — The Death of Chesterfic-ld's Son. liis Interest in his 
 (jr.uidsons. — ' I must go and Rehearse my l-'imeral.'- -Chesterfield's Will. — 
 What is a Friend? — Les Manieres Nobles. — Letters to his Son. 
 
 HE su1)ject of this memoir may be thought by some 
 rather the modeller of wits than the original of that 
 class ; the great critic and judge of manners rather 
 than the delight of the dinner-table : but we are told to the 
 contrary by one who loved him not. Lord Hervey says of 
 Lord Chesterfield that he was 'allowed by everybody to have 
 more conversable entertaining tablewit than any man of his 
 time; his i)ropensity to ridicule, in which he intlulged himself 
 with infinite humour and no ilislinction ; and his inexhaustible 
 spirits, anil no discretion ; made him sought and feared — liked 
 and not loved— by most of his act^uaintance.' 
 
 This formidal.)le personage was born in London on the 2nd 
 day of September, 1694. It was remarkable that the father of 
 a man so vivacious, should liave been of a morose temper; all 
 the wit and spirit of intrigue displayed by him remind us of the 
 frail Lady Chesterfield, in the time of Charles 11."' — that lady 
 who was looked on as a martyr because her husband was 
 
 ■* The Countess of Chi sterfieid here alluded to was the second wife of Philip, 
 second I'lari of i. Iiestertifid. P.uhp Dormer, fourtli Larl, wa^ ^^raimsou of tiic 
 second Earl, bv ins third wife. 
 
FIELD. 
 
 in of liis Person.— 
 )utiLS of an Am- 
 ;!lts. - Life in tlie 
 orge II. and liis 
 lift. — Tlie Broad- 
 II Time of Peril. — 
 .\clusiveness. — Re- 
 to (.'liesterfield.— 
 •ourIis I-'riendsliip 
 lis Intrre.it in his 
 estcrfield's Will— 
 i Son. 
 
 light by some 
 )riginal of that 
 nanners rather 
 re told to the 
 [ervcy .says of 
 ybody to have 
 ny man of his 
 lulged liimself 
 s inexhaustible 
 I feared — liked 
 
 on on the 2nd 
 at the father of 
 se temper; all 
 mind us of the 
 I."' — that lady 
 husband was 
 
 ond wife of Philip, 
 
 ,3 uriiaaioii of the 
 
 The King of Tabic Wits— Early Years. 2 1 1 
 
 jealous of her : ' a j.rodigy,' says De Grammont. ' in the city of 
 London,' where indulgent critics endeavoured to e.xcuse his 
 lordship on account of his bad education, and mothers vowed 
 thai none of then- sons should ever set foot in Italy, lest they 
 .'-liould ' bnng back with them that infamous custom of laying 
 rcstrauit on their wives.' 
 
 i:ven Horace AValpoIe cites Chesterfield as the ' witty earl •' 
 apropos to an anecdote which he relates of an Italian lady who 
 sai.l that she was only four-and-twenty ; ' I suppose,' said Lord 
 Chesterfield, 'she means four-and-twenty stone.' 
 
 by his fother the future wit, historian, and orator was utterly 
 neglected ; but his grandmother, the Marchioness of Hnlif ix 
 supplied to him the place of both parent.s, his mother-her 
 daughter, Lady l-li/.abeth Saville-having died in his chihlhood 
 At the age oi eighteen, Chesterfield, then Lord Stanhope, was 
 entered at Trinity Hall, Cambridge. It was one of the features 
 ot his character to fall at once into the tone of the society into 
 whu h he happened to be thrown. One can hardly imagine his 
 I'cmg'an absolute jjedant,' but such was, actually, his own 
 account of himself :-' When I talked my best, I quoted Horace ; 
 wlieu I aimed at being flicelious, I quoted .Martial ; and when 
 J had a mind to be a fine gentleman, I talked Ovid. I was 
 <onviP".-Mhat none but the ancients had common .sense; that 
 ^'^^' ^'•'^ contained e\erything that was either necessary, 
 ii^c..., or ornamental to men; and I was not even without 
 thoughts of wearing the toga viriiis of the Romans, instead of 
 tne vulgar and illiberal dress of the moderns.' 
 
 Thus, again, when in Paris, he caught the manners, as he 
 liad acciuired the language, of the Parisians. ' I shall not give 
 you my opinion of the French, because I am v^y often taken 
 I'T one of them, and several have paid me the highest compli- 
 "i^ntthey think it in their i)ower to bestow—which i.s, "Sir 
 you are just like ourselves." I shall only tell you that I :im 
 insolent; I talk a great deal ; I am very loud and peremptory • 
 I snig and dance as 1 walk along ; and, above all, I sp.end an' 
 'nmiense sum in hair-powder, feathers, and white gloves.' 
 
 -Mthough he entered Parliament before he hud attained the 
 Jcgal age, and was expected to make a great figure in that 
 
 1. 1 -2 
 
 :« 
 
 IF^ 
 
2\: 
 
 Ilcrvcys Description of his Person 
 
 assembly, Lord Chesterfield jjreferred the reputation of a wit 
 and a beau to any other distinction. 'Call it vanity, ifyoii 
 will,' he wr6te in after-life to his son, * and possibly it was so; 
 but my great object was to make every man and every woman 
 love me. I often succeeded: but why ? by taking great pains.' 
 
 According to Lord Ilervey's account he often even sacrificed 
 his interest to his vanity. The descrijjtion given of Lord 
 Chesterfield by one as bitter as himself imi)lies, indeed, that great 
 jinins were recjuisite to 'counterbalance the defects of nature. 
 Wilkes, one of the ugliest men of his time, used to say, that 
 with an hour's start he would carry off the affections of any 
 woman from the handsomest man breathing. l,ord Chester- 
 field, according to Lord Hervey, required to be still longer in 
 advance of a rival. 
 
 ' With a person,' Hervey writes, 'as disagreeable, as it was 
 j)0.ssible for a human figure to be without being deformed, he 
 affected following many women of the l:rst beauty and the most 
 in flishion. He was very short, disproportioned, thick and 
 clumsily made ; had a broad, rough-featured, ugly face, with 
 black teeth, and a head big enough for a Polyphemus. One 
 r.en Ashurst, who said a ^^w good things, though admired for 
 many, told Lord Chesterfield once, th.vt he was like a stunted 
 giant — which was a humorous idea and really apposite.' 
 
 Xotwithstanding that Chesterfield, when young, injured both 
 soul and body by pleasure and dissipation, he always found 
 time for serious study : when he could not have it otherwise, he 
 took it out of his sleep. How late soever he went to bed, he 
 resolved always to rise early ; an<l this resolution he adhered 
 to so faithfully, that at the age of fifty-eight he could declare 
 that for more than forty years he had never been in bed at nine 
 o'clock in the morning, 'at had generally been up before eight, 
 lie had the gootl sense, in this resi)ect, not to exaggerate even 
 this homely virtue. He did not rise with the dawn, as many early 
 risers pride themselves in doing, putting all the engagements ot 
 ordinary life out of their usual beat, just as if the clocks had 
 been set two hours forward. The man in orilinary society, who 
 rises at four in this countr)^, and goes to bed at nine, is a social 
 and familv nuisance. 
 
tion of a wit 
 vanity, if you 
 bly it was so ; 
 every woman 
 great pains.' 
 ven sacrificed 
 iven of Lord 
 eed, tliat great 
 cts of nature. 
 d to say, that 
 ctions of any 
 ,ord Chester- 
 still longer in 
 
 )lc, as it wa.s 
 (lefornieil, he 
 and the most 
 id, thick and 
 ^\y f.ice, with 
 hemus. One 
 1 admired for 
 like a stunted 
 osite.' 
 
 , injured both 
 
 always found 
 
 otherwise, he 
 
 -Mit to bed, he 
 
 I he adhered 
 could declare 
 
 II bed at nine 
 ) before eight, 
 aggerate even 
 as many early 
 igagements of 
 he clocks had 
 y society, who 
 nc, is a socLil 
 
 Riwol/ifious and Ptirsni/s— Study of Oratory. 2 1 3 
 
 Strong good, sense characterized Chestertleld's early pursuits. 
 Desultory reading he aljhorred. He looked on it as one of the 
 resources of age, but as injurious to the young in the extreme. 
 •Throw away,' thus he writes to his son, 'none of your time 
 '.!H.ii those trivial, futile books, publi.shed by idle necessitous 
 authors for the amusement of idle and ignorant readers.' 
 
 i'.\en in tliose days such books ' swarm and l)u// about one :' 
 'flap them away,' says Chesterfield, 'they have no sting.' The 
 earl directed the whole force of his minvl to oratory, and lie- 
 < ame the finest speaker of his time. Writing to Sir Horace 
 Ma.nn, about the Hanoverian debate (in 1743, Dec. 15), 
 Walijole praising the speeches of Lords Halifax and Sandwich, 
 adds, 'I was there, and heard I,ord Chesterfield make the 
 finest oration I have ever heard there.' This from a man who 
 had listened to Pulteney, to Chatham, to Cateret, was a singu- 
 larly valuable tribute. 
 
 ^\ liilst a student at Cambridge, Chesterfield was forming an 
 ar.iuaintancL with tlie Hon. Ceorge lierkeley, th.e youngest 
 son of the second Earl of iierkeley, and remarkable rather as 
 nciiig the second husband of Lady Sutlblk, the favourite of 
 ( leoige H., than from any merits or demerits of his own. 
 
 This early in t im.acy i)robably brought Lord Chesterfield into 
 ihe clcjse friendship which afterwards .subsisted between him and 
 l.ady Suffolk, to whom many of his letters are addressed. 
 
 His first public cai)acity was a diplomatic appointment : he 
 afterwards attained to the rank of an ambassador, whose duty 
 it is, according to a witticism of Sir Henry Wotton's ' to tic 
 abroad for the good of his country ;' and no man was in this 
 iesi)ect more competent to fulfil these recpiirements than Ches- 
 terfield. Hating both wine and tobacco, he had smoked and 
 'Irunk at Cambridge, ' to be in the fashion •' he gamed at the 
 Hague, on the same principle; and, unhappily, gaining became 
 a habit and a passion. Vei iK\cr did he indulge it wdien act- 
 ing, afterwards, in a ministerial capacity. Neither when Lord- 
 laeutenant of Ireland, or as Under-secretary of State, did ho 
 allow a gaming-table in his house. On the very night that he 
 ''^signed office lie went to ll'/'iitc's. 
 
 
 iiqi' 
 
 
2 14 A'///;'- fftv/xi- //.'s Opinion of his Chroniclivs. 
 
 'I"Iie Ihiguc was then a charming residence: among others 
 who. from ])oIitical motives, were Hving there, were John Duke 
 of Marlborough and (^ueen Sarah, both of whom ijaid Ciies- 
 terfiekl marked attention. Naturally industrious, with a ready 
 insiglit into character— a ])erfect master in tluU art which bids 
 us kee]) one's thoughts close, and our countenances open, 
 Chesterfield was admirably fitted fur di|)lomacy. A master of 
 modern languages and of history, he soon began to like busi- 
 ness. When in Kngland, he had been accused of having 'a 
 need of a certain jjroporlion of talk in a day :' ' that,' he wrote 
 to J.ady Suffolk, ' is now changed into a need of such a pro- 
 ])ortion of writing in a day.' 
 
 In 1728 he was promoted : being sent as ambassador to the 
 Hague, where he was i)0i)ular, and where he l.)elieved liis stay 
 ^\oul(l be beneficial both to soul and body, there being 'fewer 
 temptations, and fewer opportunities to sin,' as he wrote to l.ady 
 Suffolk, 'than in England.' Here his days i)assed, he asserted, 
 in doing the king's business, very ill— and his own still worse :— 
 sitting down daily to dinner with fourteen or fifteen jjcople j 
 whilst at five tlie pleasures of the evening began with a lounge 
 on the Voorhoot, a ])ublic walk jilanled by Charles V. : — then, 
 either a very bad French i)la)', or a ' reprise (jiiaJrilk; with 
 three ladies, the youngest of them fifty, and the chance of 
 losing, perhaps, three llorins (besides one's time)— lasted til' 
 ten o'clock; at which time 'I lis l-Acellency' went home, *re- 
 llecling with satisfaction on the innocent amusements of a well- 
 spent day, that left nothing behind them,' and retired to bed at 
 eleven, ' with the testimony of a good conscience.' 
 
 All, however, of Chesterfield"., time was not passed in this 
 serene dissipati* He began to compose 'The History of the 
 
 Reign of George .1.' at this period. About only half a dozen 
 characters were written. The intention was not confined to 
 Chesterfield : Carteret and Dolingbroke entertained a similar 
 design, which was comi)leted by neither. When the subject 
 was broached before C^eorge H., he thus exjn-essed himself; 
 and liis remarks are the more amusing as tliey were addressed 
 to Lord llervey, who was. at tliat very moment, making his 
 
Life ill ,'/. • Country. 215 
 
 notes for that bitter clironide of his majesty's reign, wliich has 
 been ushered into the world by the late Wilson Croker — ' They 
 will all three,' said Ring (;eorge II., 'have about as much 
 truth in them as the Millcct Unc Niiits. Not but I shall like 
 to read Bolingbroke's, who of all those rascals and knaves that 
 have been lying against nie these ten years has certainly the 
 best jjarts, and the most knowledge. He is a scoundrel, but 
 he is a scoundrel of a higher class than Chesterfield. Chester- 
 field is a little, tea-table scoundrel, that tells little womanish 
 lies to make (juarrels in families : and tries to make women 
 li>e their reputations, and make their husbands beat them^ 
 vsiihout any object but to give himself airs ; as if anybody 
 (ould believe a woman could like a dwarf baboon.' 
 
 Lord Ilervey gave the preference to Bolingbroke ; staling as 
 his reason, that 'though Lord L.olingljroke had no idea of wit, 
 liis satire was keener than any one's. Lord Chesterfield, on the 
 other hand, would have a great deal of wit in them ; but, in 
 every ])age you see he intended to be witty : every paragraph 
 would be an epigram. Polish, he declared, would be liis bane ;' 
 and Lord Ilervey was perfectly right. 
 
 in 1732 Lord Chesterfield was obliged to retire from his 
 embassy on the plea of ill-health, but ])robably, from some po- 
 litical cause. lie was in the opposition against Sir Robert Wal- 
 pule in the Excise iiill ; and felt the displeasure of that all- 
 jiowerful minister by being dismissed from his office of High 
 Stewartl. 
 
 Being badly received at court he now lived in the»-Ountry; 
 sometimes at Buxton, where his father drank the waters, where 
 he had his recreations, when not- persecuted by two young 
 hrothers. Sir William Slanhoi)e and John Stanhope, one of 
 whom performed 'tolerably ill ujion a broken hautboy, and the 
 other something worse u|)on a cracked flute.' There he won 
 three half-crowns from *'ie curate of the ])lace, ami a shilling 
 Irom ' C.affer Foxeley' at a cock-match. Sometimes he souirht 
 relaxation in Scarborough, wliere fashionable beaux ' danceil 
 with the i)retty ladies all night,' and hundreils of Yorksliire 
 '•-•..■..ijt i)iaiii;!-vi:i.-> plavcu trie intefior parts; and, as u v»ere, 
 only tumble, whilst the others dance upon the high rope^> of 
 
 
2i6 ATcinsiiia, CoiDitcss of Walsingham. 
 
 gallantry.' Srarborough was full of Jacobites: the popular 
 feeling was then all rife against Sir Robert Wali)ole's excise 
 scheme. Lord Chesterfiekl thus wittily satirized that famous 
 measure : — 
 
 'The ])eople of this town are, at present, in great consterna- 
 tion upon a report they have heard from London, which, if 
 true, they think will ruin them, 'i'hcy are informed, that con- 
 sidering the vast consumption of these waters, there is a design 
 laid of ^•.m>///- them next session; and, moreover, that asbatii- 
 mg in the sea is become the general ])ractice of both sexes, 
 and as the kings of J-aigland have always been allowed to be 
 masters of the seas, every person so bathing shall be gauged, 
 and pay so much i)cr footsijuare, as their cubical bulk amounts 
 to.' 
 
 Jn 1733, l^ord Chesterfield married Melusina, the supposed 
 mece, but, in fad, the daughter of the Duchess of Kendal, the 
 mistress of Ceorge L 'J'liis lady was i.resumed to be a great 
 heiress, from the dominion which her mother iiad over the 
 king. lAUlusina had been created (for life) iiaroness of Akl- 
 borough, county Suffolk, and Countess of \Valsingham, county 
 Norfolk, nine years previous to her marriage. 
 
 Her father being Ceorge L, as Horace^VaIpole terms him, 
 rather a good sort of man than a shining king,' and her mo- 
 ther * being no genius,' there was probablfno great attraction 
 about Latly AValsingham, except her exjiecled dowry. 
 
 During her girlhood Melusina resided in the apartments at 
 St. JamesV-opening into the gaiden; an(f here Horace Wal- 
 pole describes his seeing Cieorge L, in the rooms appropriated 
 to the Duchess of Kendal, next to those of Melusina Schu- 
 lemberg, or, as she was then called, the Countess of Walsing- 
 ham. The Duchess of Kendal was then very 'lean and ill- 
 iavoured.' ' Just before her,' says Horace, ' stood a tall, elderly 
 man, rather jjale, of an aspect rather good-natured than augnist : 
 m a dark tie-wig, a plain coat, waistcoat, and breeches of snuff- 
 coloureil cloth, with stockings of the same colour, and a blue 
 riband over all. That was Ceorge L' 
 
 'fhe Duchess of Kendal had l^een maid of honour to the 
 Klectress Sophia, the mother of Ceorge L and the daughter of 
 
G corral' If. and his lux the, -'s Will. 2 1 7 
 
 IJi/ahclh of Bohemia. The (huhess was ahvavs friuhtfiil ; so 
 iii'i' h so that one night the cicctress, who had a. ,|iniol a little 
 l.n-lish, said to Afrs. Howard, afterwards Lady Sufk.lk.^-danr- 
 yy^ at Mademoiselle Schiilemberg-* Look at that ///r/r.'/v/"^, an.l 
 I i:;ik ot her being my son's passion :' 
 
 Tlie<lurhess, however, like all the TLinoverians, knew iiow 
 10 i.r.jlit by royal i-referencc She took bribes -she liad a 
 settlement of ^/:3,ooo a year. Ihit her daughter was eventu- 
 
 allvdisai.pointed of the expected beefiest from her father, the 
 
 kmg.'"' 
 
 Iiitheapartmentsat .St. James's Lonl Chesterlkl.I for some 
 time lived, when he was not engaged in office abroad; and 
 tiure he dissipated large sums in j-lay. It was here, too, that 
 (Jaeu) Caroline, the wife of (leorgc IL, detected the intimacy 
 that existed between Chesterfield and T,ady Suffolk. There 
 V. :s an obscure window in Queen Caroline's a])artments, whi. h 
 i"okcd into a dark ]assage, lighted only bv a single lamp at 
 mdit. One Twelfth Night Inn! Chesterfield, having won a 
 i.irge sum at cards, deposited it v ith J,ady Suffolk, thinking it 
 not safe to carry it home at night. He was watched, and his 
 ni(ima(y with the mistress of Ccorge JL thereupon inferred. 
 '1 iienceforth he could obtain no court inlluence; and, in des- 
 peration, he went into the opposition. 
 
 <»n the death of (leorge I., a singular scene, with which 
 I "id Chesterfield's interests were connected, occurred in the 
 i'nvy Council. Dr. Wake, Archbishoi) of Canterbury, produced 
 the king's will, and de]i\ered it to his successor, cxi.'ecting that 
 It would be opene<l an.l read in the council ; what was his con- 
 sternation, when his ^fajesty, without saying a word, put it into 
 ill-' pocket, and stalked out of the room with real German im- 
 l"-rturl)ability I Neither the astounded p.rela^e nor the subser- 
 \ lent council ventured to utter a word. The will was never 
 more heard of: and rumour declared that it was burnt. The 
 
 ■•In t'„. ■Annual Fcpistor/ f it is stated that as George I. Iwd 
 
 ! vr .1,",' \\T"lf-;'''\''l'rl'- ■■ \ -^ssordi.l not think proper to de- 
 
 I'Va . . f-'rl"f Chesterfield wa. determined to recover it by a suit in Chancen-. 
 
 l„."7„r".„, '"' -V'^'p'-V '^" lucstioning the Lord Chanceiior on the subjeet, and 
 
 ful'hUhe beque t " ^'''''' "° "'''"'"" '-'■^"•ajudicially. thought pruiwr to 
 
 
2l8 
 
 Disso/i>i/ic Views. 
 
 contents, of rourse, never tninspired ; and tlio legacy of 
 ^40,000, said to have been left to the Ducliess of Kendal, 
 was never more spoken of, until Lord Chesterfield, in 1733, 
 married the C'oiintess of Walsingham. In 1743, it is said, he 
 (laimed the le.^acy - in right of his wife — the Duchess of 
 Kendal i)eing then dead: and was ' quieted' with ^20,000, 
 and got, as Horace Walpole observes, nothing from the duchess 
 — 'except his wife.' 
 
 'I'he only excuse that was urged to extenuate this act on the 
 jKirt of Cieorge If., was that his royal father had burned two 
 wills whi( ii had been made in his f.vour. These were suj)- 
 ])ose(l to be the wills of the Duke and Duchess of Zell and of 
 the Klectress Sojjhia. There wv..-i not even common honesty in 
 the house of Hanover at that ])eriod. 
 
 Disapjjointed in his wife's fortune. Lord Chesterfield seems 
 lo have cared very little for the disajipointed heiress. Their 
 union was childless. His opinion of marriage appears very 
 niiK li to have coincided with that of the worhl of malcontents 
 who rush, in tlu.- present day, to the court of Judge Cresswell, 
 witli 'dissolving views.' On one occasion he writes thus: 'I 
 have at last done the best office that can be done to most mar- 
 ried people ; that is, I have fixed the separation between my 
 brother ami his wife, and the definitive treaty of peace will be 
 proclaimed in about a fortnight.' 
 
 Horace Walpole related the following anecdote of Sir Wil- 
 liam Stanhope (Chesterfield's brother) and his lady, whom he 
 calls ' a fond couple.' After their return from Paris, when they 
 arrived at Lord Chesterfield's house at IJlackheath, Sir William, 
 who had, like his brotlier, a cutting, ])ol'te wit, thai was pro- 
 bably expressed with the ' allowed sim])er' of Lord Chesterfield, 
 got out of the chaise and said, with a low bow, ' Madame, I 
 hope I shall never sec your face again.' She rejtlied, ' Sir, I 
 will take care tliat you never shall ;' and so they i)arted. 
 
 There was little probability of Lord Chesterfield's participat- 
 ing in domestic felic ily, when neither his heart nor his fancy 
 were engaged in the union wliich he had form.ed. The lady to 
 whom hv was really attached, and by whom he had a son, re- 
 sided in the Xelliedands : she passed by the name of Madame 
 
.• legacy ( 
 s of Kendal, 
 
 -!<', in 1733. 
 t is said, lie 
 Durhcss of 
 Ith ^20,000, 
 1 the duchess 
 
 s act on the 
 , burned two 
 ie were sup 
 Zell and of 
 )n honesty in 
 
 }rfield seems 
 iress. Their 
 ajjpears very 
 malcontents 
 ,'0 Crcsswell, 
 ites thus : ' I 
 to most mar- 
 between my 
 )eace will be 
 
 I of Sir Wil- 
 ly, whom he 
 is, when they 
 , Sir William, 
 hat was pro- 
 Chcsterfield, 
 ' Madame, I 
 )lied, ' Sir, I 
 arted. 
 
 !'s participat- 
 
 lor his fiuKV 
 
 The lady to 
 
 Til O C/-M"! ri'- 
 
 .., ,, .....I, .^ 
 
 ; of Madame 
 
 
 
 ■'h 
 
 
 
 s 1.1 /\ A I, Kiiiinri;, 
 
 1. 2is, 
 
(Ill Mom 
 A jicrm 
 
 luiiidrcd 
 small n 
 Lord M 
 one' 
 
 I''or s( 
 his Icttc 
 heath, 
 iqinn tli( 
 (|iicn('c i 
 
 ' l,or(' 
 iL>> cliai 
 Iicrsiiicu 
 Vein of ( 
 strokes, 
 was tha 
 with poll 
 til red by 
 of a fanv 
 writers o 
 a preced 
 ( ome th( 
 
 The a 
 field had 
 tiral ])ref 
 for one 
 w-as alnK 
 Kni^Ii-ih. 
 of John, 
 time the 
 
 Six da 
 recalled 
 whor,e ( li 
 the Lock 
 Carteret, 
 
 * I,ord N 
 
Madame dn I^ouchct. 210 
 
 (111 llouchct, and sun-ivcd both Lord Chesterfield and her son. 
 A permanent provirion was nude for her, and .; sum of five 
 hundred jjounds hefjueathed to her, with liicse words: 'as a 
 small reparation for the injury I did her.' ' Certainly,' aiids 
 Lord Mahon, in his Memoir ofhis illiutrious an( e^tor, 'asnudl 
 one' 
 
 I'or some time Lord Chesterfield remained in luigland, and 
 his letters arc dated from Huh, from T mbridge, from IMack- 
 heath. He had, in 1726, been elevated to the House of Lords 
 upon the death of his fither. In that assembly his great elo- 
 (juenre is thus well described by his biographer: — * 
 
 ' Lord Chesterfield's eloiiuence, the fniit of iniirh study, was 
 Ic'.s ( hararteri/ed by force and compass than l)y elegance and 
 perspicuity, and csjjecially by good taste and urbanity, and a 
 vein of delicate irony whir h, while it .sometimes intlicled severe 
 strokes, never passed the limits of decency and propriety. It 
 w.is that of a man who. in the luiion of wit and good sense 
 uith politeness, had no .. '..(.n. petitor. These qualities were ma- 
 tured by theadvantag. which h'' assiduously sought and obtained, 
 of a familiar accpiaint mc;: with Imost all the eminent wits and 
 writers of his time, man;' of whom had been the ornaments of 
 a j.reccding age of literaL.i-e, while cJiers were destined to be- 
 come those of a later jieriod.' 
 
 The accession of George II., to whose court Lord Chester- 
 field had been attached for many years, brought him no poli- 
 tical preferment. The court had, however, its attractions even 
 for one who owed his polish to the belles of Paris, and who 
 was almost always, in taste and manners, more foreign than 
 fiuKh'^h. Henrietta, Lady Pomfret, the daughter and lieiress 
 of John, Lord Jeffreys, the son of Judge Jeffreys, was at that 
 time the leader of fashion. 
 
 Six daughters, one of them, Lady So])hia, .surpassingly lovely, 
 recalled the perfections of that ancestress, Arabella Ferinor, 
 whose charms Pope has so exquisitely touched in the ' Rape of 
 the Lock.' Lady Sophia became eventually the wife of Lord 
 Carteret, the minister, whose talents and the charms of whose 
 
 Lord Nf ilinn, now E.irl of St.mhope, if not the most eloquent, on^; of the 
 most honest lii-torians of uur time. 
 
 •«Mn9 
 
 
 \ 
 
10 
 
 The Broad-Bottomed Adniiuistration. 
 
 cloiiuoncc constituted liim ;i sort of rival to C'licstcrfield. With 
 ;ill liis alHlitics, Lord Chesterfield may be said to have failed 
 holli as a courtier and as a political character, as far as perma- 
 nent inlhient c in any ministry was concerned, until in 1744, 
 when what was called the ' Hroad-bottomed administration' was 
 funned, wlien he was admitted into the cabinet. In the follow- 
 ing,' year, however, he went, for the last time, to Holland, as 
 ambassador, and succeeded jjeyond the expectations of his 
 party in the ]<urposes of his embassy. He took leave of the 
 States-General just before the battle of Fontenoy, and hastened 
 to Ireland, where he had been nominated Lord-Lieutenant pre- 
 vious to his journey to Holland. He remained in that country 
 only a year ; but long enough to prove how liberal were his 
 views — how kindly the dispositions of his heart. 
 
 ( )nly a few years before Lord Chesterfield's arrival in Dublin, 
 tlic Duke of Shrewsbury had given as a reason for accepting 
 the vice-regency of that country, (of which King James L had 
 said, there was 'more ado' than with any of his dominions.) 
 ' tliat it was a place where a man had business enough to keep 
 him .'Voni fdhng aslee]), and not enough to keep him awake.' 
 
 Clicsterfield, howe\er. was not of that opinion. He did more 
 in one year than the duke would have accomplished in five. 
 
 He began by instituting a ]irinci|)le of impartial justice. For- 
 mcrt}-, Protestants had alone been employed as 'managers;' 
 
 tile Lieutenant was to see with I'rotestant eyes, to hear with 
 
 I'roteslant ears. 
 ' 1 have determined to i)roscribe no set of persons whatever,' 
 
 says Chesterfield, ' and determined to be governed by none. 
 
 Had the l*ai)ists made any attempt to put themselves above th ; 
 
 law. I should have taken good care to have quelled them again. 
 
 ll was said my lenity to the Papists had wrought no alteration 
 
 either in \\w\x religious or their political sentiments. I did not 
 
 exi)ect that it would : but surely that was no reason for cruelty 
 
 towards them.' 
 
 K)W^w by a timely jest Chesterfield conveyed a hint, or even 
 
 shrouded a rcjiroof. One of the ultra-zealous informed hini 
 
 that his coachman was a I'apist, and went every Sunday to 
 
field. With 
 liave failed 
 r as pcrma- 
 til in 1744, 
 itration' was 
 n the follow- 
 Ilolland, as 
 ions of his 
 leave of tlie 
 nd hastened 
 utenant pre- 
 that country 
 ral were his 
 
 d in Dublin, 
 )r accei)ting 
 ames I. had 
 dominions,) 
 ugh to keep 
 ni awake.' 
 Me did more 
 hed in five, 
 istice. For- 
 * managers ;' 
 :o hear with 
 
 ns whatever,' 
 ed l)y none, 
 es above th ; 
 [ them again. 
 no alteration 
 ;. I did not 
 »n for cruelty 
 
 lint, or even 
 iformed him 
 { Sunday to 
 
 Lord-L icutcnant of Ireland in Time of l^eril. 22 1 
 
 nia>s. ' Does he indeed ? I will take care he never drives me 
 there,' was Chesterfiekl's cool reply. 
 
 li was at this critical i>eriotl, when the Hanoverian dynasty 
 w.is shaken almost to its downfall by tlie insurrection in Scot- 
 Lmd of 1745, that Ireland was imperilled: 'With a weak or 
 wavering, or a fierce and headlong Lord-Lieutenant -with a 
 (iraflon or a .Straftbrd,' remarks Lord Mahon, 'there would 
 soon have been a simultaneous rising in the JMnerald Isle.' 
 Hut Chesterfield's energy, his lenity, his wise and just adminis- 
 iration saved the Irish from being excited into rebellion by the 
 emissaries of Charles Edward, or slaughtered, when conquered, 
 l,y the ' Butcher,' and his tiger-like dragoons. When all was 
 over, and that sad page of history in \\hirh the deaths of so 
 many faithful adherents of the exiled family are re( orded, had 
 been held up to the ga/,e of bleeding Caledonia, Chesterfield 
 recommended mild measures, and advised the eslal)lishment of 
 schools in the Highlands; l)ut the age was oo narrow-minded 
 to adojtt his views. In January, 1748, Chesterfield retired troin 
 public life. 'Could I do any good,' he wrote to a friend, M 
 would sacrifice some more (juiet to it ; but convinced as 1 am 
 tiiat I can do none, I will indulge my ease, and preserve my 
 character. I have gone through pleasures while my constitution 
 .nd my si^irils would allow me. Business succeeded them: 
 and 1 have now gone through every part of it without liking it 
 at all the better for being ac(iuainted with it. Like many other 
 things, it is most admired by those who know it least. ... I 
 have been behind the scenes both of i)leasure ami business ; i 
 have seen all the coarse pulleys and dirty ropes which exhibit 
 and mo\e all the gaudy machines; and I have seen and smelt 
 the tallow candles which illuminate the whole decorati )n, to the 
 astonishment and admiration of the ignorant multitude. . . . 
 My horse, my bool;s, and my friends will divide my time i^retty 
 e([ually.' 
 
 He still interested himself in what was usefiil; and < arried a 
 bill in the House of Lords for the Reformation of the Calendar, 
 in 1 751. It seems a small matter for so great a mind as his to 
 aci.oniplish, but it was an achievement of inhnite dilhculty, 
 Muiy statesmen had shrunk from the undertaking; and even 
 
 ^^ 
 
 i 
 
 
222 Rcfov) nation of the Calendar. 
 
 Chesterfield foiiiifl it essential to prepare the public, by writing 
 in some ])eriodical jjajK'rs on the subject. Nevertheless the 
 vulgar outcry was vehement : ' (live us back the eleven days we 
 liavc been robbed of!' cried the mob at a general electior. 
 When Bradley was dying, the common jjeople ascribed his suf- 
 ferings to a judgment for the part he had taken in that ' iminous 
 transaction,' the alteration of the calendar. ]'>ut they were not 
 less /^(7rwj- in their notions than the Duke of Newcastle, then 
 ])rimc minister. Upon I,ord Chesterfield giving him notice of 
 his Eill, that bustling premier, who had been in a hurry <"or forty 
 years, who never ' walked but always ran,' greatly alarmed, 
 begged Chesterfield not to stir matters that had been long (juiet; 
 adiling, that he did not like ' new-fimgled things.' He was, as 
 wc have seen, overruled, and henccfortli the New Style was 
 adopted; and no special calamity has fallen on the nation, as 
 was expected, in conseciuence. Nevertheless, after Chesterfield 
 had made his s])eech in the House of J,ords, and w'^en every 
 one had complimented him on the clearness of his explana- 
 tion — '(}od knows,' he wrote to his son, ' I had not even at- 
 tempted to explain the Bill to them ; I might as soon have 
 talked Celtic or Sclavonic to them as astronomy. They would 
 have understood it full as well.' So much for the 'Lords' in 
 those days ! 
 
 After his furore for politics had subsided, Chesterfield re- 
 turned to his ancient passion for pla\-. We must linger a little 
 over the still brilliant period of his middle life, whilst his hear- 
 ing was spared ; whilst his wit remaine<l, and the charming 
 manners on which he had formed a science, continued ; and 
 before we see him in the mournfid decline of a life wholly given 
 to the world. 
 
 He had now established himself in Chesterfield House. 
 Hitherto his progenitors had been satisfied with Bloomsbury 
 S(iuare, in which the Lord Chesterfield mentioned by I)e Gram- 
 mont resided ; but the accomplished Chesterfield chose a site 
 near Audlcy Street, which had l.)een buik w what was called 
 Mr. Audley's land, lying between (Jreat .Irook Field and the 
 ' Shoulder of ?\Iulton Field.' And near this loculil)- willi the 
 elegant name, Chesterfield chose his spot, for which he had to 
 
Chesterfield House. 
 
 22 N 
 
 ic, by writing 
 ertheless the 
 even clays we 
 eral clectior. 
 ribcd his suf- 
 hat ' impious 
 hey were not 
 wcastle, then 
 him notice of 
 lurry t'nr forty 
 itly alarmed, 
 •\\ longiiuiet; 
 He was, as 
 cw Style was 
 he nation, as 
 r Chesterfield 
 1 w'x'n every 
 his explana- 
 not even at- 
 LS soon have 
 They would 
 ; * Lords' in 
 
 esterfield re- 
 linger a little 
 lilst his hear- 
 he cliarming 
 itinued ; and 
 wholly rjven 
 
 [ield House. 
 IMoomsbury 
 by De Gram- 
 chose a site 
 it was called 
 ield and the 
 liiiy wiiii the 
 z\\ lie had to 
 
 wrangle and fight with the Dean and Chai)ler of Westminster, 
 who asked an exorbitant sum for the ground. Isaac Ware, the 
 Liiiior of ' Palladio,' was the architect to whom the erection of 
 tiii.-, handsome residence was intrusted. Happily it is still un- 
 loiiched by any rmovaiiir^ hand. Chesterfield's favourite apart- 
 ments, looking on the most spacious i)rivate garden in I,ondon, 
 are just as they were in his time; one especially, which he 
 termed the ' finest room in London,' was furnished and deco- 
 r.tcd by him. 'The walls,' says a writer in the ' Quarl-.-rly 
 R<j\iew,' 'are covered half way up with rich and classical stores 
 of literature ; above the cases are in close series the portraits 
 of LUiinent authors, French and I'lnglish, with most of whom 
 he had conversed ; over these, and immediately under the 
 massive cornice, extend all round in foot-long capitals the 
 lluratian lines : — 
 
 ' N'linc . vetcnim . lihris . Nunc . somr.o . tt . inorlibus . Iloris. 
 Luci'ii . solictor . jucund.i . ublivia . vitca. 
 
 ' On the mantel-i)ieces and cabinets stand busts of old orators, 
 interspersed with \oluptuous vases and bronzes, anticjue or 
 Julian, and airy statuettes in marble or alabaster of nude or 
 S'.ini-nude opera nymijhs.' 
 
 AVhat Chestert'ield called the 'cannonical pillars' of the house 
 Avcrc columns b; ought from Cannons, near lulgeware, the seat 
 of the Duke of Chandos. 'I'he antechamber of Chesterfield 
 House has been erroneously stated as the room in which John- 
 son waited the great lord's i pleasure. That slate of endurance 
 was ])robably passed by 'Old Samuel' in Bloomsbury. 
 
 \\\ this stately abode — one of the few, the very {c\\, that 
 seem to hold noblesse apart in our levelling metropolis — Ches- 
 terfield held his assemblies of all that London, or indeed I'lng- 
 land, Paris, the Hague, or Vienna, could furnish of what was 
 polite and charming. Those were days wOien the stream of 
 society did not, as now, flow freely, mingling with the grace of 
 aribtocracy the acquirements of hard-working professors ; there 
 was then a strong line of demarcation ; it had not been broken 
 down in the same way as now, wiven people of rank and wealth 
 live in rows, instead of inhabiting hotels set a;>art. Paris has 
 
 
 I 
 
224 
 
 Exchisivciicss. 
 
 sustainctl a similar revolution, since her gardens were built over, 
 and their green shades, delicious, in the centre of that hot citv, 
 are seen no more. In the \ er> Faubourg St. (lermain, the grand 
 (;ld hotels are rapidly disappearing, and with them something of 
 the exclusivencss of the higher orders. Lord Chesterfield, how- 
 ever, triumi^hantly pointing to the fruits of his taste and distribu- 
 tion of his Avealth, witnessed, in his library at Chesterfield House, 
 the events which time produced. He heard of the death of 
 Sarah, Dudiess of Marlbomugh, and of her befiuest to him 
 of twenty thousand pounds, and her best and largest brilliant 
 diamond ring, 'out of the great regard she had for his merit, 
 and the infinite obligations she had received from him.' He 
 witnessed the change of society and of ])olitics which occurred 
 wlien Ceorge II. e\i)ired, and the l'',arl of Ikite, calling himself 
 a descendant of the house of Stuart, 'and humble enough to 
 be proud of il,' having (luitted the isle of Bute, which Lord 
 Chesterfield (alls ' but a little south of N'ova Zembla,' took 
 ])OSsession, not only of the affections, but even of the senses 
 of the young king, Ceorge ill., who, assisted jiy the widowed 
 I'riiK ess of Wales (sujiposed to be attached to boid Lute), was 
 ' lugged out of the .seraglio,' and 'placed U])on the throne.' 
 
 C'hesterfield lived to have the honour of having the plan of 
 'Johnson's Dictionary' inscribed to him, and the dishonour of 
 neglecting the great author. Johnson, indeed, denied the truth 
 of the story which gained general belief, in which it was asserted 
 that he had taken a disgust at being kept wailing in the earl's 
 antechamber, the rea.son i)eing assigned that his lordship ' had 
 company with him ;' when at last the door opened, and forth 
 cameColley Cibber. Then Johnson— .so repoit said -indignant, 
 not only for Inning been kept waiting but also for 7c '//<?///, went 
 away, it was affirmed, in disgust ; but this was solen.nly denied 
 by the doctor, who assured Loswell that his wrath iiroceeded 
 from continual neglect on the part of Chestei field. 
 
 Whilst the Dictionary was in jtrogress, Chesterfield seemed 
 to forget the existence of him, whom, together with the other 
 literary men, he affected to patronize. 
 
 He once sent liun ten pound.s, after which he forgot John- 
 son's address, and said 'the u;reat author had changed lu's 
 
2 25 
 
 :rc built over, 
 
 that hot city, 
 
 lin, the grand 
 
 something of 
 
 stcrfield, ho\v- 
 
 : and distrilju- 
 
 ri'icld House, 
 
 the death of 
 
 quest to liim 
 
 rgest briUiant 
 
 for his merit, 
 
 ■11 him.' He 
 
 lich occurred 
 
 idling himself 
 
 )Ie enough to 
 
 which Lord 
 
 ^cmhla,' took 
 
 3f the senses 
 
 the widowed 
 
 id lUite), was 
 
 throne.' 
 
 g the plan of 
 
 dishonour of 
 
 lied the truth 
 
 was asserted 
 
 ; in the earl's 
 
 ordship ' had 
 
 L'd, and forth 
 
 1 — indignant, 
 
 • ■whom, went 
 
 ^mnly denied 
 
 h proceeded 
 
 rfield seemed 
 •ith the other 
 
 forgot John- 
 changed his 
 
 • Old Sauiihl' to Clu'stcrfu-ld. 
 
 lodgings.' I'eople who really wish to benefit others ran alwa\s 
 .; -I iver where they lodge. The days of patronage were then 
 expiring, but they had n(jt <iuite ceased, and a dedication w.ss 
 always to be in some way paid for. 
 
 ^\'llen the publication of the Dictionary drew near, l>ord 
 Chesterfield flattered himself that, in spite of all his neglect, the 
 great compliment of having so vast an undertaking dedicated 
 t I hini would still l)e paid, and wrote some |)apers in the 
 ■ W'odd,' recommending the work, more especially referring to 
 the ' plan, and terming Johnson the 'dictator,' in resjiect to 
 l.uiguage : 'I will not only obey him,' he said, 'as my dictator, 
 I'ke an old Roman, but like a modern Roman, will im[)licitly 
 I'ciicve in him as my pope.' 
 
 lohnson, howe\er. was not to be propitiated by those 
 'liuneyed words.' He ! wrote a letter couched in what he 
 (ailed 'civil terms,' to Chesterfield, from which we extract the 
 following passages : 
 
 '\Vhen, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your 
 ]-iri!;,!vp, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, i)y the 
 t!ii hantment of your address; and could not forbear to wish 
 that 1 might boast my^tA( 7'ain/p(Ciir liii vaiiuiucur dc la tore — 
 tiiat 1 might obtain that regard, for which I saw the world con- 
 tending ; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that 
 iieiJier pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. 
 ^\'hcn I had once addressed your lordship in publick, I had 
 exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly 
 s( holar can possess. I had done all that 1 could ; and no man 
 ;s well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. 
 
 'Seven years, my lord, have now past, since I waited in your 
 (iiiiward room, or was repulsed from your door, during which 
 t :nc I have been jnishing on my work through difficulties, of 
 whii h it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to 
 the verge of publication without one act of assistance, one 
 word of encoura'-jernent, or one smile of favour : such treatment 
 1 dul not expect, for I never had a patron before. ... Is 
 not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man 
 who is struggling tor life in the water, and, when he has reached 
 ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice wliich you 
 
 '5 
 
 
226 
 
 Defensive Pride. 
 
 Ikivc been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had 
 been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent and 
 cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary and cannot impart it; till I 
 am known and do not want it. I ho])e it is no very cynical 
 asperit_, not to < onfess obligations where no benefit has been 
 receivetl, or to be unwilling that the publick should consider me 
 a-, owing that to a patron which i'rovidencc has enabled me to 
 do for myself.' 
 
 'l"he conduct of Johnson, on tliis o''{;!sioii. was apjjroved by 
 most manly minds, except that r^ his oublisiivj, Mr. Robert 
 Dotlsley ; Dr. .\dams, a friend of Dudsley, said be was sorry 
 that Johnson had written that celebrated lettc- (a very 
 model (.r polite (oni.cm])t). Dodsiu)- said hu wassonv too, for 
 he had a pn)])crt\- in die Dictionary, to which his lordship's 
 patronage might be uv.hil. He then said that Lord Chester- 
 field had ;>li';'\n hin; the letter. ' I .s'i<uld have though.!,' said 
 Adams, 'that Lord Chest, rfield would have concealed it.' 
 * IV'joh ',' crie!> Dodsley, ' do jo'i think a letter from Johnson 
 could hurt Lord Chesterfield^ oUit al; ir. It lay on bistable, 
 where anyone miglu see ii. lie i(;ad il ui me ; said, "this man 
 his gre;r. powers," pointed out the severest passages, and .said, 
 "liow well they were expressed." ' 'Jlic art of dissimulation, in 
 which Chesterlkld was perfect, liiijiosed on Mr. Dodsley. 
 
 Dr. .'\dams expostulated with the doctor, and said Lord 
 Chesterfield dc< hired he would part with the best servant he 
 had, if he had known that lie had turned away a man who was 
 '■always welcome.' Then Adams insisted on Lonl C'hesterfield's 
 affability, and easiness of access to literary men. But the sturdy 
 Johnson reiilicd, ' .Sir, that is not Lord Chesterfield ; he is 
 the [)roudest man existing.' ' I think,' Adams rejoined, 'I 
 know one thai is jirouder ; you, by your own account, are the 
 prouder of the two." ' Hut mine,' Johnson answered, with one 
 of his hajjpy turns, ' was defensive jiride.' ' This man,' he after- 
 wards said, referring to Cliesterfield, ' I thought had been a lord 
 among wits, but I hnd he is only a wit among lords.' 
 
 In re\enge, ('hestcrfield in his Letters depicted Johnson, it 
 is said, in the rliaracter ot the 'respectable Hottentot.' Aniongsl 
 odier thin:^. he observed of the Hottentot, 'he throws his meat 
 
 -'Xi 
 
en early, liatl 
 different and 
 part it ; till I 
 
 very cynical 
 :fit has been 
 
 consider me 
 nabled me to 
 
 a])))roved by 
 Mr. Robert 
 h\: v, as sorry 
 ttor (a ver)- 
 sonv too, for 
 lis lordship's 
 .ord Chester- 
 hougin,' said 
 oncealed it.' 
 c-m Johnson 
 <,>n his table, 
 id, "this man 
 L;es, and said, 
 simulation, in 
 Ddsley. 
 Ill said Lord 
 ;st servant he 
 man who was 
 Chesterfield's 
 )Ut the sturdy 
 rfield ; he is 
 rejoined, '1 
 :ount, are the 
 red, with one 
 lan,' he after- 
 d been a lord 
 Is.' 
 
 (1 Johnson, it 
 
 .11 . 
 
 ot. . \ iii(ji;|^s» 
 
 'ows liis meat 
 
 
 •K.' n 
 
 pi 
 
 I 
 
 Mt. ,|iillN^M\ A I l.iilUi t IIKSI I Kl li:i II S. 
 
,in\ where 
 
 ^01). wlio 
 
 llottento 
 
 I no cat in 
 
 Such ai 
 
 trovcrsy. 
 
 not ahva) 
 
 iliriTied t 
 
 Karl of ] 
 
 This, as 
 
 within a c 
 
 l,or(l C 
 
 t'.ishion,' t 
 
 [icison, in 
 
 why.' writi 
 
 Hill, 'lull 
 
 their ( oni, 
 
 ['Ose my 
 
 lashionabl 
 
 about geti 
 
 aulhoritv ( 
 
 hy his 1)011 
 
 ^inirklcd w 
 
 NO ouc, 
 
 wii as Lor 
 
 ilicnu'. he 
 
 in numcrc 
 
 tcaretl : h'k 
 
 rank, nor f 
 
 his victim 
 
 ing weapoi 
 
 tleej) into t 
 
 He che; 
 
 every one 
 
 i--! (-unipar 
 
 who had p: 
 
The Glass of Fasliiou. 
 
 227 
 
 inywherc but down his throat.' This being remarked to John- 
 y.ii. who was by no moans pleased at being immortalj/ed as the 
 llnttentot— 'Sir,' he answered, ' Lord Chesterfield never saw 
 me eat in his life.' 
 
 Such are the leading points of this famous and lasting con- 
 troversy. It is amusing to know that Lord Chesterfield was 
 not always precise as to directions to his letters. He once 
 directed to Lord Pembroke, who was always swimming 'I'o the 
 lurl of Pembroke, in the 'I'hames, over against Whitehall. 
 This, as Horace Walpole remarks, was sure of finding him 
 within a certain fathom.' 
 
 I-ord Chesterfield was now admitted to be the very ' gla.ss of 
 fishion,' though age, and, according to Lord Hervey, a hitleous 
 l-rrson. impeded his being the ' mould of form.' • idon't know 
 why.' writes Horace Walpole, in the dog-days, from .Strawberry 
 Hill. ' but people are always more anxious about their hay than 
 their < orn, or twenty other things that cost them more : I sup- 
 pose my Lord Chesterfield, or some such dictator, made it 
 lashionable to care about one's hay. Nobody betrays solicitude 
 ::l)Oiit gelling in his rents.' ' The prince of wiis,' as the same 
 aiiihurity calls him — ' his entrance into the workl was announced 
 l>y his bon-mots, and his closing lips dro])ped repartees that 
 sitarkled with his juvenile fire.' 
 
 No ouc. il was generally allowed, had such a force of table- 
 wit as Lord Chesterfield; but while the ' Craces ' were ever his 
 ihciUL'. he indulged himself without distinction or consideration 
 in numerous sallies. He was, therefore, at once sought and 
 tcared ; liked but not loved ; neither sex nor relationship, nor 
 rank, nor friendship, nor obligation, nor profession, could shiehl 
 ins victim from what I>ord Hervey calls, ' those pointed, glitter- 
 ni,i( weapons, that seemed to shine only to a stander-by, but cut 
 ilccp into those they touched.' 
 
 He cherished 'a voracious appetite for abuse;' fell upon 
 L\ery one that came in his way, and thus treated each one of 
 his companions at the expense of the other. To him Hervev, 
 v.hi) had probably often smarted, applied the lines of lioileau-^ 
 
 ' Mais c'est un p<nit fou qui se croit tout pcmiis, 
 1> qui p'jiur ua bou mot va pcrdru vin^t aiiiii.' 
 
 IS 
 
J2S LoJ-il Sorri.H'rnii'rJis I'rii nJs//!'' for ClustcrfichL 
 
 Iforarc Waljiulc (a iiiorc lenient JUlI.^c ul CI iL^tci field's merits) 
 observes tluit ' Chesterfield took no less pains to lie the pha-nix 
 of fmc gentlemen, I'l.in Tiilly did to (lualify iiimself as an 
 orator. JJoih succeeded : Tully immortalized his name ; < 
 terfield's reign lasted a little longer than that of a fashionable 
 beauty.' Jt was, ])erhaps, because, as Dr. Johnson said, all I.onl 
 Chesterfield's witty sayings were puns, that even his l)rilli,mt 
 wit fiil'd to please, nltlKjugh it amused, and surprised '-• 
 he.i 
 
 .'■. ul>\ " . iiding the contemptuous description of I ,ord Ches- 
 tei field's personal appearance by I-ord Ilervey, his portraits rc- 
 j. resent a handsome, though hard ' ountenance, well-marked 
 features, and his figure and air a|)pear to have l)een elegant. 
 With liis commanding talents, his wonderful brilliancy and 
 fluent y of ( onv • : j.., i.c v ould jierhaps sometimes have been 
 evi n tedious, luul it not been for his invariable cheerfulness, 
 lie was always, as Lord ilervey says, * [resent' in liis comi).iiiy. 
 Amongst the few friends who really loved thi:-. thorough man of 
 the world, was Lord Scarborough, yet no two characters were 
 more opposite. Lord Scarborough had judgment, without wit: 
 Chesterfield wit, and no judgment ; Lord Scarborough had 
 honesty and principle ; Lord Chesterfield h.id neither. ICvery- 
 body liked the one, but did not care for his company. Every 
 one disliked the other, but wished for his company. The firt 
 was, Scarborough was 'splendid and aljscnt.' Chestcrfi'ki 
 ' cheerful and present :' wit, grace, attentiuu to what is passinj.. 
 the surface, as it were, of a highly-cultured mind, produced ■ 
 fascination with which all the honour and respe( tj'iiity in the 
 (.^ourt of Cieorge IL could not ( ompete. 
 
 In the earlier part of Chesterfi 'd's career, Lope, Bolingbroke, 
 Ilervey, L'uly Mary \Vortk\- Montagu, and, in fact, all that 
 could add to tlie pleisures i' i!ie then early dinner table, illu- 
 mined Chesterfield louse b\ their wit an.i gaiety. Yet in the 
 mi>..;.t of this excilin^ life, Lo.d Chesterfield found 'ime to de- 
 vote to the improvement of his natural son, Liiilip oianhope, a 
 grcnl portion of his '''isure. Hi celebrated Letters to that son 
 did Uwi, however, appear during ihc euiTs life , nor were they 
 
 • 1 
 
 w „ 1 
 
 kecj' 
 have 
 
 %,..:.f:M 
 
'crJlcU. 
 
 field's merits) 
 •-• the jjhtcnix 
 imself as an 
 iKiinc ; Ck, 
 I fashionable 
 said, all I-ord 
 his brilliant 
 surprised its 
 
 )f I <)rd ('hcs- 
 ; portraits re- 
 well-marked 
 )een elegant, 
 rilliancy and 
 les have been 
 cheerfulness, 
 his comp.Hiy. 
 rough man of 
 ira( lers were 
 without wit: 
 l)orough had 
 ;her, FAery- 
 )any. Fvery 
 y. The iM'K 
 Chesterfi'ld 
 Mt is passing. 
 , produced ■ 
 ability in the 
 
 Bolingbroke, 
 fact, all that 
 
 ler table, illu- 
 Yet in the 
 
 1 time to dc- 
 btanhope, a 
 
 irs to that son 
 
 or were tncy 
 
 The Death of ClicsU-rficlds . 22. 
 
 ill any way the suur<'e of his popularity as a wii, which wa^due 
 t 1 his merits in that line alone. 
 
 The youth to whom these ' 'ter .^o useful and vi '. so ob- 
 ill tionable, were addressed, ^ intended for a diplomatist. 
 Ill- was the very reverse of h. father: learned, seiisible, and 
 (ii\ : but utterly wanting in the graces, and devoid of elo(|uencc. 
 .\> an orator, therefore, he failed ; aN a man of society, he must 
 .:'-() have ladeil ; and his death, in 17CS, some years before tiial 
 111 his father, left that father desolate, ami disappointed. I'hilip 
 >• mhopc had attained the rank of • iivoy to Dresden, where he 
 ( ■ 'lirc'!. 
 
 I ' sring the t'lve years in which (!hesterfield dragged out a. 
 ■ ■ riiful life after this event, he m.idethc painful discovery that 
 lu had married without (ontuling that s ep to the father tf> 
 . ' '111 he owed so nuu h. 'I'his \x\\\^i have been almost as trying 
 , . liie awkwaril, ungraceful deportment of him whom he 
 ni') irncd. The workl now left Chesterfield ere he had leli the 
 world, lie and his contem])orary Lord Tyr iwley were now oh! 
 .!iid infirm. 'The fct is.' Chesterfield wittily saiil, ' Tyrawley 
 id 1 have been dead t! two years, but we don't choos; to 
 have it known.' 
 
 'Th'- iJath,' be wrote to his friend Dayrolles. 'did me more 
 1. Hid than 1 thought anything could do me ; but all that good 
 liois not amount to what builders call half-repairs, and only 
 kcefis up the sliattered fabric a little longer than it would 
 h.ive '^t()od wiUiout them ; liut take iny word for it, it will stand 
 
 ' :i very little while longer. I am now in my graml climac- 
 t . ;aul shall not com|)lete it. i'ontenelle's last words at a 
 ; .^ 'ted and three \s<t\<t, Jc souffrc iVitrc : deaf and infirm as I 
 ill I can with truth sa\- the same thing at sixty-three. In my 
 ! ' i- idy the strength of our ])assions. and the weakness 
 
 n, iiKit makes us so fond oi life; but when the 
 
 11, r !c and gi\o way to the latter, we grow ' iry of 
 
 be'.i!.;. and willing to withdraw. I do not recommend lius train 
 of serious retlections to you, nor ought you to adopt liiem. 
 . . . You have child' u to educate and i)rovi(' ' .-, you have 
 aii your senses, and ran ciij')\ nil lise eoiiii"::- .n ' neslic 
 
 and social life. I am -very sense isolr. ; n.d ha\ ,, /lUuI ui> 
 
 
 I 
 
^30 
 
 J/is InUrcst in his CraiuhoNS. 
 
 L 
 
 all iny bottoms ; I may lunvvvalk off quietly, wiihoiii missing 
 iior being missed.' 
 
 'J he kiiulness of his nature, ((-rriipted .ns it was i)y a life 
 v.holly worldly, and but little ilhmiined in its * of.rse by rdi- 
 ;;ion. shone now in his care of his two grandsons, the offsininL' 
 "I his lost son, and of their mother. Kugenia St.inhope. To 
 her he thus wrote : - 
 
 •The last time 1 had the pleasure o<- seeing you, I was so 
 t.'ken up m playmg with the boys, that I forgot iheir more im- 
 portant affair.. Ib.w .soon would you have them placed t 
 srhool ? WJien I know your pleasure as to that, I will .send to 
 :^lons; 1- i'eriiy, to j.repare everything for their reception, in 
 the UK ui tune. I he.^ that you will opnp them thoroughly with 
 ' Othes hnen. .vr.. all good, but plain ; and g,^ , nie the amount, 
 whK.h 1 will pay: U>x I <lo not intend, from this lime forwards, 
 tile two boys should cost you une shilling.' 
 
 lie lived, latterly, nuuh at ISlackheath, in iho house which 
 being built on Cn.un laud, has finally become the Ranger's 
 lodge; but whi. h Mill sometimes goes by the name of Chester- 
 held House. Here he spent large .sums, especially on pictures, 
 and cultivated Cantelupe melons; and here, as he grew oltler 
 an.l became permanently allli.ted with deafnes.s, his chief com- 
 panion wa. a useful friend, .Solomon D.iyrolles-one of those 
 indebted hangers-on whom it uas an almost invari,U,le custom 
 to Imd, at that period, in great huuses~and perhaps too fre- 
 (inently in our own day. 
 
 DayroUes, who was employed m the embassy under I.ord 
 San.lwich at the Hague, had always, to borrow Horace \\o\- 
 poles ill-natured expression, ' been a led-captain to the Dukes 
 ol Richmond and Crafton, used to be sent to auctions for them, 
 and to walk in the parks with their daughters, and once went 
 <ry-nursc m Holland with them. 1 le has belonged, too. a good 
 deal to my Lord Chesterfield, to whom I believe he owes this 
 new honour, - thai of being minister at the Hague," as he had 
 before made him black-rod in Irelan.l, and gave the ingenious 
 reason that he had a black fa.e.' JJut the great ' dictator' in the 
 empire of politeness was now in a slow Ivat sure decline Nut 
 long before his death he was visited by Mun.sieur Suard. a 
 
 In 
 
 .1.. 
 
' f ftiNst ,i^o ami RcJwarsc uiy / v^/.' 
 
 -3' 
 
 iKi'il missinj^ 
 
 was by a life 
 n-.rsc by rdi- 
 tho offspring 
 
 "llnpo. 'Co 
 
 ou, I was Ko 
 cir more im- 
 ni \Am'C^\ ' 
 will send to 
 ccplion. Jn 
 >roiighly with 
 .' the amount, 
 nc forwards, 
 
 louse wMch, 
 I lie Ranger's 
 
 ■ of Chester- 
 
 ■ on pictures, 
 grew okler, 
 
 is chief colu- 
 mn e of those 
 able custom 
 aps too fre- 
 
 under I,ord 
 
 lorace ^\'al- 
 
 the Dukes 
 
 )ns for them, 
 
 oiK'c Wri ■ 
 
 , too, a gooi I 
 e owes this 
 " as he had 
 e ingenious 
 :tator' in the 
 ciine. Nut 
 ur Suard. a 
 
 I .1 -.cnlleiu.ui. who w.i-. anxious to see * I' Ih'innic Ic plu< 
 /(•, /(• ////.v" /i'// it /,' ////.*■ spiritiiri i/i:\ /ivis ivytiiiiiits,^ but 
 ulio found him feartully altered; morose from his deafness, yet 
 Mill anxious to jtleaM-. " li is very sad." lie siiil. with his usual 
 |M.iiteness, ' to be deal, when one would so mu( h enjoy listening. 
 I ,uii not,' he viddcd, 'so philosophit as my friem! the I'resident 
 ( M(inles(|uieu, who says, " I know how to be Mind, but I do 
 iMit yet know how to be deaf" ' 'We .shortened our visit,' says 
 M. Su.ird, ' lest we should fitigiie the earl,' • I do not detain 
 \.)U.' said Chtsterfield, 'for I must go and rehearse my tuneral.' 
 h was thus that he styled his daily drive through the streets of 
 London. 
 
 I, on! (.'hesterfield's wonderful memory < ontiiund till his latest 
 hour. As he lay, gasping in the last agonies of extreme de- 
 liilitv.'liis friend, Mr. D.iyrolles, (ailed in to see him half an 
 i Mur before he expired. 'The politeness which had become part 
 of his very nature did not desert the dying earl. He managed 
 to sa\-. in a low voice, to his valet, ' (live Dayrolles a chair.' 
 I his little trait greatly strut k the famous Dr. Warren, who was 
 , I tile bedside of this brilliant and wonderful man. He died on 
 the 24tli of Mart h, 177;,. in the 7i;th year of his age. 
 
 The preaml)le to a < odicil (h'eb. 1 i, 1 773) <ontains the fol- 
 lowing striking sentences, written when the intellet t was 
 impressed with the solemnity of ,that solemn < hange whi( h 
 < omes alike to the unreHircting and to the heart stricken, holy 
 believer : — 
 
 • ! nu)>t Ininihly nromincml my soul lu ilir i-xtcnsive mercy tif that Kfnn.il, 
 Su|iriinc, liitilligcnt Iftinj^ wlio V'iivf it me ; iiiDst iiinu'vtiy at Uie sum: lim<; 
 tU'prtcatiiif,' liih jil>ti(.f. .S.itiiitid with the ]i(imi)Olis (olhes of tli. - hir, of winch 
 I have had an tmcoimnon >lnire, 1 wouhl have no jw)'. "umcm.s oius (lis|)l:i\t(l 
 :t luv funeral, and therefore desire to be buried in tiie next biirying-place to 
 I'.e lil.ico where 1 hhall die, and limit the whole expen-<- (f tny f\meral I" /. I'X).' 
 
 His body was interred, according to his wish, in the vault 
 of the ( haoel in .South Audley Street, but it was afterwards 
 removed to the family burial place in Shelford Church, Not- 
 lingharnshire. 
 
 in his will he left legacies to his servants.* * I consider 
 them,' he said, 'as unfortunate iricnds ■ w.y eqnalH by nature, 
 
 * Two years' wajjesweru left to the serxariK. 
 
 J 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
tr' 
 
 3j3 CJicsicrficld's Will. 
 
 and my inferiors only in the difterence of our fortunes.' There 
 was sometliing lofty in the mind tlvit i)romi)ted that sentenrc. 
 
 His estates reverted to a distant kinsman, descended from 
 a younger son of the first ear! ; an<l it is remarkable, on look- 
 ing through the Peerage of (Ireat I'-ritain, to ])er(:eive how often 
 this has been die r;ise in a race remarkable for the absence of 
 virtue. Interested marriages, vi( ious habits, ])erhaps account 
 for the fu t ; but retributive justice, though it be presum])tuous 
 to trace its course, is everywhere. 
 
 He had so great ;i hon-()r in liis last days of gambling, that 
 in bequeathing his i)OsseN>ions to \\\> heir, as he expected, and 
 godson, Philip Stanhope, he inserts tiiis clause : — 
 
 ' In case inv said ■^o(l-,(.n, Philip Stnnliopr, -.liall at any time licrcinaflcr kfop. 
 or l)f cona-rni-d in k^cpin-; of, anv iaco-lior>e>, or p.n;k of lujiinds, or r.->id.! one 
 night at .Newmarket, that nifamuu-, seniin.iry of ini(|iiity and ill-m.mners, duniii; 
 the course of the race-, there ; or >hall resort to the ^aid races ; or shah lose, ni 
 any one dav, at .inv game orl)et whatMiever, the sum of /^soo, then, in any the 
 cases aforesaid, it i^ nn e\pn-.i will that he, my said godson, shall forfeit am! 
 pav, out of my estate, ihr Mini of ,^.S,ooo to and for the ii>e of the Dean ami 
 Cliapter of We-tniin-l'i'.' 
 
 AVhen we say that Lord Chesterfield was a man who had no 
 friaiil,\\c sum up his character in those few words. Just after 
 his death a small but distinguished party of men dineil to- 
 gether at 'I'opham Peauclerk's. There was Sir Joshua Rey- 
 nolds ; Sir W'ilHam Jones, the orientalist; Lennet Langton ; 
 Steevens ; Hoswell : Johnson. The conversation turned on 
 (larrick, who, Johnson said, had friends, but no frienil. Then 
 15oswell asked, ' what is a friend?' 'One who comforts and 
 supports you, while others do not.' ' Friendship, you know, sir, 
 is the cordial drop to make the nauseous draught of life go 
 down.' Then one of the (omjjaiiy mentioned Lord Chester- 
 field as one who liad no friend: and iioswell said: ' Garrick 
 was pure gold, Init beat out to thin leaf, Lord Chesterfield 
 was tinsel.' And. for once. Johnson did not contradict him.' 
 P.ut not so do we judge Lord Chesterfield. He was a man who 
 ai ted on false principles through life ; and those principles gra- 
 dually undermined everything that was noble and generous in 
 character; just as those deej) under-ground currents, noiseless 
 ■ in their course, work through fmc grained rock, and produce a 
 < hasin. l-'.\er\ tliiim with Chesterfield was self: for self, and 
 
 sell alone, 
 
 t'iie counli 
 
 server us : 
 
 useful au> 
 
 ;he cankei 
 
 e\pedienc 
 
 iiearts of 
 
 alor of th 
 
 ( )ne on 
 
 tcrfield, ai 
 
 llie worldl 
 
 not seek t 
 
 s!i( ( essful 
 
 betters wl 
 
 lii-, odier 
 
 (li-siinulal 
 
 upon the 
 
 nieiit. Th 
 
 Cliesterfu 
 
 li.ive writ 
 
 of exislei 
 
 e\< e!. ant 
 
 were add 
 
 matie car 
 
 leservctic 
 
 Thev 
 ralily ; b 
 written w 
 who rega 
 iiiferiorit] 
 whiKt Wl. 
 the iiiiin 
 styling k 
 Chesterf 
 is iiianil 
 'Talk! 
 
 ev::!!is;itt 
 
 l)e( ted.' 
 
Lcs Manic ns Xohlrs. 
 
 233 
 
 cs.' There 
 Ljntonrc. 
 ndcd from 
 , on look- 
 how often 
 ibsence of 
 )s arrount 
 suni])tuous 
 
 blinif, that 
 iccted, and 
 
 einaft(T keep, 
 or ii'sidt; one 
 iiiiu-rs, (lurinij 
 shnll lose, in 
 ■M, in any the 
 ill forfeil and 
 ho Dean and 
 
 ho had //(' 
 just after 
 1 (\'m\n\ to- 
 >sliua Rey- 
 [ l.angton ; 
 turned on 
 nd. Then 
 niforls and 
 a know, sir, 
 t of hfc go 
 rd Chester- 
 . : ' (iarrick 
 Chesterfield 
 radict hir.i.' 
 a man wlio 
 nciples gra- 
 2;enerous in 
 ts, noiseless 
 [ produce a 
 M- self, and 
 
 self alone, were agreeable (lualilies to be assumed ; for self, w.^s 
 ib.e country to be ser\-ed, bee ause that country jiroteets and 
 serves us : for self, were friends to be sought and cherished, as 
 ...cful auxiliaries, or ]ileasant a<(essories : in the very core of 
 the cankered heart, that advo( ated this corrujiling doctrine of 
 expediency, lay imbelief: that worm which never died in the 
 hearts of so many illustrious men of that period— the refriger- 
 ator of the feelings. 
 
 One only gentle and genuine sentiment jiossessed T.ord Ches- 
 tcil"ield, and'that was his love for his son. Vet in this afiecli()n 
 the worldly man might be seen in mournful colours. He (hd 
 not seek to render his son good ; his sole desire was to see hun 
 stressful : every lesson that he taught him, in those matchless 
 belters which have ( arried ilown Chesterfield's fame to us when 
 !,i. other productions have virtually expired, exjjoses a ( ode of 
 dissimulation which Thilip Stanhope, in his marriage, turned 
 uiion the fluher to whom he owed so much care and advance- 
 ment. These Letters are. in fact, a complete exposition of Lord 
 Chesterfield's character an.l views of life. No other man could 
 li.ive written them ; no other man have conceived the notion 
 of existence being one great elforl to deceive, as well as to 
 LMvl. and of society forming one gigantic lie. It is true they 
 were addressed to one who was to enter the maze of a diplo 
 niatic career, and must be taken, on that account, with some 
 
 loervr.tion. 
 
 Tliey have justly been condemne.l on tlie score of immo- 
 rality ;'but we must remember that the age in which they were 
 written was one of lax notions, especially among men of rank, 
 who regarded all women accessible, either from indiscretion ..r 
 inferiority of rank, as fair game, and acted ac.ordingly. l!ni 
 whilst we agree with one of Johnson's bitterest senten( es as to 
 tlir immorality of Chesterfield's letters, we disagree with his 
 suling liis code of manners the manners of a dancing-master. 
 ( lie>terfield was in himself a perfect instance of what he calls 
 Irs iiiaiiihrs nol'lcs: and this even Johnson allowed. 
 
 'Talking of Chesterfield,' Johnson said, 'his manner was 
 i-voiii'4telv clef'ant. aiv.l h.e h.-ul ninre knowledge than 1 e\ 
 pcc'ted.' lloswell : ' Did you find, sir. his < onverxUion to be ol 
 
 . It 
 
-j4 
 
 Letters to his Sou. 
 
 ;i superior sort?' — Johnson: ' Sir, in the conversation which I 
 liad with him, I liad the l)cst right to siipcriority, for it was 
 upon i)hilology and htcraturc' 
 
 It was well remarked how extraordinary a thing it was that a 
 man wlio loved his son so entirely should do all he could to 
 make him a rascal. And I'oote even contemplated bringinj,' 
 on tlie stage a father who had thus tutored his son ; and in- 
 tended to show the son an lionest man in e\erything else, but 
 practising his father's maxims upon him, and cheating him. 
 
 ' It should be so contrived,' Johnson remarked, referring to 
 P'oote's plan, ' that the father should be the fw/i' sufferer by the 
 son's villany, and thus there would be poetical justice.' 'Take 
 out the inunorality,' he added, on another occasion, * and the 
 book (Chesterfield's Letters to his Son) should be put into the 
 hands of every young gentleman.' 
 
 We are inclined to diifer, and to confess to a moral taint 
 throughout the whole of the Letters ; and even liad the immo- 
 rality been expunged, the filse motives, the deep, invariable 
 advocacy of princi])les of expediency, would have poisoned 
 what otherwise might bj of eltectual benefit to the minor 
 \irtues of polite society. 
 
 I5i;:^r'>^:i3 
 
ion which I 
 
 y, for it was 
 
 it was that a 
 he could to 
 Led bringing 
 ;on ; and in- 
 ing else, but 
 ing him. 
 , referring to 
 iffercr by the 
 tice.' "lake 
 in, 'and the 
 l)ut into the 
 
 moral taint 
 id the immo- 
 p, invariable 
 ve poisoned 
 u the minor 
 
 r iv M -Tnr -ry-rrr-^rr^t ifL jt 
 
 rtrzcr 
 
 ^xx— jx ra :7— 3 1 — .n ii i« n ii ii ii Tri al 
 
 TH K AT, ni: SCAR RON. 
 
 ; ,1-tcrn .\!k'i;ory. - Wlio corner [In--!-' \ M.id I'roak .md itsf 'oiisi'(|iiciic;vs. 
 Making :in Ablni of him. 'I In- .M.i\-l'air of I'aris.— .Scanon's Lament ti> 
 I':Ui>s()n. — 'I'lic Officr of tilt! (Juci-n's Patient. —' (Ji\(; mo a Siinjilc Hi-ne 
 lici 
 
 Ih , 
 
 lie's Deljut.— The S.ul Stor\' of I.a I'.eile Indii'nne. ^Matrimonial Cuiisidei- 
 ations. — ' Scarron's Wife \sin livi- fnr cvir.' I'etits Soupers.- -Scairon's l.nl 
 Moments. — .X Lesion for (jav and i.;v.\\r. 
 
 ':Ui>s()n. — 'I'hc Office of the (Jueens Patient. —' (Ji\e me a Siinjile Hi-lie- 
 
 ice.' Searrons l)e>,::ription of Himself. Iniprovidence and Servility. 
 
 [he Society at Scarron's. -Tlie Witty < dnxersation. — Francoise D'.Xuliit;- 
 !■ ri.il.... Ti,.. <.,! <•,,..,, ,,f I .1 l>..il.. l.wK..ii>i.. M..ir;.<w,.ii ,1 f ',.,,.;, I., ••_ 
 
 Ilh'.Rl", i.s an Indian (jr C'liinese legend, I forget wliiih. 
 from which Mrs. Shelley may have taken her hideous 
 idea of l''rankenslei)i. We are told in tliis allegory 
 th It, after ftshioninir some thousands of men after the most aii- 
 
 jiioved model, endowing them with all that is noble, generous, 
 ;\dtiiiral)]e. and loveable in man or woman, the eastern Proine- 
 tluus grew weary in his work, stretched his hand for the beer- 
 lan, and th'aining it too deeply, lapsed jiresently into a state 
 iA' what Ciernvms call ' other-man-ness.' — There is a simpler 
 .\nglo-Saxon term fur this condition, but I sjiare you. 'i"he 
 eastern Prometheus went on seriously with liis work, ami still 
 I'roduced the same perfect models, faultless alike in brain and 
 leg. But when it came to the delicate finish, when the kist 
 tou( lies were to l)e made, his hand .shook a little, and the more 
 delicate members went awry. It w.is thus that instead of the 
 ])0wer of seeing every colour i)ro[)erly, one man c.ime out with 
 :'. I'air of optics which turned everything to green, and this ver- 
 • '..nu y probably transmitted itself to the intelligence. Another, 
 to ( (jntinue the allegory, whose tympanum had slip[)ed a little 
 111. ler the unsteady fingers of the man-maker, heard everything 
 in a wrong sense, and his hte w.i^ miser.ihie, l;i:cause, if you 
 uig his jiraises, he believed you were ridiculing him, and if 
 
 
2^^6 //// luu/tru Allcii-ory. 
 
 you licapcd abuse U]}on him, lie thought you were telling lies 
 of him. 
 
 ]!ut as I'romcthcus Oricntalis grew more jovial, it seems to 
 ])a\e come into his head to make mistakes on purpose. 'I'll 
 have a friend to laugh with,' (juoth he ; and when warned hy 
 an attendant \aksha, or demon, that men who laughed one 
 hour often wept the ncxl, he swore a lusty oath, struck his 
 thuml) heavily on a. ci'rtain I)ump in tlie skull he was complet- 
 ing, anil holding u]) his little doll, tried, 'Jlere is one who 
 will laugh at eversthing !' 
 
 I must now add what the legend neglects to tell. The 
 model laugher succeeded well enough in his own reign, but he 
 could not beget a large family. The laughers who never wecji, 
 the real clowns (jf life, who do not. when the curtain drops, 
 retiie, after an infnute>imal a]l.)\v;iii( e of "cordial,' to a half- 
 starved, (omphiining fnnily. with lirais that cling round his 
 j)arlicoloured stockings, and cry to him - not for jokes — but 
 tor bre.ul. these laughers, I say, are lew and fir between. You 
 should, therefore, be doubly grateful to me for inlroduc:ing to 
 you now one of the most fnn(jus of them ; one who with all 
 right and title to be higubrious, was the merriest man of his 
 age. 
 
 On .Shrove Tuesday, in the year 163S, the good city of Mans 
 w. in .1 state of great excitement: the ( arnival wa.s at its 
 h .! I ', . ;\body had g()ne mad for one day before turn- 
 
 ing pious for the long, dull forty days of Lent. The market- 
 filled witli maskers in i|uaint costuine.s, each wilder 
 ana niuie extravagant than the last. Here were magicians with 
 high ])eake;d hats covered with cabalistic signs, here Eastern 
 sultans of the medieval model, with very fierce looks and very 
 scimit,!- : here Amadi.-, de daul with a wagging plume a 
 Mgli. ;- Pantagruc!, here harlequins, here Huguenots 
 i Mies more lugubrious than the despised sectaries they 
 d. heie ( ;esar and Pompey in trunk hose and Roman 
 and a mass of other notabilities who were great fa- 
 11 that day, appeared. 
 ;>3t wPr/ conies iiere .■' W iial iri tiie tneanum oi these roars 01 
 .;er that greet the last mask who runs into the market- 
 
ro telling lies 
 
 !, it seems to 
 iirpose. ' I'll 
 n warned Ijy 
 laughed one 
 h, struck his 
 was com])Iet- 
 .' is one who 
 
 to tell. The 
 reign, but he 
 ) never weep, 
 urtain droi)s, 
 il,' to a half- 
 ng round his 
 or jokes — hut 
 ■tween. You 
 itroduciiig to 
 who with all 
 ^t man of his 
 
 . city of Mans 
 al was at its 
 y before turn- 
 
 The niarket- 
 ■;, each wilder 
 lagicians with 
 here Eastern 
 )oks and very 
 ging plume a 
 e Huguenots 
 jctaries they 
 ; and Roman 
 
 ere great fa- 
 
 .iiv-riL- roavs or 
 the market- 
 
 W ho Comes Here ! 237 
 
 jlice? Why do all the women and children hurry together, 
 (.illing up one another, and shouting with delight? What is 
 this thing? Is it some new species of bird, thus covered with 
 feathers and down ? In a few minutes the little figure is sur- 
 rounded by a crowd of boys and women, who begin to ])luck 
 him of his borrowed plumes, while he (hatters to them like a 
 magpie, whisdes like a song-bird, croaks like a raven, or in his 
 natural character showers a mass of funny nonsense on them, 
 till their laughter makes their sides aclic. 'J"he little wreti h is 
 literally covered with small feathers from head to foot, and even 
 his face is not to be recognized. 'The women pluck him be- 
 hind and before; lie dances round and tries to evade their 
 fiiii^ers. This is impossible ; he breaks away, runs dowii the 
 market pursued by a .shouting crowd, is again surrounded, and 
 again subjected to a plucking process. The bird must be 
 stripped; he must be discovered. Little by little his l)ack is 
 hared, and little by little is seen a black jerkin, black stock- 
 ings, and, wonder, \\\)Q\\ wonder! the bands of a canon. 
 Xdw they have cleared his tace of its plumage, and a cry of 
 i;>uust and shame lialls tlie disclosure, ^'es, this curious 
 111 isker is no other than a reverend abbe', a young canon of the 
 (iihedralof Mans! 'This is too much — it is scandalous— it 
 i.> disgraceful. The church must be respected, the sacred order 
 must not descend to such frivolitie.s.' 'I'he peoj)le, lately Uuigh- 
 iii-'. a-e now furious at the shameless abbe and not his liveliest 
 \\\\. can save him ; they threaten and cry shame on him, and in 
 terror of his life, he beats his way through the crowd, and takes 
 to his heels. The mob follows, hooting and savage. The little 
 man is nimble ; those well-shaped legs — qui out si bicn dansc — 
 stand him in good stead. Down the streets, and out of the 
 the town go hare and hounds. The pursuers gain on him— a 
 l>ridge, a stream filled with tall reeds, and delightfully miry, are 
 all the hope of refuge he .sees before him. He leaps gallantly 
 from the bridge in among the oziers, and has the joy of listen- 
 ing to the disappointed curses of the mob, when reaching tii 
 stream, their ([uarry is nowhere to be seen. 'l"he reeds conceal 
 h.im, and there he lingers ti'i nightfall, when he can issue from 
 
 ^>&M 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 is lurking-place, and escape from the town. 
 
'3'*^ ^l JA??/ Freak and its Consequences. 
 
 Such was the mad frcik which deprived the Abbe Scarroii 
 oflhc use of his hnibs for Hfe. flis health was already ruined 
 when he indulged this caprice ; the vlamp of the river brought 
 on a violent attack, which closed with palsy, and the gay young 
 alihc had to i-ay dearly for the pleasure of astonishing the 
 ( iti/ens of Mans. 'I'he <lisguihe was easily accounted for — he 
 had smeared himself with !ione\-, ripped open a feather-bed 
 and rolled himself in it. 
 
 This little incident gives a good idea of what Scarron was in 
 his younger days— ready at any time for any wild caprice. 
 
 Paul Scarron was the son of a Conseiller du Parlement of 
 •good funily, resident in I'aris. lie was Lorn m 1610, and his 
 early days would have been wretched enough, if his elastic 
 spirits had allowed him t" give way to misery, liis father was 
 a good natured, weak-miiided man, who on the death of his 
 first wife married a second, who, as one hen will peck at 
 another's diicks. w(MiId not. as ;i step-mother, leave the little 
 i'aul in ]iea(:e. She was ( onliniially putting her own children 
 forwarti, anil ill treating the late 'anointed' son. The father 
 gave in too readii}-, and young Paul was glad enough to be set 
 free iVom his unhappy home. There may be some excuse in this 
 for the licentious living to whi< h he now gave himself up. He 
 was heir to a decent fortune, r.nd of course thought him.self 
 iustified in sjiending it before-hand. Then, in spite of his 
 (|uaint little figure, he had something attractive about him, for 
 his merry face was gooddooking, if not positively handsome. 
 If we add to this, sjjirits as buoyant as an Iri^lmian's— a mind 
 that not only s.iw the ridiculous wherever it existed, but could 
 turn th.e most soleum and ;iwfi!l themes to laughter, a vast deal 
 of goodnature, and not a little assurance—we can understand 
 that the young Scarron was a favourite with both men and 
 women, and among the reckless pleasure-seekers of the day 
 soon became one of the wildest. In short, he was a fast young 
 Parisian, with as little care for morality or religion as any youth 
 who saunters on the Boulevards of the l'"rcn( h caj.ital to this day. 
 lUit his stepmother was not content with getting rid of young 
 Paul, but had her eye also on his fortune, an<l tlierefore easily 
 persuaded her husband tiiat the service of the church was pre- 
 
J/d/^'i/zj;- an Abbi- of Him. 
 
 239 
 
 jbd Scarron 
 ready mined 
 iver brought 
 
 ic gay young 
 Jiiishing the 
 I ted for — he 
 feather-bed, 
 
 irron was in 
 :iprice, 
 '.irleiiient of 
 J 10, and his 
 his elastic 
 b father was 
 leath of his 
 ■ ill peck at 
 
 e the little 
 wii chiltlren 
 
 'I'he father 
 ^h to be set 
 cuse in this 
 -•If up. He 
 ght himself 
 ])ite of his 
 )ut him, for 
 
 handsome. 
 I's — a mind 
 , but could 
 a \ast deal 
 understand 
 I men and 
 of the day 
 
 fast young 
 i any youth 
 to this day. 
 d of young 
 
 h was i)rc- 
 
 (isely the career for which tlic young reprobate was fitted. 
 There was an uncle who was Bishop of (irenoble. and a canonry 
 ( ould easily be got for him. The fast youth was compelled to give 
 in to this arrangement, but ileclined to take full orders ; so that 
 while drawing the revenue of his stall, he had nothing to do 
 with the duties of his calling. Then, too, it was rather a 
 fishionable thing to be an abbe, especially a gay one. The 
 jjosition placed you on a level with people of all ranks. Half 
 the court was composed of love-making ecclesiastics, and the 
 .-outa/tc was a kind of diploma for wit and wickedness. Viewed 
 in this light, the church was as jovial a profession as the army, and 
 the young Scarron went to the full extent of the letter allowed 
 to the black gown. It was only such stupid superstitious louts 
 .IS those of Mans, who did not know anything of the ways of 
 i'aris life, who could object to such little freaks as he loveil to 
 
 nululge m. 
 
 'I'he merry little abbe was soon the delight of the Marais. 
 This distinct and antii^uated (juarter of Pans was then the May- 
 lair of that capital. Here lived in ease, and contempt of the 
 hourgeoisie, the great, the gay, the ( ourtier, and the wit. Here 
 Marion de Lorme received old C^ardinals and younj; abbes ; 
 liLie were the salons of Madame de Martel, of the Cumtesse de 
 i I Sii/.e, who changed her ( reed in order to avoid seeing her 
 husl)and in this world or tlienext, and the famous —or infamous 
 
 Ninon de I'Enclos ; and at these houses young Scarron met 
 tile courtly SaintT'lvren.iond, the witty Sarra/.in, and the learned 
 I'Ut arrogant "^'vilure. Here he read his skits and jiarodies, 
 here travestietl Viri,:', made epigrams on Richelieu, and poured 
 tiai his intlelicate but alwa}s laughable witticisms. But his 
 indulgenct.s were not confined to intrigues ; he also drank deej), 
 /M I there was not a pleasure within his r.ach which he ever 
 tiu/aght of denying hi.p.self. I'c 'aughed at religion, thought 
 morality a nuisance, and resolveci i s • merry at all costs. 
 
 I'he little account was brought ii> .' . l.'.st. At the age of five- 
 .i!id-twenty his constitution was broken up. (lout and rheuma- 
 ti>.in assailed him alternately or in leasli. He began to feel the 
 ;!!inoyance of tlie constraint th.ey os'casioned ; he regretted 
 those legs which liad figured so well in a ronde or a minuet, 
 
 
 ^?3 
 
 =1 
 
240 
 
 The Mav-I'ci'u' of Paris. 
 
 !'. 
 
 and those luinds wliiih Iiad jilaycd the lute to dames more fair 
 tlian modest ; and to add to this, the pain he suffered was not 
 shjj;ht. ile sought rehcf in i;,iy society, and was cheerful in 
 spite of Iiis sufferings. .\t length came the Shrove Tuesday 
 and the feathers ; and the consecpienccs were terrible. Me was 
 soon a prey to doctors, whom lie believed in no more than in 
 the church of whi( h he was so great a light. His legs were no 
 longer his own, so lie was obliged to borrow those of a chair. 
 He was soon lucked down into a sjjecies of dumlvwaiter on 
 castors, in which he could be rolled about in a ])art\. In front 
 of this chair was fastened a desk, on which he wrote ; for loo 
 wise to be overcome by his agony, he drove it away by cultivating 
 his imagination, and in this way some of the most fantastic pro- 
 ductions in I*'renc:h literature were composed by this quaint 
 little abbe. 
 
 Nor was sickness his only trial now. Old Scarron was a 
 cili/en, and had, what was then < riminal, sundry ideas of the 
 liberty of the nation. He saw with disgust the tyranny of 
 Richelieu, and joined a parly in the Parliament to o])pose the 
 cardinal's measures. He even had the courage to speak openly 
 against one of the court e<licls; and the jiitiless cardinal, who 
 never overlooked any olTence, banished him to Touraine, and 
 naturally extended his animosity to the conseiller's son. This 
 happened at a moment at which the cripi)le believed himself to 
 be on the road to favour. He had already won that of Madame 
 de Haudefort, on whom Louis XHI. had set his affections, and 
 this lady had jiromised to ])resent him to Anne of Austria. The 
 father's honest boldness ])ut a stop to the son's intended servility, 
 and .Scarron lamented his fate in a letter to Pellisson : 
 
 ■ () niille i^cus, p.nr ni.nlhciir retranch(''s, 
 Que vous ])oiivifz in'ciiar^ncr dc pccln's ! 
 Quaiid nil v.ikt mi' dit, tr"inl)lant ct have, 
 Nous n'avoiis plus iV-' tiutlics dans la civc 
 (^ue pour allcr jUM|u .1 dfinain matin, 
 Ji' ])cstc aliirs sur nion cliicn dc di'Stin, 
 .Sur Ic grand froid, .sur le l)ois de la kt'-vc, 
 (,)u'oa VL-nd si clicr, ct (|ui si-tot s'atiicM;. 
 Jf juiv aUirs, ft menu- je im'dis 
 I )o laitiim lie mon ];t're etourdi, 
 Quaiid sans sunder :'i ce (|uil allait fairc 
 \\ mcbautha sons un nstre cunir.iiri-, 
 \'\ m aclieva par nil d'sO(inr> mandit 
 (.>uil fit depnis sur im certain edit. 
 
les more fair 
 .■rod was not 
 
 clicerfiil in 
 vc Tuesday 
 le. He was 
 iiore tlian in 
 L'gs were no 
 J of a chair. 
 il)-waiter on 
 y. In front 
 )te ; for too 
 y^ riiltivating 
 mtastic pro- 
 
 this quaint 
 
 rron was a 
 (leas of tilt- 
 tyranny of 
 oj)pose the 
 :)cak openly 
 irdinal, who 
 )uraine, and 
 son. This 
 d himself to 
 of Madame 
 ections, and 
 istria. The 
 ed sen-ility, 
 11 : 
 
 77/c- Office of the Onccifs Palimt. 241 
 
 I he father died in exile : his second wife had spent the 
 greater part of the son's fortune, and secured the rest for her 
 own children. Scarron was left with a mere i)ittance-, and, to 
 ( oniplete his troubles, was .involved in a lawsuit about the pro- 
 perty. The crip[)le, with his usual impudence, resolved to 
 plead his own cause, and did it only too well ; he made the 
 judges laugh so loud that they took the whole thing to be a 
 firce on his i)art, and gave — most ungratefully --judgn)ent 
 ;ig,iinst him. 
 
 (llorious days were those for the penniless, halcyon days for 
 the toady and the sycophant. There was still much of tlie old 
 iificntal munificence about the court, and sovereigns like Ma/.a- 
 \.w and Louis XIV'. granted pensions for a copy of tlattering 
 \^■r^L■s, or gave away places as tlie reward of a judicious speech. 
 ^nct ures were legion, yet to many a holder they were no sine- 
 I iiis at all, for they entailed constant servility and a com[)lete 
 ,;i'li( ation of all freedom of opinion. 
 
 Scarron was nothing more tlian a merry buffoon. Many 
 nnolher man has gained a name for his mirth, but most of them 
 have been at least independent. Scarron seems to have cared 
 lor nothing that was honourable or dignified. He lauglied at 
 ' vcrylhing but money, and at that he smiled, though it is only 
 i lir to say that he was never avaricious, but only caretl for ease 
 :in(l a little luxury. 
 
 When Riclielieu died, and the gentler, but more subtle Ma/a 
 iin mounted his throne, .Madame de Hautefort made another 
 Uvrnpt to present iier //•('/('v/' to the (|ueen, and this time suc- 
 'xdcd. Anne of Austria had heard of the i|uaint little man 
 wiio ( ould laugh over a lawsuit in which his whole fortune was 
 >takcd, and received him graciously. He begged for some 
 iluc to support him. ^Vhat coukl lie ilo ? Wliat was he fit 
 i'l? ' Nothing, your majesty, but the important office of The 
 Hueen's Patient ; for tiiat I am fully (pialified.' Anne smiled, 
 iHiil Scarron from that time styled himself ' par la grace de Dieu, 
 I'j inalade de lalReine.' 15nt there was no stipend attached to 
 liiis novel office. Mazarin jjrocured him a pension of 500 
 < rowns. He was then publishing his'Typhon. or the C.igan- 
 loniachy,' and dedicated it to the cardinal, with an adulatory 
 
 16 
 
 
 ^ 
 
242 ' Give VIC a Simple Jicncficc! 
 
 sonnet. He forwnnled tiie grt-it man a splendidly bound . )i)y 
 whi<li was accepted with nothinj; more than thanks. In a rage 
 the author suppressed tlie sonnrt and substitiite<i a s.nirc. 'I'his 
 l)iece was bitterly ( uttin^', and lerril'y true. It galled Mazari ^ 
 to the heart, and he was undignified enough to revenge himself 
 by cane illing the ])i)or littli- pijnsion of /,"6o j)er annum which 
 had [-iwiously been grantcil to the writer. Scarron having lost 
 his pension, soon afterwards asked for mi . '-bey, but was re- 
 fused. 'Then give nie,' said he, 'a simple bciufice, so sim])le, 
 indeed, that all its duties will be (•onn)rised in bilieving inCiod.' 
 Jiut Scarron had the satisfaction of gaining a great name among 
 the cardinal's many enemies, and v, idi i.one m^re so than De 
 Ret/., then coaiijutiitr-' to the Archbishop of Pans, and already 
 deeply implicated in the I'"ronde movement To insure the 
 favour of this rising man, .S( arron determiii I to dedicate to 
 him a work he was just al)out to publish, and on which he 
 justly prided himself as by far his best. This was the ' Roman 
 Comique,' the only om: of his prothu lions which is still read, 
 'i'hat it should be read, I can (piite understand, on account not 
 only of the ease of its style, but of the ingenuity of its ii^ 
 probable plots, the truth of the characters, and the charm ,^ 
 bits of satire which are found here and there, like gems amid a 
 m;iss of mere fun. 'j'he scene is laid at Mans, the town in 
 which the uithor had himself jierpetrated his chief follies . and 
 many of the characters were ])robably drawn from life, while it 
 IS likely enough that some of the stories were taken from facts 
 wi ;r!i had there come to his knowledge. As in many of the 
 runi mces of that age. a number of episodes are introcUiced into 
 thi main story, whii h consists of the adventures of a strolling 
 company. These are mainly amatory, and all indelicate, while 
 some are as coarse as anything in French literature. Scarron 
 had little of the clear wit of Rabelais to atone for this ; but he 
 makes up for it, in a measure, by the utter absurdity of some 
 of his incidents. Not the least ( urious \y\\\. of the book is the 
 l*refu-e, in which he gi\ es a description of himself, in order to 
 contradict, as he atfirms, the extravagant reports circulated 
 
 Coadjutciir. — \ liiirh oflk 
 
 > (■ !- 
 
 Ii of Run 
 
 .,;ki',|1 li 1, 
 
 or that his 1 
 might ' phic 
 .,h() hon lur 
 
 [lei imen ol 
 in old trans 
 • 1 .Ull p 
 Chair. If 
 
 ntny Misfo 
 Lij^ht or nil! 
 was not to 
 My .Sicknes 
 M)inev 'lat ti 
 cnougii, in ; 
 
 '■ a body c 
 li) stand in 
 I'roverb. \ 
 they are of 
 illy Head tl 
 (111 tl'.at Sidi 
 wjiich in thi 
 .ire now o! 
 h.i\e till 
 h.ue lo.>'i (11 
 iulf precise 
 ^niii(.'\vhat ( 
 •'.r-it pl.ice. 
 1 i-itly an aci 
 Mead, lean 
 not very uii 
 .IS my Legs 
 1 :;m a li\in 
 ' ii give it, 
 tiiee sometl' 
 Courteous ] 
 al the Re<i 
 iHjing afraid 
 ii'Jt g've V>\\ 
 
 
ount, )]))'. 
 
 In a rage 
 tire. 'I'his 
 :(1 Mazari ; 
 igo himself 
 num which 
 liaving lost 
 )ut was re- 
 
 so simple, 
 iig in (lod.* 
 mic among 
 10 than De 
 nd already 
 insure the 
 ietlicate to 
 1 which he 
 \c ' Roman 
 s still read, 
 crount not 
 
 of its in 
 i ctiarn; i^ 
 ?ms amid a 
 lie touri in 
 allies and 
 fe, while it 
 I from facts 
 lany of the 
 •diiced into 
 
 a strolling 
 icate, while 
 \ Scarron 
 lis ; but he 
 ;ty of some 
 book is the 
 in order to 
 
 circulated 
 
 • -I I Tabic 
 :-;<-• of 
 
 k 111' mv 
 how 
 
 Si'arrotis Description of Himself. 243 
 
 iiout him, to the cfK ' wis set up' .1 table, in a cage, 
 
 ( that his hat was faslcneii lo the ceiling by a pulley, th.it ho 
 iiiiuht * pluck it tip or let it down, to do rom[>[iment to a friend, 
 ,, ho honoured him with a visit." This desrripiioii 
 
 jiccimen of hi 'vie, and we give it in the (ju lin^ 
 .in old trans!ati> . publi- 1 in 1741 : 
 
 •[ .im past thirty, as ny'st see by the 
 
 Chair. If I li to be foriv. i hall atld the Loru k 
 ;n,iny Misfortunes to those I have already suffered fui these 
 eight or nine \'ears past. There was a Time when my Stature 
 wMs 11 )l to i.e found lault with, tho' now 'tis of the smallc t. 
 My .Sickness has taken nie slu , ler by a l-'oot. My 11 1 is 
 Mjmewhat too big, consiilering my HciL;i * . and my Face is full 
 cnou^ii, in all Conscience, for one that carries ->uch a Skeleton 
 ,1 body about him. I have Hair enou •• < ^ • He id not 
 ; I stand in need of a I'enike; and 'tis .u;i\ \\\ si)ite of the 
 
 I'lovcrl). My Sight is good enough, tho' cs .ire large; 
 
 ihey are of a blue Colour, anil one of them -,unk deeper into 
 my Head than the other, which was occasionM by my leaning 
 i)n tluit Side. My Nose is well enough mounted. My 'I'eeth, 
 whidi in ti ■■ Days of Vore look'd like a Row of sipiare I'earl, 
 
 re nowd, 1 Ashen Colour; and in a few Years more, will 
 h,i\e the ( oniplexion of .1 Small-coal Man's Saturday Shirt. 1 
 'i,i\c !o>i (iiic Tooth and a half on the left Side, nd two and a 
 ii.ih precisely on the right; and 1 have two more that stand 
 M)iiie\vh.it out of their Ranks. My Legs and Thighs, in the 
 :.rst place, (ompose an ol.-tuse Angle, then a right one, and 
 lastly an a( ute. My Thighs and Body make another; and my 
 llc.ul. le.ming ])erpetuall}- over ni\- l!eli}, I fuv m.ikes me 
 not very unlike the Letter Z. My Arms are shorleiu 1, as well 
 ■I.-- my l,egs ; and my Fingers as well as my Arms. In short, 
 I .ni a living I'lpitome of human Misery. This, as near as I 
 " ii give it, is my Shape. Since 1 am got so far, I will e'en tell 
 t:iee something of my Humour. Unde; the Rose, be it sjiokcn, 
 Courteous Reader, I do this only to ^well the IJalkof my book, 
 at the Re<[uest of the Bookse" -the j^oor Dog, it seems, 
 I'cmg afraid he should be a Losei by this Impression, if he did 
 iioi g;ve Buver enoutih for his Mone^'.' 
 
 \G -2 
 
 1?" 
 
 AttM 
 
 ::3! 
 
 '*3 
 =1 
 
 
MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART 
 
 ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No 2 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 1.25 
 
 ' 111= 
 !||:12 
 
 .: m 
 
 '" 140 
 
 1.4 
 
 [12.5 
 2.0 
 
 1.8 
 
 1.6 
 
 ^ APPLIED IMAGE 
 
 Last Mar 
 iter. New 
 
244 IinfTovidcucc ami Sir-i'i/itv. 
 
 'i'his allusion to the jiuhlislu-r rcmiiitls us ihnt. )n the sup- 
 pression of his pension- on lienrinj^ of whidi Scirron only 
 said, ' I should like, then, to sup]>ress niyself-he had to live 
 on the profits of his works, lii later days it Mas Madame 
 Hrarron herself who often carried them to the l^ookseller's, when 
 there was not a ])enny in the house, 'i'he ]iul'lisher was (^uinet, 
 and the merry wit, when asked when< e he drew his income, used 
 to rejily with nioi k hauL;htines-^. ' De iiion Manjuisat <le (,)uinet.' 
 His comedies, whiih ha\e been de^crihed as mere burlesfjucs — 
 I confess I lune never re.id them, and hope to be absolved— 
 were successful enough, ami if Scarron had known how to keep 
 what he made, he might sooner or later have been in easy cir- 
 cumstances. T le knew neither that nor any other art of self- 
 restraint, and. therefore, was in perpetual \i( issitudes of riches 
 anil penurv. At oiu- liiae he could attord to dedicate a piece 
 to his sister's i^reyhound. at another he was ser\ile in his address 
 to some prince or duke. 
 
 In the latter spirit, he hnniMtd himself before Ma/arin. in 
 spite of the public ilion "i his ' Ma/arinade,' ancl was. as lie 
 might have expected, repulse cl. lie then turned to P'oiKpiet, 
 the new Surintendant de Financ-es, who was liberal enough, with 
 the ])ublic money, which he so freely embe/zlecl, and extracted 
 from him a pension of i,6oo francs (about ^{,"64). In one way 
 or another, he got bac k a part of the property liis stepmother 
 hacl alienated from him, and o!)tained a prebend in the diocese 
 of Mans, which made uji his income to something more re- 
 speciable. 
 
 lie UMS now able to indulge to the utmost his love of societv. 
 \\\ his apartment, in the Rue St. Louis, he received all tlie 
 leaders of the broiide, he.uled by De Ret/, nd bringing with 
 them their ]Ms<iuinailes on .Ma/arin, which the easy Italian read 
 and laughed at and pretended to heed not at all. Politics, 
 however, was not the stajile of the conversation at .Scarron's. 
 lie was visited as a c urio>ity. as a clever buftbon, and those 
 who came to see, remained to Kiugh. He kejjt them all alive 
 by his co.use, e.isv. impudent wit ; in which there was more 
 valg-irlty and dirliiuss than ill-nature. He had a fund of hit- 
 /huiniiir, which set his \i->itors at their ease, for no one was 
 
The Society at Scarroiis. 
 
 245 
 
 It. )n the siip- 
 S(arr(/n only 
 ic had to live 
 \\as Madame 
 ik seller's, when 
 icr was ( )uinet, 
 is income, used 
 isat dc (Jiiiiict.' 
 c l)urlcs(iuc.s — 
 1)0 absolved- 
 .•n how to keep 
 I'll in easy cir- 
 u-r art of self- 
 udes of riches 
 dicate a pieie 
 : in his address 
 
 re Ma/arin, in 
 nd was, as lie 
 d to T'ouijUL-t, 
 "al cnougli with 
 
 and extracted 
 
 In one way 
 
 liis stepmother 
 
 in the diocese 
 
 love of society, 
 ceived all the 
 
 bringing with 
 sy Italian read 
 
 alL I'olitics, 
 1 at Scarron's. 
 Jon. and those 
 them all alive 
 ere w.is m^re 
 I fund of Nm- 
 r no one was 
 
 .iiMid of being bitten by the cliained dog they came to pat. 
 Ill- salon became famous ; and the admission to it was a di- 
 ploma of wit. He kept out all the dull, and ignored all the 
 simply great. Any man who could say a good thing, tell a 
 in)()d story, write a good lampoon, or mimic a fool, was a welcome 
 uuot. \Vits mingled with pedants, courtiers with poets. Abbes 
 and gay women were at home in the easy society of the cn])ple, 
 .::A circulated freely round his dumb-waiter. 
 
 Hie ladies of the parly were not the most respectable in 
 1 .ris. yet some who were models (;f virtue met there, without 
 .. ^'audder, many oUiers who were patterns of vice. Ninon de 
 'IikIos— then young — though age made no alteration in 
 .\\m\ alreadv slaving lier scores, and ruining her hundred-. 
 (.!' iduiirers, there met Madame de .Se\igne. the most res[)ect- 
 ,::^ie. as well as the most agreeable, woman of that age. Ma- 
 .ienioiselle de Scudery, leaving, for the time, her twelve-volume 
 romance, about Cyrus ami Ibrahim, led on a troop of Moliere's 
 I'lcueuses Ridicules, and here recited her vers..s. and talked 
 i-edantically to I'ellisson, the ugliest man in I'aris, of whom 
 1;- 'v-au wrote : 
 
 ' L'or ni(}inL' a Pellisson dunne un teint de bcauto.' 
 
 Then there was Madame do la Sal)here, who was as masculine 
 :i- her husband the mar([uis was elYeminale ; the Duchesse de 
 I.i MJiuuieres, wlio was so anxious to be thouu,nt a wit that she 
 employed the Chevalier de Mere to make her one ; and the 
 Comtesse de la Su.ze, a clever l)ut foolisli woman. 
 
 The men were poets, courtiers, and jiedants. Menage with 
 his tiresome memory. Montreuil and Marigni the song-writers, 
 the elegant De Grammont, Turenne, Coligni, the gallant Abbe 
 'I'ctu, and many another celebrity, thronged the rooms where 
 Scarron sat in his (airious wheelbarrow. 
 
 The conversation was decidedly light ; often, indeed, obscene 
 in spite of the ])resence of ladies ; but always witty. TI10 hos- 
 tility of Scarron to the reigning cardinal was a great recom- 
 mendation, and when all else tlaggeil, or the cripple had an 
 unusually .sharp attack, he had but to start with a line of his 
 'Ma/.arinade,' and out came a fresh lamp)Oon, a new caricature, 
 or fresh rounds of wit fired off at the Italian, from the well-filled 
 
 1 
 
24<'> 
 
 The Witly Convii'saiiou. 
 
 cartridge-boxes of the guests, many of whom kejjt their inots 
 ready made iij) for dischnrge. 
 
 I'.ut a ( hange came o\rr the sjiiril of the i)aralytic's dream. 
 In the Rue St. Louis, close to Scarron's, \\\<^(\ a (.ertain Madame 
 Neuillant, who visited him as a neigldjour, and one day excited 
 liis curiosity by tlie romantic liistory of a mother and daughter, 
 who had long lived in Martini(iue, who had been ruined by the 
 extravagance ;in(l follies of a reprobate husband and father; 
 and Were now living in great ])overty — the daughter being .sup- 
 ])orted by Madame de Neuillant herself. The good-natured 
 cripi^le was touched l)y tliis story, and begged his neighbour lo 
 bring the unhappy ladies to one of his ]>arties. The evening 
 <ame ; the abbe was, as usual, surrounded l)y a circle of lady 
 wits, dressed in die hist fisl'.ions, tlavmting their far.s, and laugh- 
 ing n)errily at his s:illies. Madanv.- ('e XeuiUant was announced, 
 and entered, followed by a simply-dressed lady, with the melan- 
 choly face of one broKen-down by misfortunes, and a j)rettygiH 
 of fifteen. The (ontrast between the new-comers and 'the 
 fashionable habititccs around him at once struc k the abbe. The 
 girl was not only badly, but even shabbily dressed, and the 
 shortness of her gown sliowed tliat she had grown out of it, 
 and could not alVord a n.ew one. The :^ya!uh-s dames turned 
 upon her their eye-glasses, and whisjjcred c-omments behintl 
 their fans. She was very i)retty, they said, very interesting, 
 elegant, ladylike, and so en; l)ut, /(//Mv/ .' how shamefully 
 jiial iiiisi ! The newcomers were led up to the cripple's dumb- 
 waiter, anil the i^raiidts danics drew Ixxck their ample petticoats 
 as they i)assed. The young girl was overcome with shame, 
 their whispers reached her; she cae,<- n her pretty eyes, and 
 growing more anil more confused, si ^uld bear it no longer, 
 and burst into tears. The abbe and his aiests were touched by 
 her shyness, and endeavoured to restore her confidence. Scarroa 
 liimself leant over, and whispered a '^kiw kind words in her ear;- 
 then breaking out into some happy pleasantry, he gave her time 
 to recover her con.posure. Such was the first debut in Parisian 
 society of Framjoise d"Aul)ignL', who was destined, as Maiiame 
 S(-arron, to be afterwards one ot its leaders, and, as Madame 
 de Maintenon, to be its ruler. 
 
'pt tlicir mots 
 
 lytic's dream, 
 tain Madame 
 e day excited 
 md dauglittT. 
 ruined by the 
 1 and fathci ; 
 ;er being siip- 
 goo(bnature(l 
 neighbour lo 
 Tlie evening 
 •ircle of lady 
 ;s, and laugh- 
 is announced, 
 th the nielan- 
 l a pretty girl 
 lers and 'the 
 c abbe'. The 
 sed, and the 
 \\\ out of it, 
 hviirs turneil 
 nrnts behind 
 y interesting, 
 w shamefully 
 ipple's dumb- 
 |)le petticoats 
 with shame, 
 tty eyes, and 
 it no longer, 
 e louched by 
 nee. Scarron 
 Is in her ear; 
 :ave her time 
 'i in Parisian 
 as Madame 
 as Madame 
 
 'i3 
 
u 
 
 set 
 
 and 
 finis 
 bcci 
 she 
 
 l.LT 
 

 Fraii(oisc <rAiihii^iic's Debut. 24J 
 
 Some people are cursed with had sons some with errini; 
 <laiiL,'hters. Fran^oise d'Auhi^ne w:is loni^ the vi( tim :A' ix wi( ked 
 l.ither. Constans d'Auhigne belonged to an old anil honourable 
 f.unily, and was the son of that lamous old Huguenot general. 
 ThJodore-Agrippa d'Aubigne, who fought for a long time under 
 Henry of Navarre, and in his old age wrote the history of his 
 times. To counterbalance this distinction, the son Constans 
 brought all the discredit he could on the family. After a reck 
 loss life, m which he squandered his patrimony, he married a 
 rich widow, and then, it is said, contrived to pu. ..er out of the 
 way. He was imprisoned as a murderer, but ar<iuitted for want 
 of evidence. 'I'he story goes, that he was liberated by tlie 
 daughter of the governor of the gaol, whom he had seduced in 
 tlie ])rison, and whom he married wlien free. He sought to re- 
 trieve his fortune in the island of Martinique, ill-treated his 
 wife, and eventually ran away, and left her and her children to 
 their fate. They followeil him to Fran« e, and found him again 
 incarcerated. .Madame d'Aubigne was foolishly fond of lier 
 good-for-nothing spouse, and lived with him in his cell, where 
 the little Franeoise, who had been l)orn in prison, was now 
 
 educated. 
 
 Rescued from starvation by a worthy Huguenot aunt, .Madame 
 (le Vilette, the little girl was brought up as a Protestant, and a 
 very stanch one she proved for a time, but Madame d'Au- 
 bigne, who was a Romanist, wc^uld not allow her to remain 
 long under the Calvinist lady's prote( tion, and sent her to l)e 
 converted bv her godmother, the Madame de Neuillant above 
 mentioned. This woman, who was as merciless as a woman 
 can be, literally broke her into Romanism, treated iier like a 
 servant, made her groom the horses, and comb the nviid's hair, 
 and when all these efforts failed, sent her to a convent to be 
 finished off. The nuns did by specious reasoning what had 
 been begun by persei ution, and young Franeoise, at the time 
 she was introduced to Scarron, was a highly respectable mem- 
 ber of ' the only true church.' 
 
 Madame d'Aubigne was at this time sui)porting herself by 
 needlework. Her sad story won the sympathy of Scarron's 
 guests, who united to relieve her wants. Aa hclU Fndiaitu\ as 
 
 3 
 
 1 
 
24.S 
 
 Matriiiioiiial Considcratious. 
 
 
 v. 
 
 the (•rii)i)lo styled her, soon became a favourite at his jiarties. 
 ami lost her shyness l)y degrees. Ninon de rKnclos, who did 
 not want heart, took her by the hard, and a friendship tllll^ 
 (oinnienced between that inveterate Lais and the future wiir 
 of Louis XIV. which lasted till death. 
 
 'I'he beauty of l-'ranc/oise soon brought her many admirers, 
 among whom was even one of Ninon's slaves ; but as marriage 
 was not the objec I of these attentions, and the young girl would 
 not relin(|uisi) lier virtue, she remained for some time unmarried 
 Init res!)e(table. Srarron was ])arti( ularly fon<l of her, and well 
 knew that, portionless as she was, the ])Oor gni would have but 
 little chance of m.aking a match. His kindness touched her, 
 his wit (harmed her: she jiitied his int'irmilies, and as his 
 neighbour. fre(iuently saw and tried to console him. On the 
 other hand the < ripple, though forty years okl, and in a state 
 of health which il i^, imiiossible to describe, fell positively in 
 love with the young girl, who alone of all the ladies who visite.l 
 him combined wit with j.erfec t modesty. He jiitied her desti- 
 tution. 'I'lu re was mutual pity, and we all know what passion 
 that feeling is akin to. 
 
 Still, for a paralytic, utterly unfit for marriage in any point of 
 view, to ofler to a Ijeautiful young girl, would have seemed 
 ridiculous, if not unpardonable, liut let us take into account 
 the difference in ideas of matrimony l)etween ourselves and the 
 I'Vench. \\'e must remember that marriage has alwa}s been 
 regardetl among our neighbours as a contract for mutual benefit, 
 into which the consideration of money of necessity entered 
 largely. It is true that some fjualities are taken as ec}uivalenls 
 for actual cash : thus, if a young man has a straight ami well- 
 cut nose he may sell himself at a higher price than a young man 
 there with the hideous i)ug : if a girl is beautiful, the maniuis 
 will be content with some thousands of francs less for her 
 dower than if her hair were red or her complexion irreclaimably 
 brown. If Julie has a pretty foot, a jtv/A- waist, and can ])lay 
 the i)iano thunderingly, or sing in the charmingest soprana, her 
 ten thou.sand francs are (luite as acceptable as those of stout, 
 awkward. -Inm-faced Jeannette. The faultless boots and ycl- 
 
Iiis i)artics. 
 )s, who (lid 
 ndsliip thus 
 
 future wile 
 
 y admirers, 
 as marriage 
 ■^ girl would 
 e unmarried 
 er, and well 
 Id have but 
 jurhed her, 
 and as his 
 n. (_)n the 
 in a state 
 )Osilively in 
 who visited 
 I her desti- 
 IkU ])a.ssion 
 
 ny point of 
 Lve seemed 
 ito account 
 ves and the 
 lwa)s been 
 iial benefit, 
 ity entered 
 cfiuivalents 
 t and well- 
 young man 
 iie mar(|uis 
 :ss for her 
 ■e( laimably 
 .1 can play 
 iprana, her 
 e of stout, 
 
 * Srarro/i's Wife '.'ill live for I\:'ii\ J4<) 
 
 ' A kids of young Adoli)he ( ounlerbalance the somewhat apo 
 • ixjihal vicomte of ill-kempt and ill-attired Henri. 
 
 Hut tlien there must be uuiir fortune. .\ iMLiichm.ui is so 
 ;i';. h in the habit of expet ting it. that he thinks it alm<»l ,i 
 cane to f.dl in love where there is none, i'lauf.'oise, pretty, 
 (lever, agreeable as she was. was penniless, and even worse, 
 ^'k' was the daughter of a man who had been imprisoned on 
 
 :s:.i(ion of murder, and a woman who h.nl gained Iut li\eli 
 b\- needlework. .Ml these consider.itions made the f.im y 
 
 • tiic merry' abbe K'ss ridiculous, and I'Vamjoise her.^elf. being 
 . ;lii( iently versed in the ways of the world to underst.md the 
 <ii>,idvantage under whi( h she laboured, was less ama/e<l and 
 (1; j'lsted than another girl miglil have been, when, in due 
 . the cripple offered lur himself and his duDib-w.iiler. 
 iie h.id little more to give his pension, a tiny iufoun' from 
 liii |irebend and his Manjuisat de (Juinet. 
 
 'i'he otter of the little man was not so amusing a-, other ei)i- 
 
 -!(s of his life, lie went honestly to work; represented to 
 
 r what a sad lot would hers be, if Madame de Neuiilant died, 
 
 •A what were the temptations of beauty without a penny, 
 iiis arguments were more to the point ll in delicate, and he 
 talked to the young girl as if she was a woaian of the world. 
 S'.in. she acce])te(l him, cripple as he was. 
 
 M.idame de Neuiilant made no ol)jection, for she was only 
 
 ' ) gbal to be rid of a l)eauty, who ate and drank, but did not 
 iiiarrv. 
 
 < >u the making of the rontra(n. Scarron's fun revived. When 
 •i^ked by the notar}' what was the young lady's fortune, he re- 
 'lied : ' Four louis, two large wicked eyes, one fine figure, one 
 
 ar of good hands, and lots of miml.' 'And what ' j you give 
 lur?' asked tlie lawyer. — 'Immortality,' replied he, .vith the 
 
 I- (if a bombastic poet. ' The names of the wives of Kings die 
 ' ith them — that of Scarron's wife will live for ever 1' 
 ilis marriage obliged him to give up his canonry, which he 
 
 M to Menage's man-servant, a little bit of simony which was 
 not e\en noticed in those days. It is amusing to find a man 
 "!;o lauglicil at al! religion, insisting that his wife should make 
 a fiirnial avowal of the Komish faith. ()i the character of this 
 
 •'•■•.■■I 
 
 1 
 
u 
 
 250 Pit its Sou fact's. 
 
 inarria.yc wc iic'd s.iy i-.o mnrc th.m tli.it Si jrron luul at th.u 
 time tlu- US' fif 110 mure than his eyes, tongue, and hands. Vet 
 such was then, as now, the idea of matrimony in Fiancx>, that 
 the youn<,' lady's friends conHdercd her fortunate. 
 
 Hrarron in hjve was a picture whiih ama/.ed and amused the 
 whole society of Paris, hut .Scarron married was still more < urious. 
 'I'he (]ueen, wlien she heard ot' it, slid that Krancoise would he 
 nothing I)ut a useless hit of furniture in his h.oun'. .^he proved 
 not only the most useful appendage he could have, hut the sal- 
 vation alike of his soul and his reputation. The woman who 
 charmetl Louis XIV. by her good sense, had cn(»ugh of it tu 
 see .Scarron's faults, and prided herself on reforming him as far 
 as ii w.is iiossihle. Her luiNluind had hitherto been the great 
 Nestor of inde!i(a(y, ..nd v.Iv.-n he was indiKed to give it up. 
 the rest followed his examjile. Madame .S-arron ( heckcd the 
 licence of the al)l)e's conversation, and even worked a 'benefi- 
 cial change in his mind. 
 
 The joviality of their parties still continued. Scarron had 
 always heen funoiis for liis/^7/A- soupos, the fashion of which 
 he introduced, Inil as his po\erty would not allow him to give 
 them in proper style, his Iriends made a pic-nic of it, and ea(h 
 one either brought or sent his own dish of ragout, or whatever 
 it might be, and his own bottle of wine. 'I'his does not seem 
 to li;i',e been the case after the marriage, however ; for it is re- 
 lated as a proof of .M.idanu; Scarron's con\ ersational powers 
 that, when one evening a j)oorer supper than usual was served, 
 the waiter whispered in her ear, ' 'i'ell them another story. 
 Madame, if you please, for we have no joint to-night.' Stil! 
 both guests and host could well ntford to disjjense with the 
 coarseness of the (ripple's talk, which might raise a laugh, but 
 must sometimes h ive caused disgust, and the young wife of 
 sixteen succeeded in making him purer both in his conver.sation 
 ami his v.-ritings. 
 
 'i'he household she entered was indeed a villainous one. 
 Scarron rather gloried in his early delin(iuencies, and, to add 
 to this, his two sisters had ( haracters far from estimable. One 
 ol thern ii;;d been maiil of honoiu- to lue Princesse de Coiili, 
 but had given up her api)ointment to become the mistres-s of 
 
n liad al tli,;t 
 1(1 hands. W[ 
 II l-'ranrc, lli.u 
 
 id aimiSL'd the 
 i more curious, 
 oisc would be 
 .She proved 
 c. hill the sal- 
 .' woman who 
 lough of it to 
 \\v^ him as far 
 iccn the great 
 to give it uji, 
 1 « licckcd the 
 rkcd a ])cnefi- 
 
 •Scarroii had 
 hion of which 
 V him to L;i\(. 
 f it, and each 
 t, or whatever 
 loes not seem 
 " ; for it is ra- 
 tional powers, 
 d w.is scrvoil, 
 mother story, 
 j-night.' Still 
 lense with the 
 
 a laugh, but 
 young wife of 
 s conver.sation 
 
 illainous one. 
 s, and, to add 
 imable. One 
 >se de Conli, 
 e mistress of 
 
 Scarrons Ins I Monicts. 251 
 
 1! • Dur de Trcmes. Tlie I. Higher laughed even at his sister's 
 dishonour, and allowed lur to live in tlic same house on a 
 higher (V</;r. When, on one occasion, some one (ailed on him 
 to solicit the lady's interest with the duke, he coolly said, ' Von 
 are mistaken ; it is not I who know the duke; i;o uj) to the 
 ne\t storey,' The oflspring of this connection he styled ' his 
 nephews after the fashion of llu- Mar.iis.' Krancoise di<l her 
 b, -4 to reclaim this si-itcr and to tomcil her ^llanlc. but the 
 laughing abbe' made no si( ret of it. 
 
 Hut the laugher was apjiroaching his end. Ili> atlat k-. be 
 (v.iue more and more violent: still he laughed at them. Once 
 he was seized with a lerrib>le choking hiccup, whirh threatened 
 tn suftb( ate him. The fust moment he could speak he tried, 
 • ir I get well. I'll write a satire on the hi(cup.' Tlie prie-t-. 
 lame about him, and his wife did wii.it she couhl to bring iiim 
 to a sense of his future danger. He laughed at the priests and 
 at his wife's fears. She s])oke of hell. 'If there is such a 
 place.' he answered, ' it won't be for me. for without you I must 
 have had my hell in this life.' The jiriests told him. by way of 
 consolation, that '(iod hid visited him more than any man." 
 ' He does me too much honour,' answered the moi ker. ' \'ou 
 should give him thanks.' urged the e(-clcsiastic. ' I can't see 
 for what,' was the shameless answer. 
 
 ( In his death-bed he jiarodied a will, leaving to Corneille 
 •two hundred pounds of patience ; to IJoileau (with whom he 
 had a long feud), the gangrene; and to the .\(adem>, the 
 power to alter the French language as they liked.' His legai y 
 in verse to his wife is grossly disgusting, and (luile unfit for 
 <Iuotation. Yet he loved her well, avowed that his chief grief 
 in dying was the necessity of leaving her, and begged her to 
 remember him sometimes, and to lead a virtuous life. 
 
 His last moment ^vere as jovial as any. When he saw his 
 friends weeping ar« 11 1 id him he shook his liead and cried, 'I 
 shall never make you weep us much as I have made you laugh.' 
 A little later a softer thought of hope <-ame across liim. ' No 
 more sleeplessness, no more gout,' he murmured ; ' the Queen's 
 patient will be well at last.' At length the laugiier was sobered. In 
 the {)resence of death, at the gates of a new world, he muttered, 
 
 1 
 
-5- ^? LiSsoH for (Jiiv and (have. 
 
 li.ilf afraid, ' I never ihouglit it \\\b so tasy to laugh at doaih,' 
 and so cxpirtd. This was 'v\ C)ttobcr, iCCo, when the cripple 
 had reached the age of fifty. 
 
 Thus died a laugher. Il i^ iiniitt (.ssaiy here to trace the 
 story of his widow's strange rise to he the wife of a king. Scar- 
 niii was no honcnir to her, and in later years she tried to forget 
 his existence, lioileau fell into (lis-i.u .• for merely mentioning 
 his name before the king. Vet Jjciinm was in many respects 
 a better man than l.ouis; and, l.mgher as he w , he had a 
 good heart. There is a time for mirth and a time for mourning, 
 the I'reat her tells us. .Si arron never learned this truth, and 
 he' l.iiiglied too niudi and too long. Yet let us not end the 
 laughers life in sorrow : 
 
 ' it ; u. H t 1 iv mrrn' ami wise,' &x. 
 
 I -el us be merry as the poor < ripple, who bore his sufferings so 
 well, and let us be wise loo. Tliere is a lesson for gay and 
 grave in the life of Scarron, the laugher. 
 
 
,rVNM 
 
 ;Ii at death,' 
 J the cripple 
 
 lo trace the 
 king. Scar- 
 ier 1 to forget 
 iiK-iitioniii^ 
 ;iny respects 
 , he had a 
 >r mourning, 
 IS truth, and 
 lot end the 
 
 r)ini(.'ruigs so 
 for gay and 
 
 
 
 IRANCOIS Die |)i: I A KOCIII I ol ( \| I r 
 AM) 'rili: Die hi, SAINISIMON. 
 
 .1 I (.-(111 lirccdinp. '111.- II.'.n! ('„■ kmh i.-inc and his 
 
 ri.ivs- l^a Knclu-fiiiKMiiIt"! Wit .111(1 Si'tisilnlily Sam' Simon's Youth. ■ 
 l.uokiiii^om (ir a Wife. .Saim-Siriiun > t.'uurt Lite. 1 li. History of Ijiuist; 
 'li' l.i Vallii'Tiv A nuMii All of l.miU <,)iiatnr/i-. All hai puhM-il a\va\ 
 N unt-SJmons Memoirs of Hi-, Uuii 'liiiu'. 
 
 Ill", precursor of Saint Simon, the moilel of land 
 Chcsterfiehl, this ornament of his age, belonged, as 
 well as Saint-Simon, to tliat state of society ';. 
 1 lance which was characterised as Lord JdIui Russell, in his 
 • Memoirs of the Duchess of Odeans,' tells us hy an idolatry 
 cif power antl station. '(loti would not contlemn a person cf 
 tl'.it rank,' was the extlamation of a lady of the old lixn/ir, on 
 I'.earing, that a notorious sinner, ' I'air de l-'ranre,' and one 
 '.iKiws not what else, had gone to his account impenitent and 
 unabsolved ; and though the sentiment may strike u.s as profane, 
 it was, doubtless, genuine. 
 
 Rank, however was often adorned by accomjilishmeius 
 '■\iu( h, like an exemjjtion from rules of conduct, it almost 
 < laiuied as a j)rivilege. (iood-breeding was a science \n Franc c ; 
 u itural to a peasant, even, it was studied as an ejjitome of all 
 the social virtues. ' N't'irc /^as /,»//' was the siun total of all 
 disprai.se : a man c:ould only rec:over from it by splendid valour 
 or rare gifts; a woman could not ho[je to rise out of that 
 Slough of Despond to which good breeding never came. We 
 Were behind all the arts of c ivili/ation in KngKuul, as Franc;ois 
 <;^ i^ociielOUeauil (we gi\e tiie otliiugrapiiy oi i.iie [iresent day) 
 ^vas in his cradle. I'his l)rilliant personage, who comljined the 
 
 T4 
 
 :r3 
 
 "*&» 
 
 T 
 
 I 
 
1u 
 
 
 -54 /u7Ji/i and Good Breed i/ii^. 
 
 wii ;iii(l the moralist, the courtier ami the soldier, the man of 
 literary tastes and the sentimentalist /<?;- fAr-^/Zr/Av, was born in 
 i6i_:5. In addition to his hereditary title of due, he had the 
 I'Uipty honour, as Saint Simon call it, of heinj; I'rinre de Mar- 
 ^!!la(•, a designation which was lost in that oi JJc/a Roclu-foucaull 
 so famous even ttj the j.resciu da}'. As he presented himself 
 ;!t the court of the regeiu y, over whidi Anne of Austria nomi- 
 nally presided, no youth there was more distinguished for his 
 elegance or for the fune of liis e.\|)loits during the wars of the 
 iMonde than this youthful S( ion of an illustrious house. En- 
 dowed l>y nature with a pleasing countenance, and, what was 
 tar more important in that fastidious region, an air of dignity, 
 he displayed wonderful contradii lions in his character and 
 hearing. He had. say> Madame de Maintenon, ' bcaucoup 
 (i\-sprit, tt pen dc srrroir :' an exjjre^sive jihrase. ' Me was,' she 
 adds, 'pliant in nature, intriguing, and cautious ;' nevertheless 
 siie ne\er, siie declares, jxjsse^sed a more steady friend, nor one 
 more < on Tiding and belter adapted lo advise. P.rave as he was, 
 he held i)ersonal valour, or affei led to do so, in light eslimaiion. 
 His ambition was to rule (jther-^. Lively in conversation, 
 tliough naturally pensive, he assembled around him all that 
 Paris or Versailles could present of wit and inti'Ilec I. 
 
 'I'hc old Hotel de Rochefoucault, in the Rue de Seine, in 
 \\w h'aubourg St. Cermain. in Paris, still grandly recalls the 
 a.-.^emblies in wlii( h Racine. iJoileau. Madame de Sevigne. the 
 La hayettes, and the famous Duchesse de Longueville, used to 
 assemble. The time honoured family of De la Rochefoucault 
 still p'.esidc there ;■ though one of its fairest ornaments, the 
 young, lovely, and pious Duchesse de la Rochefoucault of our 
 time, died \\\ 185 - - one of tlie fu-sl known victims to diphtheria 
 in I'Yance, in that unchanged old locality. There, where the 
 De Longuevilles, the Mazarins, and those who had formed the 
 famous council of state of Anne of Austria had disappeared, the 
 poets and wits who gave to the age of Louis XIV. its true 
 brilliancy, collected around the Due tie la Rochefoucault. What 
 a scene it must have been in tho.^e day.s, as Buffon said of the 
 earth in s[iring ' tout Jour-niiHe if.- vie !' Let us pco'ile the salon 
 
 ^'{ the Hotel de Rochefoucault will 
 
 1 visions of the past ; see 
 
r, the man of 
 , was born in 
 :, he had the 
 rince de Mar- 
 Rocht'foiicaiill 
 ented himself 
 Austria nomi- 
 lished for his 
 le wars of the 
 
 house. Ha- 
 nd, what was 
 lir of dignity, 
 :haracter and 
 on, ' bcaiicoup 
 lie was,' siie 
 
 nevertheless 
 iend, nor one 
 ie ;is lie was. 
 It esliiiKuion. 
 conversation, 
 him all that 
 t. 
 
 de Seine, in 
 \; recalls the 
 St'vigne', the 
 \'ille, used to 
 ochefoucault 
 laments, the 
 icault of our 
 ^0 diphtheria 
 J, where the 
 1 formed the 
 ippearcd, the 
 dV. its true 
 icault. ^Vhat 
 : s:iid of the 
 lie the sales;! 
 le past ; see 
 
 Tin- Hotel dc RocJu-foujivill. 255 
 
 tiic host there, in his chair, a martyr to the gout, which he bore 
 witii all the cheerfulness of a Frenchman, and ])icture to our- 
 >clves the great men mIio were handing him his cushion, or 
 standing near hh/tuiitui/. 
 
 Racine's joyous face may be imagined as he comes in fresh 
 from the College of llarcourt. Since he was born in 1639. he 
 had not arrived at his zenith till l,a Rochefoucault was almost 
 ])asl his ])rime. l'"or a man at thirty-six in I'" ranee can no 
 longer talk prospectively of the departure of youth ; it is gone. 
 A single man of thirty, even in Paris, is ' //// ricux i^tvxo/i .-' life 
 l.cgins too soon and ends too .soon with those pleasant sinners, 
 the I'Vench. And Racine, when he was first routed out of 
 Tort Royal, where he was educated, and j. resented to the 
 whole Faubourg St. (iermain, beheld lii> patron, l,a Rochefou- 
 <anlt. in the jiosition of a disappointed man. An early advcu- 
 tun- of his youth had humbled, perliaps, the liost of the IbJiei 
 (le Rochefoucault. At the battle of St. Antoine, where he had 
 distinguished himself, 'a musket-ball hat] nearly deprived hiuKU" 
 .sight. On this t^ccasion he IkkI .pioted these lines, taken 
 i:o!u the tragedy of '.-//< v/,-.' It must, however, be pre- 
 mised that the famous Duchess de bongiieville h;id urged hiin 
 to engage in the wars of the I'londe. To her these lines were 
 addressed : — 
 
 ' Pour nii'-ritiT son ciinir, pour jil.iiic .i ms Iumiix vctiv, 
 J'ai fait la guerre au.\ Rois, je laurais laitc aux (licux." 
 
 But now he had broken off his intimacy with the thichesse, 
 ani! he therefore parodieii these lines: — 
 
 • Pour CO cr^'ur 'mconst int. (ju'ciifiii jo conn.ii.', mioux, 
 J'ai fait 1.1 guerre aux koi>. leii ai perdue les yeux.' 
 
 Nevertheless, La Rochefoucault was still the giv, ( harming, 
 ^vuty host and courtier. Racine composed, in 1660, his ' A'ymj'hc 
 •/■ Sd/u\' in honour of the marriage of I,ouis XIV., and was 
 then brought into notice of those wI;ose notice was no empty 
 <'>nip!inient, such a.s, in our day, illustrious dukes j)ay to more 
 illustrious authors, by asking tliem to be jumbled in a ( rowd at 
 
 ui-.^ ....t,, Hit roOr-.-. .-.re bej.;!n:;ing lO cuw. V, e eaten, as 
 they may, the shadow of a dissohing v/ater-iee, or see the exit 
 
 ifca 
 
 1 
 
;6 
 
 Nncim' a ml liis Phi vs. 
 
 
 of an iin;Utainal)le tray of ne,L;us. No; in the days of Racine, 
 as in those of Halifax and Swift in I'lngland. solid fruits grew 
 out of Ailsome praise ; and Colhcrt. then minister, settled a 
 pension of six hundred llvres. as francs were called in those 
 days (twenty-four jjounds), on the i)0et. And with this the 
 former pupil of Port Royal was f:iin to be < ontent. Still he 
 was so poor tliat he alinost went into the church, an uncle offer- 
 ing to resign him a priory of his order if he would become a 
 regular. He was a candidate for orders, and wore a sacerdotal 
 dress when he wrote the tragedy of ' Theagenes,' and that of 
 the ' l-'reres Mnnemis.' the subject of which was gi\en him hv 
 Moliere. 
 
 He continued, in si)ile of a (luarrel with the saints of Port 
 R(\val, to produce noble dramas from time to time, but quitted 
 theatrical pursuits after l>ringing out (in 1O77) 'l^hedre,' that chcj- 
 (Paii-iic not only of its author, but. as a ])erformance, of the 
 unhappy but gifted Rachel. ('orneille was old, and Paris 
 looked to Racine to suppl\^ his jiku e, yet lie left the theatrical 
 world for ever. Racine had been brought up with deep religious 
 convictions ; tliey could not, however, ])reserve him from a 
 mail, unlawful attachment. He loved the actress Champmesle : 
 but repentance (ame. He resolved not only to write no more 
 plays, but to do jienance for those already given to the world. 
 He was on the eve of becoming, in his penitence, a Carthusian 
 friar, when his religious director advised marriage instead. He 
 humbly did as he was toUl, and united himself to the daughter 
 of a treasurer for l'"ran( e, of Amiens, by whom he had seven 
 ihildren. It was only at the recjuest of Madame de Maintenon 
 that he wrote ' Mslher' for the convent of St. Cyr, where it was 
 fust acted. 
 
 His death was the result of his benevolent, sensitive nature. 
 Having drawn up an excellent pajier on the miseries of the 
 ]icoi)le, he gave it to Madame de Maintenon to read it to the 
 king. Louis, in a transport of ill-humour, said, ' ^Vhat ! does 
 he supi^ose because he is a poet that he ought to be mini.stcr 
 of state?' Racine is s.u<l to have been so wounded by this 
 s;ecch that lie was attacked by a fever and died. His decease 
 
lays of Ra( ill,, 
 iolid fruits grew 
 lister, settlcMl , 
 called in tho^• 
 I with this tilt 
 itent. Still lu- 
 , an uncle offcr- 
 ould become a 
 )re a sacerdotal 
 ;s,' and that of 
 given him by 
 
 saints of I'urt 
 
 me, but (luittcd 
 
 edre,' that <■/•(/- 
 
 rmancc, of the 
 
 M, and Paris 
 
 "t the theatrical 
 
 1 deej) religious 
 
 ,e himi from a 
 
 Champmeslc : 
 
 write no more 
 
 I to tlie world. 
 
 L', a Carthusian 
 
 e instead. He 
 
 ) the daughter 
 
 he had seven 
 
 de Maintenon 
 
 r, where it was 
 
 nsitivo nature. 
 
 liseries of the 
 read it to the 
 ' ^Vh:lt ! does 
 
 to be minister 
 
 unded Ijv this 
 Ills decease 
 
 La Rochcfoncaulfs Wit and Sensibility. 257 
 
 took place in 1699, nineteen years after that of La Rochcfou- 
 (ault, who died in 16S0. 
 
 Amongst the circle whom La Rochefoucault loved to as- 
 semble w' :n oileau, Despreau.x, and .\Lidame de Sevigne— 
 the one whi ;. wit and the other whose grace completed the 
 delights of that salon. A life so prosperous as I,a Rochefou- 
 ( auk's had but one cloud —the death of his son who wa.s killed 
 (luring the jiassage of the French trooi)s over the Rhine. We 
 attach to the ( haracter of this accomplished man the charms 
 of wit ; we may also atld the higher attractions of sensibility. 
 Notwithstanding the worldly and selfish character which is 
 hreathed forth in his ' ALa.xims and Retlections,' there lay at 
 the bottom of his heart true piety. Struck by the death of a 
 neighbour, this sentiment seems even on the point of being 
 expressed ; but, adds Madame de Sevigne, and her i)hrase is 
 untranslatable, ' il nest pas cj/leun-: 
 
 All has passed away : the Fromtc has become a memory, not 
 a realized idea. Old jjcople .shake their head.s, and talk of 
 Richelieu ; of his gorgeous jjalace at Rueil, with its lake and 
 Its i)rison thereon, and its mysterious ilungeons, and its avenues 
 nf chestnuts, and its fine statues; and of its cardinal, smiling, 
 whilst the worm that never dieth is eating into his very heart ; 
 a seared conscience, and playing the fine gentleman to fine 
 kuhes in a rich stole, and with much garniture of costly lace : 
 whilst beneath all is the hair shirt, that type of penitence and 
 san( lity which he ever wore as a salvo against all that {)assion 
 and ambition that almost burst the beating heart beneath that 
 hair shirt. Richelieu has gone to his fathers. Mazarin comes 
 on the scene; the wily, grasping Italian. Ik- too vanishes; 
 and forth, radiant in youth, and strong in power, comes Louis, 
 and the reign of politeness and periwigs begins. 
 
 I he Due de Saint Simon, perhaps the greatest portrait- 
 I'ainter of any time, has familiarized us with the greatness, the 
 httlenes.s, the graces, the defects of that royal actor on the 
 ^tage of Europe, whom his own age entitled Louis the Great. 
 A wit, in his writings, of the fust order- if we comi)rise under 
 '• 5e heaa of wit the deeijcat discernment, the most penetrating 
 ''atire —Saint-Simon was also a soldier, philosopher, a reformer, 
 
 17 
 
 ii 
 .-f 
 
!58 
 
 Saifii' Sifuon's Youth. 
 
 ^^ t:' 
 
 
 
 a Trap])ist, and, cvcnliuilly, a devotee. Like all young men who 
 wishecl for court favour, he began by fighting : Louis cared little 
 for car[)et knights. He entered, however, into a scene which 
 he hns chronicled with as niU( h fidelity as our journalists do 
 a police rei)ort, and .sat ([uietly down to gather observations- - 
 not for his own fame, not even for the amu.sement of his chil- 
 dren or grandchildren- but for the edification of posterity yet 
 a century afar off his own time. 'I'he treasures were buried 
 until 1829. 
 
 A word or two about .Saint Simon and liis youth. At nine- 
 teen he was destined by his mother to be married. Now every 
 one knows how marriages are managed in J'rance, not only in 
 the time of Saint Simon, but even to the present day. A mother 
 or an aunt, or a grandmother, (;r an experienced friend, looks 
 out ; lie it for son, be it l\)r daughter, it is the business of her 
 life. She looks and slie finds : family, suitable ; fortune, con- 
 venient ; person, y^.M■ ma/ ; principles, Catholic, with a due ab- 
 horrence of heretics, especially English ones. After a time, 
 the lady is to be looked at by the unhappy ///'Av/^/// ,• a church, 
 a mass, or vespers, being \ery often the opiiortunity agreed. 
 The victim thinks she will do. The piroposal is discussed by 
 tlictwo mammas ; relatives are called in ; .ill goes well ; the con- 
 tract IS signed ; then, a measured acciuaintance is allowed : but 
 no Htcil-tiics; no idea of love. ' \Vhat ! so indelicate a sentiment 
 before marriage ! J.et me not hear of it,' cries mamma, in a 
 sanctimonious panic. 'Love! (Ji/f/A- Ir/isy.'' adds f/nm />ar. 
 
 lUit Saint-Simon, it seems, had the Ajlly to wish to make a 
 marriage of inclination. Rich, /'ij/r dc France, his f.uhev — an 
 oKl roue, who had l)een page to Louis XIIL—dead, he felt ex- 
 tremely alone in the world, lie cast about to see whom he 
 could select. The Diu- de licauvilliers had eight daughters; a 
 misfortune, it may be thought, in France or anywhere else. 
 Not at all : three of the young ladies w^re kept at home, to be 
 married ; the other I'lve were at once disposed of, as they passed 
 the unconscious age of infancy, in convents. Saint-Simon was, 
 liowever, disappointed. He offered, indeed ; first for the eldest, 
 \vb,o was not th'.'n. fiib.'-.'P. v-.;h"s old ; ;!ni! tliidin-'' (hat she had, ?. 
 \-ocation for a conventual life, went on to the tliird, and was 
 
 tures 
 
ling men who 
 ;is cared little 
 scene which 
 Durnalists do 
 )servations- - 
 It of his chil- 
 posterity yet 
 were buried 
 
 h. At nine- 
 Now every 
 , not only in 
 ly. A mother 
 friend, looks 
 siness of her 
 fortune, con- 
 ith a due ab- 
 \fter a time, 
 '// , a church, 
 mity agreed, 
 discussed by 
 /ell ; the con- 
 illowed : but 
 L^a sentiment 
 mamma, in a 
 Is inv?t pen: 
 \ to make a 
 is father — an 
 (1, he felt ex- 
 ec whom he 
 daughters ; a 
 lywhero else. 
 Imme, to be 
 s tliey passed 
 it Simon was, 
 nr the eldest, 
 \?d she had a 
 lird, and was 
 
 S(iiii(-Sii>ioii\s- Court Life. 259 
 
 going through the whole family, when he was convinrcd that 
 his suit was impossible, 'i'he eldest daughter happened to be 
 a disciple of I'enelon's, and was on the very eve of being vowed 
 to heaven. 
 
 Saint Simon went off to La Trappe, to console himself for his 
 tlisapi-ointment. I'here had been an old intimacy between 
 Monsieur I,a Trappe and the father of Saint-Simon ; and this 
 friendship had imluced him to buy an estate close to the ancient 
 abbey where La Trappe still existed. The friendship became 
 hereditary ; and Saint-Simon, though still a youth, revered and 
 loved the penitent recluse of A'vA' ,/// I'iJatitc, of which l.aniar- 
 tiiie has written so grand and .so poetical a description. 
 
 Let us hasten over his marriage with Mademoiselle de Lorge.s, 
 who proved a good wife. It wasi this time a grandmother, the 
 Marechale de J,orges, who managed the treaty; and Saint- 
 >\mo\\ became the happy husband of an innocent blonde, with 
 a majestic air, though only fifteen years of age. Let us hasten 
 on. jtassing over his presents; his six hundred louis, given in a 
 • urbcille full of what he styles 'gallantries;' his mother's dona- 
 tion of jewellery ; the midnight mass, by which he was linked 
 to the child who scarcely knew inm ; let us lay all that aside, 
 .md turn to his court life. 
 
 At this juncture Louis XIV., who had hitherto dressed with 
 ,^ivat simplicity, indicated that he desireil his court should ap- 
 pear in all possible magnificence. Instantly the sIiojjs were 
 I in;. tied. Even gold an<l silver a])pcared scarcely rich enough. 
 I oil!, himself planned many of the dresses for any public occa- 
 ^;i m. Afterwards he repented of the extent to which he had per- 
 iiuited magnificence to go, but it was then imjjossible to check 
 the excess. 
 
 \ ersailles, henceforth in all its grandeur, contains an apart- 
 ni.'iu which is called, from its situation, and the opportunities 
 It presents of looking down upon the actors of the scene around, 
 /- (hil dc Bceuf. The revelations of the (Eil de Bceuf, during 
 ihe reign of Louis XV., form one of the most amazing pic- 
 tures of wickedness, venality, power misap[)lK"d, genius pol- 
 !-ited, that was ever drawn. I\o one that reads that miamous 
 b'lok can wonder at the revolution of 1789. Let us conceive 
 
 17-2 
 
 
 :*«« 
 
 
26o The History of Lonisc dc la Vallicrc. 
 
 Saint-Simon to have taken his stand here, in this region, pure 
 in the time of Louis XI \'.. comiiaratively, and note wo down 
 his comments on men and women. 
 
 He lias journeyed up to <(nirt from I, a Trappe. which has 
 fallen into confusion and ijuarrels, to whic h the most saintly 
 precincts are peculiarly liable. 
 
 The history of .Mademoiselle de la \'al'iere was not, as he 
 tells us, of his time, lie hears (jf her death, and so indeed 
 does the king, with emotion. She expired in 1710, in the Rue 
 St. Jac(jues, at the ("armelite convent, where, though she was in 
 the heart of Paris, her set lusion from the world had long been 
 complete. Amongst the nuns of the convent none was so hum- 
 ble, so ])enitent, so chastened as this once lovely Louise de la 
 Valliere, now, during a weary term of thirty-five years. ' ^Llrie 
 de la Misc'ricorde.' She had tied from the scene of her fall at 
 one-and-thirty years of age. 'I'wice had she taken refuge among 
 the 'blameless vestals.' whom she envied as the broken-si)irited 
 envy the passive, l-'irst, she escajjed from the torture of wit- 
 nessing the king's passion for Afadame de Montespan, by hiding 
 herself among the Iknedicline sisters at St. Cloud. Thence 
 the king fetched her in ])erson, threatening to order the cloister 
 to be burnt. Ne.xt, Lau/.un, by the command of Louis, sought 
 her, and brought her avcc main Jortc. The ne.xt time she fled 
 no more ; but took a ])ublic farewell of all she had too fondly 
 loved, and throwing herself at the feet of the ([ueen, humbly 
 entreated her pardon. Never since that voluntary sepulture 
 had she ceased, during those long and weary years, 10 lament — 
 as the heart -stricken can alone lament- her sins. In deep con- 
 trition she learned the death of her son by the king, and bent 
 her h"ad meekly beneath the chastisement. 
 
 Three years before her death the triumphant Athe'ne'e dc 
 Montespan had breathed her last at IJourbon. If Louis XIV. 
 had nothing else to re])ent of, the remorse of these two women 
 ought to have wrung his heart. Athe'ne'e de Montespan was a 
 youthful, innocent beauty, fresh from the seclusion of provincial 
 life, when she attracted the blighting regards of royalty, A 
 fete was to be given ; she saw, she heanl liuU she was its ob- 
 ject. She entreated her husband to take her back to his estate 
 
A Mean Act of Louis Qitatorzc. 261 
 
 in Guycnnc, ami to leave her there till the kini; had forgotten 
 her. Her husband, in fatal eonfidenre, trusted her resistance, 
 and refused her petition. It was a life-long sorrow; and he 
 soon found his mistake. He lived and died passionately at- 
 tached to his wife, but never saw her after her fall. 
 
 When she retired from court, to make room for the em])ire 
 of the subtle I)e Maintenon, it was her son, the Ducde Maine, 
 who inducctl her, not from love, but from ambition, to with- 
 draw. She preserved, even in her seclusion in the country, th.e 
 .st\!e of a cjueen, which she had assumed. Kven her natural 
 children by the king were never allowed to sit in her presence, 
 on a fautcuil, but were only permitted to have small chairs. 
 I'.Nery one went to pay her court, and .she s[)oke to them as if 
 doing them an honour ; neither did she ever return a visit, even 
 from the royal family. Her fatal beauty endured to the last: 
 nothing could exceed her grace, her tact, her good sense in 
 conversation, her kindness to every one. 
 
 Iliit it was long before her restless spirit could find real peace. 
 ."^lic threw herself on the guidance of the Abbe de la Tour ; for 
 the dread of death \\-as ever upon her. He sug-zested a terrible 
 tot of her penitence. It was, that she shouUl entreat her hus- 
 'oand's pardon, and return to him. It was a fearfiU struggle 
 uiili herself, for she was naturally haughty and high spirited; 
 h It she consented. After long agonies of hesitation, she wrote 
 to the injured man. Her letter was couched in the most humble 
 language; but it received no reply. The Mauiuis de ''lontes- 
 pan. through a third person, intimated to her that he would 
 neither receive her, nor see her, nor hear her name pronounced. 
 At h'.s death she wore widow's weeds ; but never assumed his 
 -uins, nor adopted his liveries. 
 
 Henceforth, all she had was given to the poor. When Louis 
 nuanly cut down her pension, she sent word that she was sorry 
 for the poor, net for herself; they would be the losers. She 
 then humbled herself to the very dust : wore the hardest cloth 
 n( At her fair skin ; had iron bracelets ; and an iron girdle, which 
 made wounds on her body. Moreover, sh.e punished the most 
 imruly members of her frame : she kept her tongue in bounds ; 
 she ceased to slander ; she learned to bless. The fear of death 
 
 
 :::* 
 
 "*«( 
 
 
 1 
 
^ 
 
 262 /I II lias f^assid a :vay ! 
 
 Mill liaiintod her; she lay in l)t'(l wiiii every curtain drawn, the 
 room lit^Hited up with wax randies ; whilst she hired watchers to 
 sit u]) all niL^'hl, and insisted that they should never cease talking 
 or Iaui,'hinj,% lest, when she woke, the fear of //<•<?/// might come 
 over her aftVighted spirit. 
 
 She died at last after a few hours' illness, having just time to 
 order all her household to be summoned, and before them to 
 make a public confession of her .^ins. As she lay expiring', 
 lilessing (lod that she died fir away from the children of her 
 adulterous connection, the ("omte d'Antin, her only cliild by 
 llie Afaniuis de Montes])an, arrixed. Peace and trust had then 
 (ome at last to the agoni/ed woman, ."^he sjioke to him about 
 her state of mind, and expired. 
 
 To Madame de Maintenon the e\ent would, it was thought, 
 be a relief: yet she wejil bitterly on hearing of it. The king 
 showed, on the (ontrary. the utmo>t indiflerence, on learnin^' 
 that one whom he h id once loved so much was gone for ever. 
 
 All has passed away! The (J'.i/ lic Ba-iif h now important 
 only as being ])ointed out to strangers; Versailles is a show- 
 place, not a habitation. .SaintSimon, who lived until 1775, 
 was truly said to ha\e turned his Iku k on the new age, and to 
 live in the memories of a former world of wit and fashion. He 
 survived until the era of the ' Kncyclopedia ' of Voltaire, and 
 Jean-Iac(iues Rousseau. He lived, indeed, to hear that Monl- 
 es(iuieu was no more. How the sjjirit of Louis XIV. sjioke in 
 his contemptuous remarks on Voltaire, whom he would only 
 call Arouet ; 'The son of my father's and my own notarv.' 
 
 At length, after attaining his eightieth year, the chronicler, 
 who knew the weaknesses, the vices, the peculiarities of man- 
 kind, even to a hair's l)readth, expired ; having long given up 
 the court and occupied himself, whilst secluded in his country 
 seat, solely with the revising and amplification of his wonderful 
 Memoirs. 
 
 No works, it has been remarked, since those of Sir Walter 
 Scott, have excited so much sensation as the Memoirs of his 
 own time, by the soldier, ambassador, and Trappist, Due de 
 Saint-Simon. 
 
in drawn, the 
 :(1 watclicrs to 
 : rcasc talking 
 // mi'rht conio 
 
 ig just time to 
 icfore them to 
 lay expiring, 
 hildrcn of lier 
 only child hy 
 trust had then 
 ■ to him ahout 
 
 was th(ju,L,'lit, 
 it. 'I'he king 
 ,', t)n learning 
 one for ever, 
 low im])ortaiu 
 es is a show- 
 1 until 1775, 
 ■w age, and to 
 fashion, lie 
 Voltaire, and 
 ar that Mont- 
 vIV. spoke in 
 e would only 
 I notary.' 
 le chronicler, 
 u-ities of man- 
 long given up 
 n his country 
 his wonderful 
 
 of Sir Walter 
 cmoirs of his 
 ■"/■/V/, Due de 
 
 II OR A CI'- W ALPOI^K. 
 
 ■|lu' Cominonprs of En,q;l.-intl. — Horace's Keijrct for the I')erit!i of his Mother.— 
 ' L;ltlf Hifnicc ' ill .Arlin.sjton .'^in.'et. Introducod to (jeori^i.- F.-Cli.irnc- 
 teristic Ancclott; of (icorgc I. — \V:ilpoh''s ICrlucition. --Sctiooll)oy Days. 
 IJ.jyish Kriondships, (■»mf),inioiv->hip of Gray. - .A Dreary Doom. \\'.\\- 
 )>olfS Description of Youthful I )fh{;iits. -.Anecdote of I'opt' and Freflcric of 
 Will';. I h(! Pomfrcts. — Sir 'Ihoinas kot)insoirs Hail. An Adininil)l«? 
 S i^' I'i)litio,il Sijuiln. .Sir Hohcrfs Ketirement from Otlico. The 
 .^jiliiulid .M.uision of Ilouijliton. — Sir I'iohert s I/ive of (Lirdenint^. What 
 we owe to the ' Cirandes 'lours.' — CJcorjje Vertue. -- Men of One Idea. The 
 N.<h!e Picture-i^allery at lloutjhtoti. — The 'Market Pieces." -.Sir kolx-rtV 
 i)iMti). — The (iranviile I'.iction. -.A very good (>uarrel.- -Twickenham. 
 Stra\vt)erry Hill. 'liie Recluse of Sirawherry. I'ortrait-i of tin- Di^hy 
 Family. — ^Sacrile;;e.- - Mrs. D.imer's Models, '(he Lontj (lallery at Siraw- 
 herry. -The fhajiel. — ' A Dirty I.ittU- Thiiii;.'' The Society around Straw- 
 berry Hill.— .Anne Seymour Conw.iy. .A M.in wIid never L)oul)tetl. Lady 
 Sophia Fermor's M.irriaije. Horace in I'.ivour. - .Anecdote of Sir William 
 Stanhope.— .A Paper Hou^e— W,il|x>le's Habits.— Why did he not .M.irry ? 
 - ' Djwaijersas Plentyas I-'lounders,' Catherine Hyde, Duchess of (Jueens- 
 l)e;ry.— .Anecdote of l,ady (iranviile. -Kitty ("live. Death of Horatio Wal- 
 ]K)!e. — George, third liarl of Orford. -.A Visit to Hous:;hton.- -l-'amily Mis- 
 fortunes. - Poor<.'hatterton. — Walpole'sfoncern \vith( hatterton. - Walpole 
 in Paris. --.Anecdote of Madame Geoflrin. — ' Who's that Mr. Walpole.^' 
 The .\tiss Berrys. -Horace's two 'Straw Herries.' -Tappinj.; a New l<ei>;n. 
 The S:s;n of the Gothic CastU*. --Grf)winjj Old with Di.i^nity. - Succession 
 tj an r'.arldom. — Walpole's I^ist Hours. Ia-1 us not Ix: Unijraleful. 
 
 IJl.M) this elegant writer, remarks the compiler of ' Wal- 
 poliana,' composed memoirs of his own life, an 
 examide authorized by eminent names, ancient and 
 modern, every other pen must have been dropped in des[)air, 
 .NO true was it that ' he united the good sense of Fontcnelle 
 with the Attic salt and graces of Coimt Anthony Hamilton.' 
 
 But * Horace ' was a man of great literary modesty, and 
 always undervalued his own efforts. His life was one of little 
 incident : it is his character, his mind, the society around him. 
 th.c j>eriod in wliich he shone, that give the charm to liis corre- 
 spondence, and the interest to his biography. 
 
 
 .■,S 
 
 
I5t!si(ks, he had the weakness < oninion to several other fine 
 Keiulcineii who have ( oinhincd letters and haul fon, of being 
 ashamed of the Hlerary ( hara( ter. The vulgarity of the court 
 lis inchlferem e to all that was not party writing, whether 
 I-nleniK al or j.olitital, cast a sharle over authors in his time. 
 
 Never was there, beneath all his assumed Whig principles 
 a more profound aristocrat tliap Horace ^\■alpole. He was, by 
 birth, one of those welldesc ended Knglish gentlemen who have 
 often s< orned the title of noble, an.l who have repudiued the 
 notion of merging their own an< ient names in modern titles 
 The commoners of [•upland ho!.] a proud pre-eminence. When 
 some low-born man entreated James I. to make him a gentle- 
 man, the well known answer was, ' \a, na, I canna .' I could 
 mak thee a lord, but none but Cod Almighty can mak a 
 gentleman.' 
 
 Sir Robert WaljHjIe, afterwards minister to Ceorge II md 
 eventually Lord Orfurd, belonged to an an. ient family in 
 Norfolk; he was a third son, and was originally destined for 
 the ( hurch, but the death of his elder brethren having left him 
 heir to the f.mily estate, in 1698, he .succeeded to a property 
 whuh ought to have yielded him ^2,000 a vear. but which was 
 crip])led with various en. umbrances. In .uder to relieve him- 
 selt of these. Sir Robert married Catherine Shorter, the gran.l- 
 •laughter of Sir Jtjhn Shorter, who ha.l been illegally and 
 arbitrarily apj)ointed Lord Mayor of London by James II. 
 
 Horace was her youngest .hild, an.l was born in Arlington 
 Street, on the 2^^ .,1 .September, ,7,7, ( ).S. Six vcars aVtcr- 
 wards he was inoculated f.)r the small-pox. a precau'tion which 
 lie records as worthy of remark, since the operation had then 
 only recently been introduce.! by La.ly Mary Wortlev Montagu 
 from Turkey. 
 
 He is silent, however, naturally enough, as to one important 
 point— his real parentage. The chara. ter of his mother was by 
 no means such as to disprove an assertion which gained -c-neral 
 belief : this wa.s, that Horace was the offspring, not of .Sir Ro- 
 bert Walpole, but of Carr, Lor.l Hervey, the eldest son of the 
 Lad ot Bristol, and the elder L>rothcr nf Lord 
 
 M 
 
 enio 
 
 Irs of the Court of ( 
 
 • eoriie 
 
 thcr of Lord Hervey, whose 
 11.' are .so gen oral Iv known. 
 
 ii 
 
 iW 
 
.•ral other fine 
 ton, of being 
 of the court, 
 
 ting, whether 
 1 his time. 
 lig imnciplf's, 
 Ife was, by 
 KM who liave 
 Jinuiiited the 
 nodern titles, 
 tiencc. When 
 him a gcntle- 
 na ! I roiikl 
 • can mak a 
 
 3rge II., and 
 lU family in 
 destined for 
 \ ing left him 
 a property 
 Lit which was 
 relieve hini- 
 r, the grand- 
 illegal ly and 
 mes J I. 
 in Arlington 
 ; j'ears after- 
 lution which 
 on hail tlkn 
 ey Montagu 
 
 e important 
 ther was by 
 ncd general 
 t of Sir Ro- 
 : son of the 
 rvey, who.se 
 allv known. 
 
 Horaces Rcgnt for the Death of his Mother. 265 
 
 (■ r. Lord Ikrvey, was witty, eccentric, and sarcastic: ami 
 from him Horace Walpole is said to have inlierited hi, wit, his 
 f(ienlri( ' y, his love of literature, and his ptrofound (ontempt 
 for :i!l mankind, excepting only a few nicmluTs of a < herished 
 
 ! 'xdusivc cliijuc. 
 
 Ill the N'otes of his life uhidi Hora. e Walpole left for the 
 u-cof his executor, Ro])ert Herry, l-'.s,!.. and of his daughter, 
 >I -. Derry, he makes this brief mention of l.ady Walpole: 
 • My mother died in 17.^7.' He was then twenty years of age. 
 
 I!at beneath this seemingly slight re( urrence to his mother, 
 It t \v!ii( !i never left him through life was buried. I, ike 
 < 'ic mourned, as the profoimrk-st of all sorrows, the 
 
 !' ■- tit ih.u life-long friend. 
 
 ' My nintiiiT, when > Icarn'd lli.it tliou wast do.-id, 
 S.iy, w.ist thou fonsciotis of the tears I shed ? 
 HuviTcd tliy spirit otr thy sunuwiin; sun ? 
 Wrt-tcli even then, lifc\ juiirru-y jiisl ln-'Min.' 
 
 Although Horace in many |)oints iiore a .strong resemblance 
 Rolicrl Walpole, he rarely if ever receiveil from th:it 
 '. lu artless, al)le man. any jiroof of ;ifte(tion. An outcast 
 :: ;a ]ii>, father's he.ut, the whole force of the boy\ love ik:w 
 '■ d in his mother ; yet in after-life no one reveremcd Sir Ro 
 1 ' rt Walpole so much as his supposed son. To be ;i(lversc to 
 l': ■ minister was to be adverse to the unloved son who cherished 
 '.-memory. What 'my father' thought, ilid, and said, was 
 ' •"■ ; ", hat "(lis foes dared to e\|)ress was her<,'s). Horace li.id 
 llie family mania strong U[ion him ; the world was made for 
 ^^ iljioles, whose views were ne\er to be controverted, nor whose 
 l.itii im]nigned. Yet Horace nnist have witnessed, perhaps with- 
 out comprehending it, much disunion at home, l.ady Waljiule, 
 I 'ititiil and accomplished, couM not succeed in ri\eting her 
 liu.shaud to his conjugal duties. Cross licentiousne.vs was the 
 order of the day, and Sir Robert was among the most licen- 
 tious ; he left his lovely wife to the perilous attentions of all 
 the young courtiers who fancied that by courting the Premier's 
 ^v;!c they could secure Walpjole's good oifices. Sir Robert, ac- 
 cording to Po])e, was one of those who — 
 
 ' Never made a friend in private life, 
 And w;v=, besides, a t\rant to liis svife." 
 
 '3 
 
 u 
 
2r)r) 
 
 ' l.ittlr Horace' in .] r/hh^f,-,); Sfrrrf. 
 
 t 
 
 \i .ill event., ii ii:,; ,1 uiMiu, he u.i, NiuiiicrLMii to those rir 
 
 nimsumrcs whit h rctltTtc.l upon him, and were injurious to her. 
 
 " ' ""^' '""^ f'''i ''^' ''xl nu right to comj.l.un ofany infi- 
 
 irt. and he U-ft her to be surrounded hy men 
 
 ^V'"'" "^ '•' "'" prolh^ratcs of the mo.i d.uigerou.s prelcn- 
 
 '-"" - to wit ..u 
 
 I' ^vas possil., .. .iurrequentl) lii.u Ii.,,.. •, ins motiicr'.s 
 1 le.iiud ill the (hawing-room.s of .Arlington Street his first 
 
 notuM: ,,r i!, Msifhj^ which was tlie t.ishion of the d.iy. \Vc 
 '■"' ''^'^* >• '"' '" ious, old-fashioned iitllo bov, at his mo 
 
 Iher's apron .tiiii,^. Hh.lst Carr, Lord Hervey, was p.iying his 
 <l<-vou>; we .sec him ga/in- with wonderinjr eyes at I'ultency, 
 Karl of. Hath, with his bhie riM.on across his iaced coat; whils' 
 ««Hnpas.sionatin- friend, • vin- the p.deficcd boy in th.r 
 h(.t house atin...pheiv, in whn i I),>tii mind and body w^re like 
 forced plants. pr..p!usied tant ' htlle llor.ue' could . ^ ,,, 
 siitiy live to be a ni.m. 
 
 lie survived, however, two .si.iei... who died in ( hildhoc!, 
 arid beranie de:irer and dearer to his fond mother. 
 
 I'l 1"' <'!d .i;;v. Ilora.e deli-hted in recallin- anecdotes of 
 his inl.in.y; in thes.r his mothers parti ,lity largely figured, 
 liitnighl up anion- (ourtiers and ministers, his childish talk w.is 
 all ol km;;s an<l princes : and he was a gossip both by incliii 
 tioii and h.d.ii. liis greatest desire in life was to see the kin-, 
 Ceoi-e I., and his nurses and attendants augmented his wish 
 by their exalte.) desc riptions of the grandeur which he affecte.!, 
 m alterdife, to despise. He entreated his mother to take him 
 to St. James's, \\-hen relating the incidents of the scene in 
 whi( h he was first introduced to a court, Horace Walpole .speaks 
 ol the ' infinite good nature of his fuher. who never thwarted 
 :inv ol his (hildren/and 'suffered him,' he savs, 'to be too 
 miK h indulged.' 
 
 Some difficulties attended the fruition of the forward boy's 
 wisli. 'I'he Duchess of Kendal was jealous of Sir Robert Wal- 
 pole's influence ivith the king: her aun was to brin- Lord 
 I'.ohngbroke into power. The childi-'-. 'an-v -.as, neveaiieless, 
 gratitied : and under his mother's care h.c was conducted to 
 the apartments of the Duchess of Kendal in St. James's. 
 
•A 
 
 to those ( :r 
 jurious to her. 
 ainofany infi- 
 I tided by nica 
 ^'croiis prctcn 
 
 , liis mother's 
 iirccl his first 
 the d.iy. \\\ 
 3y, at his mo 
 
 ! 'lying his 
 . .It I'liltoncv. 
 I ro.it ; whi' 
 1 l>oy in th 
 ody wert- hi 
 mid 
 
 in ( hihihood, 
 
 anecdotes of 
 gely figured, 
 ilish talk was 
 th ])y indur:. 
 
 see the kiiii; 
 nted his wish 
 1 he aflectci!, 
 
 to take him 
 the scene in 
 Upole speaks 
 .or iliwarted 
 , ' to be too 
 
 ^rward 1 toy's 
 Robert Wal- 
 briii ; T.ord 
 neveiiiieless, 
 Qn(hicted to 
 mes'.s. 
 
 /• 
 
 /.' (. 
 
 2li 
 
 A favour so unusual to be a.sked by a boy often years old, 
 ■: rwards wrote in ! ' 
 : to be refused to ! 
 
 •rninisccnces. 
 
 >f t 
 
 fir-^t 
 
 'tv,' rhi! 
 
 II 
 
 owevcr 
 
 W I I 1 I u \ 
 
 ient. the 
 
 lo be privat' , 
 n o'cloc k in 
 ,:,, iiLi- .son, was adniittc<l iuwo ; 
 
 ' niLihl. 
 
 W.ilp. 
 
 r M 
 
 * ' -ilcnber^', Coimte^s of Wajsin^d mi, wiiu pa^^ni i;; ^.er lije 
 1" of the Duchess of Kendal's lucre, but who was, in fact, 
 : <luightcr, by George I. The polluted rooms in which Li<iy 
 '■ ■ m^Iiam lived were afterwanl.s occupied !■•. tiu \\\.< m; 
 
 of Cicorge II. -tiic Countess of Suffolk. ..nd Madame 
 .. •..uinoden, Countess of Vannouih. 
 With I.ady \VaIsiii;;]uini, Lady Waljiole and hci liUi^ 
 ■1 until, notice having been given that the kini- had . 
 : > supi)er. he was led into the presi:,' ■ ! 
 
 I,' .^ he calls George I. That monarch was I 
 
 \'j i--iiuit the young courtier to kneel down and kiss 1 
 \. • '.V words were spokeii by the august personage, and 
 'ed ba( k into the adjoining room. 
 tlie vi.sion of thai 'good sort of man' waspresei.: i 
 
 '1 old age, he wrcMe down hi> recollections for his 
 . ' Miss llcrry. Ily tin- side of a tall, lean, ill favoured . i 
 I'-tiiuui lady -the Dudu-s of Kendal— stood a pale, shon. 
 ■ ''.'rly man, with a d-fk tie-wig, in a iilain coat and waistcoat 
 -■ and his breeches were all of snuff coloured doth, and his 
 Aings of the same colour. l!y the blue riband alone < ould 
 : .voung subject of this 'good sort of man' discern tiiat !;>• 
 •■v.;.> m the presence of majesty. Little interest ( ouhl be eli( iicd 
 ;a this brief interview, yet Horace thought it his painful diUy, 
 '-cing also the son of a prime minister, to shed tears when, 
 v.ith the other scholars of Eton College, he walked in the j-ro- 
 "■->;on to the proclamation of George 11. And no doubt i.i; 
 ^■■.- one of :./y few personages in Lngland whose 'Vc-, \vr: ■ 
 incistened fur that event. Nevertheless, there was something 
 o! 'onhommic in the character of (Jeorge I. that one misses in 
 
 Mis 1 
 
 ove 
 
 of 
 
 punrn, ar 
 
 d 1: 
 
 J Maiiil of l/ecomini 
 
 .:5 
 % 
 
 ^\\>-\- over his private dinners with Sir Robert VValpole, 
 
r 
 
 
 Pa^ 
 
 26.S' Charactcyistic Anecdote of Gcon-c [. 
 
 ^vc^e English as well as (lerinan traits, and were regarded al- 
 most as condescensions ; and then lie had a kind of slow wit, 
 that was turned uijon the venial officials whose perquisites were 
 at their disgraceful height in his time. 
 
 *A strange country this,' said the monarch, in his most cla- 
 morous (;erman : ' one day, after I came to St. James's, I looked 
 out of the window, and saw a i^ark, with walks, laurels, &c. ; 
 these they told me were mine. 'I'he next day Lord Chct'wynd' 
 the ranger of ;//!■ park, sends mc a Ijrace of ( arp out of my 
 <anal ; J was told, thereujion, that i must give five guinens to 
 Lord Chetwynd's porter for bringing me iwy 0:01 fish, oat of 
 my 07vn canal, in my ou'n park :' In spite of some agreeable 
 <|ualities, (leorge I. was, however, anything but a ' good sort 
 of man.' It is difficult how to rank the two first Georges; 
 both were deteslal)le as men, and scarcely tolerable as mon- 
 ardis. The foreign deeds of Ceorge L were stained with the 
 supposed murder of ("oiinl Konigsmark : the Kngli.sh career of 
 (k'orge IL was one of the coarsest profligacy. Their example 
 was infamous. 
 
 Ills fuller's only sister having become the second wife of 
 Ciiarles Lord 'I'ownshend, Horace was educated with his 
 cousins; and the tutor selected was luiward Weston, the son 
 of Stephen, ]}ishop of L.xeter ; this ].receptor was afterwards 
 engaged in a controversy with J)r. Warburton, concerning the 
 ' Xaturali/ation of the Jews.' Ry that learned, haughty dis- 
 piH;mf, he is termed 'a gazetteer hy jirofession— by inclination 
 a Melhodist.' Su( h was the man who guided the dawning in- 
 telle( t of Horace \\al])ole. lender his care he remained until 
 he went, in 1727,10 Lton. But Wal])ole's was not merely a 
 scholastic education : he was destined for the law—and, on 
 going up to Cambridge, was obliged to attend lectures on civil 
 hiw. He went from Eton to King's College— where he wa.s, 
 however, more disposed to what are termed accomplishments 
 than to deep reading. At Cambridge he even studied Italian; 
 at home he learned to dance and \^wv^- ; and took lessons in 
 drawing from IJernard Lens, drawing-master to the Duke of 
 Ctnnberland and liis sisters. It is not to be wondered at that 
 
 he left Cambridge without taking a degree. 
 
•/■. 
 
 ■re regarded al- 
 id of slow wit, 
 perquisites were 
 
 1 his most cla- 
 mcs's, I looked 
 s, laurels, «S:c ; 
 ord Chetwynd, 
 irp out of my 
 five guiner.s to 
 iw fish, out of 
 ;onie agreeable 
 t a ' gootl sort 
 first (ieorges ; 
 Table as nion- 
 lined with the 
 iglish career of 
 I'iicir e.xani])le 
 
 econd wife of 
 Ued with his 
 eston, the son 
 vas afterwards 
 onccrning the 
 , haughty dis- 
 -hy inclination 
 e dawning in- 
 'emained until 
 
 not merely a 
 law — and, on 
 nures on civil 
 ihere he was, 
 omplishments 
 iidied Italian ; 
 ok lessons in 
 
 the Duke of 
 dereil at that 
 
 ScJtoolboy Days. 2603 
 
 [!ut fortune was lying, as it were, in wait for him ; and various 
 sinecures had been reserved for the Minister's youngest son : 
 first, he became Inspector of the Imports and Kxpoits in the 
 CiM.^ms ; but soon resigned that i-ost to be L'sher of the V.\ 
 (hcquer. 'And as soon,' he writes, 'as I became of a-e I took 
 possession of two other little ])atent places in the Kxcheciuer, 
 calle<l Comptrc.ller of the I'ipe, and Ckrk of the Estreats.' 
 Tiicy had been held for me by Mr. J-'ane.' 
 
 Such was the mode in which the younger sons were then pro- 
 v: led for by a minister ; nor has the unworthy system died out 
 :i niir time, although greatly modified. 
 
 Horace was growing up meantime, not an awkward, l)ut a 
 .oincwhat insignificant youth, with a short, slender figure: 
 v.hirh always retained a boyish appearance when seen'^from 
 : chind. His face was conunon-])lace, except when his really 
 cxi.ressive eyes sparkled with intelligence, or melted into the 
 vAcctest expression of kindness. But his laugh was forced and 
 1111' oulli : and even in his smile there was a hard, sarcastic ex- 
 ■ ivssion that made one regret that he smiled. 
 
 He was now in possession of an income of ^1.700 annually, 
 .:i'i iie looked naturally to the Continent, to wiii. h all young 
 liiembers of the aristocracy repaired, after the (-ompletion 0} 
 tiicir collegiate life. 
 
 He had been popular at Eton : he w.is also, it is said, both 
 beloved and valued at Cambridge. In reference to his Etonian 
 ili.vs he says, in one of his letters, ' I can't say 1 am sorry I was 
 !.e\er quite a schoolboy : an expedition against bargemen, or a 
 'iiatchat cricket, may be very jjretty things to recollect; but, 
 thank my stars, I can remember things that are very near as 
 I'lvtty. The beginning of my Roman history was sjjent in tlie 
 .-.vlum, or conversing in Egeria's hallowed grove; not in thump- 
 -y^ and i)ummelling King Amuliu.s's herdsmen.* 
 
 'I remember,' he adds, 'when 1 was at Eton, and Mr. 
 liland had set me on an extraordinary task, 1 used sometimes 
 to pique myself u])on not getting it, because it was not imme- 
 diately my school business. What ! learn more than I was ab- 
 
 * l.itu by W.ubii'ion, p. 70. 
 
 i 
 
 3 
 
 % 
 
 %. 
 
& 
 
 ~70 l)Oyish Fyiciuhhips. 
 
 solutcly forced lo learn ! 1 fell the weight of learning Jiat ; 
 for I was a blockhead, and pushed ahorc wx parts'* 
 
 Popular amongst his schoolfellows, Horace formed friend- 
 ships at i'Aon which mainly intluenced his after-life. Richard 
 West, the son of "West, Lord Chancellor of Ireland, and the 
 grandson, on his mother's side, of Jiishop Burnet; together 
 with a youth named Assheton— formed, wiUi the poet Gray, 
 and Horace himself, what the young wit termed the 'Quad- 
 ruple Alliance.' 'i'hen there was the 'triumvirate,' Oeorge 
 Montagu, Charles Montagu, and Horace; ne.vt came George 
 Sclwyn antl Hanbury Williams ; lastly, a retired, studious youth, 
 a sort of fod to all these gay, brilliant young wits— a certain 
 William Cole, a lover of old books, and of (juaint prints. And 
 m all tliese boyish friendships, some of which were carried from 
 iMon to Cambridge, m;iy be traced the foundation of the 
 llorace Walj^ole, of Strawberry Hill and of Berkeley Sciuare. 
 'i'o Cray he owed his ambition to be learned, if possible- ~ 
 ])oetical, if nature had not forbidden ; to the Montagus, hii 
 da>h and spirit; to .sir Hanbury Williams, his turn for yW/.v 
 c/VVw/, as a ])art of the (omj-letion of a fme gentlem.-i's edu- 
 cation ; to George Selwyn, his apjirec iation of what w us tlica 
 considered wit— but whic h we moderns are not worthy to ap- 
 preciate. Lord Hertford and Henry Conway, Walpole's cousins, 
 were also his schoolfellows ; and for them he evinced through- 
 out his long life a warm regard. William Pitt, Lord Chatham 
 (hieily remembered at laon for having been flogged for being 
 out of bounds— was a contemjiorary, though not an intimate, 
 <.^ Horace Walpole's at I'.ton. 
 
 His regard for Gray did him infinite credit : yet never were 
 two men more dissimilar as they advanced in life. Cray had 
 no aristocratic birth to boast ; and Horace dearly loved birth, 
 refinement, position, all that comprises the cherished term 
 'aristocracy.' Thomas CJray, more illustrious for the little his 
 fastidious judgment permitted him to give to the then critical 
 world, than many have been in their productions of volumes, 
 was born in Cornhilb-his father being a worthy citizen. He 
 V. - just one year older than Walpole, but an a;.;; his seni.-r 
 
 ♦ Life of W . 
 
of learning u-.at ; 
 
 c formed fricnd- 
 tcr-life. Richard 
 Ireland, and the 
 I'.urnet ; together 
 1 the poet Gray, 
 Tied the ' Qiiad- 
 Tivirate,' (ieorge 
 xt rame Geon:e 
 1, studious youth, 
 wits — a certain 
 lint prints. And 
 .^erc carried from 
 iindation of the 
 Serkeley Sfjuarc. 
 d, if possible— 
 t Montagus, his 
 is turn for Jaix 
 ^'entlemaii's edu- 
 f what ^vas then 
 3t worthy to aji- 
 alpole's cousins, 
 ;vinced through- 
 Lord Chatham 
 logged for being 
 lot an intimate, 
 
 yet never were 
 life, dray had 
 rly loved birth, 
 cherished term 
 or the little his 
 he then critical 
 )ns of volumes, 
 \y citizen. He 
 
 airj liis senior 
 
 271 
 
 Co}>i/ui>/io;is/i//> of Gray. 
 
 a gravity, preci.sion, and in a stiff resolution to maintain his 
 independence. He made one fatal stei). fatal to his friendship 
 lor Horace, when he forfeited-hy allowing Horace to tike 
 !.::n and pay his expenses during a long continental tour- -his 
 independence. Gray had many points whi, h made hiin vul- 
 iicrable to Walpole's .shafts of ridirule ; and llora.e had i host 
 ot faults which excited the stern condemnation of Gray The 
 author of the ' Klegy'^-which Johnson has pr<.no,ince.! to he 
 t.c nob est ode m our language - was one of the most le.irned 
 men ot his time, 'and was equally acr,uainted with the ek-int 
 and profound paths of scieme, and that not superfuiallv "hut 
 thoroughly; knowing in every branch of historv. hoth niturd 
 and civil, as having read all the original hist'orians of |.-nc- 
 l.jn'U' ranee, and Italy; a great antiquarian, who ma.le criti- 
 n>ms, metaphysics, morals, an<I p-olitics a principal |,art of his 
 : ..:n d study-who was uncommonly fond of vovages and tra- 
 vels of all sorts-and who ha<l a fine taste in p,ai.uing, prints 
 anhitecture. and gardening.' ' ' 
 
 Wliat a companion for a young man of t:iste and sympathy ' 
 .■:l the friends were far too clever long to agree. (Jray was 
 liiughty, impatient, intolerant of the peculiarities of others ac 
 •-r-hng to the author of ' Walpoliana :' doubUess he detected 
 inc vanity, the actual selfishness, the want of earnest icclm-^ in 
 Horace, which had all been kept down at .school, wh.re hm-s 
 are far more unsi)aring Mentors than their betters In vain 
 ^j!'! they travel m prince, and all at Walpole's expense ; m vain 
 "Hi they visit courts, and receive affability from i)rinces • in 
 \ain (l,d he of Cornhill participate for a brief period in tlv it- 
 tcniions lavished on the son of a British Prime .Minister : they 
 'I'Kurrl ed-and we almost reverence (ira)- for that result, more 
 J : - i.dly when we find the author of ' Walpoliana' expressin-r 
 '!> .ouv.ct.on that 'had it not been fortius idle indulgem-e ol" 
 >is hasty temper, Mr. Gray would immediately on hi; return 
 >nme have received, as usual, a pension .„■ office from Sir Ro- 
 I'^rt Ualpole.' We are inc lined to feel contempt for the anonv. 
 "ions writer of that amusing little hook. 
 
 After a companionship of four veais. Gr.^v .....w., .;..„_ 
 
 r^'.urned to London. He had U 
 
 
 11 
 
 educated with tl 
 
 le (>vi 
 
72 
 
 A Drcarv Doom. 
 
 
 u 
 
 ■»>-■ 
 
 ation of being ;i l)arn.stc'r ; but lindiiig that funds were w 
 
 an 
 
 tmg 
 
 to pursue a legal education, he gave ujj a set o{ tluunbers in 
 the Temple, which lie had occupied previous to liis travels, and 
 retired to Cambridge. 
 
 J lencefurlii what a singular contrast did the lives of these 
 once fond friends pre.'.cnt : \\\ the small, (juaint rooms of 
 Peter- 1 louse,* Gray consumed a dreary celibacy, consoled by 
 tlie Muse alone, who— if other damsels found no charms in his 
 somewhat piggish, wooden counlenaiK e, or in his manners, 
 replete, it is said, with an unpleasant consciousness of superi- 
 ority -never deserted him. ilis college existence, varied oniy 
 by his being appointed Professor of Modern History, was, for a 
 brief space, exchanged for an existence almost as studious in 
 London. Petween the years 1759 and 1762, he took lodgings, 
 we find, in .Southampton Row a [pleasant locality then, ojkmv 
 ing to the fields- in order to be near the BritishMuseum, at 
 that time just opened to llie public. Here his intense studies 
 were, it may be ]jresumed, relieved by the lighter task of perus- 
 ing the Harleian Manuscripts; and here he formed the 
 acciuaintance of Mason, a. dull, affected i)oet, whose celebrity is 
 greater as the frieml and biographer of Gray, than even as the 
 author of those verses on the death of Lady Coventry, in which 
 there are, nevertheless, some beautiful lines. (Jray died in 
 college — a doom that, next to ending one's days in a jail or a 
 convent, seems the dreariest. He died of the gout : a suitable, 
 .uul, in liiat region and in those three-bottle tlays, alinust an 
 inevitable disease ; but Uierc is no record of his having been 
 intemperate. 
 
 Whilst (Jray was [)oring o\er dusty manuscripts, Horace was 
 beginning that career of pro.si)erity which was commenced by 
 the keenest enjoyment of existence. \\c has left us, in his 
 Letters, some brilliant pa.ssages, indicative of the delights of his 
 boyhood and youth. Like him, we linger over a period still 
 fresh, still ho]>eful, still generous in impulse — still strong in Hiith 
 in the world's worth -before we hasten on to portray the nun 
 <jf the world, heartless, not wholly, perhaps, but wont to check 
 all feeling till it was well nigh cjuenched ; little minded; bitter. 
 
 Cmy migrated to Pembroke in 1756. 
 
 tK. 
 
O — -1 
 
 .(). 
 
 Wal/'oh-'s Description of Yoiti/ifui Dclii^/its. 
 if not spiteful ; with many aGrjimintances anil scarce one friend 
 the Horace Walpole of Uerkeley Sciiiare and Strawberry ilill. 
 
 'Youthful passages of life are,' he says, ' the chippings of 
 J'itl's diamond, set into little heart-rings with mottoes J the 
 stone itself more worth, the filings more gentle and agreeable. 
 Alexander, at the head of the world, never tasted the true plea- 
 sure that boys of his age have enjoyed at the head of a school. 
 I.iitle intrigues, little schemes and policies engage their thoughts ; 
 and at the same time that they are laying \he foundation for 
 their middle age of life, the mimic republic they live in, 
 uirnishes materials of conversation for thc^r latter age; and old' 
 I'l'.n cannot be said to be children a second time with greater 
 truth from any one cause, than their living over again their 
 (Iiihlliooil in imagination.' 
 
 \'^A\n: 'Dear (Jeorge, were not the playing-fields at Eton 
 ' for all manner of llights ? No old maid's gown, though it 
 had been tormented into all the fashions from King James to 
 King (ieorge, ever underwent so many transformations as these 
 l-nor plains have in my idea. At first I was contented with 
 lending a visionary flock, and sighing some i)astoral name to 
 the echo of the cascade under the bri.ige. . . As I got further 
 into \'irgil and Clelia, I found myself transported from Arcadia 
 t) the garden of Jtaly; and saw Windsor Castle in no other 
 view than the Capitoli iminohilc saxum.'' 
 
 Horace Walpole's humble friend Assheton was another of 
 ihose ICtonians who were plodding on ro independence, whilst 
 !u'. set forward by fortune and interest, was accomplishing 
 !' lutation. Assheton was the son of a worthy man. who ijre- 
 XI led over the (Grammar School at Lancaster, upon a stij)eiid 
 "' .{.32 a year. Assheton's mother had brought to her husband 
 •'1 Hinall estate. This was sold to educate the ' boys :' they were 
 ■th clever and deserving. One became the fellow of Trinity 
 ' "Hege; the other, the friend of Horace, rose into notice as 
 !he tutor of the young Karl of Plymouth ; then became a D.D., 
 • I'd a llishionable preacher in London; was elected j.reacher 
 t Lincoln's Inn; attacked the Methodists; and died, at fifty- 
 ' roe, at variance with Horace— this Assheton, whom once he 
 had loved so much. 
 
 18 
 
 •3 
 
 I 
 
r 
 
 374 Anecdote of Pope ami I'vederic of Wales. 
 
 Horace, on tlic other Iiaiul, after h, 
 
 travels all that \v 
 
 iving seen during h 
 
 IS 
 
 11) art 
 
 Uiii 
 
 IS ino^t e.\( lusive, attractive, and lofty, both 
 
 iUi 
 
 b 
 
 jing, lie declares, 
 ' one word of Fren* h or Italian for common use.' He professed 
 indeed, to prefer iMigland to all oUier countries. A country 
 tour in Kngland delighted him: the pojmlousness, the ease ia 
 the people al.so, charmed him. ' Canterbury was a ])aiadise to 
 .Modena, Reggio, or I'arma.' He had, before he returned, 
 perceived that nowhere except in England was there the dis- 
 tinction of 'middling peoi)le ;' he now found that nowhere but 
 in England were middling houses. ' How snug they are !' ex- 
 claims this scion of the exclusives. 'I'hen he runs on into 
 an anecdote about \\)\yc and I'rederick, Prince of Wales. ^ Mr. 
 I'ope,' saiil the prince, 'you don't love princes.' 'Sir, I beg 
 your pardon.' ' Well, you don't love kings, then.' ' Sir, I own 
 1 like the lion better before his claws are grown.' The ' Horace 
 Waljjole' began now to creej) out : never was he really at home 
 except in a court almo.sphere. Still he assumed, even al 
 twenty-four, to be the bov. 
 
 'You won't find me,' he writes to Harry Cionway, 'much 
 altered, I believe; at least, outwardly. 1 am not grown a bit 
 .shorter or fatter, but am just the same long, lean c reature as 
 usual. 'I'hen I talk no French but to my footman ; nor Italian, 
 but to myself What inward alterations may have hai)pened to 
 me you will discover best ; for you know 'tis said, one never 
 knows that one's self. I will answer, that that pail of it that 
 belongs to you has not suffered the least change-- 1 took care of 
 that. l'"or virtii, I have a little to entertain you— it is my sole 
 ple.isuiw I am neither young enough nor old enough to be 
 in love.' 
 
 Nevertheless, it peeps out soon after that the 'Pomfret.s' 
 are coming back. Horace had known them in Italy. The Ead 
 and Countess and their daughters were just then the very ]aiik 
 of fashion ; and even the leaders of all that was exclusive in the 
 court. Half in ridic ule. half in earnest, are the remarks which, 
 throughout all the career of Horace, incessantly occur. ' I am 
 neither young enough nor old enough to be in love,' he says ; 
 yet tiiat lie was in love wilii one of t!ie lovelv Fcrmors is tra- 
 
U'nAs. 
 
 seen (luring his 
 and lofly, both 
 ing, he declares, 
 He professed, 
 ries. A country 
 riess, the ease in 
 as a ))aradi.se to 
 re he returned, 
 s there the dis- 
 lat nowhere but 
 g they are '.' ex- 
 .' runs on into 
 of Wales. 'Mr. 
 es.' 'Sir, I beg 
 n.' ' Sir, I own 
 .' Tile * Horace 
 : really at home 
 unied, even at 
 
 'onwaj-, ' mucii 
 not grown a bit 
 can ( realure as 
 m ; nor Italian, 
 ve hai)i)ened to 
 said, one never 
 part of it that 
 I took, care of 
 1 — it is my sole 
 1 enough to be 
 
 llie 'Pomfrets' 
 taly. 'I'hc i;ad 
 1 the very \iu\k 
 exclusive in the 
 remarks which, 
 occur. ' I am 
 love,' he says ; 
 Fermors is tra- 
 
 dition 
 
 TAc Pow frets. 
 ;iry still in the family-and that tradition 
 
 -/:> 
 
 JiiHana, the youngest, afterward 
 
 pointed at Lady 
 
 , r . married .v, ..w. . .■im 1 1„. 
 
 .-1 of i>o„,r.,t had been master of the horsed (.. 
 ( arohne : Lady Pomfret, lady of the bed-chamber. « My Var ' 
 as t e cotmtess styled him, was apparently a su.ine sul jec- to 
 her ladysh.p-s strong will and wrong-headed ability-whi I he 
 IHThaps, mher.ted from her grandfather. Judge Jeffreys • he 
 cuigt e daughter and heiress of that rL %4 I o ci J " 
 ays who, m a spirit of braggadocia, stopped the funeral of 
 Dryden on Us way to Westmu.ster, promising a more splendu 
 P^cess.on t an the poor, humble cortege- Jk boast whid e 
 ■Mcr fulnlled. Lady Soplua Fermor. the eldest daughter, who 
 fter.vards became the wife of Lord Carteret, resc^iiblal in 
 1-uty, the lamed M-stress Arabeha Fermor, th^ heroinT^'tl " 
 Kapc of t e Lock Horace Walpole adnured Lady Sophia-^ 
 ^ on. he chnstened Juno-intenscly. Scarcely a Lte dHps 
 =ro.n Ins pen--as a mod-^rn noveh.t used to express it*-wit^ 
 <HU same touch of the Pomfrets. Thus to S,r Horace Ma 
 !!ini a diplomatist at Florence :— ' 
 
 _Lady Pomn-et I saw last night. Lady Sophia has been ill 
 a old; her head is to be dressed French, and her bo.lv 
 1.MS1 . or which I am sorry,, her figure is so fine in a robj 
 •^'H' is full as sorrv as I am.' 
 
 Again, at a ball at Sir Thomas Robinson's, where four-and- 
 wcnty couples danced country-dances, in two sets, twelve and 
 wclve. 'there was Lady Sophia, handsomer than ever, but a 
 ;t c out of humour at the scarcity of minuets ; however, as 
 ''^^al dancing more than anybody, and, as usual too, she took 
 «' t what men .he hked, or thought the best dancers ' 
 \ c (lane ed ; for I country-danced till four, then had tea and 
 <""cc, and came home.' Poor Horace ! Lady Sophia wa.s not 
 '" a younger son, however gay, talented, or rich he might be 
 
 H,s picjue and resentment towards her mother, who had higher 
 ; '-vs for her beautifid daughter, begin at this period to .show 
 ' '^'inselves, and never died away, 
 l-ady Townshend was 
 
 I'l 
 
 accompli^Iicd novelist, Mrs. Gore, f.i, 
 vc-volumo novel just ' drijiped from he 
 
 wit who used to gratify Horace 
 mous for her facility, used to sav 
 
 Item 
 
 ■pen 
 
2;6 
 
 A// Adiiiirahlc Scene. 
 
 with talcs of licr whom he hated Henrietta-Louisa, Countess 
 of I'oinfret. 
 
 ' Lady 'J ownshcnd told ine an admirable liistory : it is of 
 nnrfr'u'iid 1 m ly Pomfret. Somebody that belonged to the Prince 
 of AN'ales said, they were going to court ; it was ol)jected that 
 they ought to say to Carlton House; that the only r<;//r/ is 
 where the king resides. Lady J'., with her paltry air of signi- 
 ficant learning and absurdity, said, '•( )h. Lord ! is there x\o court 
 
 ICngland but the kii 
 
 Sure, there are many more ! 
 
 'I'here is the Court of Chancery, the Court of i;x( hequer, the 
 Court of King's Bench, \-c." Don't you love her? Lord Pin- 
 <olndoes her daughter - Lady Sophia Permor. He is come 
 over, and met me and her the other night ; he turned pale, 
 sjjoke to her several time in the evening, but not long, and 
 sighed to me at going away. He » ame over all alone ; and not 
 only his Pnde Duke (the Duke of Xewca^tle) but even Majesty 
 is fallen in love with him. He talked to the king at his levee, 
 without being spoken to. Tiiat was always thought high trea- 
 son ; bm I don't know how the gruff r-ntleman liked it! And 
 then he had been told that Lord Lincoln designed to have made 
 the campaign, if we had gone to war; in short, he says Lord 
 Lincoln is the handsomest man in England.' 
 
 Horace was not, therefore, the only victim to a mother's am- 
 bition : there is something touching in the interest he from time 
 to time evinces in i)oor Lord Lincoln's hopeless love. On 
 another occasion, a second ball of Sir 'i'homas Robinson'.s. 
 Lord Lincoln, out of pnulence, dances with lady Caroline 
 Pit/roy, AL. Conway taking Lady Sophia Permor. ' 'J"he two 
 «c)Ui)le were just admirably mi.smatchcd, as everybody soon per- 
 ceived, by the attentions of each man to the woman he did not 
 dance with, and the emulation of either lady ; it was an admir- 
 able scene.' 
 
 All, however, was not country dancing: the young man, 'too 
 old and too young to be in love,' was to make "his way as a wit. 
 He dill so, in the ajij.roved way in that day of irreligion, in a 
 l)olitical s.piib. On July 14th. 1742, he writes in his Notes, ' I 
 wrote the '• /<-j-j-tv/j- /«;;///■,•/;,;)• .'' the "Lessons for the dav" 
 being the first and secoml chapters of the " Look of Prefer- 
 
aiisa, Countess 
 
 itory : it is of 
 (1 to the Prince 
 objected that 
 ; only court is 
 7 air of signi- 
 > there no court 
 
 many more ! 
 ^\( licqucr, the 
 r? I,or(lI,in- 
 
 He is come 
 
 e turned pale, 
 
 not long, and 
 
 lone ; and not 
 
 t even Majesty 
 
 ;)t his lc\cc, 
 gilt high trci- 
 iked it. And 
 i to have nvulc 
 he sa\.-. \. -.A 
 
 mother's am- 
 L he from timo 
 .'ss love. On 
 s Robinson's, 
 l.:ul)' Caroline 
 r. ' 'J'lie two 
 Hilly soon per- 
 um he did not 
 was an adniir- 
 
 uiig man, 'too 
 
 i way as a wit. 
 
 rreligion, in a 
 his Notes, ' I 
 for the dny" 
 
 lok of rreft-r- 
 
 Poliiical Squibs. 
 
 277 
 
 nicnf." ' Horace was proud of this brochure, for he says it got 
 about surreptitiously, and was 'the original of many things of 
 that sort.' Various /,v/.v iVcsf^rit of a similar sort followed. A 
 'Sonnon on Painting.' which was preached before Sir Robert 
 Walpole, in the gallery at Houghton, by his chai)lain ; ' Pata- 
 I-ui, or the Little White Dog,' imitated from La Fontaine. \o. 
 :vS of the 'Old Kngland Journal,' intended to ri.li.ule Lord 
 i!jth; and then, in a magazine, was printed his 'Scheme for 
 .i Tax on Message Cards and Notes.' Next the 'Beauties.' 
 win, h was also handed about, an.l got into print. So that 
 witlKKit the vulgarity of publishing, the reputation of thed.-ndy 
 wriur was soon noised about. His religious tenets niav or may 
 '>t have been sound ; but at all events the tone of hi^ mind 
 ^>'iined at this time a very different character to that reverent 
 •rnii in which, when a youth at college, he had apostrophized 
 those who bowed their heads beneath the vaulted roof of King's 
 College, in his eulogium iu the character of Henry VI. 
 
 '.Ascend the tnnplf, join the vocal choir, 
 I.'-t liarm()?iy ymir raptured souls inspire. 
 II, irk how the tunefii! - i.-.,,. ,...,, is blow, 
 .Au fully stronij, e!al, 
 Now to yon enipyrciw -. li-, ,,,„,»,■ 
 Raise meditatirjii on the win^s of love. 
 Now failinq:, sinkini,', dying tu the moan 
 Once warljled sad l>y Jesses contrite son ; 
 Breathe in each note a conscience throuL,'!) the sense, 
 And call forth tears from soft-eyed iViiitence.' 
 
 In the midst of all his gaieties, his successes, and ])erhap.s 
 his hopes, a cloud hovered over the destinies of his father. The 
 opi)osition, Horace saw, in 1741, wi.shcd to ruin his father 'by 
 nuning his constitution.' They wished to continue their debates 
 on Saturdays, Sir Robert's only day of rest, when he used to 
 rush to Richmond New Park, there to amu himself with a 
 favourite jjack of beagles. Notwithstanding the minister's in- 
 ditferenc .0 this liis youngest son, Horace felt bitterly what he 
 considered a persecution against one of the most corrupt of 
 modern statesmen. 
 
 ' Trust me, if we fall, all the grandeur, al! the envied gran- 
 
 % m. 
 
 of our house, will not cost me 
 
 I sigii : it has given me no 
 
 p.t-asure while we have it, and will give me no pain when I p:irt 
 
t 
 
 2/i^ S/y Rolicrt's Rctirctncnt from Office. 
 
 with it. My lilicrty, my case, and < lioirc of my own fricn.is 
 and (ompany. will suftKicntly « oinUcrbalanre the crowds of 
 Downin- Street. I am so sick of it all, that if we are virtori- 
 Otis or not, 1 jjroiJO.se leavinj; Kngland in the spring.' 
 
 The strii;,'^le was not <lestined to last long. Sir Robert was 
 forced to give up the (onlest and be shelved with a ijeerage. 
 Ill 1742, he was created llarl of Orford, and resigned. The 
 wonder is that, with a mortal internal disease to contend with, 
 lie should have faced his foes so long. \erse.s ascribed to I ,or.l 
 ilervey i^wCrnC,, as did all the s(|uibs of the day. with :i flin- ,it 
 that 'rogue \V'alpole.' 
 
 • iMir t!ioii;;l) yc.ii Iiav.- m.idc that roj,nic Walpolt; retire. 
 \on ;iro out <if ilic frying-pan into tin- fin; : 
 Hut since lo the I'roli-st.mt Iini- I rn a friend, 
 
 I Ircniijle to lliink \\',\\ xW^x- ^li.in'jc-, niav ('ml.' 
 
 Horace, notwithstanding an atle< ted iiKlifference, felt his 
 father's downfall poignantly. He went, indeed, to court, in 
 spite ot a (old, t.iken in an nnaired house; for the prime mi- 
 nister now ijuitted Downing Street for .\rlington Street. The 
 court was crowded, he found, with (j|.l lad: ;, the wives of 
 ])atriots who had not been there for ' these twenty years,' and 
 who ajiiJeared in the accoutrements that were in vogue in Queen 
 Anne's time. ' 'I'hen,' he writes. ' the joy and awkward jollity 
 of them is inexi^ressible I They title'-, and, wherever you 
 meet them, are always looking at their ^vatc lies an hour lieforc 
 the time. I met several on the birthday (for 1 did not arrive 
 time enough lo make clothes), and they were dressed in all the 
 colours of the rainbow. The)' sl ■: . to have said to themselves, 
 twenty years ago, '• Well, if ever I do go to court again, I will 
 have a pink ami silver, or a blue and silver;" and they keep 
 their resolutions.' 
 
 Another characteristic anecdote betrays liis Ill-.suppressed 
 vc.vation : — 
 
 'I laughed at myself ] prodigiously the other day for a ])iece 
 of absence. I was writing, on the king's birthday, and being 
 disturbed with the mob in the street, I rang for the jwrter and 
 
 it" r 
 
 was 
 
 with an air of grandeu 
 
 cried, " Pray send away those marrow-bones and cfeavcrs !" 
 
 Downing Street. 
 
own friends 
 
 c crowds of 
 
 arc victori- 
 
 r ' 
 
 Robert \v;is 
 a peerage. 
 Igncd. The 
 intend with. 
 il)cd to Lord 
 Ii a llin:; at 
 
 •c, felt his 
 to rourt, in 
 -' prime nii- 
 ireet. The 
 le wives of 
 
 years,' and 
 le in Queen 
 ■vard jollity 
 erever you 
 lour before 
 
 not arrive 
 d in all the 
 themselves, 
 gain, J will 
 
 they keep 
 
 ■siipj)re.s.se(l 
 
 for a ])ieee 
 and being 
 porter and 
 
 i 1 1 i.^ w i I c L' i , 
 
 cleavers !'' 
 
 VV/. Sf^h'iidiif Mausiofi at lloiii; 70 
 
 '1 >,c pnor fellow, with the most morlit"ie<l air in ' 
 ! 'iid, "Sir, they arc not at <v/;- door, but over tlh 
 1 Mtil Carteret's."-- " Oh !" siid I, " tlun let them 
 ! c. he does not dislike the noise I" I pity the poor p' i" 
 
 is all his old ('ii.-itomers goint; over the way too.' 
 [lie retirement of Sir Robert from ofti( e iuul an iin|)ortanl 
 (..lit on the tastes and future life of his son Horace. The 
 niiui^trr had been occupyin;; his later years in jiuUing down 
 I ^ old ancestral house at Houghton, and in building an cnor 
 ! ii'is mansion. whi( h has since his time been, in its turn, jiar 
 ti.iHy demolished. When Harley, I'"arl of (),\ford, was known 
 to be erecting a great house for .himself, Sir Robert had re 
 marked that a minister who did so committed a great impru 
 il .Kc. When Houghton w.is begun. Sir Hynde Aston reminded 
 S ! Roliert (A this speech. ' N'ou ought to have recalled it to 
 iiic before,' was the rejily ; 'for lu'fore I beg.m building, it 
 might h.ive been of use to me.' 
 This famous memorial of W'alpolean greatness, this si)len<lid 
 ..constructed, it is generally supposed, on publi<* money, 
 u IS inhabited by Sir Robert only ten days in summer, and 
 twenty days in winter ; in the autumn, during the shooting sea- 
 n. two months. It became almost an eye.sore to the (piiet 
 litre, who viewed the palace with a feeling of their own in- 
 viority. People as good as the Walpoles lived in their gablc- 
 : icd, moderate-sized m.vnsions ; and who was Sir Robert, to 
 '. tlicm at so immense a distance? 
 
 'io the vulgar comjjrehension of the Premier, Houghton, 
 uigantic in its proportions, had its ])urposes. He there assem- 
 bled his supporters ; there, for a short time, he entertained his 
 < cnstituents and coadjutors with a magnificent, jovial hosjii- 
 talily, of which he, with his gay spirits, his humourous, indeli- 
 ''• jokes, and his unl)ounded good-nature, was the very soul. 
 free conversation, hard-drinking, were the features of every 
 (lay's feast. Pope thus describes him : 
 
 ' Soen liini, I h^ve, but in his happier hour, 
 Of social plc.isurc, ill fxciuingcil for po\wr ; 
 Seen him iincumberod uii!i the venal triU-. 
 Stnile without art, arrl -Siout a brilx-.' 
 
 Amid the coarse taste one gentle refinement existed : this 
 
 i 
 
 Hi 
 
frnf ■ 
 
 2'^o Sir Robert's Low <•/ dnn/tiiitii^. 
 
 \\\i> thu love of gardening, both in its smaller rompass nr..j in 
 its nobler sense <;f i.iiuiscape g.inlening. 'This ]Am 
 Robert, in 1743. wrote to (Jenerai Chun hill, from ilought,,,, 
 'affords no news, no subje( t of entertainment or amusenieiit ; 
 for fine men of wit and pleasure about town understand neither 
 the language and taste, nor the pleasure of the inanimate world. 
 My flatterers here .ire all luiUr,: tl,,' ...iks, the beerhcs, the 
 < hestnuts, seem to contend whi( h best shall please the lord of 
 the manor. 'I hey cannot deceive; they will not lie. 1 in .sin- 
 cerity admire them, and have as many beauties aliout me as I'lll 
 up all niy hours of dangling, and no disgr.u e attending me, 
 from sixty seven years of age. W ithin doors we come a little 
 nearer to real lite, .md a.lniire, upon the almost speaking can- 
 vas, all the airs and gra< es the jiioiide^l ladies can boast,' 
 
 In these pursuit.. Ilor.icc ( ordudly shared. Through hi. 
 agency, Honn e .Mann. >till in the diiilomatic service, at I 
 ren<e. selected and piuc hased works of irt, whi( h were ...,. 
 cither to Arlinuton Stieet. or to furm the famous Houghton 
 Colle.tion. in will, h Horace so often ivlers in that delightlul 
 work, hi', • Anecdotes of r.n'nting.' 
 
 Amongst the embellishment.-, of Houghton, the g.irdens were 
 the most expensive. 
 
 'Sir Robert has pleased himself,' I'ulteney, fi.irl of P.ath. 
 wrote, 'with ere. ting palaces and extending ])arks, planting 
 gardens in phu es to whi( h the very earth was to be transported 
 in carriages, and embracing cascades and fountains who.se water 
 was only to be obtained by acjueducts and mac hines, and imi- 
 tating the extravagance of ( )rienial monarchs. at the expense 
 of a free i)eople m he has at once impoverished and be- 
 
 trayed.' 
 
 The ex-minister went to a great expense in the cultivation 
 of plant.s. bought Uvedale's " Hortus .Siccus ;' and received 
 from Jiradley. the Professor of T.otany at Cambridge, the tri- 
 bute of a dedic.ition. in which it was said tliat 'Sir Robert 
 had purchased one of the finest collections of plants in the 
 kingdom.' 
 
 \\ hat was more to ids honour sti!!. wis Sir Robert's pre.c.fr- 
 vation of St. James's Park for the people. Fond of outdoor 
 
 !!e(i 
 
pass an.i in 
 
 |il;u'i'.' 
 1 lIoughiuM, 
 mni.scnu'm : 
 Mild neither 
 imatc world. 
 i)cerhfs, the 
 the lonl oi' 
 I in sin- 
 ut MIC as fill 
 (-■iiding mo. 
 )inc a little 
 caking can- 
 Mjast.' 
 
 'hroii^di his 
 ice, at Flo- 
 Were sent 
 I Iniij^diton 
 t ilcli-lulul 
 
 irdens were 
 
 :-l of Jl,ili«. 
 .s, planting 
 transported 
 diosc water 
 s, and inii- 
 ic expense 
 cd and be- 
 
 « ultivation 
 d received 
 i^e, the tri- 
 Sir Robert 
 mts in the 
 
 •rt's presiT- 
 of outdoor 
 
 Jf7/ti/ riv Old' to /'.. ■ I ,'^■atltf^^ J Si 
 
 ..mcnts himself, the Premier heard, with dism:v,, ,i |-i . 
 •li the pari (if <Jueen Caroline to (on\i am hiU 
 
 :. into a palace garden. 'She asked my lniui. II 
 '. ''lole relates, 'wh.i' alteration might p<)s-.iitly ■■ 
 
 '',■,)■////•<■(■' ' A.iN the civil, witty. can<lid answer. 1 iie 
 
 riwasu... '"gl* ^*-' '^'i'^' "'"' '''■'''■ '^ '^ pnssililo she 
 
 :i to conA'"! the park into gardens that should be open 
 I'll' 1 r.crlui. Mannheim, and ewn tlir In 'ii 
 
 >\r.\ ii would not ' M I IMS. 
 
 Ib.iKe Walpole owed, perhaps, his love of art hite( turc and 
 
 ill-, taste for g rdening, partly to the early coinpanioMship of 
 
 d' V, who delighted in those pursuits. \Valj)ole'.s e-.timatinn 
 
 ires, inedaU, aiKl st iliie-.. u i , howcser the Mint of a loiii; 
 
 ;i<e abroad. We are apt to rail at (onlineMl.il n.Uion-, ; 
 
 ' • iiid it iiol been tor t' -ion.d intercourse with foreign 
 
 na'aous, art would ha\e ailogcl.ier died out among us. 'I'o the 
 
 'Cir.vndes Tours,' perfornieil as a matter oftotirse by our young 
 
 iiiibility .n the most impressionable period of their lives we owe 
 
 ': ; of our nolile ]iri\aie < dllei tioiis. Charles I. and liuckmg- 
 
 '- a, renewed, in their travels in .Spain, the ell'orts jireviously 
 
 : 1 '!e by Lord Anmdel an<l Lord I'endjroke, to embelli.sh their 
 
 ' intry seats. Then came the Rebellion ; and like a mighty 
 
 iiiig river, made a chasm in whi(h much perished.' Art l.in- 
 
 , !;■ d in the reign of the sei ond Charles, excepting in what 
 
 :■ ' ttd lo portrait painting. I'.velyn stood almost aloiio in his 
 
 tiiii se( hided and lovely retirement at Wotton ; apart in liis 
 
 uiulsing exertion;; still to arrest the Muses ere they ([uitted fur 
 
 ever English shores. Then came the deadly frost of William's 
 
 '.• iiilluence. The reign of .\nne was conspicuous more for 
 
 tliaii for art : architecture, more especially, was vulg.ir- 
 
 !/ed under Vanbrugh. (leorge 1. had no < (jiiception of aiiv 
 
 thing abstract : taste, erudition, science, art, were like a dead 
 
 language to his common sense, his vulgar prutligacy, and his 
 
 liTsonal predilections. Neither Ceorge II. nor his f[ueen had 
 
 a:i iota of taste, either in language, conduct, liter.iture, or art. 
 
 To be vulgar, was //,////-/,//.■ to be relnied, to lKi\e pursuits that 
 
 ! -'-; oPtc from low party go.ss!|>, or heterodox ilistiuisitions up^on 
 
 party, was esteemed odd: e\erylhing origiiud was cramped; 
 
 i». 
 
 I 
 
2N. 
 
 (Jnviy l\r/!tr. 
 
 Sua 
 
 L\civthing imaginative was siieead at ; the entlnisiasm that is 
 elevated by religion was iin])liil(jso])hic ; the poetry that is 
 l)reathe(l out from the works of genius was not conii)rchended. 
 It was at Houghton, under t!ie roof of that monster palace, 
 that Il()ra<e Walpole indtdged that tastes for pictures which 
 he had acfpiired in Italy. His chief coadjutor, however, as 
 far as the anti(|uities of painting are concerned, was (k'orge 
 Vertuc, the eminent engraver. Vertue was a man of modest 
 merit, ami was educated merely as an engraver ; but, conscious 
 of talent, studied drawing, whi( h he afterwards applied to en- 
 graving. He was patronised both by the vain C.odfrey Kneller 
 and by the intellectual Lord Sop.uts : yet his works have more 
 fidelity than elegance, and betray in every line the anti([uary 
 rather than the genius. Vertue was known to be a first-rate 
 authority as to the history of a painter; he was admitted and 
 welcomed into every great country house in h'.ngland ; he lived 
 m an atmosphere of vertii : every line a dilettante collector 
 wTote, every word he uttered, was minuted down by him ; he 
 visited every collection of rarities; he copied every i)aper ho 
 could find relative to art ; registers of wills, and registers of 
 parishes, for birUis and deaths were his delight; sales his re- 
 creation. He was the 'Old .Mortality' of pictures in this 
 '■ountry. No wonder tha.t his compiiations were barely con- 
 tamed in forty volumes, whi( h he left in manuscript. Human 
 nature has^ singular varieties : here was a man who expended 
 his very existence in gathering up the works of oUiers, and died 
 without giving to the world one of his own. , lUit Horace Wal- 
 pole has done him justice. After Vcrtue's death he bought his 
 manuscripts from his widow. In one of his pocketd)ooks was 
 contained the whole history of this man of one idea : Vertuc 
 l)cgan his (ollection in 1713, and worked at it until his death 
 in 1757, forty-four years. 
 
 He died in the l)elief th.it lie should one day publish an 
 iinuiue work on painting and painters : such was the aim of his 
 existence, and his study must have been even more curious 
 than the wonderfully crammed, small house at Islington, where 
 Willi.nn Upcott, the 'Old Mortality' in his line, "who saved 
 from the housemaid's fire-lighting designs the MSS. of Evelyn's 
 
usiasm that is 
 poetry that is 
 omiJrciK'ndfd. 
 lonster palnce, 
 [pictures which 
 ', however, as 
 1, was (leorge 
 nan of modest 
 but, ronscious 
 ijipHcd to en- 
 odfrcy Knellcr 
 -ks liave more 
 the antiquary 
 l)e a first-rate 
 admitted and 
 and ; lie hved 
 ante collector 
 n by him ; he 
 ■ery paper ho 
 d registers of 
 ; sales his re- 
 :tures in this 
 e barely con- 
 ript. Human 
 vho e.\])ended 
 liers, and died 
 Horace Wal- 
 hc bought his 
 :et-books was 
 iilea : Verluc 
 nil his death 
 
 y publish an 
 he aim of his 
 more curious 
 ington, Avhere 
 .', who saved 
 !. of Evelyn's 
 
 J/<7/ of One LIca. 2S \ 
 
 i ill' and Letters, which he found tossing about in the old gal- 
 Irry at Wotton, near Dorking, jjassed his. days. I. ike rpcntt, 
 'ike i'alissy, Vertue lived and rlicd under the intlucncf of one 
 i-(ilated aim, effort, and hope. 
 
 In these men, the < herislicd and ;!iniable monomania of 
 trifted minds was realized. I'pcott had every possible autograph 
 ironi every known hand in Ills collection : Palissy succeeded in 
 niak'.r.g glazed china; but Vertue left his ore to the hands of 
 others to work out into shajjc, and the man who mouhled his 
 ' r-ide materials was Horace \\'ali)ole. and Vertue's forty volumes 
 w;-' -ha])ed into a rea(kd)!e worl^ ;'^; curious and accurate in 
 fids as it is flippant and prejudic ed in style and ojtinions. 
 
 Walpole's 'Anecdotes of I'ainting' are the foundation of all 
 < :r small amount of knowledge as to what Faigland has <lone 
 1 viicrly to encourage art. 
 
 ( »Mc may fancy the modest, ingenious (leorgc \'ertue arrang 
 in- first, and then making a catalogue of the Houghton dallery ; 
 Hcrace, a boy still, in looks, — with a somewhat (hubby face, 
 ;..;miring and following: Sir Roljert, in a cocked hat, edged 
 V. all silver lace, a curled short wig, a loose coat, also edged 
 wall silver lace, and with a half humorous expression on his 
 \ulgu- countenance, watching them at intervals, as they paraded 
 '' VM-h the hall, a large square space, adorned v.ilh bas reliefs 
 and busts, and containing a bronze cojty of the I.aoc oon, for 
 whi( h Sir Robert (or rather we English) paid a thousand pounds ; 
 or they might be seen hop])ing si)eedily through the ground- 
 lloor apartments where there could be little to arrest the fool 
 ^tr| s of the medi;eval-ininded \'ertue. Who but a court er 
 (oiild give one glance at a portrait of George I., though l)y 
 Kneller? Who that was a courtier in that house would pause 
 to look at the resemblance, also by Knellcr, of the short lived, 
 ■ 'used Catherine Shorter, the Premier's first wife — even though 
 lie siil! endured it in his bed-room ? a mute reproach for his 
 noglect and mi.sconduct. So let us hasten to the yellow dining- 
 room where presently we may admire the works of Titian, 
 (iiiido, Vanderwerf. and last, not least, eleven iiortraits by Van- 
 
 k, of the Wharton family, which Sir Rol^ert bought at the 
 
 ; of the spendthrift Duke of Wharton. 
 
 9 
 
 I 
 
 dvc 
 

 284 T//r A'olf/i- Picttin- Gallery at I lougJitoji. 
 
 Then let us glance al the saloon, famed for the four large 
 ' Market Pieces,' as they were called, by Rubens and Snydors : 
 let us lounge into what were ( ailed the Carlo Maratti and the 
 Wuidyck rooms; step ue also into tlie green velvet bed-( ham- 
 ber, the tapestry-room, the worked bed-chamber; then comes 
 another dining-room: in short, mx' are lost in wonder at this 
 noble collection, whi( h cost ^^;o,ooo. 
 
 Many of the ].ictures were selected and bargained for hy 
 \ertiK', who, in i'landers. purchased the Market Pieces referred 
 to, lur/'.jjS: but did not secure the 'Fish Market,' and the 
 'Meat Market,' by the same painter. \\\ addition to the pic- 
 tures, the stateliness and beauty of the rooms were enhanced 
 by rich furniture, carving, gihling, and all the subsidiary arts 
 whit h our grandfathers loved to add to high merit in de.-^ign or 
 colouring. Besides hi.-, piu'i liases. Sir Robert received [irescnts 
 ol pictiuvs from iViends. and expc'tanl courtiers; and the gal- 
 lery at Houghton contained al last 222 pictures. '!"o our 
 sorrow now, to our disgrace then, this splenilid collection was 
 suffered to go out of the country : Catherine, empress of Russia, 
 l)OUght it for ^40,000, and it adorns the Hermitage Palace of 
 St. I'etersburgh. 
 
 After Sir Robert's retirement from jiower, the good (jualities 
 which he undoubtedly i)osses.>ed, seemed to re-appear as soon 
 as the i)ressure of party feeling was withdrawn. He was fast 
 declining in health when the insurrection of 1745 was impend- 
 ing. He had warned the country of its danger in his last 
 sj)eech,'one of the fmesl e\er made in the House of Lords: 
 after tliat eflbrt his voice was heard no more. The gallant, un- 
 fortunate Charles Kdward was then at Paris, and that scope of 
 old ex|)erience 
 
 ' wliich (loth attain 
 
 To s<jiiic'\\luU uf jirupIiL'tic strain,' 
 
 showed the ex-nu'nister of (Jreat Britain that an invasion was at 
 iKind. It was on this occasion that Frederick, Prince of Wales, 
 took Sir Robert, then Lord Orford, by the hand, and thanked 
 him for his zeal in the cause of the royal family. WaIj)oIe re- 
 turned to Xurioik. jiut was simimoned again to London to afford 
 the ministry the benelit of his counsels. Death, however, closed 
 
^Jiton. 
 
 r the four large 
 > and Snydcrs : 
 laratti and the 
 Ivct l)cd-( hani- 
 r ; tlicn comes 
 Aundcr at this 
 
 gained for by 
 Pieces referred 
 irkcl,' and the 
 lion to the pir- 
 tverc enhanced 
 subsiihary arts 
 it in design or 
 eived presents 
 ) ; aad the t^.il- 
 res. To (^ur 
 collection was 
 ress of Russia, 
 tagc Palace of 
 
 good qualities 
 pjiear as soon 
 He was fast 
 5 was impend- 
 er in his last 
 ise of Lords: 
 he gallant, iin- 
 that scope of 
 
 ivasion was at 
 ince of Wales, 
 , and thanked 
 Walpole re- 
 ndon to atiord 
 )wever, closed 
 
 Sir Robcvfs Duit/i. 385 
 
 iiis prosperous, but laborious life. He suffered agonies from 
 I'le stone ; large doses of opium kept him in a stale of stupor, 
 iiid alone gave him case; but his strength failed, and he w;!s 
 w rned to prepare himself I his decease, lie bore the an- 
 nouncement with great fortitude, and took leave of his children 
 in perfect resignation to his doom. lie died on the 2.Sth (if 
 M.inh, 1745. 
 
 Horace ^V'alpole — whatsoever doubts may rest on the fut of 
 his being Lord Orford's son or not writes feelini;Iv and natu- 
 riliv upon this event, and it> k-rerunncr, the agonies of disease, 
 lb- seems, from the following ])assages in his letters to .Sir 
 Horace iMann, to have devoted himself incessantly to the 
 ]ialient invalid: on his father having rallied, he thus exjiresscs 
 himself:— 
 
 • \\)x\ have lieartl from your brother the reason of my not 
 lii.iiig written to you so long. I have been out but twi<e sinrc 
 my father fell into this illness, which is now near a month, and 
 ;;11 that time either continually in his room, or oliliged to see 
 m iliitudes of peojile : for it is wonderful how everybody of all 
 Vw.iU has aftected to express their concern for liim 1 IIeh;is 
 i'.- ii out of danger this week ; but I can't say he mended at 
 all perceptibly till these last three days. His spirits arc ama/iiig, 
 ;;;ul his constitution more, for Dr. Hulse said honestly from the 
 fuM. that if he recovered it would be ^rom his own strength, 
 i:.t from their art. How much more.' he adds, mournfully, 'he 
 \\;.' ever recover, one scarce dare hope about; for us, he is 
 greally recovered ; for himself—' He then breaks off 
 
 A month after we find him thus referring to the parent still 
 tiiioiiliing in mortal agony on the tlea.lh bed, with no chance of 
 ;;:iU-ndment : — 
 
 ' How dismal a jjrospect for him. with the jiossession of the 
 g" itj^t understanding in the world, not the least inijiaired, to 
 lie without any use for it I for to keep him from pains ;ind re--; 
 lessncss, he takes so much oi)iate, that ho is scarce awake four 
 hours of the four-and-twenty ; Init I will say no more of this.' 
 
 On the 29th of March, he again wrote to his friend in the 
 i'.iiiowing terms : — 
 
 ' 1 begged your brothers to tell you what it is impossible for 
 
 I 
 
286 
 
 The Granville Faction. 
 
 
 mc to tc.'l you. Von share in our common los.s ! Don't cxpc i 
 inc to enter at all upon the subject. After tlie melancholy two 
 ■nonths that I have passe.i, and in my situation, you will not 
 v.-onder I shun a conversation whi( h could not be bounded by 
 a letter, a letter that would grow into a pane-yric or :i i)iecc of 
 ;i moral ; improper for me to write upon, and too distressful for 
 us both : a death is only to be felt, never to be talked upon Lv 
 tiiose It touches.' 
 
 Nevertheless, the world soon had Horace Walpole for her 
 own again ; during Lord Orford's last illness, George II. thought 
 of him, It seems, even though the ' (iranvilles ' were the only 
 j.cople tolerated at court, 'j'hat famous clique comprised the 
 secretly adored of Hora< e (Lady Granville now), Lady Soi.hia 
 Termor. * 
 
 'The Granville fa<:tion.' Horace wrote, before his father's 
 death, 'are still the constant and only countenanced people at 
 court. I ord Win.hel.sea. one of ihe disgraced, played at court 
 :il 1 wellth-mglu. and won : the king asked him next mornin<T 
 lu)w much he ha<l for his own share. He replied, "Sir, about 
 a .luarter's .salary." 1 liked the spirit, and was talking to him 
 of It the next night at i,ord Granville's. '• Why ves," said he 
 " J think it showed familiarity at least : tell it your father I 
 don'i think he will dislike it." ' 
 
 The most trifling incidents <livided the world of fashion and 
 pnxluced the bitterest rancour, indeed, nothing could exceed 
 the frivolity of the great, e.xctjU their impertinence. For want 
 of better amusements, it had become the fashion to make 
 conundrums, and to iKUe ,,rinted books full of them which 
 were produced at parlies. JUit these were peaceful diversions. 
 J he following anecdote is worthy of the times of Georjie II 
 and of Frederick of Wales :— 
 
 "i'here is a very good (juarrel.' Horace writes, 'on foot be- 
 tween two dudiesse-s : she of Queensberry sent to invite Lady 
 i'.mily Lenox to a ball : her grace of Richmon<l, who is won.ler 
 fully cautious since Lady Garoline's elopement (with Mr Fox) 
 sent word " she could not d.etermine." The other .sent again 
 the same night : the same answer. The Queensberry then sent 
 word, that she luul made up her comi)any, and desired to be 
 
Don't expci I 
 lelancholy two 
 , you will not 
 c Ijoundcd by 
 : or a j)iecc of 
 distressful for 
 liked upon by 
 
 dpole for her 
 gcll. thought 
 a're the only 
 oniprised the 
 1-ady Sophia 
 
 ; his father's 
 ed people at 
 ayed at court 
 lext morning 
 , " Sir, about 
 liking to him 
 ^■es," said he, 
 our fuller, I 
 
 ■ fashion and 
 :ould exceed 
 • For want 
 in to make 
 them, which 
 1 diversions. 
 ' George II. 
 
 on foot, be- 
 in vite Lady 
 3 is wonder- 
 1 Mr. Fox), 
 ••■Hilt again 
 ■y then sent 
 sired to be 
 
 yl Vtrj' Good Qnavicl. jiS;^ 
 
 L\i '.i.-icd from having Lady Lniily'.s ; hut at the bottom of the 
 c.ird wrote, " Too great trust.'' 'I'here is no declaration of war 
 , ..nij out from the other duchcivs : but I believe it will be made 
 I n.uional (quarrel of the whole illegitimate royal family.' 
 
 ilcr (Irace of Queensberry, Prior's 'Kitty, beautiful and 
 yo'.aig,' lorded it, with a tyrannical hand, over the court. IF r 
 t.nud loveliness was, it is true, at this time on the wane. 
 ILr ])ortrait delineating her in her bib and tucker, with her 
 head rolled back underneadi a sort of half cap, half veil, shows 
 liow intellectual was the {ac^i to which such incense was [laid 
 :-r year.s. Her forehead and eyebrows are beautiful : her eyes 
 
 -;i. though lively in cxjiression : her features rcfmed. She 
 A.o as whimsical in her attire as in her character. When, how- 
 ever, she chose to appear as the ^^nvui',- ildtuc, no one could (0|)e 
 with her. Mrs. Delany describes her at the Firth-day,— her 
 ilre-^s of white .satin, embroidered with vine leaves, convolvu- 
 ':>es, rose-buds, shaded after nature; but she, says her friend, 
 •.'.,;> so far beyond the master-//<vv <y"rt'// that one could hardly 
 t: :;ik of her clothes — allowing for her age I never .saw so 
 
 r, if if ill a cn'dtii/c' 
 
 Meantime, Houghton was shut up: for its owner died 
 ,{,50,000 in debt, and the elder brother of Horace, the second 
 burd Orford, jn'oposed, on entering it again, after kee[)ing it 
 ' ioscd for some time, to enter upon "new, and then very un- 
 .uuwu economy, for which there was great need :' thus Horai c 
 refers to the changes. 
 
 It was in the South Sea scheme that Sir Robert Walpole had 
 : . '..cd a large sum of money, by selling out at the right mo- 
 
 -iii. h\ doing so he had gained 1000 per "cent. But he left 
 i :ile to his family, and at his death, Horace received a legary 
 only of ;/^5,ooo, and a thou.sand pounds )early, whu ii lie was 
 t > (i'-aw (for doing no.hing) from the collector's place in the 
 '■ii->tom House ; the surplus to be divided between his brother 
 1-Ahvard and himself: this provision was afterwards enhanced 
 iiv some money which came to Horace and his brothers from 
 Ills uncle Captain Shorter's property ; but Horace was not at 
 tills i,>erLod a rn'h ni.a!"*.. and nt'rliaiis his not ni'irrvm--' w*t^' o^v'^i-'' 
 ' ' his dislike of fortunediunting, or to his dread of refusal. 
 
 I 
 
 H 
 
:S8 
 
 TicickciiJiain. 
 
 r:: 
 
 
 Two years after his falhcis (lc;itli, he took a small hoii.ie at 
 'I'wickenham : the i>roperty cosi liini nearly ,^14.000 ; in the 
 deeds he found that it was (ailed Strawberry ] 1 ill, lie soon 
 tommenced making considerable additions to the house- 
 whi(h became a sort of raree-show in the latter i)art of the last 
 and until a late period in this, century. 
 
 Twickenham -so called, according to the anti^iuary Norden, 
 because the Thames, as it flows near it, seems from the islundi 
 to be divided into two rivers, had long been celebrated for its 
 gardens, when Horace Walpole, the generalissimo of all 
 bachelors, took Strawberry Hill, ''{"wicknam is as much as 
 Twynam,' dei lares Xorden, 'a place scyluate between two 
 river.s.' So fertile a ' locality ( ould not be neglected by the 
 monks of old, the great gardeners xmX tillers of land in ancient 
 <la\s; and the Manor of Twi( kenhiin was conseijuently given 
 to the monks of Christ Chun h, Canteri.ury. by King Kdre.i, 
 in 491; who ])iously inserted his anathema against any jjenson 
 -whatever their rank, sex, or order -who should infringe the 
 rights of these holy men. ' May their memory,' the kin- 
 (K'( reed, with a fon e worthy of the exeommuniiator-wholesale, 
 i'ms iX., 'be blotted out of the iSook of Life; may lhe;r 
 strength continually waste away, and be there no restorative to 
 repair it :' nevertheless, there were in the time of Lysons, a 
 hundred and fifty acres of fruit-gardens at Twickenham : the soil 
 being a sandy loam, rasj.berries grew plentifully. Even so early 
 as (jueen I'.h/abeth's day.-,, I'-ir^hop Corbet's father had a nursery 
 garden at Twic kenham,— so that King I'.dred's cuise seems to 
 have fallen as jiowerlessly as it may be hoped all subsequent 
 maledictions may do. 
 
 In 169S, one of the l-arl of ilradford's coachmen built a 
 small hou>e on a piece of grountl, called in old works, Straw- 
 berry-Hill-Shot ; lodgings were here let, and Colley Cibber be- 
 came one of the occupants of the place, and here wrote hi. 
 Comedy called 'Refusal; or the Ladies' I'hilosophy.' The 
 spot was so greatly admired that 'lalbot, ]5isho|) oV Durham, 
 lived eight years in it, and the Manjuis of Carnarvon succeeded 
 liini as a tenant: next came Mrs. Chcncvix, a famoiis toy- 
 wuman. She was probably a I'Vench woman, for ]'"ath r 
 
a small hoii.'sc at 
 ^14,000; in the 
 Hill. He soon 
 U> the house- 
 part of the last, 
 
 ti(iuary Nordcn, 
 from the islands 
 clcbrated for its 
 ilissimo of all 
 
 is as much ;i-, 
 c between two 
 .'glectcd by the 
 
 land in ancient 
 sc<|ucntly given 
 )y King Kilred, 
 linst any person 
 lid infringe the 
 lory,' the king 
 i-ator-\vholesa!e, 
 .ilc ; may tlu;r 
 >f) restorative to 
 l: of I.ysons, ;i 
 ."nham : the soil 
 Even so early 
 .r had a nursery 
 
 curse seems to 
 
 all subsequent 
 
 «i 
 
 I 
 
 clnuen built a 
 tl works, Straw- 
 lley Cibber be- 
 here wrote his 
 losophy.' The 
 )p of Durham, 
 ■von succeeded 
 a laniovKS toy- 
 n, for ]'"ath.T 
 
 I 
 
 u 
 
{■ 
 
 i. 
 
 '>541*?A 
 
 W.iS 
 

 mu:^. 
 
 !>' ' 
 
 Strawt'i)-iy If ill. 
 
 289 
 
 Comaycr — he wlio vainly cmicivoiircd to efTcct an imion be- 
 tween the Englisii and the Oalhcan churches— lodged here 
 some time. Horace Waljiole bought up Mrs. Chenevix's lease, 
 ami afterwards the fee-simple; and henceforth became the 
 busiest, if not the hap[)iest, man in a small way in cxi.stence. 
 
 v.- ^o\v despise the poor, over-ornate miniature Oothic style 
 of .St ra. vberry Hill ; we do not consider with what infinite pains 
 !!ic structure was enlarged into its final and well known furm. 
 In the fir.st place, Horace nv ' a tour to collect models from 
 the chief cathedral < iiies in I'.ngland ; but the building required 
 tweniy-three years to complete it. 1 1 was begun in 1753, and 
 finished in 1776. Strawberry Hill had one merit, everything 
 was in keeping: the internal decorations, <he screens, the 
 niches, the chimney-pieces, the book-shelves, were all (Gothic ; 
 and most of the ie were designed by Horace himself ; and, in- 
 deed, the description of Strawberry Hill is toe closely connected 
 with the anna: ; of his life to l)e dissevered from his biography. 
 Here he gathered up his mental fon cs to support and amuse 
 liimself during a long life, sometimes ilarkened by spleen, but 
 r.irelyby;:oliiude; for Horace, with much i.solation of the heart, 
 was, to the world, a social being. 
 
 What scandal, what tritles, what important events, what little- 
 ness of mind, yet what stretch of intellect were henceforth 
 issued by the recluse of Strawberry, as he i)limied himself on 
 being styled, from that library of ' Strawberry !' Let us picture 
 to ourselves the place, the person:;— put on, if we can, the 
 sentiments and habits of the retreat; look through its loop- 
 lioles, not only on the wide worltl 1 ■ vond, but into the small 
 world within ; and face the fine geniieuian author in every 
 period of his varied life. 
 
 'The Strawberry (]a/ette,' Horace once uTote to a fine and 
 titled lady, ' is very barren of weeds.' Such, however, was 
 rarely the case. Peers, and still better, peeresses, — politicians, 
 at tors, actresses, — the poor poet who knew not where to dine, 
 the -Maecenas who was * fed with dedications'— the belle of the 
 .- ason, the demirep of many, the antiquary, and the dilettanti, 
 — painters, sculptors, engravers, all brought news to the 'Straw- 
 berry Gazette;' and incense, sometimes wrung from aching 
 
 19 
 
 W 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
' ' ' The Rixlusi of Strawlhvry. 
 
 Iicarts, to the fastidious wit who professed to he a judge of all 
 material and iinniaterial things — from \ hurle.s(iue to m\ Kss.iy 
 on hiiitory or Phih^sophy-froni the construction »>f Mrs. Chc- 
 nevix's last new toy to the mechanism of a clock made in the 
 sixteenth century, was lavished there. 
 
 Suppose that it is noon (lay : Horace is showing a parly of 
 guests from London over Strawberry : enter we with him, and 
 let us stand in the great parlour before a portrait by Wright of 
 the Minister to whom all courts bowed. ' 'lliat is my father, 
 Sir Robert, in profile,' and a vulgar face in profde is always seen 
 at its vulgare;;t ; and the ncxntroussi.-, the coarse mouth, the 
 double (hill, are most forcibly exhibited in this limning by 
 Wright; who did not, like Reynolds, or h' e Lawrence, cast a 
 nuance of gentility over every subject of his pencil. Horace— 
 <'an we not hear him in imagination ? is telling his friends how- 
 Sir Robert used to celebrate the (lay on ^\hich he sent in his 
 resignation, as a fete ; then he would |)oint out to his visitors a 
 Coinerhalioii [liccc, one of Reynolds',-! earliest effort>. in sm.iU 
 life, rejiresenting the second Larl of JMlgecumbe, Selwyn, and 
 Williams all wits and beaux, and habitues of Strawberry. 
 (Jolley Cibber, however, was put in cold marble in the ante- 
 room ; a respect very Horatian, for no man knew better how 
 to rank his friends than the recluse of ."^ trawberr) . He hurries 
 the lingering guests through the little pailour, thechimneypiece 
 of which was coi)ied from the tomb of Ruthall, Bishop of Dur- 
 ham, in Westminster Abbey. Vet how he i)auses complacently 
 to enumeiMte what has been done for him by titled belles: how 
 these dogs, modelled in terra-cotta, are the i)ro(luction of Anne 
 I )aimr ; a water-colour (b ,ving by Agnes Uerry : a landscajie 
 with gipsies by Lady Di Heauclerk ; -all platonically devoted 
 to our Ibjracc; but he dwells long, and his bright eyes are 
 lighted up as he pauses before a case, looking as if it containeil 
 only a few apparently faded, of no-one-knows-who (or by whom; 
 miniatures; this is a collection of Peter Ohver's best works- 
 portraits of the Digby family. 
 
 How sadly, in referring to these invaluable pictures, docs 
 one's rnind leveit to the day wiicii, before tile luiiuner of 
 Robins h;-.d resounded in these rooms -before his transcendent 
 
jmlgc of all 
 
 to an Essay 
 
 of Mrs. Clic- 
 
 iilkIl' in the 
 
 ig a parly of 
 ^•ith him, and 
 jy Wright of 
 is my fatlicr, 
 is always seen 
 l; nioulh, the 
 . limning by 
 rcncc, cast a 
 Horace — 
 ,s friends how 
 ; sent in his 
 his visitors a 
 jrts in small 
 
 Sehvyn, and 
 
 Strawhcrry. 
 
 in the ante 
 ■ belter how 
 He hurries 
 :himncy])iece 
 shop of Diir- 
 :omplacenily 
 
 belles: how 
 lion of Anne 
 
 a landscajic 
 :ally devotetl 
 ght eyes are 
 " it contained 
 or by whom; 
 )t'st works — 
 
 ictures, docs 
 
 iiuiiuner oi 
 
 transcendent 
 
 Sdcri/txi'. 291 
 
 .!o<]iicncc had been heard at Strawberry -Agnes Strickland, 
 fnlluwed by all eyes, pondered over that group of portraits: 
 as she slowly withdrew, we of the commonalty sfarcc 
 ,\unhy to look, gathered around the spot again, and wondered 
 at the perfect life, the jierfect colouring, jiroportion, and keep- 
 ing of those tiny vestiges of a bygone generation ! 
 
 !"hen Horace — we fear it was: not till his prime was ])ast. 
 md a touch of gout crippled his once active limbs -points to 
 ' [icture of Rose, the gardener (well named), presenting 
 C'uirles H. with a pine-afiple. Some may murmur a doubt 
 \\;iether j)inc-apples were cultivated in cold T 'uiin so long since, 
 r.iit Horace enforces the fad; 'the liV'Miess of the king.'cpioth 
 !;■.•. "is too marke<l, and his features are too well known to 
 il mbt the fact ;' and then he tells ' how he had received a pre- 
 ^Jnt the last Sunday of fruit— and from whom.' 
 
 They i)ause next on Sir Peter Lely's portrait of C'owley — 
 next on Hogarth's Sarah Malcolm, the murderess of her mis 
 ;'J^^ ; then — and doubtless, the spinster ladies are in fr.ili here 
 ' ir ihe vielay, — on Mrs. Darner's model of two kittens, pets, 
 liiough, of Horace Walpole's — for he who loved few human 
 I eings was, after the fasliion of bachelors, fonrl of cats. 
 
 'I'hey ascend the staircase : the domestic atlornments merge 
 into the historic. We have Francis I. — not himself, but his 
 innour : the chimneyi)iece, too, is a copy from the tomb-works 
 "i" John, lOarl of Cornwall, in Westminster Abbey ; the stone- 
 work from that of Thomas, Duke of Clarence, at Canterbury. 
 
 St.iy awhile : we have not done with sacrilege yet ; worse 
 things are to be told, and we walk with consciences not un- 
 scathed into the Library, disapj>roving in secret but Haltering 
 \ocally. Here the very spirit of Horace seemed to those who 
 visited Strawberry before its fdl to breathe in every corner. 
 Alas! when we beheld that library, it was half filled with chests 
 ' outaining the celebrated MSS. of his letters ; which were 
 bought by that enterprising publisher of learned name, Richard 
 il.ntley, and which have since had adequate justiv-e done them 
 Ijy first-rate editors. There they were : the 'Strawberry Ciazette' 
 ui full ; — one glanced merely at the yellow pajjer, and clear, de- 
 cisive hand, and then Uirneil to see what objects he, who loved 
 
 1 9 - 2 
 
 1 
 i 
 
 li 
 
!92 
 
 Mrs. /\ji)hi\\ .1/,itt/s. 
 
 ►« 
 
 I 
 
 his books so well, (ullcdcd lor his cspci uil graliliration, Mrs. 
 Daincr aj;:iiii ! how jitoud he was of her genius — her l)cauty, 
 her cousinly love fur himself; the wise way in which she hound 
 up the wounils of her breaking heart when her profligate hus- 
 band shot himself, by taking to occupation— perha|)s, too, by 
 liking cousin Horace indifferently well. 1 1^' put her models for- 
 ward in every place. Here was her Usprey Ivigle in terracotta, 
 a masterly production , there a coicfrjin; or cm fr,i<, imitated 
 and modelled by her. 'Ihen the marriage of Henry VI. figures 
 on the wall : near the fire is a .screen of the first tapestry ever 
 made in luiL^laiul, ri'presenting a map of Surrey and Middlesex; 
 ;i notion of utility combined with ornament, whi( h we see still 
 exhibited in the Samjjler in old-fashioned, middle-class houses; 
 that poor i)ostluimous, base born child of the ta])estry, almost 
 defunct itself; and a veritable piece of anticpiity. 
 
 Still iiu»rc leinarkable in this room was a (piaint-fiiccd clock, 
 silver gilt, given by Henry \ 111. to Anne Holeyn ; which per- 
 ( hance, after marking the moments of her festive life, strufk 
 unfeelingly the hour of her doom. 
 
 Hut the company are hurrying into a liiile ante-room, the 
 (eiling of which is sludtled with stars in mosaic ; it is therefore 
 talleil jocularly, the ' Star Chamber;' and here stands a cast of 
 the famous bust of Henry VH., by Torregiano, intended for 
 I he tomb of that sail-faced, long-visaged monarch, who always 
 looks as if royalty had di.sagreed with him. 
 
 Next we enter the Holbein Chamber. Horace hated bishops 
 and archbisho[)s, and all the hicran-liy ; yet here again \vc be- 
 hold another prelatical chimneypiece — a frieze taken from the 
 tomb of Art hl)ishop Warham, at Canterbury. And here, in 
 addition to Holbein's picture of Mary 'I'uilor, Duchess of Suf- 
 folk, and of her third husband Adrian Stokes, are Vertue's 
 copies of Holbein, drawings of that ,t:reat master's i)icturcs in 
 Buckingham Hous^. : enough — let us hasten into the Long 
 C.allery. Those who remember Sir Samuel Merrick and his 
 (iallery at Goodrich Court will have tracctl in his curious, some- 
 what gew ::aw collections of armour, antiquities, f.ided portraits, 
 an.d mock horses, much of the taste and turn ^u' mind that ex- 
 isted in Horace Walpole. 
 
ration. Mrs. 
 —her beauty, 
 eh she bound 
 trofligatc bus- 
 •baps, too, by 
 icT models for- 
 
 in tcrra-rott.i, 
 /<•<•.', imitated 
 jry VI. figures 
 
 tapestry ever 
 111 Middlesex ; 
 b we see still 
 -class bouses ; 
 |)estry, alnnKt 
 
 t-faccd clock, 
 
 I ; \vlii( b per- 
 k'c life, slru( k 
 
 ntc room, tlic 
 
 il is tberefore 
 
 inds a cast of 
 
 intended for 
 
 I, wbo always 
 
 bated bisboiis 
 again wo bc- 
 ken from the 
 And bere, in 
 cbess of .Siif- 
 are Vertue's 
 's pictures in 
 to the Long 
 rrick and his 
 nirious, sonie- 
 ded portraits, 
 nind that ex- 
 
 77ii: Long Gallery at Straiubcrry. 293 
 
 The gallery, which all who rcrollert the sale at Strawberry 
 Hill must remember with peculiar interest, sounded well on 
 1 iper. It was 56 feet long. 17 high, and 13 wide; yet was 
 neither long enough, high enough, nor wide enough to inspire 
 t!ic iiulefinable sentiment by which we acknowledge vastncss. 
 W beheld it the scene of George Robins's triumphs— crowded 
 t > ( xcess. Here strolled Lord John Russell ; there, with heavy 
 trcid, walked Daniel (^'C-'onnell. llallam, ])lacid, kindly, gentK- 
 
 - the [jrince of book worms- moved quickly through tberoom.>, 
 I' '.using to raise a glance to the ceiling -cojjied from one of 
 ! Nide aisles of Henry VII. 's Chapel but the fretwork is gilt, 
 
 i there is a /^7//£'j-.f<' about the (lotbic which disappoints all 
 -.» "1 judges. 
 
 Hut when Ib<i,i; c « oiniui \k.\\ \\\^ ( ourtly guc.-.ts into this bis 
 1:1 nd vaunted vaulted irallcry, be ba<l sometimes (leorge .Sclwyn 
 • Iiis side; o: (li.;y (jr, in bis old .: ■. "my iiic( c, the 
 Duchess of Cilouccster,' leaned on bis arm. \\'bat strange as 
 .•-'M i.uions, what brilliant company I— the associations can never 
 be recalled there again ; nor the comiuny reassembled. The 
 ,:; illcry, like everything else, has i)erished under the pressure of 
 iK'.l. 1 le wbo was so particular, too, as to the number of those 
 wiiM were atlmitted ti) sec bis bouse— he who stipulated that 
 f'ur persons only should compose a party, and one party alone 
 b.' shown over each day — bow wouUl be have borne the cri;.is, 
 ((juld he have foreseen it, when Robins became, for the time, 
 liii successor, and was the temporary lonl o' Strawberry; the 
 <1 isty, ruthless, womlering, 'depreciating m of l)roker3 — 
 t • resjicctable host of pu' ' hers — the starving army of martyrs, 
 the authors — the fine bvl' '.vbo saw nothing thcfC comparal'o 
 to Howell and J r ilu antiquaries, fi.shing out susi)icious 
 
 •n'liquities — tb: rs, clamorous over Kneller's profile of 
 
 Mrs. Barry — t- lus indignant mothers, as they passed by 
 
 the portraits o* the Duchess de la V.Jdiere, and of Ninon de 
 rijulos. an ; remarked, or at all events they w/^'^i/ have re 
 marked, thru the company on the floor was scarcely much more 
 rc=:i-e • ible than the company on the walls the fashionables, 
 vv:: : . .rdcd together, irnpcllcd by caste, t;:..i freemasonry Oi 
 
 - .il life, enter the Beauclerk closet to look ver Lady Di's 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 il 
 
r««'^ 
 
 I 
 
 294 77/6' Cliapcl. 
 
 scenes from the ' Mysterious Mother' — tlie players and drama- 
 tists, finally, who crowded round Hogarth's sketch of his ' Beg- 
 gars' Oi)era,' with portraits, and gazed on Davison's likeness of 
 Mrs, Clive : — how could poor Horace have tolerated the sound 
 of their irreverent remarks, the dust of their shoes, the degrada- 
 tion of their fancying that they might doubt his spurious-looking 
 anticjuities, or condemn his imijroper-looking ladies on their 
 canvas? How, indeed, could he? For those parlours, that 
 library, were peopled in his days with all those who could en- 
 hance his pleasures, or add to their own, by their presence. 
 When Poverty stole in there, it was irradiated by Genius. 
 When painters hovered beneath the fretted ceiling of that 
 library, it was to thank the oracle of the day, not always for 
 large orders, but for jiowerful recommendations. When 
 actresses trod the Star Chamber, it was as modest friends, not 
 as audacious critics on Horace, his house, and his pictures. 
 
 Before we call up the spirits that were familiar at Strawberry 
 — ere we pass through the garden-gate, the jjiers of which were 
 coi)ied from the tomb of Pjishop William de Luda, in Y\\ Ca- 
 thedral — let us glance at the ( hapel, and then a word or two 
 about Walpole's neighbours and anent Twickenham. 
 
 The front of the chapel was copied from Bishop Audley's 
 tomb at Salisbury. Four panels of wood, taken from the Abbey 
 of St. Fdmund's Bury, tlisplayed the i)ortraits of Cardinal Beau- 
 fort, of Humphrey Duke of (Jloucester, and of Archbishop 
 Kemp. So much for the Fnglish church. 
 
 Next was seen a magnificent shrine in mosaic, from the 
 church of St. Mary Maggiore, in Rome. This was the work of 
 the noted Peter Cavalini, who constructed the tomb of Edward 
 the Confessor in W^'stminster Abbey. The shrine had figured 
 over the sepulchre of four martyrs, who rested between it in 
 1257: then the principal window in the chapel was brought 
 from Pexhill in Sussex; and displayed portraits of Henry HI. 
 and his queen. 
 
 It was not every day that gay visitors travelled down the 
 dusty roads from London to visit the recluse at Str.awberry : 
 but Horace wanted them not, for he had neighbours. In his 
 youth he had owned for his playfellow the ever witty, the pre- 
 
crs and drama- 
 cli of his ' Bcj;- 
 on's likeness of 
 rated the sound 
 es, the degrada- 
 inirious-looking 
 ladies on their 
 2 parlours, that 
 who could on- 
 their presence, 
 ed by Genius. 
 :ciling of that 
 not always for 
 tions. When 
 lest friends, not 
 lis pictures, 
 r at Strawberry 
 ; of which were 
 ifla, in Kly Ca- 
 a \vord or two 
 lam. 
 
 bishop Audley's 
 
 from the Abbey 
 
 Cardinal Beau- 
 
 of Archbishop 
 
 tsaic, from the 
 ^•as the work of 
 )nib of Edward 
 nc had figured 
 between it in 
 el was brouiiht 
 of HeniT III. 
 
 cllcd down the 
 
 at Str.awberrv : 
 
 " ' / 
 
 bours. In his 
 witty, the pre- 
 
 'A Dirty Little Thing: 295 
 
 cocious, the all-fasci.iating Lady Mary Wortley Munlagu. 'She 
 w.is,' he wrote, 'a iilayfellow of mine when we were children. 
 .she was always a dirty little thing. This habit c:ontinued with 
 licr. When at Florence, the drand Duke gave her apartments 
 in his palace. One room sufficed for everything ; and when 
 .she went away, the stench was so strong that they were obliged 
 lo fumigate the chamber with vinegar for a week.' 
 
 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 Lon- 
 don,' Horace Walpole was still living- it was in 1795 -to 
 point out to him the house in which his brilliant accpiaintance 
 lived. It was then inhabited by Dr. Morton. The profligate 
 and clever Duke of Wharton lived also at Twickenham. 
 
 Marble Hill was built by Cicorge H., for the lountess ui 
 .Suffolk, and Henry, Earl of Pembroke, was the architect. Of 
 Liter years, the beautiful and injured Mrs. Eitzherbert might 1;l 
 seen traversing the greensward, which was laved by the then 
 pellucid waters of the Thames. The i)arish of Twickenham, 
 in fact, was noted for the numerous characters who have, at 
 various times, lived in it : Robert lioyle, the great jihilosopher; 
 James Craggs, Secretary of Stale; Lord Cicorge Oermaine ; 
 l.cird Uute— are strangely mixed up with the old memorie^> 
 which circle around Twickenham, to say nothing of its bemg, 
 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: 
 I.ady Macclesfield, the cruel mother of Savage, polluted Twick- 
 enham by her evil presence. 
 
 Let us not dwell on her name, but recall, with somewhat (jf 
 ].ride, that the names of that knot of accomplished, intellectual 
 women, who composed the neighbourhood of Strawberry, were 
 all En-dish ; those who loved to revel in all its charms of so- 
 (iety and intellect were our justlyini/ed country%vomen. 
 
 Foremost in the bright constellation was Anne Seymour 
 Conwav. too soon married to t'le Hon. John Darner. She was 
 one of the loveliest, the most enteqirizin^, and the most gifted 
 women of her time ■■ -thirty-one years younger than Horace, 
 
c 
 
 ^" 
 
 -9^^ Anne Seymour Conxvay. 
 
 having been born in 174S. lie doubtless liked her the more 
 that no ridicule could attach to his iiartiality, which was that 
 of a fiither to a daughter, insofar as regarded his young cousin. 
 She belonged to a flimiiy dear to him, being the daughter of 
 iMeld Marshal Henry Seymour Conway : then she was beauti- 
 ful, witty, a courageous politician, a heroine, fearless of losing 
 caste, l)y as])iring to be an artist. Siie was, in truth, of our own 
 time rather tlian of that. 'J'iie work.s which she left at Straw- 
 berry are .scattered ; ainl if still traceable, are probably in many 
 instances scarcely valued. \\\\\. in that lovely spot, hallowed 
 by the remembrance, of Mrs. Siddons. who lived there in some 
 humble capacity— say maid, say comijanion— in (}uy's Clili" 
 House, near Warwick— noble traces of .\nne Damer's genius 
 are extant: busts of tlie majeslic S.illy Siddons; of Nature's 
 aristocrat, John Kemble ; of his brother Charles — arrest many 
 a look, call u]) many a thought of Anne Damer and her gifts : 
 her intelligence, her warmth of heart, her beauty, her associates. 
 Of her ]iowers Horace Waljiole had the highest opinion. '\{ 
 they come to Florence,' he wrote. s])eaking 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 J^ainters. 
 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 ])rincipally designed by her father, (k^neral Conway.' 
 
 No wonder that he left to this accomplished relative the pri- 
 vilege of living, after his death, at Strawberry Hill, of which 
 she took jiossession in 1797, anil where she remained twenty 
 years; giving it up, in 1S28, to Lonl Waldegrave. 
 
 She was, as we have said, before her time in her appreciation of 
 what was noble and superior, in p.eference to that which gives 
 to caste alone, its sui)remacy. During her last years she bravely 
 espoused an unfashionable cause; and disregarding the con- 
 tempt of the lofty, became the champion of the injured and 
 unha[)py Caroline of Brunswick. 
 
 i-Vom liis retreat at Strawberry, Horace Walpole heard all 
 that befel the object of his flame, Lady Sophia Fermor. His 
 
A J/tvi ivho ncvtr Doubted. 
 
 297 
 
 I her the more 
 vhich was that 
 young cousin, 
 lie dauglUor of 
 he was beauti- 
 irless of losing 
 Lith, of our own 
 left at Straw- 
 )bably in many 
 spot, hallowed 
 1 there in some 
 in (}uy's Cliff 
 )anier's genius 
 s ; of Nature's 
 — arrest many 
 and her gifts : 
 her associates. 
 : opinion. ' If 
 Mrs. Damer's 
 )uld beg Mrs. 
 1(1 il would be 
 r of Painters, 
 her ; and has 
 Henley, which 
 •nte di Trinitii 
 ral Conway.' 
 .'lalive the pri- 
 ll ill, of which 
 .lained twenty 
 
 ipprcciation of 
 at which gives 
 irs she bravely 
 ding the con- 
 .' injured and 
 
 jole heard all 
 Fermor. His 
 
 letters present from time to time such passages as these; Lady 
 I'oaifret, whom he detested, being always the object of his 
 s.itire : — 
 
 'There is not the least news; but that my Lord Carteret's 
 wcchling has been deferred on Lady Soi)hia's (Fermor's) falling 
 (Luigerously ill of a scarlet fever ; but they say it is to be next 
 .Saturday. She is to have ^1,600 a year jointure, ^400 pin 
 laoncV; and ;i{^2,ooo of jewels. Carteret says he does not intend 
 to marry the mother (Lady Pomfrct) and the whole family. 
 What ilo you think my Lady intends?' 
 
 Lord Carteret, who was the object of Lady Pomfret's suc- 
 cessful generalship, was at this i)eriod, 1744, fifty-four years of 
 age. having been born in 1690. He was the son of Ceorge, 
 Lord Carteret, by Crace, daughter of the first Karl of Iialh, of 
 the line of Granville — a title which became eventually his. The 
 f.iir .Sophia, in marrying liim, espoused a man of no ordinary 
 attributes. In person, Horace Walpolc, after the grave had 
 ( Inscd over one whom he [irobabi}' envied, thus describes 
 i.iin : — 
 
 ' Commaiiilincr hiMuty, Pinoothcd by cheerful Rrace, 
 Sat on each npcn fc.iturc t)f his face. 
 Rold was lii.^ lan;;iiage, rapid, glr)Wing, strong. 
 And scit.nc(! tlowed spontaneous from his tongue : 
 A genius seizing; sy>t(.'nis, slighting rules, 
 .And void of gall, witii boundless scorn of fools.' 
 
 Aik' ' -g been Lord Lieutenant c^f Ireland, Carlcret attended 
 his i(;)ai master in the campaign, during which the Battle of 
 Dcli'iigen was fought. He now held the reins of government 
 in his own hands as i)remier. Lord Chesterfield has des< ribed 
 h.im as possessing quick precision, nice decision, and unbounded 
 I'lesuinption. The Duke of Newcastle used to say of him tint 
 he was a 'man who never doubted.' 
 
 In a subsequent letter we find the sacrifice of the young and 
 lovely Sophia comj)leted. Ambition wj^ the characteristic of 
 her family : and she went, not unwillingly, lo the altar. The 
 whole affair is too amusingly told to be given in other language 
 than that of Horace : — 
 
 i luiiiu W\\ you a great deal oi news, iic wrucs to Horace 
 Mann, 'but it would not be what you would expect. It is not 
 
 % 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 H 'f 
 
298 
 
 f.ady Sophia I'lrinors Mai riin^c. 
 
 of battles, sieges, and declarations of war ; nor of invasions, in- 
 surrections and addresses : it is the god of love, not he of war 
 wlio reigns in the newspapers. 'I'he town has made up a list 
 of sixand-thirtywetldings. which I shall not catalogue to you. 
 But the c hief enterlainnimt has been the nuptials of our great 
 Quixote (Carteret) an.l the fliir Soi^hia. On the i)oint of matri- 
 mony, she fell ill of a scarlet fever, and was given over, while he 
 had the gout,but heroically sent her word, that if she was well, he 
 ivoiild be well. They ( orresponded every day, and he used to 
 plague the cabinet council with reading her letters to them. 
 Last night they were married ; and as afl he does must have a 
 particular air in it, they supped at Lord l\jmfret's. At twelve, 
 l.ady Cranville (his mother) and all his family went to bed, but 
 tlie porter: then my lord went homo, and waited for her in the 
 lodge. She came alone, in a Ikk kiu;y ( hair, met him in the 
 hall, and was led up the back stairs to bed. What is ridiculously 
 lucky IS, that Lord Lincoln goes into waiting to-day, and will 
 be to present her!' 
 
 The event was succeeded by a great ball at the Duchess of 
 Richmond's, in honour of the bride, Lady Carteret paying her 
 ladyship the ' highest honours.,' whi( h she received in the ' highest 
 state.' 'I have seen her,' adds Horace, 'but once, and found 
 her just wh.at 1 e.\pe<ted, trh i;nvidc dame, full of herself, and 
 yet not with an air of h;!ppiness. She looks ill, and is grown 
 lean, but is still the finest figure in the world. The mother 
 (Lady Pomfret) is not so exaltnl as I expected; Iflmcy Car- 
 teret has ke])t his resolution, and does not marry her too.' 
 
 Whilst this game was being played out, one of Walpole's 
 most valued neighbours, Tope, was dying of dropsy, and every 
 evening a gentle delirium possessed him. Again does Horace 
 return to the theme, ever in his thoughts—the Carterets : again 
 does he recount tlieir triumphs and their follies. 
 
 ' I will not fail'— still to Horace Mann— 'to make your com- 
 phments to the Pomfrets and Carterets. I see them seldom, 
 but 1 am in favour; so I conclude, for my Lady Pomfret told 
 me the other night that I said better things than anybody. I 
 was with them all at a subscription ball at Ranelagh last week, 
 which my Lady Carteret thought proper to look upon as given 
 
'A'"'*- 
 
 Horace in lavonr. 
 
 -99 
 
 (jf invasions, in- 
 f, not he of war, 
 
 made up a list 
 italogue to you, 
 ials of our great 
 L- point ofmatri- 
 ■n over, while he 
 ■ she was well, he 
 . and he used to 
 letters to them, 
 oes must have a 
 ct's. At twelve. 
 A'cnt to bed, biit 
 L'd for her in the 
 met him in the 
 It is ridiculously 
 to-day, and will 
 
 the iJuchess of 
 eret jxiying her 
 d in the ' highest 
 once, and found 
 of herself, and 
 I, and is grown 
 1. The mother 
 d ; I fancy Car- 
 y her too.' 
 ic of Walpole's 
 opsy, and every 
 n does Horace 
 Jarterets : again 
 
 iiakc your com- 
 e them seldom, 
 ly Pomfret told 
 m anyhodv. I 
 dagh last week, 
 V upon as given 
 
 t'l her, and thanketl the gentlemen, who were not i[uiie so wel' 
 [leased at her condescending to take it to herseff I did the 
 hnnours of all her dress. "Ibjw charming your ladyship's 
 ( rt'ss is ! I am sure the design was your own !" — '" No, indeed ; 
 !!iy lord sent it mc just as it is." Then as nuich to the mother, 
 i U) vou wonder I say better things than anvbodv?' 
 
 I'.ut these brilliant scenes were soon mournfully ended. Lady 
 .>o|)hia, the haughty, the idolized, the Juno of that gay v ircle, 
 was suddenly carried off by a fever. \Vith real feeling Horace 
 thus tells the talc : — 
 
 ' liefore I talk of any public news. I must tell you what you 
 will be very .sorry for. Lady (Iranville (Lady Sophia Fermor) 
 is (lead. She had a fever for six weeks before her lying-in, and 
 could never get it off. Last Saturday they called in another 
 ]i;'ysi(ian, Dr. Oliver. On Monday be jtronounced her out of 
 (l.Mi^er; about seven in the evening, as Lady Pomfret and Lady 
 C!iarlot!e (Fermor) were sitting by her, the first notice they had 
 of h.er immediate danger was her sighing and saying, " I feel 
 (le.itli come very fast u])on me I" She rejjeated the .same words 
 frujutntly, remained perfectly in her senses and calm, ai^l died 
 ;.l out eleven at night. It is very shocking for anybody so 
 VDUUg, so handsome, so arrived at the height of hapjiiness, to 
 be .'~o ([uickly snatched away.' 
 
 So \anished one of the brightest stars of the court. 'I'iie 
 s;u!ic autumn (1745) was the epoch of a great event; the 
 marc hing of Charles Edward into Fngland. Whilst the Duke 
 (f Cumberland was i)reparing to head the troops to <-)p[)ose 
 him, the Prince of Wales was inviting a party to sup|)er, the 
 niiiin feature of which v,-as the citadel of Carlisle in sugar, the 
 (dmpany all besieging it with sugar i>lums. It would, indeed, 
 as Walpole declared, be impossible to relate all the Calh^ulisvt^. 
 of this effeminate, absurd prince. P>ut buffoonery and eccen- 
 tricity were the order of the day. * A ridiculous thing haj)- 
 I'cnecl,' Horace writes, ' when the princess saw company after 
 her confinement. The new-born babe was shown in a mighty 
 ]Tetty cradle, designed by Kent, under a canopy in the great 
 drawing-room. Sir William Stanhope went to look at it. Mrs. 
 Herbert, the governess, advanced to unmantlc it. He said. 
 
-^oo 
 
 Anecdote pf Sir Wm. Stanhope. 
 
 ■<««t 
 
 w. 
 
 »—''?' 
 
 % 
 
 "In wax, I suppose?" "Sir?" " In wax, madam ?" '-The 
 young i)rince, sir?" "Yes, in wax, I suppose?" This is his 
 odd humour. When he went to sec the duke at his birth, he 
 said, " Lord, it sees !" ' 
 
 The recluse of Strawberry was soon consoled by hearing' 
 that the rebels were driven back from Derby, where'they had 
 penetrated, and where the remembrance of the then gay, san- 
 guine, brave young Chevalier long lingered among the old in- 
 habitants. One of the last traces of his short-lived possession 
 of tile town is gone: very recently. Kxetcr House, where he 
 lodged and where he rereived his adherents, has been pulled 
 down; the ground on which it stood, with its court and gar- 
 den—somewhat in appearace like an old French hotel— -bein^' 
 too valuable for the relic of bygone times to be spared. The 
 I)anelled chambers, the fine .staircase, certain i)ictures— one bv 
 AVright of Derby, of him— one of Miss ^Valkinshaw— have all 
 (lisa])i)ear(jd. 
 
 Of the capture, the trial, the death of his adherents, Horace 
 ^^■alpoK■ has left the most graphic and therefore touching ac- 
 count that has been given ; whilst he calls a 'rebellion on the 
 defensive' a ' (les])icable affair.' Humane, he reverted with 
 horror to the atrocities of (General Hawley, * the Chief Justice,' 
 as he was designated, who had a ' ])assion for frequent and 
 sudden executions.' When this savage commander gained in- 
 telligence of a I'Vench sj)y coming over, he displayed him at 
 once before the army on a gallows, dangling in his muff and 
 boots, \\hen one of the surgeons begged for the body of a 
 deserter to dissect. ' Well,' said the wretch, 'but you must let 
 me have the skeleton to hang up in the guard-room.' Such was 
 the temper of the times ; vice, rhildi.shness, levity at court, brii- 
 tahty in the ( were the order of the day. Horace, even 
 
 Horaie, worldi, m all, intlifferent as to good and bad, seems to 
 have been heart sick. His brother's matrimonial infidelity vexed 
 him also sorely. Lady Orford, 'tired,' as he expresses it, of 
 ' sublunary affairs.' was trying to come to an arrangement with 
 her husband, from whom she had been long se])arated ; the 
 pncc was to be. lie Luicieil, J^.z.ooo a year. Meantime, during 
 the ( onvulsive st;ite of political affairs, he interested himself 
 
pc. 
 
 idam?" '-The 
 ?" This is his 
 at liis birth, he 
 
 led by hearinar 
 where they had 
 tlicn gay, san- 
 Dng the old in- 
 vcd possession 
 ouse, where he 
 las been pulled 
 court and gar- 
 :h hotel — being 
 e si)arcd. The 
 ctures— one by 
 shaw — have all 
 
 erents, Horace 
 e touching ac- 
 :bellion on the 
 
 reverted with 
 ? Chief Justice,' 
 r frequent and 
 ider gained in- 
 ^l)!nye(l him at 
 1 his muff and 
 
 the body of a 
 t you must let 
 lom.' Such was 
 y at court, bru- 
 
 Horace, even 
 1 bad, seems to 
 infidelity vexed 
 .'xpresses it, of 
 uigemcnt with 
 se])arated ; the 
 ■antimc, during 
 irested himself 
 
 A Paper House. 301 
 
 (ontinually in the improvement of Strawberry Hill. There was 
 ,i rival building, Mr. Bateman's .Monastery, at Old Windsor, 
 ui.ich is said to have had more uniformity of design than 
 Str.uvberry Hill. Horace useil indeed to call the house of 
 uliicli he became so proud a paper house ; tlie walls were at 
 fir^t so slight, and the roof so insecure in heavy rains. Never- 
 tlicicss, his days were passed as peacefully there as the preuia- 
 i.;rc infirmities which came upon him would permit. 
 
 Fiuin the age of twenty-five his lingers were enlarged and 
 li.formed by chalk-stones, wiiich were discharged twice a year. 
 ' I can chalk up a score with mijre rapidity than any man in 
 Kngland,' was his melancholy jest. He had now adopted as 
 a necessity a strict temperance : he sat up very late, either 
 writing or conversing, yet always break flisted at nine o'clock. 
 .\:ter the death of Madame du Deflantl, a little fat dog, 
 b. ucely able to move for age and .size — her legacy — used to 
 ] ruclaim his ai)proach by barking. The little favourite was 
 I'uU.ed beside him on a sof:i ; a tea-kettle, stand, and lieater 
 were brought in, and he drank two or three cups of tea out of 
 tiic finest and most precious china of Japan — that of a i)ure 
 wii'te. He breakfasted with an aijjjetite, feeding from his tal;!e 
 tlif litUe dog and his pet squirrels. 
 
 Dinner at Strawberry Hill was usually served up in the 
 siiiali parlour in winter, the large dining-room being reserved 
 fur large parties. Ao age drew on, he was supported down stairs 
 lyiiis valet; and then, says the comjjiler of Walpoliana, 'he 
 
 J most moder^-i.tely of chicken, pheasant, or any 1 ght food. 
 i'.'.slry he disliked, as difficult of digestion, thougli L • woukl 
 taste a morsel of venison-pie. Never but once, that he drank 
 two glasses of white wine, did the editor see him taste any 
 liquor, except ice-water. A pail of ice was j)laced under the 
 t.ible, in which stood a decanter of water, from which he sup- 
 plied himself with his favourite beverage.' 
 
 N'o wine was drunk after dinner, when tlie host of Straw- 
 herry Hill called instantly to some one to ring the !)ell for coffee. 
 It was served upstairs, and there, adds the same writer, 'he 
 wuuld pass about five o'clock, and generally resuming his place 
 on the sofa, would sit till two in the morning, in miscellaneous 
 
 li 
 
 II 
 

 t 
 
 302 ll'a//>o//s Habits. 
 
 chit (Ii.u, full of sin[j;iilar anecdotes, strokes of wit, and anite 
 ol)Scrv;Uions, occasionally sendin;^' for books, or curiosities, or 
 l)assing to the library, as any reference hai)i)cned to arise in 
 conversation. After his coffee, he tasted nothing; but the 
 snuff-box of tahac li'cliawcs, from h'ribourg's, was not forgotten, 
 and was replenished from a canisier lodged in an an( ient marble 
 urn of great thickness, which stood in the window scat, and 
 served to secure its moisture and rich jlavour.' 
 
 In sjiite of all his infirmities, Horace Walpole took no care 
 of his health, as far as out-door exercise was concerned. 
 His friends beheld him with horror go out on a dewy day : he 
 would even stej) out in his slipi^ers. In his own grounds he 
 never wore a hat : he used to say, that on his first visit to Paris 
 he was ashamed of his effeminacy, when he saw every meagre 
 little Frenchman whou) he could have knocked down in a 
 breath walking widioul a hat, which he could not do .without a 
 certainty of taking the disease which the (lermans say is ende- 
 mi<-al in Taigland, ami which they call to uitch cold. The first 
 trial, he used to tell nis friends, cost him a fe\er, but he got 
 over it. Draughts of air, damp rooms, windows open at his 
 ba( k, became matters of indifference to him after once getting 
 through the hardening i)rocess. He used even to be vexed at 
 the officious solicitude of friends on this point, and with 
 half a smile would say, ' My back is the same as my face, and 
 my neck is like my nose.' He regarded his favourite iced- 
 water as a i)reservative to his stomach, which, he said, would 
 last longer than his bone.s. He did not take into account that 
 the stomach is usually the seat of disease. 
 
 One naturally in(|uires why the amiable recluse never, in his 
 best days, thought of marriage : a difficult question to be an- 
 swered. In men of that period, a dissolute life, an unhappy 
 connection, too frequently explained the problem. In the case 
 before iis no such explanation can be offered. Horace Waliiole 
 had many votaries, many friends, several favourites, but no 
 known mistress. 'l"he marks of the old bachelor fastened eady 
 on him, more especially after he began to be governed by his 
 iwu't do cliamhrc. The notable personage who ruled over the 
 pliant Horace was a Swiss, named Colomb. This domestic 
 
wit, and anite 
 curiosities, or 
 lerl to arise in 
 ling ; but the 
 ; not forgotten, 
 in( icnt marble 
 idow scat, and 
 
 : took no care 
 as concerned, 
 (lew)- day : he 
 'n grounds he 
 t visit to Paris 
 ever)- meagre 
 od down in a 
 t do .without a 
 IS say is ende- 
 cold. The first 
 er, but he got 
 s oi)en at his 
 r once getting 
 be vexed at 
 nt, and with 
 . my face, and 
 "avourite iced- 
 le said, woiihi 
 3 account tliat 
 
 l: never, in his 
 ion to be an- 
 ;, an unhappy 
 , In the case 
 Drace Walpole 
 irites, but no 
 fastened eady 
 verned by his 
 uled o\cr ihc 
 riiis domestic 
 
 Why did hi not Many ' 303 
 
 :;.r.uU was despotic; if Horace wanted a tree to be felled, 
 lolomb opposed it, and the master yielded. Servapts, in those 
 .;.!)>, were intrinsically the same as in ours, but they differed in 
 :i;icr. The old familiarity had nut gone out, but existed as 
 ,: >\\\\ does among the French. 'I'hose who recollect Dr. I'.irr 
 will remember how stern a rule his fa( totum Sam exerciser! ovrr 
 l]!:n. .Sam i)ul down what wine he chose, nay. almost invited 
 the guests ; at all events, he had his favourites aniong them. 
 .\nd in the same way as .Sam ruled at llattoii, Colomb was, ./,• 
 /.v/('. the master of Strawberry Mill. 
 
 With all its def .Tts, the litde 'plaything house' as Horace 
 'A'.iliiole called it, must have been a charunng house to visit in. 
 i .r.t. there was the host. ' His engaging manners,' writes the 
 ■ iitor of \Valj)oliana, 'and gentle, endearing affability to his 
 ■ncnds, exceed all praise. \ol the sm.dlest hauteur, or con- 
 >.iousness of rank or talent, appeared in his familiar confer- 
 va •■s; and he was ever eager to dissi])ate any constraint that 
 
 ,iu occur, as imposing a constraint ui)on himself, and know- 
 
 ,' that any such chain enfeebles and almost annihilates the 
 i-ntal powers. Knducd with excpiisite sensibility, his wit never 
 .-ue the smallest wound, even to the grossest ignorance of the 
 ■vurld, or the most nK)d)id hypochondriac: bashfuhiesx' 
 
 ife had, in ilict, no excuse for being doleful or morbid. How 
 :!Mny resources were his : what an even destiny ! wh.it j^ros- 
 i crous fortunes ! what learned luxury he revelled in ! he was 
 nahled to ' pick up all the roses of sc icnce, and to leave the 
 thorns behind.' To how few of the gifted h.ive the means of 
 jaiifioation been permitted ! to how many has hard work been 
 •i^'utted! Then, when genius has been endowed with rank, 
 "•'-h wealth, how often it has been degraded by excess! 
 K'jchester's passions ran riot in one century ; Ueckford's gifts 
 ^verc polluted by his \ices in another— signal landmarks of 
 '■.i(h age. But Horace ^ValJ)uIe was prudent, decorous, even 
 :---pcctable : no elevated aspirations, no benevolent views en- 
 -obled under i\\<t pctitcssc of his nature. He had neither genius 
 nor romance: he was even devoid of sentiment; but he was 
 ■•>::;: io uil, neighbour!)- lo luany. and attached to .some of his 
 -i!'nv creatures. 
 
 II 
 
 II 
 
304 ' Doxvas^crs ,rs ricnty as Flouuiicrs' 
 
 The ' ijrcltic:it bauble ' possible, a.-, he called Strawberry 
 Ilill, 'set in enamelled meadows in filigree hedges,' was sur 
 rounded by 'dowagers as plenty as flounders;' such was Wal 
 jjole's assertion. As he sat in his Hbrary, scented by caraway, 
 heliotropes, or pots of tuberose, or orange-trees in flower. 
 
 < ertain dames woiild look in upon him, sometimes mali^rc lui , 
 sometimes to his bachelor heart's ( ontent. 
 
 'Thank Clod '.' he wrote to his cousin Conway, ' the Thames 
 is between me and the Duche.ss of Qucensberry !' Walpole's 
 dislike to his fair neighbour may partly have originated in the 
 
 < ircumstance of her birth, and her grace's jjresuming to phinic 
 herself on what he deemed an unimportant distinction. Cathe- 
 rine llyde, Duchess of <^)uecnsberry, was the great-graml 
 «laughter of the famous Lord Claren/.on, and the great-niece of 
 Anne, Duchess of York. I'nor had in her youth celebrated her 
 in the 'Female Phaeton,' as 'Kitty:' n his verse he bci.s 
 I'haeton to give Kitty the chariot, if but for a day. 
 
 In reference to this, Horace Walpole, in the days of his ad 
 miration of her grace, had made tiie following imjtromptu :— 
 
 'On seeing the Duche.ss of (^ueensberry walk at the funeral 
 of the Princess Dowager of Wales, — 
 
 )L 
 
 ' To in.iiiy a Kitty, lyovc his car 
 Woiiiil (or a ilay i'nj,M!;f ; 
 Hut riiiir> Kitty, cwr fair. 
 Obt. lined it for an age' 
 
 It was Kitty who took Cay under her jKitronage, who resented 
 the i)rohibition of tlie ' Beggar's Opera,' remonstrated with the 
 king and iiuecn, and was thereupon forbidden the court. She 
 carried the poet to her house. She may have been ridiculous, 
 but she had a warm, generous heart. ' 1 am now,' Gay wrote 
 to Swift in i-j2(), 'in the Duke of Queensbcrry's house, and 
 have been so ever since 1 left llamjistead ; where I was carried 
 at a time that it was thought I could not live a day. I must 
 acquaint you (because I know it will please you) that during my 
 sickness I had many of the kindest jtroofs of friendship, particu- 
 larly from the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry ; who, if I 
 luid. been their nearest relation and dearest friend, could not 
 
liod StrawLiii) 
 .•dgcs,' wa.s sur 
 such was Wal 
 tcil by caraway, 
 trees in flower, 
 UK'S f/m/i^rc /ul . 
 
 ly, ' tlie Thames 
 ry :' Walpolc's 
 iriginatcd in Uic 
 liming to nhimc 
 inction. Catlic- 
 lie great-grand 
 le great-niece of 
 1 < clcbratcd her 
 verse he l)c,s 
 ly. 
 
 thiys of liis ad- 
 n]<roniptu : — 
 ; at the funeral 
 
 ;e, who resented 
 itrated with the 
 the court. She 
 jccn ridiculous, 
 low,' Gay wrote 
 ys house, and 
 c [ was carried 
 a day. I must 
 that during ray 
 ndshij), particu- 
 erry ; who, if I 
 end, could not 
 
 CatJu'rifW Ilydc, Duchess of Quccusbcny. 305 
 
 treated me with more ron.stant attendance then, and they 
 
 I '11. iuie the same to me now.' 
 
 The duchess ajipears to have been one of those wilful, 
 i.rentric, spoiled children, whom the world at once worships 
 lid ridicules : next to the Countess of Pomfret, .she was Horace 
 W ilpole's pet aversion. She was well described as being 'very 
 ( : vcr. very whimsical, and just not mad.' Some of Walpole's 
 twuches are strongly confirmatory of this description. Vox 
 m.^taicc, her grace gives a ball, orders everyone to come at 
 sx, to sup at twelve, and go away directly after : opens the ball 
 herself with a minuet. To this ball she sends strange invi- 
 : ■;"!i^; 'yet.' says Horace, 'ex.ept these flights, the only 
 extiaurdinary thing the (lu( hess did was to do nothing extra- 
 ordinary, for I do not call it very mad that some pitiue happen- 
 •■!- between her and the Diu hess uf Hedford, the latter had this 
 :^iith sent to her: — 
 
 • < 'ome witli :i \\lii^tU-— come with a call : 
 (.'omo with Ljood-Mill, ox conic not at all.' 
 
 •I do not know whetlier what I am going to tell you did not 
 : "I'lcr a little U])on Moorfields. The gallery where they danced 
 w,is very colli. Lonl Lorn, (ieorge Selwyn, and I retired into 
 . little room, an<l sat comfortably by the tire. The duchess 
 '- kcd in, said nothing, and sent a smith to take the hinges (jf 
 tile door off. We unde; Uood the hint— left the room- and so 
 ('.id the smith the door.' 
 
 ' I must tell you,' he adds in another letter, 'of an admindile 
 reply of your acquaintance, the Duchess of Queensberry : old 
 ! idy Granville, Lord Carteret's mother, whom they call t,.. 
 qiucn-motha\ from taking upon her to do the honour 
 son's power, was ])ressing the duchess to ask her for some piai c 
 !"r herself or friends, and assured her that she wouhl procure it, 
 it what it would. Could she have picketl out a titter person 
 ' ' c gracious to? 'i'he duchess made her a most grave < 
 
 V. and said, " Indeed, there was one thin- she had set her 
 -carton." — "Dear < hild, how you oblige me by a.sking anv- 
 t-'^in- : What is it ? Tell me."—" Only that you would s{)eak 
 
 20 
 
 II 
 
.v '^ 
 
 h'lttv (live 
 
 
 t 
 
 lu iny I. Old CJaitcrd lu ^lI iiic m.ulc l.uiy of tlio bedchamber 
 to ihc (Juccn of Hungary."' 
 
 The (liuhcss was, thcitfori-, ono (;f the ilow.i^'crs, 'thick as 
 ilouiKlcrs,' whose proximity was iiriiaiin'4 to the f.istichous 
 bachelor. There wa.s, however, another Kitty between whom 
 and Horace a tender friendship subsisted : this was Kitty CHve, 
 the famous actress; formerly Kitty Ruft.ir. Horace had given 
 her a house on his estate, which he (ailed sometimes ' Little 
 Strawberry Hill,' and sometimes 'Cliveden; and here Mrs. 
 ("live livL-*l with her brotln !, Mr. Kuft.ir, until 1785. She 
 formed, lor her friend, a sort of outer home, in whic h he passct! 
 liis eveiiin^^'s, I-ong had lie admired her talents. Those wtr 
 the days of the drama in all its glory : the o|)era was unfashior. 
 able. There were, Honu e writes in 17.12. on the 26thof Ma\. 
 only two .md-forty ])eople in tlie ( )pera House, in the pit am! 
 l)Oxes : jHople Wire running to see 'Miss l.ucy in Town,' ai 
 Drury Lane, and to admire Mr.i. CliNe, in her imitation of the 
 Muscovites; but the grea!i-sl < rowds .issembled to wonder .U 
 (larrick, in 'Wine Mert hant turneil Player;' and great and 
 small alike rushed to Cioodman's KieM- to see him act all parts, 
 \\\\(\ to laui;li at his admirable mimi( ,. It w s ]ierhaj)s, sonic- 
 what in jealousy of the « uunter attraction, that Horace declared 
 he saw nothing womlerful in the acting of (Jarrick, though it 
 was then here-y to s;iy so. ' Xow I talk of players,' he adds in 
 the same letter, 'tell Mr. Chute that his friend liracegirule 
 l^rcakfasted with me this morning.' JLjrace delighted in such 
 intimacies, and in recalling old times, 
 
 Mrs, Abingdon, another charming and < lever actress, was 
 also a deni/en of 'I'wickenliam, which became the most 
 fashionable village near the metropolis, Mrs, Pritcliard, like- 
 wise, was attractetl there ; but the ])ro.\imity of the Countess of 
 .Suftblk, who lived at Marble Hill was the delight of a groal 
 ])ortion of Llorace Walpole's life. Her reminiscences, her inn 
 dotes, lier experience, were valuable as well as entertainmgto 
 one who was for ever gathering up materials for liistory, or for 
 biograph}'. or for letters to absent frienils. 
 
 In his own family he tound little to cheer him: butifiic 
 hated one cr two more espec ially and no one could hate more 
 
llio bc<khambcr 
 
 vv;if,'crs, ' thick as 
 () the fastidious 
 y between whom 
 i was Kitty Clive, 
 lorace had given 
 onv.linics ' lattk- 
 
 and here Mr>. 
 .mtil 1785. She 
 
 whi( li he passcil 
 Its. 'I'hose wtr ■ 
 ra was unfashioiv 
 thc 26tli of Ma}, 
 se, in the pit and 
 luy in Town,' at 
 
 imitation of the 
 )led to wonder at 
 ;' and great and 
 iiiin ait all parts, 
 IS perhaps, some- 
 Horace declared 
 kirrick, thougli it 
 tyers,' lie adds in 
 iend liraccgirule 
 ilelighted in such 
 
 jver actress, was 
 came the most 
 V Pritchard, like- 
 f the Countess of 
 elight of a great 
 cences, her aner- 
 is entertaining to 
 or history, or for 
 
 r liini : but if i'.c 
 cutild hate more 
 
 Ihtilli of I loratio \Valf>oh\ 
 
 intensely than Horace Waipole it was his iin( le. Lord W . ' 
 pule, and his(uusin. th 't nobleman's son. whom he « hristened 
 ri-wigL,'in; 'my nionstruus uncle ;' • that old buff a\, my uiirlc ;' 
 are terms whi«h occur in his letters, and he speaks of the 
 M'HMly .i\il uiis between 'Horatio Walpolc' an«! 'Horuc 
 W ilj-olc' 
 
 Horatio Walpole. the brother of Sir Robert, was ( realed in 
 June, 1756, Maron Walpolc of Wolterton, a, a recompense for 
 fiftv vcars passed in the public service- an honour whi( h he 
 irvivcd nine months. He ex[.ired in I'ebriiary, 1757. 
 Ii:s fkath reniowd oik- subject of bitter dislike from the mind 
 It linn, r; but enough remained in tlic family to e\( ite grief 
 and rcsLiitiuenf. 
 
 Towards his own tw<j biolhers, Robert, Ivirl of ( )rfurd, and 
 Kdward \Vali)ole. Hora( c the younger, as he was styled in con- 
 t ilistinction to his undo, bore very little affection. His feel- 
 ings, however, for his lu-phtw Ceorge, who succeeded his fither 
 as i;arl of ( )rford in 1751 .,.,.. more creditaljle to his heart; 
 v.t he gives .1 descripti .n of \\\\, iU-^ited young man in his 
 icltcrs, which shows at ( ik- pride and disapi)robation. One 
 lingers with regret over the cciractc and the destiny of this line 
 .'' :ng nobleman, whose e.\ euce was rendered miserable by 
 frcifuent attacks, at intervals, of insanity. 
 
 Never was there a handsomer, a more popular, a more en-.ig- 
 iiig being than (leorge. third l-'.arl ofOrford. When he ai)pe.?rJil 
 at the head of tne Norfolk regiment of militia, of which he ua.-, 
 < olonel, even the great Lord Chatham broke out into enihu- 
 Ni.Am :- ' Nothing," he wrote, 'could make a better api)earance 
 than the two Norfolk battalions ; Lord Orford, with the front of 
 Mars himself, and really the greatest figure under arms I ever 
 -^ w. was the theme of every tongue.' 
 
 His person and air, Horace Walpole declared, hail a noble 
 ■iMhlncss in them: crowds followed the battalions when the 
 • aig re\iewed them in Hyde Park; and among the gay young 
 otticers in their scarlet uniforms, laced with black, in their buff 
 waistcoats and gold buttons, nonj was so consbiruous for 
 nsartial b. :,ting ;'s Lord Orford, although classed by his uni le 
 
 JO -2 
 
1 .,<»■ ", 
 
 
 30«S Givri^r, third luirl of Or ford. 
 
 'among the knights of shire who had never in their lives shot 
 anything hut woodcocks.' 
 
 15ut there was a ])ecuHarity of character in the young peer 
 whicli shocked Horace. ' Xo man,' he says in one of his 
 letters. ' iver felt such a disposition to h^ve another as I ilid 
 to love him. I Haltered m\ self that he would restore some 
 lustre to our house— at least not let it totally sink ; but I am 
 
 forced to give him up, and all my Walpole views 
 
 He has a good breeding, and attention when he is with you 
 that is even tlattering ; .... he i)romises, ofters every- 
 thing one (an wish ; but this is alb: the instant he leaves you, 
 all the world are nothing to him ; he would not give himself the 
 least trouble in the world to give any one satisfaction ; yet this 
 is mere indolence of mind, not of body: his whole pleasure is 
 outrageous exert ise.' 
 
 'He is,' in another place Horace adds, ' the most selfish man 
 in the world : without being in the least interested, he loves 
 nobody but himself, yet neglects every view of fortune and 
 ambition. \'et,' he concludes, ' it is impossible not to love him 
 when one sees him : impossible to esteem him when one thinks 
 on him.' 
 
 The young lord, succeeding to an estate deeply encumbered, 
 both by his father and grandfather, rushed on the turf, and in- 
 volved himself still more. In vain did Horace the younger 
 endeavour to secure for him the hand of Miss Nicholls, an 
 heiress with ^50,000, and, to that end, placed tiie young 
 lady with Horace tlie elder ( l.onlWalpole), at Wolterton. The 
 scheme failed : the ( rafty old politician thought he might as 
 well l)enefit his own sons as his nejjhew, for he had himself 
 (laims on the Houghton estate which he expected Miss 
 XichoII's fortune might help to liciuidate. 
 
 At length the insanity and recklessness displayed 1)y his 
 nephew -the handsome martial George — induced poor Horace 
 to take aftairs in his own hands. His reflections, en his pay- 
 ing a visit to Houghton to look after the proi)erty there, are 
 pathetically expressetl : — 
 
 •Here I amag, aiat Houghton,' he writes in March, t 761, 'and 
 alone : in this spot v.here (except two hours last month) I have 
 
their lives shot 
 
 ;hc young jk-lt 
 in one of his 
 lother as I tlid 
 1 restore some 
 sinlc ; but I am 
 
 ivs 
 
 le is with you 
 :s, offers ever}-- 
 he leaves you, 
 .M\c liimself the 
 irtion ; yet this 
 lole pleasure is 
 
 ost selfish man 
 :ste(l, lie loves 
 of fortune and 
 ot to love him 
 hen one thinks 
 
 y encumbered, 
 e turf, and in- 
 e the younger 
 s Nicholls, an 
 ■ed the young 
 'olterton. The 
 ; he might as 
 e had himself 
 xpected Miss 
 
 pla^'ed by his 
 1 \)ooT Horace 
 IS, en his pay- 
 erty there, are 
 
 ch, T701, 'and 
 iionth) I have 
 
 -I I'isit to I fongJitoii. 309 
 
 not been in sixteen years. Think what a crowd of reflections : . . 
 Here I am jjrobably for the last time of my life : ever)' clock 
 that strikes, tells me I am an hour nearer to yonder church- 
 that church into which I have not yet Ind courage to enter ; 
 where lies that mother on whom I doated, and who doated on 
 me : There are the two rival mistresses of Houghton, neither 
 of whom ever wishe<l to enjoy it. There, too, is he who 
 Aiunded its greatness — ^to contribute to whose fall Kurope 
 was embroiled; there he sleeps in quiet and dignity, while his 
 friend and his foe — rather his false ally and real enemy — New- 
 castle and Bath, are exhausting the dregs of their pitiful lives 
 \\\ squabbles and pami)hk'ts. 
 
 Wlien he looked at the pictures— that famous Houghton col- 
 lection — the suri)rise of Horace was excessive. Accustomed to 
 y.e nothing elsewhere but daubs, he gazed with ecstasy on 
 them. ' The majesty of Italian i<leas.' be says, ' almost sinks 
 before the warm nature of Italian (oIourinL^ Mas! don't I 
 •-now old ?' 
 
 .As he lingered in the gallery, with mbigled i)ride and sad- 
 ;;e>s ^ party arrived to see the house — a man and three women 
 a riding-dresses — who 'rode post' through tli' apartments. ' I 
 could not,' he adds, ' hurry before them fast eiiough ; they were 
 not so long in seeing the whole gallery as I (ould have been 
 in one room, to examine what I knew by heart. I remember 
 formerly being often diverted with this kind o{ sccrs ; they come, 
 ask what such a room is called in which Sir Robert lay, write 
 it down, admire a lobster or a cabbage in a Market Piece, dis- 
 luite whether the last room was green or ])urple, and then 
 liiirry to the inn, for fear the fish should be over-dressed. How 
 (liiferent my sensations : not a picture here but recalls a his- 
 tory j not one but I rememberec' in Downing Street, or Chelsea, 
 where (jueens and crowds admired them, though seeing them as 
 little as these travellers !'* 
 
 •Vfier tea he strolled into the garden. They told him it was 
 now called -x plctxsurc-^:;roiind. To Horace it was a scene of de- 
 MjJalion — a floral Nineveh. 'What a disson:,nt idea of i)lca- 
 
 Sir Robert Walj>olc piircliascd .1 house and R.irck'ii at Chflsr.i in 1723, near 
 till? 0)!lci,'e, adjoining; (ioiiLjh House. -Cunninghams ' Ixjndon.' 
 

 3'0 I-\iviily Misfortunes. 
 
 s'.irc :— those groves, those alUrs, where I have passed so many 
 Hiarming moments, were now stripped up or overgrown— many 
 fund ])aths I could not unravel, though with an exact clue in 
 my niemor\-. 1 met two gamekee])ers, and a thousand hares ! 
 in the days when all my soul was tuned to pleasure and viva- 
 city (and you will think ])erhai)S it is far from l)eing out of 
 tune yet), I hated Houghton and its solitude ; yet I loved this 
 garden, as now, with man)- regrets, I love Houghton— Hough- 
 ton, I know not what to ( ;i!l it a monmnent of grandeur or 
 ruin !' 
 
 Although Ik- did not go with the expectation of fmding a 
 land flowing with milk and honey, the sight of all this ruin 
 long saddened his thoughts. All was confusion, disorder, dehts, 
 mortgages, sales, j>illage, villainy, waste, folly, and madness! 
 'I'he netUcs and brambles in the inirk were ujj to his shoulders; 
 horses had been turned into the garden, and banditti lodged in 
 every cottage. 
 
 The perpetuity of li\ings that came up to the very park- 
 palingrs had been sold, and the farms let at half their value. 
 Certainly, if Houghton were bought by Sir Robert \Valpole 
 with public money, that public was now avenged. 
 
 'Hie owner of this ruined proj^erty had just stemmed the 
 torrent; )uit the worst was to come. The pictures were sold, 
 and to Russia they went. 
 
 U hilsi thus harassed by family misfortunes, other annoyances 
 came. The mournful story of Chatterton's f.ite was painfully 
 mixed u]) with the tenour of Horace Wal])ole's life. 
 
 The gifted and unfortunate Thomas Chatterton was bom 
 at Bristol in 1752. Kven from his birth fate seemed to pursue 
 inm, for he was a jiosthumous son : and if the loss of a father 
 in the highest ranks of life be se\erely felt, how much more 
 so IS it to be ileplored in those which are termed the working 
 <-lasses : 
 
 The friendless enthusiast was slow in learning to read ; but 
 when the illuminated cai)itals of an old book v ^re i)resented 
 to him. he .juicky learned his letters. This f;i i, and his being 
 t.uight to read out of a black -K-tter Bible, are said to have ac- 
 counted for his facility in the imitation of antiijuities. 
 
Poor Chattcrton. 
 
 311 
 
 Kisseil so many 
 -Tgrowiv— many 
 exact clue in 
 lousaml hares ! 
 :isure and viva- 
 1 I)cing out of 
 -el I loved (his 
 ^hlon — Hough- 
 of grandeur or 
 
 )n of finding a 
 jf all this niin 
 lisorder, debts, 
 
 and madness. 
 
 his shoulders ; 
 ditti lodged in 
 
 :he very park- 
 ilf their value, 
 obert ^\'alpole 
 
 stemmed the 
 res were sold, 
 
 er annoyances 
 was painfully 
 e. 
 
 ton was bom 
 iiietl to pursue 
 ss of a father 
 v much more 
 d the working 
 
 to read ; but 
 
 ere presented 
 and his being 
 id to have ac- 
 ties. 
 
 I'eusive and taciturn, he picked up education at a charity- 
 school, until apprenticed to a scrivener, when he began that 
 battle of life which ended to him so fatally. 
 
 rpon very slight accidents did his destiny hinge. In those 
 (lavs women worked with thread, and used thread jjapers. Now 
 jiajier was, at that time, dear: dainty matrons liked ^ tasty 
 tiireadpapers. A ])retty set of thread-pai)ers, with birds or 
 'lowers painted on each, was no mean jiresent for a friend. 
 Cli:itterton, a (juiet child, one day noticed that his mother's 
 thread-papers were of no ordinary materials. They were made 
 of parchment, and on this parchment was some of the black- 
 kitcr characters by which his childish attention had been fixed 
 to !iis book. The fact was, that his uncle was sexton to the 
 p.nc ient church of St. Mary Redcliffe, at Bristol ; and the parch- 
 v:..:\\\ was the fruit of theft. Chatterton's father had carried off, 
 ;'; Mill a room in the church, certain ancient manuscripts, which 
 iiad been left about ; l)eing originally abstracted from what was 
 railed Mr. Canynge's coffin. Mr. Canynge, an eminent mer- 
 ■ liant, had rebuilt St. Mary RedclitTe in the reign of Kdward 
 i\'. : and the parchments, therefore, were of some anti(iuity. 
 The antiquary groans over their loss in vain : Chatterton's father 
 had covered his books with them : his moUier had used up the 
 strips for thread-papers ; and Thomas Chatterton himself 
 contrived to abstn.ut a considerable portion also, for his own 
 ]iurposes. 
 
 lie was ingenious, industrious, a poet by nature, and, won- 
 dcrfiil to say, withal a herald by taste. Upon his nefarious 
 possessions, he founded a scheme of literary forgeries ; pur- 
 porting to be ancient pieces of poetry found in Canynge's 
 chest ; and described as being the production of Thomas Can- 
 ynge and of his friend, one Thomas Rowley, a i>riest. AFoney 
 and books were sent to Chatterton in return for little strii)S of 
 vellum, which he passed off as the original itself; and the suc- 
 cessful forger might now be seen in decj) diouglu, walking in 
 the meadows near Redcliffe ; a marked, admired, poetic youtli. 
 
 \\\ 1769, Chatterton wrote to Horace Wali)ole, offering to 
 send him some accounts oi eminent painters who had tiourished 
 at Bristol, and at the same time mentioning the discovery of 
 
•««' 
 
 
 
 Ki'- ^ 
 
 3 ' - Walpolcs Couccni ijitJi Chattirtoii. 
 
 the i)ocnis, and enclosing some specimens. In a siil)seniient 
 letter he begged Wal].ole to aid him in his wish to be freed 
 from Ins then servile condition, and to be placed in one more 
 congenial to his jnirsuits. 
 
 Jn his choice of a patron j)oor Chatterton made a fatal mis- 
 take. J lie bcncNolence of J l(;race was of a general kind, and 
 never descended to anything obs( ure or nnappreciated. There 
 was a certain hardness in liiat nature of his which had so 
 pleasant an aspect. ' An arti.t.' he once said, ' has his pencils 
 —an author hi.s p.ens-and the public must reward them as it 
 pleases.' Alas I he forgot .how long it is before j.enury, even 
 ennoble<l by genius, can make itself seen, heard, approved, re- 
 ba..l: h.m- vast is the inlluence of Av.//;r / hoNV generous the 
 liand which IS exten<le<l to those in want, even if in error ! All 
 that Horace did, however, was stri. tlv (orrect : he showed the 
 poems to Cray and -Mason, who pronounced them forgeries • 
 and he wrote a ( old and reproving letter to the starving author' 
 aiul no one could blame him : Chatterton demanded back his 
 j.oenis ; W alpole was going to l^aris, ami forgot to return them. 
 Another letter came : the woimde.l poet again deman.led thorn, 
 addmg that Walpole would not have dared to use Imn so had 
 he not.been poor. The poems were returned in a blank cover • 
 and here all Walpole's concern with 'Hiomas Chatterton ends. 
 All this happened in 1769. \^^ August, 1770, the remains of 
 the unhappy youth were carried to the burial ground of Shoe 
 -ane workhouse, near Jlolborn. Jle had swallowed arsenic; 
 had Imgcred a dav m agonies ; and then, at the age of eighteen 
 expnx-d Star^•atlon ha.l p>rompted the act : yet on the day be- 
 fore he had committed it, he had refused a dinner, of which he 
 Ava, mvited by Ins hostess to partake, assuring her that he was 
 not iiungry. Just or unjust, the world has never forgiven Ho- 
 race U alpole for Chatterton's misery. Mis indifference has 
 been contrasted with the generosity of l^jmund ]lurke to 
 Ciabbe: a generosity to which we owe 'The Villi-e' 'The 
 l|orongh,' and to which Crabbe owed his peaceful oUrage, .nd 
 alnjost Ins existence. The. cases were difterent ; but Crahbe 
 na.l ius faults- anil Chatterton was worth saving. It is well for 
 genms that there are souls in the world more syTOi)atliiling,"less 
 
r/on. 
 
 In a .siil)seqiient 
 vish to he frccfl 
 X'd ill one more 
 
 nade a fatal mis- 
 enoral kind, and 
 ^c<iato(I. 'I'licrc 
 s wiii( Ii had so 
 ' has his pencils 
 ward thcin as it 
 irc ])L'nury, even 
 il, ajjiiroved, re- 
 3\v generous the 
 
 if in 
 
 error! All 
 
 he showed the 
 
 them forgeries ; 
 starving author: 
 anded back his 
 
 to return them, 
 cmanded them, 
 use him so had 
 
 a blank co\er : 
 
 hatterton ends, 
 the remains of 
 ground of Shoe 
 
 lowed arsenic; 
 age of eighteen 
 
 on the (lay be- 
 er, of which he 
 her that he was 
 L'r forgiven Ho- 
 idifference has 
 lund ]]urke to 
 
 Village,' 'The 
 
 d old age, and 
 
 t ; but Crabhe 
 
 it is well for 
 
 njjathizing, less 
 
 
 Walpolc in Paris. 313 
 
 worldly, and more indulgent, than those of such men as Horace 
 W.dpole. Even the editor of 'WaIi)oliana' lets judgment go 
 by default. * As to artists,' he says, 'he paid them what they 
 iMined, and he commonly employed mean ones, that the reward 
 might l)e smallei.' 
 
 i.ei us change the strain: stilled be the mournful note on 
 wliich we have rested too long. "What have wits and beaux 
 and men of society 10 do with poets and beggars? Behold, 
 Horace, when he has written his monitory letter, packs U[) for 
 r ris. Let us follow him there, and see him in the very centre 
 ol his jileasures— -in the salon of La Marquise du Deffand. 
 
 Horace Walpole b:ul perfected his education, as a fme gen- 
 ik-man. by his intimacy with Madame Cleoffrin, to whom L;idy 
 Ibr'.ey had introduced him. She called him le noinwiu Kichc- 
 i: .i : and Horace was sensible of so great a com[)liment from 
 a wojuan at once ^ spirititcllc and piciisc'—'x combination rare 
 in 1'' ranee. Nevertheless, she had the national views of matri- 
 mony. ' What liave you done, >Lidanie,' .said a foreigner to 
 iicr. • with the poor man I used to see here, who never spoke a 
 Word ?' 
 
 'Ah, /;/('// nicii ." was tlie reply, 'that was my husband : he 
 !- dead.' She spoke in the same tone as if she had l)een S])eci- 
 !\ing the last new opera, or referring to the latest work in vogue : 
 things just passed aw;iy. 
 
 'V\^c Afan/iiisc (ill /M/'li/zd wan a very different personage to 
 M id.uiie Geoffrin, whose great enemy she was. \Vhen Horace 
 U,i'jK)Ie first entered into the society of the ^Llr4uise, she was 
 stone blind, and old; but retained not only her wit, and her 
 nuipMiy. but her passions. Passions, like artifi<aal llowers, are 
 unbecoming to age : and those of the witty, atheistical Manpiise 
 are ;dmost revolting. Scandal still attached her n;mie to that 
 <'i Ilenault, of whom Voltaire wrote the epitaph beginning 
 
 ' Henniili, f.uiv.'iis par vos soupcrs 
 I'.t votrc " chnmiilotjie. " ' &c. 
 
 He'nault was for many years deaf; and, during the whole ot 
 "^^ hie, ilisagreeable. 'Ihere was something fircical in the old 
 man's receptions on his deathdjed; whilst, amongst the rest of 
 
««i 
 
 
 i 
 
 3 '4 Ajurdoh' of Madauic Gcofjriu. 
 
 the rom])any came Madame du DctTand, a jjlind old woman of 
 seventy, who, bawling in his car, aroused the lethargic man, by 
 in(iuiring after a former rival of hers, Madame de Castelniaron 
 — about whom he went on babbling until ileath stopjjcd his 
 voice. 
 
 She was seventy years of age when Horace W'alpole, at fifty, 
 became lier jiassion. She was i)oor and disrejnitable, and even 
 the high position of having been mistress to the regent could 
 not save her from being decried by a large ]ionion of that so- 
 ciety which centered round the IhI iSprit. 'She was/ obseucs 
 tlie biographer of Horace ^\'alpole (the liimeued aut'b.or of \U. 
 'Crescent and the Cross.') 'always gav, ;ib,vays charm'.u'— 
 everything ])ui a Christian.' Th,' loss c; l.er cxes-giit di<i rot 
 impair the reiiKiins of her l)e:'Uty ; Iier replns, her comi)linients, 
 were brilliant; even from one wiujse brst organs of expression 
 were mule. 
 
 A freciuent guest at Jier suj)j)ers, Walpole's kindrcss, real cr 
 ])retended, soon maile inroads !,n .. he>:rt still suscentibse. 'I'he 
 evergrci !i passions of this vencnible sinner thicw out fresh 
 ■;ots; ,iiul she became enamoined of t'le :.itentive and ad- 
 •tnn".'. Knglishman. Horace was susceptible of ridii ule : there 
 iiis sc-nicwliat icy heart was easily touched. I'artly in vanity, 
 l^a.i',- in pla\ fulness, he encouraged the .sentimental exaggera- 
 ti<;,- of his correspondent ; but, becoming afraid of the world's 
 laughter, ended by reproving her warmtl], and by chilling, under 
 th(; refrigerating inlluence of his cautions, all the romance of 
 the ot:togenarian. 
 
 In later days, however, after his solicitude— partly soothed 
 ])y the return of his letters to Madame du Deffand, i)anly by 
 her death— had completely .subsided, a hai)pier friendship was 
 P'ermitted to solace his now increasing inhrnuties, as well as to 
 enhance his social ])leasures. 
 
 It was during the year 178S, when he was living in retire- 
 ment at Strawberry, that his ausjiicious friendship was formed. 
 The only grain of ambition he had left he declared was to bc- 
 lie\ e himself forgotten : that was ' the thread that had run 
 through his life ;' ' so true,' he adds. ' except the folly nf beinq 
 an author, has been what 1 said last year to the I'rince' (after- 
 
1(1 old woman of 
 -■tluirgic man, by 
 <le Castclmaron 
 ath stopped his 
 
 A'aljiolc, at fifty, 
 citable, and even 
 he regent could 
 ♦ion of that so- 
 ^ svas; obscivcs 
 (1 autlior of the 
 ays cliarming— 
 }es:gi!t di<t not 
 :erroni])linients, 
 s of expression 
 
 indrvs.-;, real cr 
 iscentibie. 'I'he 
 ihuw out fresh 
 itentive and ad- 
 ridicule : tlierc 
 'arlly in vanity, 
 eiital exaggera- 
 1 of the world's 
 i' chilling, under 
 he romance of 
 
 -l)artly soothed 
 
 fand, ])an!y by 
 
 friendship was 
 
 s, as well as to 
 
 ivmg m retire- 
 ip was formed, 
 a red was to be- 
 that had run 
 
 ' follv cf l»<>inrr 
 . i.,..\ I,. ^ 
 
 I'rince' (after- 
 
 Tltc Miss Inrrys. \\c 
 
 wards George IV.), 'when he asked me "If I was a Free- 
 mason," I replied, " Xo sir ; I never was anything." ' 
 
 Lady Charleville told him that some of her friends had been 
 to see Strawberry. ' Lord :' (ried one lady, 'who is that \\\. 
 Walpole ?• ' Lord :' cried a second ; ' don't you know the great 
 epicure. Mr. \Vali)ole ?' 'Who?' ( ried the first,— ' great eja- 
 cure ! you mean the anticjuarian.' ' Surely.' adds Horace, ' this 
 r.nccdote may take its place in th chapter of local fame.' 
 
 Jliit he reverts to his .-.'.'w acciuisition - the aniuaintance of 
 the Miss lierrys, who had accidentally taken a house next to 
 iiis at Strawberry Hill. Their story, he adds, ;\as .i c urious 
 one: their descent Scotch ; their grandfather had an estate of 
 X.vooo ;i yoir, but disinherited his son on account of his 
 marrying a woman with no fortune. She died, and the grand- 
 lather, wishing for an heir-male, pressed the widower to marry 
 .again: he refused; and said he would devote himself to the 
 education of his two daughters, 'i'hc second son generously 
 ,- ;ve up /;Soo a year tt) his brotlier, and the two motherless 
 ;-;ris were taken to the Continent, whence they returned the 
 •iH>t informed and most perfect creatures that Horace Walpole 
 cwr saw at their age.' 
 
 Sensible, natural, frank, their conversation proved most 
 n-reeable to a man who was s.iled of grand society, and sick 
 ('!'>. uiity until he had indulged in vexation of spirit. He dis- 
 ("•.cred by chance only — for there was no pedantry in these 
 tni!y well-educated women -that the eldest understood Latin, 
 ;!v! -was a ])erfect Frenchwoman in her language. Then the 
 }"uiigest drew well; and coi)ied one of Lady Di IJeauclerk's 
 !■< Hires, • The Gijisies,' though she had never attempted colours 
 i^^torc. 'I'hen, as to looks : JNLiry, the eldest, had a sweet face, 
 tat- more interesting from being pale ; with fine dark eyes that 
 Wdv liglited up when she s[)oke. Agnes, the younger, was 
 'li:irdly to be called handsome, l)Ut almost;' with an agreeable 
 sensible countenance, h is remarkable that women thus de- 
 ling alciL not beautie.s, yet not i)hun— are always the most fas- 
 cm iting to men. The sisters doteil on each other: Mary 
 tar;;;::; tnc \<::\<\ \\\ socitl). ' I nuist even tell you,' Horace 
 wrote to the Countess of Ossory, ' that they dress within the 
 
 ii 
 
.^I^> 
 
 Horace's Ttco ' S(rau< lurries: 
 
 "*•& 
 
 I 
 
 bounds of fashion, hut without the excrescences anrl balconies 
 uitli whidi modern hoydens overwhehn and barricade their 
 ])ersons.' (One would almost have supposed that Horace had 
 lived in the days of crinoline.') 
 
 The first ni,L,'ht that Horace met the two sisters, he refused to 
 be introduced to them : having heard so much of them that he 
 concluded they would be 'all pretension.' The second night 
 that he met them, he sat next Mary, and found her an 'angel 
 both inside and out.' He did not know which he liked best; 
 but Mary's f u e. \\lii( h was formed for a sentimental ncvcl, or,' 
 still more, for -enteel comedy, ri\eled him, he owned. Mr.' 
 ]}erry, the father, was a little 'merry man with a round face,' 
 whom no one would have suspected of sacrit'icing 'all for love, 
 ami the world well lost.' This delightful family visited him 
 e\ery Sunday evening ; the region of Twickenham being too 
 'prcxlaniatory' for cards to be introduced on the seventh day, 
 < (mversation was tried instead ; thankful, indeed, was Horace, for 
 the ' ])earls,' as he styled them, thus thrown in his i)ath. His 
 two '.Strawberries,' as he < hristened them, were henceforth the 
 theme of every letter. He had set up a jirinting-press manv 
 years prc\ iously at Strawberry, and on taking the' young ladies 
 to see it, he remembered the gallantry of his former days, and 
 they foimd these stan/as in type : — 
 
 ''III Marv'.-, lip, has nncicnt Rome 
 
 l!<-r piirot l,in,!;uau:c tni^ht ; 
 .Xnd from tlio m<i(lirn city Ikiiiio 
 Ai,'iU';. its ik'ik;1 hruugl'it. 
 
 ' koine's nncicnt Ilonice swwtiv di.uin 
 
 ."Siuli mni(!-i with lyric t'iro ; 
 .\ll)i()ii's old Horace sings nor ])ainls, 
 I Ic only can ailmire. 
 
 ' .'^till wonld his press their fame record, 
 
 So nniialile the pair is ! 
 Htit, ah ! how vain to think liisword 
 (."an add a suaw to 15erry's.' 
 
 (In the following day, :\rary, wliom lie terms the Latin nymph, 
 sent the following lines : — 
 
 ' Had Rome's famed Horace tlius acklrest 
 
 I lis I.ydia or iiis I.Ace, 
 llv had ne'er so oft complained their breast 
 'I'o him w.-xs cold and icy. 
 
 vounir 
 
L's and l)alconies 
 1 barricade their 
 that Horace had 
 
 ;rs, he refused to 
 1 of tliem that he 
 he second night 
 nd her an 'angel 
 h lie liked hest ; 
 nental nc v'el, or, 
 he owned. Mr. 
 1 .1 rcnind face,' 
 ing 'all for love, 
 nily visited him 
 nham being too 
 the seventh day, 
 , was Horace, for 
 1 his i)ath. His 
 e henceforth the 
 ting-press many 
 the young ladies 
 brmer day.s, and 
 
 le Latin nymi)h, 
 
 ;vst 
 
 ' Fiiif had they S()ii(,'lit tlieir jov to ca|)!.iiii, 
 
 Or praJM" tlicir genonni-. luril, 
 rfrh.ips. like- mo, tlu'v li.nl trird in \.uu 
 And felt the ta.'>k too hard ' 
 
 317 
 
 The .society of this family gave Horace Walpole the truest 
 nnd perhaps the only reli.h he ever had of domestic life. JUiJ 
 his mind was harassed towards the close of the eighteenth cen- 
 t.iry. by the in.sanity not only of his nephew, but by the great 
 :, tional calamity, that of the king. ' Every ci^/ity-ch^/U seems,' 
 he remarks, 'to be a favourite ])eriod with fate;' he was 'too 
 ..!u ient,' he .said, ' to tap what might almost be called a new 
 rei-n;' of which he was not likely to see much. He never 
 1 ivteiided to penetration, but his foresight, ' if he gave it the 
 rci^Lin. would not prognosticate much felicity to the country from 
 tlie madness of his father, and the probable regency of the 
 Prince of Wales. His happiest relations were now not with 
 politics or literature, but with Mrs. Dainer and the Mi.ss lierrys 
 to whom he wrote :— ' I am afraid of protesting how much I 
 ^\\M in your society, lest I should seem to affect being g.-al- 
 ::it: but, if two negatives make an affirmative, why may not 
 lA.) ridicules compose one piece of .sense? and, therefore, as I 
 am in love with you both, I trust it is a proof of the good .sense 
 <->! \.jur devoted — H. W.m.poi.k.' 
 
 He was doomed, in the decline of life, to witness two gn-at 
 nuional convulsions : of the insurrection of 1745 he wrote'^feel- 
 ii.Jy- justly— almost pathetically : forty-five years later he was 
 tired, he said, of railing against French barbarity and folly 
 • lA-islators ! a Senate ! to neglect laws, in order to annihilate 
 ' •-(.! arms and liveries :' George Selwyn .said, that Monsieur 
 t if king's brother was the only man of rank from whom thev 
 umhl not take a title. His alarm at the idea of his two 
 .voiing Iriends going to the Continent was exces.-,ive. The 
 ilnne of revolution had burst forth at Florence: Flanders was 
 : -t a safe road ; dreadful horrors had been perpetrated at 
 Avignon. Then he relates a characteristic anecdote of poor 
 Mane Antoinette' She went with the king to see the manu- 
 •^ture of glass. As they pa.ssed the Halle, the poissan/rs 
 
 'Hirra'd them. ' Ipon mv wortl,' said th 
 
 c (jueen, ' these 
 
 I 
 
"^ 
 
 
 318 '////• S/'p/ of the (iothic Casth'. 
 
 folks nre « iviller u'ncu )oii visii tlicni, than when they visit 
 yon,' 
 
 Waljjole's afVcctioi, for the Miss IJorrys cast a glow of happi- 
 ness over the fast-ebbing years of his \'\{m. ' In happy day-,' lie 
 wrote to them when thi ' were abroad, ' \ calle'l you my dear 
 wives; now I ran only think of you as darhng rliihlrcn, of 
 wlioni I am bereaved.' He was jjroud of their affection ; proud 
 of their •-i-'tMliiv many liour^ with 'a very oh I man,' whilst 
 the' 1 1 ts of j;( lural admiialion. These channing 
 
 ■.'. men cd I. mil our oun time: the centre of a circle of 
 
 the leading ( h.-iru ters in literature, jjolitics, art, rank, and virtue. 
 I'hey are rememjiered with true regret. The fulness of their 
 age j)erfected the promise of their youth. Samuel Rogers used 
 lo say that they had lived mi the reign of Queen Aime, so far 
 ba( k seemed tlh .. nuniorKs mI ','h v.ere so coui)led to the 
 ])ast ; but the youth of their minds, their feelings, their intelli- 
 gence, remained almo,l to the 1 1st. 
 
 I'or many years Horace W'alpole continued, in spite of inces- 
 sant attacks of the gout, to keep ahnost oj^en house at Straw- 
 berr)' ; in short, "he said, he kept an inn the sign, the (tothic 
 ("astle ! 'Take my ad\ ice.' he wrote to a friend, ' never build a 
 cJKirming liouse f r Nourself be'wecn London and HamiHon 
 Court ; everybody will live in it but you.' 
 
 The death i)f 1-ady SutTolk, in 1767, h.id ficen an essential 
 loss toller partial, and not too rigid neit'h'iours. Two 1! ' s 
 before the death of (leorge H. she had gone to Kensingto; 
 not knowing that there was a review there. Hemmed in b^ 
 coa* lies, she foimd h( self close \o t.eorgeH. and to Lady 
 Yarmuutli. Neither of them knew her— a circumstance which 
 greatly affected the countess. 
 
 Horace "^Valpfjle w,i^ now desirous of growing old with dignity. 
 He had no wish 'to <h-ess up a withered person, nor to drag it 
 ab'i'il to i>':ljii< ]il s ;' ])iit •■ was equally averse from 'sitting 
 at i.ume, wrajiped up in flannels,' to rei eive conf'')lences frcni 
 people he did not care for — and attentions from relations 
 whoACiJ imjiatient '^or his de.'h. Well might a writer in the 
 'Quarterly Review' remark, that our most useful lessons in 
 reading Walpole's Lett rs are not only derived from his sound 
 
 
Ci'OZk'i'uc^ Old :<•/// f^i-iiif 
 
 3' 
 
 .hen they visit 
 
 glow of liappi- 
 lappy days' lie 
 you my dear 
 g children, of 
 lection ; proud 
 il man/ wh;'-t 
 'hese charming 
 .> of a circle of 
 ink, and virtue. 
 Illness of their 
 l1 Rogers used 
 ;n Aime, so far 
 oii[»led to the 
 gfs, their intelli- 
 
 I spite of inces- 
 louse at Straw- 
 ign, the (tothic 
 
 * never build a 
 and Hampton 
 
 II an essential 
 rs. Two (Is 
 to Kensington 
 Iem;,ied in b^ 
 
 to Lndy 
 nistance which 
 
 Id with dignity, 
 nor to drag it 
 ;e from * sitting 
 n('olences frcn 
 from relations 
 a writer in the 
 eful lessons in 
 from his sound 
 
 
 scii^e, but from ' < onhi<lcring this man of the world, full ot in- 
 toniuition and sparkling with vivacity, stretched on a sick bed, 
 11(1 ajjprehending all the tei' 's I Miguor of helples.-^decreiji- 
 tude and deserted solituile.' s later years had been diver- 
 
 sified by correspondence with 1 umnah Nfore, who sent him Ikt 
 juicni oi ihc Jhts B/iu, into which she had introduced his name, 
 in 1781* she visite<l him at Strawberry Hill. He was then a 
 Mi.iityr to the gout, but with s])irits gay as ever : * 1 never knew 
 .1 man suffer pain with such entire patience,' was Hannah Mote's 
 •Liii.irk. His corresj)ondence with her continued regularly ; but 
 liiat with the charming sisters was deli::htfully interrupted I>\ 
 tlu'f residence at little Strawberry Hill Clhcdai^ as it was also 
 < .died, where tlay after day, night after night, they gleaned 
 ^tures from that rich fund of anecdote which went back to ihe 
 (liys of George I., touched even on the anterior epoch of Anne, 
 . ml ( ame in volumes of amisemcnt down to the \cry era when 
 tile oUl man was sitting by his [jarlour fire, ha])py with his unves 
 near him, resigned and cheerful. For his young friends he com 
 posed his ' Kemini.si nces of the Court of England.' 
 
 He still wrote cheerfu' of his physical state, in which cyc- 
 Mght was perfect ; hearing little impaired ; and though his hands 
 and feet were crip]>led, he cimld use them ; and sine c he neither 
 'wished to box, to wrestle, nor 10 dance a hornpiiie,' he was 
 (onteuted. 
 
 His character became softer, li;^ wii less cau-,iic, his heart 
 more tender, his talk more reverent, .is he approached the term 
 ■" a long, prosperous life — and knew, practically, the small 
 !e of all that he had once too fondly prized. 
 
 (lis later years were disturbed by the marriage of his niecs 
 "^I I Waldegrave to the Duke of (llouce ter: but the severest 
 ''ption to his peat e was his own succession to an luirldo 1. 
 
 i., ,-]'■■ (ieorge, I'^arl of Orford, expired; leaving an estate 
 eiu umbered with debt, and, added to the bequest, a s; lics of 
 lawsuits threatened to break down all remaining comfort in the 
 mind of the uncle, who had already suflered so much u;i the 
 young man's accoun' 
 
 Horace Walpole dis<lained the honours whicn b: i him 
 s'u h solid troid)le, with such empty titles, and for;.onic time re- 
 
 It 
 
 
320 
 
 S.itii s^/('// /(> nil /■(viiioni. 
 
 
 ^» 
 
 fused to sign himself otherwise l)iit ' I lule to the late I'larl (■;" 
 Orfonl.' He was certainly not likely l<» he alle to walk in h;-. 
 rolies to the House of J.ords, or to ^'race a levee. Jluwever, 
 he thanked (lod he was free from ))ain. ' SiiK e :i!l my fingers 
 are useless,' lie wrote to Hannah More, 'and that 1 have only 
 six hairs left, I am wni very nni<ligrie\ed at not being able to 
 comb my head :' To Hannah More he wrote in all sincerity, 
 referring to his elevation to the peerage : ' For the other empty 
 metamoriihosis that has haj/pened to the outwanl man, you do 
 nie juslic e in believing that it ( n do nothing but tease nie , 
 is being 'ailed names in one's old age:' in f u t, he reckon 'i 
 on bcii styled ' Lord Metluisalem.' He had lived to hear of 
 the cruel deaths of the once gay and high-l)orn friends whom 
 lie had known in Paris, by the guillotine : he ha<l lived to eve 
 (rate the monsters who persei uted the grandest heroine of mo- 
 dern times, Marie Antoinette, to madness; he li\ed to censure 
 the infatuation of religious zeal in the llirmingham riots. ' Vro 
 not the devils escapeil out of the sume, and overrunning the 
 earth heaiUong ?' - he asked in one of his letters. 
 
 Jie had offered his hand, ami all the ambitious vieu which 
 it opened, to eat h of the Miss iJerrys successively, but they re- 
 fused to be r his name, though they still ( heered his solitude: 
 and, strange to say, two of the most admired ai\d beloved women 
 of tlKir time remained single. 
 
 In 1796, the sinking invalid w.is persuaded to remove to 
 iJerkeley S(iuare, to be within reach of good ami prompt advice. 
 Jle consented unwilliiigly, tor hi^ '(iothic Castle' w.is his fi- 
 \ourite abode, I le left it with a presentiment that he should 
 sec it no more ; but he followed the proftered advice, and in 
 the spring of the year was established in Berkeley Square. His 
 mind was still clear. He seems to have cherished to the last 
 a concern for that literary lame which he atfe( ted to des[)is-'. 
 ' Literature has,' he said, ' many revolutions ; if an author could 
 rise from the dead, after a hunihed }ears, what would be his 
 surprise at the ailventures of his works '. 1 often say, perhaj^s 
 my books may be published in Taternoster Row !' He would 
 indeed have l)een astonished at the vast circulation of his 
 1 .etters, and the i)opularity which has carried mem into every 
 
c late llarl of 
 ;o walk in his 
 ;c. However, 
 nil my fingers 
 
 I I have only 
 Ijting able to 
 I all sincerity, 
 c other empty 
 ; man, you do 
 
 lca-,e nil. , 
 , he reckoi; i 
 cil to hear ot" 
 friends whom 
 I lived to e\c- 
 leroine of nio- 
 cd to censure 
 n riots. ' \ro 
 errunning the 
 
 i viev- whit h 
 
 y, but they rc- 
 
 his solitude: 
 
 cloved women 
 
 to remove to 
 prompt advice. 
 c was his la- 
 at he shoulil 
 .dvice, and iu 
 Scjuare. His 
 (I to the la- 
 d to desj)!' 
 1 author coul'J 
 would be his 
 say, j)erhai)S 
 ;' lie would 
 ilation of hi.s 
 m into every 
 
 /.*•/ us not be Ungrateful. 
 
 12\ 
 
 u^torratic family in England. It is renuirk.iblo that among the 
 iiddleand lower clav. they are far less known, for he was 
 ^entially the chronicler, as well as the wit and beau, of St. 
 
 I tines'.s, of Windsor, ami Richmond. 
 At last he declared that he should 'be content with a sjjrig 
 t rosemary' thrown on hun when the parson of the parish 
 
 ' oininit.s his ' dust to dust." 'ihe end of his now suffering exist 
 a'e was near at hand. Irritability, one of the unpiii'ed .u 
 'iiipaniments of weakness, seemed to compete with the 
 
 -ithering clouds of mental darkness as the last hour drew on. 
 
 At inten-als there were flashes of a wit that appeared at that 
 ■luiui moment hardly natural, and that mu.t h.ive .startled 
 
 r.uher than pleased, the watchful friends around him. lie be- 
 
 • nuc tmjust in his fretfulness, and those who loved him most 
 ' I ild not wish to see him survive the wreck of his inteller t. 
 i cwr came on, and he died on the 2nd of March, 1797. 
 
 lie had collected his letters from his friends; these epistles 
 
 were deposited in two boxes, one marked with an .\,, the other 
 
 •v.th a 15. 'J'he chest \. was not to be opened until the eldest 
 
 'ii of his grandniece, Lady Laura, should attain the age of 
 
 '•■I'tytive. The chest was foimd to contain memoirs, and 
 
 i'undles of letters ready for jjublication. 
 
 It was singular, at the sale of the effects at Strawberry Hill, 
 
 • ' >cc this chest, with the .\ISS. in the dean liomtidn hand, 
 ad to rellect how jjoignant wr.-ild have been the anguish of the 
 
 writer cuuld he have seen his Gothic Castle given ui) for four- 
 teen days, to all that could pain the living, or degrade the dead. 
 I'euc to his manes, ]>rince of letter-writers; prince com- 
 'iiiiou (jf beaux; wit of the highest order ! \V hout thy pen, 
 J' :« 'y in the eighteenth century would have been to us almost 
 ^ dead as the Ihau luoiuk of Pompeii, or the remains of Etruscan 
 eaders of the ton. Let us not be ungrateful to our Horace: 
 ^\e owe him more than we could ever have cahulated on before 
 •ve knew lum through his works : prejudiced, he was not false ; 
 i. he was rarely cruel ; egotistical, he was sehlom vain-glori- 
 '^i-'. Every age should have a Horaro Walpole ; every country 
 possess a chronicler so .sure, so keen to perceive, so exact to 
 '''-•Imeate peculiarities, manners, ( haracters, and event.s. 
 
 3f 
 
GEORGK SKLWYN. 
 
 •-^ 
 
 A I^vc of Horrors.— Anecrloti'S of Stlwyii's Mother.— Sclwyiis College D;m. 
 — Orator Ilenloy.- Scjwyiis Hla.s|jiiiim)U.s Freak. — The IVofession ol' n 
 Wit. — The Thirst for Hazard.- Reyiioliiss Conversation-Piece. —Selwvn'-. 
 I-xeentrieities and W'ittieisnis,- A most Iin]5ortant Coninmnieation.- .\i\ 
 Amateur Headsinan. —The l'^!o(|iience of Inihffcreiice. — Cattliin}; a Hoim- 
 tircakcr. '1 he I''ami!y of the Selwyiis.- The Man of the Peoi)le. — SelwMi s 
 l'arl;:iiii(ii!,iiv Career.- Tnu- Wit. Some of Selwyn's Witty Sayinjjs. — 'Ihe 
 Sovereignty of ilie iVopIe.- t'n two kinils of \\'it. — Seiwyii'.s I.ove for 
 Chihlren. — Mie-Mie, the IJttle Italian.— Sclwyns Little Companion taken 
 from him. - His Later l.),i\s and Death. 
 
 
 Il.WM heard, at tinics, of maiden ladies of a certain 
 ago who fouinl i)lea.sure in the affection of ' spotted 
 SmJ snakes with double tongue, tliorny licdge-liogs, newts, 
 and in H\e worms.' 1 fre(iuently meet hxdies who think con- 
 versation hu ks interest witliout the recital of ' melancholy 
 deaths,' ' fatal diseases,' aiid ' mournful cases ;' on nedisputcs pm 
 Ics ^oi'its, and certainly the taste for the night side of nature 
 seems immensely ])revalent among the lower orders — in whom, 
 perhaps, the terrible only can rouse from a sullen insensibility 
 "What happy peoi)le \ 1 always think to myself, when 1 hear of 
 the huge attendance on the last tragic performance at Newgate ; 
 huw very little they can see of mournful and horrible in comnn'ii 
 life, if tiiey seek it out so eagerly, and relish it so thoroughly, 
 when they find it ! I don't know ; for my own part, i;audcamus. 
 .T have always thought that the te.xt, * Blessed are they that 
 mourn,' referred to the inner p^rivate life, not to a perpetual dis- 
 l)lay of sackcloth and ashes ; Init 1 know not. 1 can under- 
 stand the weeping-willow taste among people, who have too 
 little wit or too little Christianity to be cheerful, but it is a won- 
 der to Hud tlie luxury of gloom united to the keenest percep- 
 tion of the laughable in such a man as Cieorge Selwyn. 
 
ivyn's College D.ivs. 
 rtie rriifi'ssion ol a 
 ioii-l'iccf. —Sclwyn's 
 .'oinninnication.— An 
 — ("atcliing a Ilou'-i'- 
 he IVoiilf. — Suhvyns 
 Witty Sayinjjs.— 'llic 
 — Sciwyn's Love fur 
 Ic Comjianion tuki'ii 
 
 lies of a certain 
 tion of ' spotted 
 ;(lge-hogs, newts, 
 who think con- 
 of ' mehineholy 
 on lie disputes pas 
 t side of nature 
 •(lers — in wlioni, 
 len insensiliility. 
 when 1 lie.ir ot' 
 .nee at Newg.ite ; 
 rrible in eommon 
 it so thoroiighl), 
 part, ,i:;aiidt'a»tus. 
 .'d are they tiiat 
 ) a perpetual dis- 
 1 can under- 
 ;, who have too 
 , but it is a won- 
 keenest percep- 
 Sehvyn. 
 
 A Love of Hon-ors. 7 2"? 
 
 If hiunan beings could be made pets, like Miss Tabithr.'s 
 snake or toad, Sehvyn would have fondled a hangman. He 
 loved the noble art of execution, and was a connoisseur of the 
 execution of the art. In childhood he must have decapitated 
 his rocking-horse, hanged his doll in a miniature gallows, and 
 burnt his baubles at mimic stakes. The man whose calm' eye 
 was watched for the -luiet sparkle that announced— and only 
 that ever did announce it- the flashing wit within the mind, 
 by a gay crowd of lour.gers at Arthur-s, might be found next 
 da.y rummagmg among coffms in a damp vault, glorying in a 
 mummy, confessing mmX preparing a live criminal, paying any 
 .sum for a relic of a dead one, or i.ressing eagerly forwaril to 
 witness the dying agonies of a condemned man. 
 
 \ ct AWilpolc and Warner both bore the highest testimony to 
 the goodne.ss of his heart • and it is impos.sible to doubt that 
 his nature was as gentle as a woman's. There have been other 
 ustances of even educated men delighting in scenes of suffering; 
 i'lst in general their characters have been more or less gross, their 
 heads more or less insensible. Thehu.sband of Madame Kecamier 
 went daily to see the guillotine do its vile work during the reign 
 uf 'I'error j but then he was a man who never wept over the death 
 ot^ a friend. The man who was devoted to a little child, whom he 
 ;ulopted and treated with the tenderest care, was very different 
 from M. Recamier— and th ,t he had ix heart there is no doubt. 
 Me was an anomaly, and famous for being so ; though, perhaps, 
 his well-known eccentricity was taken advantage of by his witty 
 hicnds, and many a story fathered on Sehvyn which has no 
 origin but in the brain of its narrator. 
 
 (Jeorge Augustus Sehvyn, tiien, famous for his wit, and noto- 
 rious for his love of horrors, was the second son of a country 
 -cntleman, of Matsor. in (iloucestershire. Colonel John Sehvyn, 
 who had been an aide-de-camp of MarU,orough's, and after- 
 ^vards a frecjuenter of the courts of the first two ( leorges. He 
 inherited his wit chiefly from his mother, Mary, the daughter of 
 ^ieneral Farington or Farringdon, of the county of Kent. 
 \\alpole tells us that she figured among tlu- beauties of the 
 < jurt of the Prince and Princess of Wales, and \s,;, bedchani'- 
 I'orwomnn to Queen Caroline. 1 ler character was not spotless, 
 

 4 
 
 3-4 Amrdohs of Sckiyn's Mother. 
 
 for wc licar of an intrigue, wliicli Ikt own mistress imparted in 
 cunfidence to the Duchess of Orleans (the mother of the Re- 
 gent : tliey wrote on her tomb Cy ,i;isi Foisivctv, liecause idleness 
 is the mother of all vi( e), and which eventually found its way 
 into the ' Utrecht (;a/ette.' It was Mrs. Selwyn, too, who said 
 to Cleorge II., that lie was the last person she would ever have 
 an intrigue with, because she was sure he would tell the (lueen 
 of it : it was well known that that very virtuous sovereign made 
 his wife the confidante of his amours, which was even more 
 shameless than young De Sevigne s taking advice from his mother 
 on his intrigue with Ninon de I'Knclos. She seems to have 
 been reputed a wit, for Walpole retails her mots as if they were 
 worth it, but they are not very remarkable : for instance, when 
 Miss Pelham lost a pair of diamond earrings, which she had 
 borrowed, and tried to faint when theloss was discovered, some 
 one called for lavender-(lroi)s as a restorative. ' Pooh !' cries 
 Mrs. .Sclwyn, 'give her diamond-drops.' 
 
 (ieorge Augustus was born on the nth of August, 17 19. 
 Walpole says that he knew him at eight years old, and as the 
 two were at I'lton about the same time, it is ])resumed that they 
 were contemi^oiaries there. In fact, a list of the boys there, in 
 17.^-', furnished to Kliot Warburton, contains the names of Wal- 
 pole, Selwyn, Kdgecumbe, and Conway, .ill in after-life intimate 
 friends and correspondents. I'lom Imoii to O.xford was the 
 natural course, and Ccorgewas duly Lntere<l at Hertford Col- 
 lege. He did not long grace Alma Mater, for the .</<///.//<'«/- 
 luul to be made, and 1 .omion life to be begun, but he was there 
 long enough to contract the usual Oxford debts, which his 
 father consented to pay mure than onrc It is amuMii^ to hml 
 the son getting Dr. Newton to write him a contrite an(i respect- 
 ful letter to the angry parent, to licjuidate the 'small accounts' 
 accumul.Ued in London and Oxford as early as 1740. Three 
 years later we find him in Paris, leading a gay life, and writing 
 respecttul letters to llngland for more money. J'reviously to 
 this, however, he had obtained, through his father, the sinecure 
 ol Clerk of the Irons and surveyor of the Meltings at the Mint, 
 a t .-..!. 01, ,.!)„, ,,i^,.^ .,,,.,^j.5jjfj^^.j.j^ me unties ui wimii were per- 
 tormed by deputy, while its holder contented himself with 
 
 Ml 
 
 i,;i 
 
Orator Ifculcv 
 
 \2'^ 
 
 ess imparted in 
 
 ther of the Re- 
 
 liccause idleness 
 
 ' found its way 
 
 II, too, who said 
 
 .'oiild ever have 
 
 1 tell the (|uecn 
 
 .sovereign made 
 
 ivas e\'en more 
 
 from his mother 
 
 seems to have 
 
 as if they were 
 
 instance, when 
 
 which she had 
 
 iscovered, some 
 
 ' Pooh !' cries 
 
 " AuLjust, 1 7 19. 
 old, and as the 
 vimed that they 
 i boys there, in 
 
 names of Wal- 
 ter-life intimate 
 )xford was the 
 
 Hertford Col- 
 
 the xnvuf (our 
 )Ut he was there 
 I)ts, which his 
 :muhing to find 
 itc and resjject- 
 mall accounts' 
 
 1740. Three 
 fe, and writing 
 
 Previously to 
 r, the sinecure 
 ;s at the Mint, 
 iiM h were jici- 
 
 himself with 
 
 honestly acknowledging the salary, and dining once .1 week, 
 when in town, with the officers of the Mint, and at the Govern- 
 ment's expense. 
 
 •So far the young gentleman went on well enough, but in 
 1744 he returned to Kngluvl, and his rather rampant character 
 showed itself in more than one disgrac Jul affair. 
 
 Among the London shows was Orator Henley, a clergyman 
 and clergyman's son, and a member of St. John's, Cambridge. 
 He had come to London about this time, and instituted a se- 
 ries of lectures on universal knowledge and primitive Christi- 
 anity. He styled himself a Rationalist, a title tlicn more ho- 
 nourable than it is now; and in grandilo(iuent language, 
 'spouted' on religious subjects to an audience admitted at a 
 shilling a-head. On one occasion he announced a disputation 
 . mong any two of his hearers, offering to give an impartial 
 liL-aring and judgment to both. Selwyn and the young Lord 
 Cirteret were i)repared, and stood \\\), the one to defend the ig- 
 norance, the other the impudence, of Orator Henley himself; 
 sn. at least, it is inferred from a passage in D'Isracli the Klder.' 
 The uproar that ensued can well be imagined. Henley himself 
 i:u(Ic his escape by a back door. His pul])it, all gilt, has been 
 immortalized by Pope, as 'Henley's gilt tub ;' in which— 
 
 ' Imhrown'd \\i:h n:.i; ,,- I,,-,,,,.,,. ],, ; I Irtilev stands 
 ■Jiining Ills voiir mA l):il,iiii.int; iiis liands.' 
 
 The affair gave rise to a correspondence between the Orator 
 '1 his young friends ; who, doubtless, came off best ■ the 
 
 ::;. liter. 
 
 'i his was harmless enough, but C.eorge's next freak was not 
 
 -) excusable. The circumstances of this affair are narrated in 
 
 ! letter from Cai)tain Nicholson, his friend, to Ceorge .Selwyn; 
 
 nil may, therefore, be relied on. It apftears that being at a 
 
 ' ■ r-u"n club in Oxford,. at a wine party wiUi his friends, C.eorg.; 
 
 • to a certain silversmith's for a certain chalice, intrusted to 
 
 :'■-■ shopkeeper from ,; r ,rtain church to be repaired in a 
 
 ' n.iin manner. This being brought, Master Ceorge- -then, be 
 
 I r incmbered, not at the delicate and frivolous age of nio.st 
 
 -i.,.ii ...!^, ., !..,, ,,, .,,Q i!i.tt.'.::v uHc ut st.\ ainl-tvvcnty— fiiied it 
 with wine, and handing it round, used the sacred words. 'Drink 
 
f Rf - 
 
 r^- 
 
 # 
 
 3-6 Sc/iujiis Dlasphaiious Freak. 
 
 lliis in remembrance of me.' This was a blasphemous parody 
 cf ihe most sacred rite of the Church. All Selwyn coukl say 
 for himself was, that he was drunk when lie did it. The other 
 jilca, that he did it in ridicule of the transub.stantiation of the 
 Romish Church, could not stand at all ; and was most weakly 
 I>ut forward. ],et Oxford Dons be what they will ; let them 
 jjut a stop to ali religious incjuiry, and nearly expel Adam Smith 
 for reading Hume's ' l-'.ssay on Human Nature ;' let them be, 
 as many allege, narrow-minded, hypocritical, and ignorant ; we 
 cannot charge them with wrong-dealing in expelling the origi- 
 nator of such open blasphemy, whii h nothing can be found to 
 I)alliate, and of which its perpetrator did not ajjpear to repent, 
 radier complaining that the treatment of the Dons was harsh. 
 The act of expulsion was, of course, considered in the same 
 light by his numerous ;ici|uaint;ince, many of whom condoled 
 with him on the occasion. It is true, the Oxford Dons are often 
 charged with injustice and ])artiality. and loo often the evidence 
 is not sufticiently strong to excuse their judgments ; but in this 
 the e\'itlence was not denied ; only a ]}alliative was put in, which 
 L\ cry one can see through. The on!}- injustice we can discover 
 in this case is, that the head of Hart Hall, as Hertford College 
 was called, .seemed to have been influenced in jironouncing his 
 sentence of ex])uIsion by certain previous suspicious, having no 
 bearing on the question before him, which had been entertained 
 l)y a,Ki.other set of tutors— those of Christchurch— where Se!wyn 
 had litany friends, and wliere, jjrobably enough, he indulged in 
 many collegian's freaks. This knack of bringing up a mere 
 suspicion, i: truly characteristic of the Oxford Don, and since 
 the same Head of this House- Dr. Newton— acknowledged 
 that Sehvyn was, during his Oxford career, neither intemperate, 
 dissolute, nor a gamester, it is fair to give him the advantage 
 
 ■ doiil • that the judgment on tl.e.evidence had been in- 
 
 w-'iMcd liy the consideration of 'suspicions' of former mis- 
 
 whi( h had not been proveti. jierhaps never committed. 
 
 the altei life of the man, we can, however, scarcely 
 
 . -t (Jeorgehad led a last life at the University, and 
 
 cause for mistrust. Ikit one may ask whether Dons. 
 w'Wij'love of drinking, and whose tendency to jest on the most 
 
)licmoiis parody 
 chvyn could say 
 .1 it. The other 
 tantiation of the 
 vas most weakly 
 .' will ; let them 
 pel Adam Smith 
 ; ;' let them he, 
 k1 ignorant ; we 
 elling the origi- 
 an he found to 
 :)pear to repent, 
 )ons was harsh, 
 ed in the same 
 whom condoled 
 1 Dons are often 
 icn the evidence 
 ;nt.s ; but in this 
 as ])ut in, which 
 we can discover 
 lertford College 
 pronouncing his 
 ■ions, having no 
 »een entertained 
 — where Selwyn 
 he indulged in 
 !;ing up a mere 
 Don, and since 
 .M knowledged 
 ler intemperate, 
 1 the advantage 
 ■e had been in- 
 of former mis- 
 \-er committed, 
 iwever, scarcely 
 University, and 
 whether Dons, 
 est on the most 
 
 T/ic ProfiSsioii of a Wit. 327 
 
 s. ileum subjects, are well known even in the present day, might 
 nut have treated Sehvyn less harshly for what was done imder 
 the influence of wine? 'J'o this we are inclined to reply, that 
 no punishment is too severe for profanation ; and that drunken- 
 ness is not an excuse, but an aggravation. Sehvyn threatened 
 to appeal, and took advice on the matter. This, as usual, was 
 \ain. Many an expelled man, more unjustly treated than Sel- 
 wyn, has talked of appeal in vain. Appeal to whom? to what? 
 .\j>[)eal against men who never acknowledge themselves wrong, 
 .iiid who, to maintain that they are right, will listen to evidence 
 \s\cA h they (an see is contradictory, and which they know to be 
 worthless! An api)eal from an Oxford decision is as hopeless 
 in the present day as it was in Selwyn's. He wisely left it 
 a](jne, but less wisely insisted on reaiJjjearing in Oxford, against 
 the advice of all his friends, whose characters were lost if the 
 1 :racised man were seen among them. 
 
 I lom this time he entered upon his 'profession,' that of a 
 \vA. gambler, club-lounger, and man about town; for these 
 iiKuiy ( haracters are all mixed in the one which is generally 
 ( illcd ' a wit.' Let us remember that he was good-hearted, and 
 11' it ill-intentioned, though imbued with the false ideas of his 
 (lay. He was not a great man, but a great wit. 
 
 The localities in which the trade of wit was plied were, then, 
 the clubs, and the drawing-rooms of fashionable beauties. The 
 fiiirer were in Selwyn's youth still limited in the numl)er of 
 t]<' ir members, thirty constituting a large club ; and as tin? sub- 
 s( rihers were all known to one another, ])resented an admirable 
 \w\y\ for display of mental powers in conversation. In f u I, 
 the early clubs were nothing more than dining-societies, pre- 
 ' isely the same in theory as our breakfasting arrangements at 
 < '\ford, which were every whit as exclusive, though not I'al- 
 !"ted for. The ballot, however, and the principle of a single 
 I'lai k ball suffering to negative an election were not only, under 
 siuh circumstances. ex( usable, but even nece.ssary for the 
 .u tual preservation of ijeace. Of course, in a succession of 
 dinner-parties, if any two members were at all 0[)posed to one 
 other, the awkwardne;;s would be intolerable. In the present 
 
•t: 
 
 
 i 
 
 - mi 
 
 :>~^ The TJtirst for Hazard. 
 
 <lay, two men may ])elong to the same cliil) and scarcely meet, 
 even on the stairs, oftencr tlian on-c or twice in a season. 
 
 Gradually, however, in the place of the ' feast of reason and 
 flow of sour and wine, instead of the evenings spent in toasting 
 talkmg, emptying bottles and filling heads, as in the case of the 
 old Kit-kat, men took to the monstrous amusement of exani- 
 ming fate, and on club-tables the dice rattleil far more freely 
 than the glasses, though these latter were not necessarily aban- 
 doned. Then came the thirst for liazard that brought men 
 early in the day to try their fortune, and thus made the club- 
 '-oom a lounge. Selwyn was an habitual frequenter of P.rookes.' 
 Brookes' was, i)erhaps, the print ipal club of the day, though 
 'Whites Chocolate House' was almost on a par with it. Ijut 
 Selwyn did not confine his attention solely to this club. It 
 was the fashion to belong to as many of them as possible, and 
 Uilberiurce mentions no less than five to which he himself be- 
 longed: Jlrookes', iJoocUe's, White's. Miles and Evans's in New 
 Palace Yard, and Goosetree's. As iheir names imply, these 
 were all, originally, mere coffee-houses, kept by men of the 
 above names. ( )ne or two rooms then sufiiced for the reriuire- 
 ments of a small party, and it was not till tlie members were 
 greatly increased that the cofiee-house rose majestically to the 
 dignity of a bow-window, and was entirely and exclusively ap- 
 l)ropriated to the revjuirements of the club. 
 
 This was especially the case with AVhite's, of which so many 
 of the wits and talkers of Selwyn's day were members. Who 
 does not know that bow-window at the top of St. James's Street, 
 where there are sure, about three or four in the afternoon, to 
 be at least three gentlemen, two old and one voung, standin-^ 
 to the exclusion of light within, talking and contemplating thl' 
 olt-repeated movement outside. White's was established as 
 early as 1698, and was thus one of the original coffee-houses. 
 Jt was then kept by a man named Arthur : here Chesterfield 
 gamed and talked, to be succeeded by Gilly Williams, Charle^' 
 Townshend, and George Selwyn. Ihe old house was burnt 
 <lown in 1733. It was at White"s~or as Plogarth calls it in 
 his pictorial .sciuib, Black's-that, when a man fell dead at the 
 
 iioor, 1"! 
 
 w 
 
 as fugged ui and bets made as 
 
 to whether he was 
 
scarcely meet, 
 1 .'I season. 
 t of reason and 
 )ent in toasting, 
 
 the case of the 
 .■nicnt of exam- 
 far more freely 
 xessarily aban- 
 U ])rought men 
 nade the chib- 
 ter of Hrookes.' 
 lie (lay, though 
 r with it. But 
 
 this club. It 
 s possible, and 
 he liimself be- 
 [*Aans's in New 
 s in)[)ly, these 
 )y men of the 
 for the refjuire- 
 niemljers were 
 ■stically to tlie 
 -'xclusively ap- 
 
 vhich so many 
 jnibers. Who 
 James's Street, 
 ; afternoon, to 
 'ung, standing, 
 templating the 
 established as 
 cofiee-houses. 
 e Chesterfield 
 Hams, Charle.s 
 ise was burnt 
 rth calls it in 
 
 1 dead at the 
 lether he was 
 
 
 Reynolds Convcrsation-Piccc. 329 
 
 <lc id or no. The surgeon's operations were opposed, for fear 
 yt distur bmg the bets. Here, too, did (ieorge SeUvyn and 
 ( iKuIes lownshend pit their wit against wit ; and here Pelh un 
 passed all the tmie he was not forced to devote to j^olitics < In 
 short It was, next to Ikookes', the club of the day, and perhaps 
 u) some respects had a greater renown than even that famous 
 <liih. and its jday was as high. 
 
 1-1 J{rookes- and A\'hiic's Selwyn appeared with a twofoM 
 Mine, that of a jironouncer of hon-mots, and that of a lover of 
 Horrors. His wit was of the (piaintest order. He was no in- 
 veterate talker, like Sydney Smith : no clever dissimulator, like 
 Mr. Hook. Calmly, almost sanctimoniously, he uttered those 
 neat and telhng sayings which the next day passed over I-.ng- 
 i :nd as 'Selwyn's last.' Wajpole describes his manner admir- 
 . ;} - his eyes turned up, his mouth set primly, a look alm(,st 
 01 melancholy in his whole Aice. Reynolds, in his Conversa- 
 ■ 'I'lcrc, celebrated when in the Strawberry Collection, and 
 epresentrng Selwyn leaning on a chair, (lilly Williams, crayon 
 1 haml. an<I Dick E.lgecumbe by his side, has caught the 
 i Hudo-.solemn exi.rcssion of his face admirably. The ease of 
 tne hgure, one hand cmpoc/ur, the other holding a paper of 
 epigrams, or what not, the huge waistcoat with a dozen buttons 
 ^;nd huge flaps, the ruffled sleeve, the bob-wig, all belong to 
 tile outer man ; but the calm, (juiet, almost encpiiring face, the 
 looK lulf of melancholy, half of reproach, and, as the Milesian 
 '•vouldsay, the other half of sleek wis.lom ; the long nose the 
 l;nm mouth and jc'ne.' lips, the elevated brow, and beneaih it 
 I'le .juiet contempi.t.ve eye, contemplative not of heaven or 
 ''^e-.!, but of this world as it had seen it, in its most worldly 
 I"mit ot view, yet twinkling with a ti.i.:-.ing thought of incon- 
 piiitv made congruous, are the :■n.'^-e. of the inner man. Most 
 ' ■ '"T wits. It must have been >.-;t.. have .lad some other in- 
 ;re.>t and occupation in life than th u of 'making wit:' some 
 -;e been authors, some statesmen, some soldiers, .some wild- 
 "■^es, and some players of tn* Is : Selwyn had no profession 
 'Uhat oidiscur dc bons mots; for though he sat in the House, 
 
 took no Droiiiincn^ i>ir^ '•■> i"-';.; 1-1 ... 
 
 '^"Mvely, he did not game for the sake ul money only. Thus 
 
Jj^ 
 
 .S(/u'j'/i\s' Jurcu/n'citiis and ll'iNicisms. 
 
 4i 
 
 his life was tluit merely of a London harhclor, with few inci- 
 dents to mark it, and therefore his memoir must resolve itself 
 more or less into a series of anecdotes of his eccentricities and 
 list of his witticisms. 
 
 His friend \\'aIi)ole gives us an immense number of both, not 
 nil of a first-rate nature, nor miny interesting in the present 
 day, Selwyn, calm as he was, brought out his sayings on the 
 spur of the moment, and their appro])riateness to the occasion 
 A\as one of their greatest reconnnendations. A good saying, 
 like a good sermon, depends much on its delivery, and loses 
 inu( h in print. Nothing less immortal th;in wit ! To take 
 first, however, the eccentricities of his diarac ter, and especially 
 his love of horrors, we fuid anecdotes by the do/en retailed of 
 him. It was so well known, that 1-ord Holland, when dying, 
 ordered his servant to be sure to admit Mr. .Sehvyn if he called 
 to enijuire after him. 'for if I am alive,' said he, 'I shall bo 
 glad to see him, and if 1 am dead, he will be glad to see nic' 
 'J"he name of Holland leads us to an anecdote told by \Valpole. 
 Selv.)-n was looking over Cornbury with ],onl Abergavenny 
 and Mrs. Frere, 'who loved one another a little,' and was div 
 gnsted with the frivolity of the woman who could take no in- 
 terest in an)-thing worth seeing. ' \\)\\ don't know what you 
 misled in the other room,' he cried at last, peevishly. 'Why, 
 wh;it?' 'Why, my Lord Holland's ]iicture.' — ' Well, what is 
 my Lord Holland to me?' ' Don't you know,' whispered the 
 wit mysteriously, 'that Lord Holland's body lies in the same 
 vault in Kensington Church with nn Lord Abergavenny's 
 mother?' '],ord: she was so obliged,' says Walpole, 'ami 
 thanked him a thousand times I' 
 
 .Selwyn knew the vaults as thoroughly as old Anthony Wood 
 knew the brasses. The elder Cni'.^^gs had risen bv the favour 
 of Marlborough, whose footman he had been, and his son was 
 ^•\enlua]l\' a .Secretary of State. Arthur Moore, the father of 
 James Moore Smyth, of whom Pope wrote— 
 
 'Arll'.ur, wliosc gi-My son not;locts tlie laws, 
 linputcb to nil' .ind my cl.imned works the c.tusf ' 
 
 had worn a livery loo. When C'raggs got into a coach with 
 
lor, with few inci- 
 uist resolve itself 
 I'ccentriciiies and 
 
 mhcr of both, not 
 ig in the present 
 s sayings on the 
 i to the occasion 
 A good saying, 
 .'livery, and loses 
 1 wit ! 'I'o take 
 .■r, and especially 
 ilo/en retailed of 
 ind, when dying, 
 jhvyn if he called 
 id he, ' I shall be 
 e glad to see mc' 
 : told by \Vali)ole. 
 ord Abergavenny 
 ,le,' and was dis- 
 could take no in- 
 . know what you 
 leevishly. ' Why, 
 '— ' Well, what is 
 V,' whisj)ered the 
 y' lies in the same 
 •(1 Abergavenny's 
 s AValpole, 'and 
 
 I Anthony Wood 
 en by the favour 
 and liis son was 
 )re, the father of 
 
 c.uisi.- 
 
 .10 a coach with 
 
 A Most !mf>ortant Commuuicatiou. 331 
 
 !iim. he exclaimed. 'Why, Arthur, I am always getting np be- 
 !;ind, are not you ?' Walpole having related this story to Seb 
 v.yn. the latter told him. as a most imi)ortant communication, 
 ! 1 It Arthur Moore had had his coflin chained to that of his 
 i^u>tress. ' Lord \ how do you know ?' asked Horace. ' \\'hy, 
 I S.IU- them the other day in a vault at St. (liles'.s.' « Oh ! your 
 -. rvant. Mr. Selwyn,' < ricd tlie man who showe.l the tombs at 
 \\ 'stmrnster Abbey, ' I expected to see xou here the other .lay 
 unci, the old Duke of . .-. hmond's body was taken np.' 
 Criminals were, of course, included in his passion. * Walpole 
 "lii'is that he had a great share in bringing Lord I)a< re's fool- 
 : in, who had murdered the butler, to confess his crime. In 
 ■viiting the confession, the ingenious p!u>h coollv Ntopped and 
 ^Kcd how 'murdered' was spdt. J!ut it mattered little to 
 •.corge whether the criniinal were alive or dead, and he de- 
 .•nded his eccentric taste with his usual wit; when rallied by 
 'uic women for going to see the Jacobite Lord Lovat's head 
 'it nil. he retorted, .sharply—' I made full amends, for I went 
 ; ' >ee It sewn on again.' lie had indeed done so, and given 
 ^.' company at the undertaker's a touch of his favourite blas- 
 i !-;nv, for w])en the man of coffms h.id done his work and laid 
 --•I'odyin its box, Sehvyn, imitating the voice of the Lord 
 ' :!' ellor at the trial, muttered, ' My i.ord I .ovat, you may r/V,-.' 
 ■ . >.Md a better thing on the trial of a confederate of L(nat's, 
 ■ I. ord Kilmarnock, with wiiom the ladie.-, fell so desperately 
 ve as he stoo(l on his defence. iNh-s. JJethel, who wa.s 
 
 ■ 'IS for a Ihih-hct-faa; was among the fair spectators : ' What 
 
 ■ ^n.une it is,' (juoth the wit, ' to turn her face to the prisoners 
 '■■'!-^- they are condemned!' Terrible, indeed, was th.it in- 
 >truinent of death to tho..e men, who had in the heat of battle 
 -' gallantly met sword and blunderbuss. The slow, sure 
 ;'i:'>'»a(h of the day of the scaffold was a thousand ' times 
 v.')r.c than the roar of cannon. Lord Cromarty was par- 
 ':''ned. solely, it was said, from pity for his poor wife, who was 
 
 ' • .^' luue of the trial far advanced in pregnancy. It was 
 
 • :'nned that the child born had a distinct mark of an axe on 
 
 necK. CrcJai Jii,uru,: "Waijjole usefl to say that :Se!wyii 
 
 :!'^'ver thought i)ut a la tcU- trandur, and that when he w.-nt to 
 

 - /// Aniahur I Icad.onim. 
 
 «r' 
 
 
 liavf a tooth drawn, lie tol<l the dentist he would , ' s 
 
 handkcTcIiicf by way of signal. Certain it is that he (IkUok 
 an exe< ulion, whatever he or Lis iiiends may have done to re- 
 move the imjtression of this extraordinary taste. Some bcCer 
 men than Selwyn have had the sum-, and Macanlay accuses 
 I'enn of a similar affection. 'I'iic I)e>t known anecdote of Stl 
 wyn's peculiarity relates to ilie c.verution of Damieiis, who wa> 
 torn with red-hot pincers, and finally v lar'^ red hy four horses 
 for the attemi)t to assassinate l.ouis XV. On the day fixol. 
 Cleorge mingled with the crowd j'lainly dres->ed, and managed 
 to prtss forward close to tlir |)Ia'e of torture. 'I'he cxeru- 
 lioner observing him, eagerly cried out, • Faitn place pour Men- 
 sitiir; i\'s/ u/i .^1//x/(iix ct uii ainatiiii ' or, as another version 
 goes, he was asked if he was not him-clf a boitrn\-iii. -' Km, 
 Monsieur' he is said to have answered, ' jc t'ai pas ict hotinmr; 
 Jo no suis </ii'un ainofour: 'Hie story is more than ipocr>'phal, for 
 Selwyn is not the only person of whom it has been told ; ami 
 lie was even accused, acc:orcling to Wra.xall, of going to execu- 
 tions in female co.stume. (leorge Selwyn nist 1 '\e pa.ssed as 
 a 'remarkalily fme woman,' in that case. 
 
 It is only justice to him to say that the many stoi . ( 
 attending exec ulions were supjioscd to be inventions of Sir 
 Charles I lanbury Williams, another wit, and of Chesu rfield, 
 another, and a rival. In confu-mation, it is adduced iha' when 
 the former had I>een relating some new acx ount, and an old 
 i' lend of Selwyn's expresscil his surprise that he had never 
 ' (1 the tale before, the hero of it rei)lied ciuietly, ' No wonder 
 ; I ul, for Sir Charles has just invented it, and knows that I will 
 noi by contradiction sjjoil the [jleasure of the company he is so 
 highly enterta.ining.' 
 
 Wit has been called 'the elocjuence of indifference ;' no one 
 seems e\er to have been .so indifferent about everything, but 
 his little daughter, as Ceorge Selwyn. He always, however, 
 took up the joke, and when asked why he had not been to 
 see one Charles Fox, a low criminal, hanged at Tvburn, an- 
 swered, cjuietly, ' J make a point of never going to ro/u\irsnh' 
 
 .Selwyn's Uj\o for this kin.d of tb.in.i.' to bclievi' h.js mo'^.f inti- 
 mate friend, Horace Walpole, was cjuite a fact. His friend 
 
 'lulling 
 
would < j) I-,ls 
 hat lie dill lo\, 
 ivc done to re- 
 ;. Some l)c'«;r 
 acaulay accuses 
 mc'cdote of Se! 
 miens, who was 
 
 liy four horses 
 n the day fixed. 
 1, and managed 
 1-. Tile exeru- 
 placc f'our Men- 
 motlier version 
 nritiiu. -' A\w, 
 A?f <<•/ Itowmir; 
 
 il)Oi^r)-i>hal, for 
 
 been told ; and 
 
 joing to execu- 
 
 hue passed as 
 
 y stori - ( 
 ^•cntions of Sir 
 Df Chesterfield, 
 uced iha! when 
 It, and an old 
 he had never 
 iv, ' No wonder 
 nows that I will 
 inpany he is so 
 
 rence ;' no one 
 jverything, but 
 ivays, liowever, 
 ;1 not been to 
 at 'lybiirn, an- 
 to rehearsals! 
 e h.in moHt inti- 
 :t. His friend 
 
 Cahhiu"- a Houschrcakcr. 
 
 Ill 
 
 '•''^'^'^''•'^t ■ " I' ilic HiK.-Sherii,...,>„d, after 
 
 ''■'" l>'okei.. , nnation of the gallant Lords, but 
 
 Si'!, 'that he behaved .so like an attorney the (I'st d.,v. and so 
 
 like a i-cttifogger the second, tliat he would n. ; .,, 11^,1, t 
 
 his fire with.' 
 T'u- State 'i lals, ot ir v. interested (k'ui^ „ore than 
 A other m h,s eventles. Hf he dined after .•• m Mtenc e 
 'li the celelirated Lady 'luwnshend, who was so dc\ 4e.l to 
 'd Kilm.imock - 
 
 ' I'.iiwl 1)) , ml.- iiiin.U, Ki!i> 
 
 leif Jdic 
 
 |hat she IS said to have even stave.l under , .is window., u hen 
 hv u in i.rison ; but he treated her anxiety with such lightness 
 tnu tlie lady burst into tears, and 'Hung up-sf.iir * '(leorge.' 
 
 ■ rites Walpole to Montagu, 'coolly too' Dorcas, her 
 
 woman, and bade her sit down to fini-sh ,ottle.— "And 
 
 Tr.iy." said Dorcas, "do you think my b ,ii be prevailed 
 
 . -n to let me go and see the execution ? iiave a friend that 
 \\x-^ proinisetl to take care of nie, and I (an lie in the 'J'owcr 
 :^i'' ni-ht before." Could she have talked more pleasantlv to 
 Scluyii ?• 
 
 His com, ..iporaries certainly believed in his love for New- 
 L'.uism; for when Walpole had caught a !iousel)reaker in a 
 lifi-hhour's area, he ininiediately despatched a messenger to 
 \\iiitL'^ for the idiilo-criminali^t. who was sure to be playing at 
 tlic Chib any time before dayliglit. It happened that the 
 ilraweratthe 'Chocolate-house' had been himself lately robbed. 
 and therefore stole to (leorge with fear and trembling, and 
 muttered mysteriously to him, ' Mr. Walpole's comjuinents, and 
 li-' has got a housebreaker for you.' Of course Selwyn obeyed 
 '' I- summons readily, and the event concluded, as such evt'nts 
 '■" nine limes out of ten, with a quiet capture, and much ado 
 -'■"Hit nothing. 
 
 I he Selwyns were a powerful family in Cdoucestershire 
 '>\\ning a great deal of propertv in the neighbourhood of 
 < Gloucester itself, 'i'he old colon . iiad rei^resented that citv in 
 I J'iiamcnlformany years. On the 5th of November, 1751, he 
 
 led. His eldest son had gone a few months before him. This 
 
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 ~-S Rochester. New York 14609 
 
 '■ ■■■''■> 482 - 0300 - c.,r„„ 
 
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 Inc 
 
o* 
 
 334 The Family of the Sckvyns. 
 
 son liad been also at Kton, and was an early friend of Honn e 
 \\'aliJole and (k'nera! Conway. His death left (jcorge sole heir 
 to the property, and very miu h he seemed to liave needed the 
 heritage. 
 
 'I'he property of the Selwyns lay in the i)ictures(iue district of 
 the Northern Cotswolds. Anybody who has passed a day in tlic 
 tlull city of Gloucester, which seems to break into anything like 
 life only at an election, lying dormant in the inter\-als, has been 
 glad to rush out to enjoy air and a fine view on Robin Hood's 
 Hill, a favourite walk with the worthy citi/.ens, though wh;U: the 
 iovial archer of merry Sherwood had to do with it, or whether 
 he was ever in (lloucestershire at all, I profess I know not. 
 Walpole describes the hill with humorous exaggeration. ' It is 
 lofty enough for an alp, yet is a mountain of turf to the very 
 top, Jins nood scattered all over it, springs that long to be cas- 
 cades in many i)laces of it, and from the summit it beats even 
 Sir George Littleton's views, by having the city of Gloucester 
 at its foot, and the Severn widening to the horizon.' On the 
 very summit of the next hill. Chosen-down, is a solitary church, 
 and the legend saidi that the good people who built it did so 
 originally at the foot of the steep mount, but that the Virgin 
 Mary carried up the stones by night, till the builder, in despair, 
 was compelled to erect it on the top. Others attribute the 
 mysterious act to a very different personage, and with appa- 
 rendy more reason, for the i)osition of the church must keep 
 many an old sinner from hearing service. 
 
 At Matson, then, on Robin Hood's Hill, the Selwyns lived ; 
 Walpole says diat the ' house is small, but neat. King Charles 
 lay here at the seige, and the Duke of York, with typical fury, 
 hacked and hewed the window-shutters of his chamber as a 
 memorandum of his being there. And here is the very fiower- 
 ])0t and counterfeit association for which Rishop Sprat was 
 taken up, and the Duke of Marlborough sent to the Tower. 
 'I'he reservoirs on the hill supply the city. The late Mr. Selwyn 
 governed the borough by them — and I believe by some wine 
 too.' Probably, or at least by sonie beer, if the modern electors 
 be not much altered from their forefathers. 
 
 Iksides this important estate, the Selwyns had another at 
 
ul of Hora( e 
 
 orge sole heir 
 c needed tlie 
 
 lue district of 
 I a day in tlic 
 anything h'ke 
 •als, lias been 
 lobin Hood's 
 High \v1kU the 
 t, or whether 
 3 I know not. 
 ation, ' It is 
 rf to the very 
 ng to be cas- 
 
 it beats even 
 of Gloucester 
 on.' On the 
 )litary church, 
 built it did so 
 lat the Virgin 
 jr, in despair, 
 
 attribute the 
 id with appa- 
 :h must keep 
 
 elwyns lived ; 
 King Charles 
 1 typical fury, 
 chamber as a 
 e very flower- 
 )p Sprat was 
 the Tower, 
 e Mr. Selwyn 
 by some wine 
 adern electors 
 
 d another nt 
 
 ' The Ma;: of the People: 335 
 
 T.udgershall, and their influence there was so com|)lete, tliat 
 they might fairly be said to :^ivc one seat to any one they 
 ( luise. With such double l)arrels George Selwyn was, (.)i 
 < (lurse, a great gun in the House, but his interest lay for more 
 in pi(iuet and pleasantry than in politics and patriotism, and he 
 was never fired off with any but the blank cartridges of iiis two 
 voles. His parliamentary career, begun in 1747, lasted more 
 than forty years, yet was entirely w ithout distinction. He, how- 
 ever, amused both parties with his wit, and by snoring; in i.uison 
 with Lord North. Tliis must have been trying to Mr, Si)eaker 
 Cornwall, who was longing, no doubt, to snore also, and dared 
 not. He was probably the only Speaker who presided over so 
 august an assembly as our English Parliament with a pewter 
 l-ot of porter at his elbow, sending for more and more to 
 Bellamy's till his heavy eyes closed of themselves. A modern 
 M.P., earned back by some fancies to 'the Senate' of those 
 days, might reasonably doubt whether his guide had not taken 
 him by mistake to some Coal-hole or Cider-cellar, presided 
 over by some former liaion Nicholson, and whether the furious 
 elociuence of Messrs. Fox, Pitt, and Burke were not get up for 
 the amusement of an audience admitted at si.xpence a head. 
 
 Selwyn's political jokeb we rethe delight of liellamy's! He 
 said that Fox and Pitt remin.led him of Hogarth's Idle and 
 Industrious Ai)prentices. When asked by 'me one, as he 
 sauntered out of the house— ' Is the Hou- ,>?' he replied; 
 '-No, but Burke is.' The length of Burke's elaborate six^iaai 
 essays was proverbial, and obtained for him the name ol the 
 • Dinner-bell.' Fox was talking one day at J5rookes' of the ad- 
 vantageous peace he had made with h'rance, and that he ha<l 
 even induced that country to give up the i,7//« trade to Fnglaud. 
 'That, Charles,' ([uoth SeUvyn, shari)ly, 'I am not at all sur- 
 ])rised at ; for having drawn your tcd/i, they would be d— d 
 fools to (quarrel with you about gums.' Fox was often the 
 object of his good-natured satire. As every one knows, his 
 boast was to be called ' The Man of the People,' though 
 perhaps he cared as litUe for the great unwashed as for the 
 wealth and happiness of the waiters at his clubs.' FA'cry one 
 knows, too, what a dissolute life he led for many years. Selwyn's 
 
c 
 
 
 336 Si/ijj'u's Parliamciiiary Curiii'. 
 
 sleei)iiK'ss w .is well known. Mc slept in the House ; he slept, 
 after losing y?Soo ' and with as many more before him,' upon 
 the gaming-table, with the dice-box ';;tam])ed close to his ears;' 
 lie slept, or half-slept, even in (conversation, which he seems to 
 have caught l)y fits and starts. Tims it was that words he 
 heard suggested difterent senses, i)ardy from bemg only dimly 
 associated with the subject on the fapis. So, when, they were 
 talkmg around of the war, and whetlier it should l)e a sea war 
 or a Continent war, Selwyn woke ujj just enor.gh to say. ' I ain 
 for a sea war and a Cont'uicnt admiral.' 
 
 \Vhen I'ox had ruin.d himself, and a subscription for him 
 was talked of, some one askeil how they thought ' he would 
 take it.' — 'Take it,' cried Selwyn, suddenly lighting up, 'why, 
 (jiiiirtcr/y to be sure. 
 
 His parliamentary career was then (juite uneventful ; but at 
 the dissolution in 1780, he found that liis security at Gloucester 
 was threatened. He was not Whig enough for that consii- 
 tuency, and had througliout sup-ported the war with America. 
 Tie ottered himself, of t:ourse, but was rejected with scorn, and 
 forced to fly for a seat to J.udgershr.ll. ^Vall)ole writes to Lady 
 Ossory. 'They' (the (llo'cester jieople) 'hanged him in effigy, 
 and dressed up a figure of Mie-Mie ' (his adopted daughter), 
 ' anil pinned on its breast these words, alluding to the gallows :— 
 "This is what I told you you vrould comj to!"' From 
 Cdoucester he went to Ludgershall, where ho was received by 
 ringing of bells ami bonfires. 'iJeing driven out of my capital,' 
 said he, ' and coming into that country of turnips, where I was 
 adored, 1 seemed to be arrived in my Hanoverian dominions' 
 — no bad hit at George H. For Ludgershall he sat for many 
 years, with Sir N uel Wraxall, whose ' Memoirs' are better 
 known than trusteu, as colleague. That writer says of Selwyn, 
 that he was 'thoroug My well versed in our lastjiy, and master 
 of many c trious as well as secret anecdotes, relative to the 
 houses of Stuart and Brunswick.' 
 
 Another bon-mot, not in connection with politic.;, is reported 
 by Walpole as incomparable.' Lord George Gordon asked 
 him if the Ludgershall electors would take Iiim (Lord George) 
 for laidgershall. adding. ' if you would recommend me, they 
 
ISC ; he slept, 
 re him,' upon 
 e !o his ears;' 
 h ho sccnis to 
 hut words he 
 ig only dimly 
 I en, they were 
 [ he a sea war 
 to say, ' I am 
 
 ptiou for him 
 ;ht * he would 
 ing up. ' why, 
 
 entful ; but at 
 
 at (iloucester 
 r that consii- 
 viih America, 
 ilh scorn, and 
 vrites to Lady 
 
 him in effigy, 
 ted daughter), 
 he gallows :— 
 
 to !" ' From 
 IS received by 
 3f my capital,' 
 1, where I was 
 n dominions' 
 
 sat for many 
 irs' are better 
 lys of Selwyn, 
 y, and master 
 elative to the 
 
 c.;, is rei)orted 
 jordon asked 
 Lord George) 
 end me, they 
 
 True Wit. 337 
 
 would choose me, if I came from the coast of Alrica.'— ' That 
 is according to what i)art of t!ie coast you came from ; they 
 would certainly, if you came from llie (luinea coast.' ' Now, 
 Madam,' writes his friend, ' is not this true inspiration as well as 
 true wit ? Had any one asked him in which of the four quarters 
 oi the world Chiinea is situated, could he iiave told ?' Walpole 
 did not perhaps know master Cieorge thoroughly — he was 
 neither so ignorant nor so inditTerent as he seemed. Mis man- 
 ner got him the character of being both ; but he was a still fool 
 that ran deep. 
 
 Though Selwyn did little with his two votes, he made them 
 lia\- ; and in addition to the post in the Mint, got out of the 
 jKirty he supported those of Registrar to the Court of Chancery 
 iii the Island of Barbadoes, a sinecure done by deputy, Sur- 
 veyor of the Crown Lands, and Paymaster to the Board of 
 Works. The wits of White's added the title of ' Receiver- 
 General of Waif and Stray Jokes.' It is said that his hostility to 
 Sheridan arose from the latter having lost him the office in the 
 Works in 1782, when Burke's Bill for reducing the Civil List 
 came into ojjeration ; but this is not at all probable, as his dis- 
 like was shown long before t'lat period. Apropos of the IJoard 
 01" Works, Walpole gives another anecdote. On one occasion, 
 in 1 780, Lord George Gortbn had been the only oi)ponent on 
 a division. S .1 ' yn afterwards took him in his carriage 
 to White's. 'I have brought,' said he, 'the whole Oppo- 
 sition in my coach, and I hope one coach will always hold 
 them, if they mean to take away the Board of Works.' 
 
 Undoubtedly, Selwyn's wit wanted the manner of the man to 
 make it so popular, for, as we read it, it is often raUier mild. 
 To string a list of them together : — 
 
 Lady Coventry showed him her new dress all covered with 
 sn.mgles as large as shillings. ' Bless my soul,' said he, 'you'll 
 be ( han'^e for a t^uinea.' 
 
 1-ox, debtor and bankrupt as he v/as, had taken lodgings 
 with Fitzpatrick at an oilman's in Piccadilly. Every one pitied 
 the landlord, who would certainly be ruined. ' Not a bit of it,' 
 (juoih George ; 'he'll have the credit of keeping at his house the 
 finest pickles in London.' 
 
 22 
 

 :i 
 
 338 Somcof SckvyiCs Witty Sayings. 
 
 Sometimes there was a good touch of satire on his times. 
 When 'High Life Below Stairs' was first acted, Sehvyn vowed 
 he would go and see it, for he was sick of low life above stairs ; 
 and when a waiter at his Club had been convicted of felony, 
 'What a horrid idea,' said he, 'the man w.il give of us in 
 Newgate !' 
 
 Dining with Bruce, the Abyssinian traveller, he heard him 
 say, in answer to a question about musical instruments in the 
 East, ' I believe I saw one lyre there.'—' Ay,' whispered tlie wit 
 to his neighbour, ' and there's one less since he left the country.' 
 Bruce shared the travellers' rei)Utation of drawing the long-bow 
 to a very considerable e:;tent. 
 
 Two of Selwyn's best mots were about one of the Foley 
 family, who were so deeply in debt tliat they had ' to go to 
 Texas,' or Boulogne, to escape the money-lenders. 'That,' 
 (juoth Sehvyn, 'is 7i pass-over which will not be much relished 
 by the Jews.' And again, when it was said that they would 
 be able to cancel their father's old will by a new-found one, he 
 profanely indulged in a i)un far too impious to be repeated in 
 our day, however it may have been relished in Selwyn's time. 
 
 A picture called ' The Daughter of Pharaoh ' in which the 
 Princess Royal and her attendant ladies figured as the saver of 
 Moses and her handmaids, was being exhibited in 17S2, ata 
 liouse opposite Brookes', and was to be the companion-piece to 
 Copley's ' Death of Chatham.' George said he could recom- 
 mend a better companion, to wit — the 'Sons - f Pharaoh' at 
 the opposite house. It is scarcely necessary to explain that 
 pharaoh or fixro was the most popular game of hazard then 
 played. 
 
 ^Valking one day with Lord Pembroke, and being besieged 
 by a troop of small chimney-climbers, begging — Sehvyn, after 
 bearing their importunity very calmly for some time, suddenly 
 turned round, and with the most serious face thus addressed 
 them — ' I have often heard of the sovereignty of the people ; 
 I suppose your highnesses are in Court mourning.' We can 
 well imagine the eftect of this sedate speech on the astonished 
 youngsters. 
 
 Pelham's truculency was well known. Walpole and his 
 
 n 
 
: on his times. 
 
 Selwyn vowed 
 e above stairs ; 
 ictcd of felony, 
 
 give of us in 
 
 he heard him 
 •unients in the 
 lispered the wit 
 ;ft the country,' 
 g the long-bow 
 
 z of the Foley 
 had ' to go to 
 iders. ' That; 
 I much relished 
 bat they would 
 ^found one, he 
 be repeated in 
 >ehvyn's time. 
 ' in which the 
 as the saver of 
 i in 1782, at a 
 panion-piece to 
 t could recom- 
 of Pharaoh' at 
 to explain that 
 of hazard then 
 
 being besieged 
 — Selwyn, after 
 time, suddenly 
 thus addressed 
 of the people ; 
 ling.' We can 
 I the astonished 
 
 ilpole and his 
 
 /-'■ 
 
 -^ 
 
 l! ' 
 
 A 
 
 
 ir 
 
 4:1 
 
 ^y:^''f!^ ^>^~,.^^-CP^^-^yf^^^.:-^ - 
 
 j 
 
 ^^:l\v^.^■ ai knkvvi kih.kh iuk " s(i\ kkkiun rv hf riii; rini'iK." 
 
 Sii |). :>.".H. 
 
 ! ! 
 
 is 
 
friend 
 wit, 'I 
 
 Tin 
 middl 
 twice 
 Rocki 
 she he 
 •So, to 
 going 
 make 
 
 Om 
 of will 
 the (h 
 
 "f""l 
 
 
 r1 
 
 Sue 
 (lo/en 
 l':hot 
 of the 
 consit 
 (h'gnit 
 contei 
 that n 
 scrvec 
 mann^ 
 jirovis 
 it is ( 
 huhdc 
 the cc 
 plcnt) 
 much 
 one tl 
 it onl; 
 
 IJiit 
 Sehvy 
 be dr, 
 
On two Kinds of Wit. 339 
 
 friend went to the sale of his plate in 1755. * I-ord/ said the 
 wit, 'how many toads have been eaten off these i)Iates !' 
 
 'The jokes were not always very delicate. When, in the 
 middle of the sinnmer of 1751, Lord North, who had been 
 twice married before, espoused the widow of the Karl of 
 Rockingham, who was fearfully stout, Selwyn suggested that 
 s!ic had i)cen kept in ice for three days before the wedding. 
 So, too, when there was talk of another cnihonpoint personage 
 _L;oing to -America during the war, he remarked that she would 
 iii.ike a capital /vr^j/-\vork. 
 
 One of the few epigrams he ever wrote— if not the only one, 
 (if which there is some doubt was in the same spirit. It is on 
 the discovery of a pair of shoes in a certain lady's bed — 
 
 ' Well may Suspicion shake its head — 
 
 WV'll may < 'loriiida's spouse be jt-alous, 
 When the dear wanton takes to bed 
 
 Her very shoes- beeause they'ru/f//<«w.' 
 
 Sucli are a few specimens of (leorge Selwyn's wit ; and 
 dozens more are dispersed though Walpole's Letters. As 
 llhot Warburton remarks, they do not give us a very high idea 
 of the humour of the period ; but two things must be taken into 
 consideration before we dejjrecate their author's title to the 
 dignity and reputation he enjoyed so abundantly among his 
 contemporaries ; the}- are net necessarily the best specimens 
 tliat might have been given, if more of his mots had been pre- 
 served ; and their effect on his listeners depended more on the 
 manner of delivery than on the matter. That they were im- 
 provised and unpremeditated is another important consideration. 
 It is (juite unfair to compare them, as Warburton does, with the 
 licbdomadal trasli of ' Pimch,' though perhaps they would stand 
 the comparison pretty well. It is one thing to force wit with 
 I'lonty of time to invent and meditate it — another to have so 
 much wit within you that you can bi -i-. it out on any occasion; 
 one thing to compose a good foncy for money — another to utter 
 it only when it flashes through the brain. 
 
 But it matters little what we in the present day may think of 
 Selwyn's wit, for conversation is spoiled by bottling, and should 
 be drawn fresh when wanted. Selwyn's companions -all men 
 
 22 — 2 
 

 340 Sihi'jtis Real C/iarachr. 
 
 of wit, more or less, affirmed him to he the most amusinj; man 
 of liis (lay, and that was all the part he had lo play. No real 
 uil ever hopes to la/k for i)Osterily ; and written wit is of a very 
 different character to the more sparklinti;, if less solid, creations 
 of a moment. 
 
 We have seen Seiwyn in many points of view, not all very 
 ( reditable lo him ; first, expelled from Oxford for blasphemy , 
 next, a j.rofessed p;ambler and the associate of men who led 
 fashion in those days, it is true, but then it was very bad 
 fashion; then as a' lover of hanj^men, a wit and a lounger. 
 There is reason to believe that .Seluyn, thou-^h less openly re- 
 probate than many of his associates, was, in his ([uiet way, just 
 as bad as any of them, if we cNceiJl the Duke of Queensberry, 
 his intimate friend, or tlie disgustiny ' Franciscans' of Medmen- 
 ham Abbey, of whom, though not the founder, nor even a 
 meml)er, he was, in a manner, the siiggester in his blasphemy. 
 But Selvvyn's real character is only seen in profile in all these 
 accounts. He had at the bottom (;f such vice, to which his 
 position, and the fishion of the day introdu( ed him, a far better 
 heart th;ui anv of his contemporaries, and in some respects a 
 kind of simplicity which was endearing. He was neither knave 
 nor fool. He was not a voluptuary, like his friend the duke; 
 nor a continued drunkard, like many other 'fine gentlemen' 
 with whom he mixed; nor a cheat, though a gambler; nor a 
 sreptic, like his friend Walpole ; nor a blasphemer, like 
 the IMedmenham set, though he had once i)arodied prof'inely 
 a sacred rite ; nor was he steeped in debt, as Fox was ; nor 
 does he api)ear to have been a jjractised seducer, as too many 
 of his ac(iuaintance were. Not that these negative (lualitiesare 
 to his praise ; but if we look at the age and the society around 
 him, we must, at least, aomit that Seiwyn w;is not one of the 
 worst of that wicked set. 
 
 But the most pleasing point in the character of the old 
 bachelor- for he was /oo viiuh of a wit ever to marry- -is his 
 aflection for children —not his own. That is, not avowedly his 
 own, for it was often su.specled that the little ones he took up 
 so fondly bore some relationship to him, and there can be little 
 doubt that Seiwyn, like everybody else in that evil age, had his 
 
 t'a- 
 
: amusing man 
 )lay. No real 
 wit is of a very 
 soli<l, creations 
 
 V, not all very 
 or blasphemy ; 
 " men who led 
 
 was very batl 
 ;m(l a lounger. 
 
 less openly re- 
 
 ([uiet way, just 
 jf Queensbcrry, 
 ns' of Medmeii- 
 ler, nor even a 
 lis blasphemy, 
 ofile in all these 
 e, to which his 
 him, a far better 
 ome resijccts a 
 as neither knave 
 iencl the duke ; 
 fine gentlemen' 
 Ljambler ; nor a 
 ilasphcnier, like 
 odied profanely 
 ; Fox. was ; nor 
 er, as too many 
 itive (jualiticsare 
 e society around 
 
 not one of the 
 
 cler of the old 
 o marry -is his 
 not avowedly his 
 ines he took up 
 here can be little 
 evil age, had his 
 
 M.c-Mu\ fhi' little Italian. 34 1 
 
 intrigues. He did not die in his sins, ;i!vl ihat is almost all we 
 (11 viy for him. He gave up ^;aming in time, jtrotesting that 
 it was the bane of four much better things health, money, 
 lime, and thinking. For the last two, perha])s, he ( ared little. 
 I'.efure his death he is said to have been a Christian, which was 
 a decided rarity in the fashionable set of his day. WalpoU- 
 ,.!i>\vered, when asked if he was a I'reemason, that he never had 
 been iiu\ttiin\;, and probably most of the men of the lime would. 
 \\ ihev had had the honesty, have said the same. They were 
 p.iit atheists jirofessedly, but tluy neither believed in nor pr.'<- 
 tiMi'd Christianity. 
 
 His love for children has been called one of his eccenlri( i- 
 tic-: It would be a hard name to give it if he liad not been a 
 ( lub-lounger of his day. 1 have sutficient faith in human h.aure 
 li) trust that two-thirds of the men of this country have that 
 'iiost amiable eccentricity. lUit in Sehvyn it amounted to some- 
 thing more than in the ordinary paterfamilias: it was almost a 
 ; >Mon. He was almost motherly in his celibate tenderness to 
 ,110 litUe ones to whom he took a fancy. '11ns affection he 
 'lowed to several of the ( hildren, sons or daughters, of his 
 Viends ; but to two especially, Anne Coventry and Maria 
 l',i;j:niani. 
 
 The former was the daughter of the beautiful Maria Gunning, 
 v.ho became Countess of Coventry. Nanny, as he called her, 
 was four years old when lier mother died, and from that time 
 he treated her almost as his own child. 
 
 r.ut Mie-Mie, as the little Italian was called, was far more 
 favoured. Whoever may have been the child's father, her 
 mother was a rather beautiful and very immoral woman, the 
 wife of the Marchese Fagniani. She seems to have desired to 
 make the most for her daughter out of the extraordinary rivalry 
 of the two Fnglish 'gentlemen,' and they were admirably taken 
 in by her. Whatever the truth may have been, Selwyn's love for 
 <-hildren showed itself more strongly in this case than in any 
 ether; d, oddly enough, it seems to have begun when the 
 little gul was at an age when children scarcely interest other 
 men than their fathers— in short, in infancy. Her parents al- 
 lowed liim to have the sole charge of her at a very early age. 
 

 
 342 Sclu'yii\'! Link Companion taken from llim. 
 
 when they returned to the Continent; Init in 1777, the mar- 
 chioness, beini,' then in ISrussels, daimed her (laughter bade 
 again ; though less, it seems, from any great anxiety on the 
 < hild's a( ( ount. »lian because her husband's ])arents, in Milan, 
 ol)jected to their grand-dauglitcr being left in Kngland ; and 
 also, not a little, from fear of the voice of Mrs. (Irundy. Sclwyn 
 seems to have used all kinds of arguments »o retain the ( hild ; 
 and a long (orresijondencc took jilu e, which the marchesa 
 begins with, • My very dear friend,' and many affectionate ex- 
 pressions, and (oncludes with a haughty 'Sir,' and her opinion 
 tliat his conduct was 'devilish.' 'I'he \\iS'-( was, therefore, clearly 
 a violent (juarrel, and Selwyn was obliged at last to give up the 
 child. He h.id a carriage fitted up for her ex[)ressly for her 
 journey ; made out for her a list of the best hotels on her route; 
 sent his own ( onfidential man-servant with her, and treasuretl 
 U]) among his ' relics' the c hildish little notes, in a large scrawl- 
 ing hand, which Mie-Mie sent him. Still more curious was it 
 to see this com|)lete man of the world, this gambler for many 
 years, this i lub-lounger, drinker, associate of well-dressed 
 blasphemers, of fram iscans of .Medmenham Abbey, devoting, 
 not his money only, but his very time to this mere child, leaving 
 town in the height of the season for dull Matson, tliat she 
 might have fresh air; ([uitting his hot club-rooms, his nights 
 S|)ent at the pic[uet-table, and the rattle of the dice, for the 
 (|uiet, ]jleasani terraces of his country-house, where he would 
 liold the little innocent Mie-Mie by her tiny hand, as she looked 
 up into his shrivelled dissipated face ; (juitling the interchange 
 of wit, the society of the Townshends, the AN'alpoles, the Wil- 
 liamses, the lulgecumbes ; all the jovial, keen wisdom of (iilly, 
 and Dick, anil Horace, and Charles, as they called one another, 
 for the meaningless ])rattle, the merry laughter of this half-En- 
 glish, half-Italian child. It redeems Selwyn in our eyes, and it 
 may liave done him real good : nay, he must have felt a keen 
 refreshment in this change from vice to innocence ; and we un- 
 derstand the misery he expressed, when the old badielor's one 
 little companion and only pure friend was taken away from him. 
 His love for the child was well known in I.ondon society ; and 
 of it did Sheridan's t'riends take advantage, when they wanted 
 
r777. the mar- 
 daughter back 
 inxicty on tlie 
 L-nts, in Milan, 
 lai^Lmd ; and 
 iindy. Sclwyn 
 :ain the child ; 
 
 the marchcsa 
 ifiec tionatc cx- 
 id her opinion 
 icrcforc, clearly 
 
 to gi\ c up the 
 pressly for her 
 s on her route; 
 antl treasured 
 a large scrawl- 
 rurious was it 
 ihler for many 
 if well-dressed 
 jhey, devoting, 
 L' child, leaving 
 Uson, tluit she 
 )nis, liis nights 
 L' dice, for the 
 lere he would 
 ,, as she looked 
 lie interchange 
 poles, the Wil- 
 isdom of (iilly, 
 xl one another, 
 f this halfd<:n- 
 lur eyes, and it 
 ,ve felt a keen 
 :e ; and we un- 
 bachelor's one 
 iway from him. 
 n society ; and 
 n they wanted 
 
 I lis later Days and Dcaih. 343 
 
 to get Seiwyn out of Drookes', to prevent his black-balling the 
 di.tniatist. The anecdote is given in the next memoir. 
 
 In his later days .Seiwyn still naunted the chibs, hanging 
 about, sleepy, shrivelled, dilapidatcti in face and figure, yet still 
 rj^pected and dreaded by the youngsters, as the 'celebrated 
 Mr. Seiwyn.' The wit's disease — gout— carried him off at last, 
 ill 1791, at the age of seventy-two. 
 
 He left a fortune whidi was not contemjjtible : ^33,000 of 
 it \.ere to go to Mie-Mie by this time a young lady — :'.\d as 
 the Duke of (^ueensberry, at his death, left her no less than 
 /"i 50,000, Miss was by no means a bad match for Lord Yar- 
 mcMith.* See what a good thing it is to have three papas, when 
 two of them are rich ! The duke made Lord Yarmouth his re- 
 sidu.iry legatee, and between him and his wife divided nearly 
 lulf-a-million. 
 
 Let us not forget in dosing this sketch of (leorge Selwyn's 
 lite, that, gambler and reprobate as he was, he possessed some 
 good traits, among which his love of children appears in shining 
 (olours. 
 
 • Afterwards the well-known and dissolute Marquis of Hertford. 
 
RICHAR]) J;RJNS1J:Y SHERIDAN. 
 
 I i 
 
 \- 
 
 Sheridan ri Dunce. —P.oyi.sli Dreams of literary Fame. — Sheridan in Lo%-e. — A 
 Nest uf Ni^htinRaies. — Tiic 'Maid of Hatli.' C'niitivated byfienins. - 
 Sheridan's J'^lopenient with 'C"eeilia.'- His Duel witli Ca])tain Matthews. - 
 Standards of Ridieiile.— Painful J-'aniiiy l'".stranj,'emcnts, — Mnters Drury 
 Lane. — Sueeess of tiie Famous "School for Scandal.' — Opinions of Sheri- 
 dan and his Innueiice. 'ihe Litrrary Club. --.Anecdote of (iarrick's Admit- 
 tance. — Origin (jf Ihe ' Rejected Addresses.' — New i-'lights. -Political Am- 
 bition.— 'Hie (janiini^ Mania.--Ahr.acks'. — Brookes'. — P.lack-bnlled. - Two 
 Versions ol the l"leetion Trick. St. Stephen's Won. — Vocal Difficulties. - 
 Leads a Donl)k; Life. -Pitt's Vulg.ir Attack.— Sheridan's Happy Retort. - 
 (jrattan's (^luij).- Sheridan's S.-iilic^.— The Trial of V.'arren Hastings.— 
 Wonderful I'.ffect of Sheridan's Flo(|uence. — The Supreme I^ft'ort. — The 
 Star C'ulniin.ites. — Native- Ta>tc for Swindling. — A Shrewd ibiit (jracele-s 
 O.voniau. — Duns Outwitted, 'ih"- Lawyer Jockeyed. -Adventures with 
 Piailiffs.- Sheridan's I'owers of Per nation. —House of Coinniotis ('ire(k. - 
 Ciuious Mimicry. — The Rcjyal P.uon C'<;ini)any. -Street Frolics at Night. 
 An Old 'I'ale.-' All's well that ends well.'— 'Hie Fray in St. Giles.'-rn- 
 opened Letters. -.An Odd Iiicidint. Reckless IC.vtravagance. — Sponnig 
 Ambition.— Like F.ither like Son. .\ .Srvere and Witty Rebuke. — Inteni- 
 ])eraiKe.— Convivial I"..\cesses of a Past Dav. Worth wins at last. — Hitter 
 Pangs.— The Scythe of Death.- Sheridan'.s Second Wife.— Debts of Ho- 
 nour.-- Drury Lane lUirnt. — 'Ihe Owner's .Serenity.-- Misfortunes nev.>rconie 
 Singly. -The Whiibrcad (Quarrel. - Ruined. -Undone and almost lorsakeii. 
 — '1 he Dead .Man Arrested. — The Stories f:.\ed on Sherid.ui. -L.xtempoie 
 Wit and Inveterate Talkers. 
 
 |()0R .Sheridan ! ganil)lcr, si)cn(lthrift, debtor, as thou 
 wert, wliat is it that shake.s from our liand tlte stone 
 % we would Ihng at thee ? Almost, we must confess 
 it, thy very faults ; at least those ([iialities which seem to have 
 been thy glory and thy ruin : wliich brought thee into tempta- 
 tion ; to which, hadst thou been less brilliant, less bountiful, 
 thou hadst never been drawn. What is it that disarms us when 
 Ave review thy life, and wrings from us a tear when we should 
 utter a reproach ? Thy punishment ; that bitter, miserable end ; 
 that long battling with poverty, debt, disease, all brought on by 
 ill) self ; that abaudunmeiit in the hour of need, more bitter 
 than them all ; that awakening to the terrible truth of the hoi- 
 
345 
 
 DAN. 
 
 ridaii in I-ovc — A 
 atc'd by (ienius.-- 
 ptaiii .N[altlic\vs. - 
 s.—l'^nters Dnir\- 
 Opinions of Shcri- 
 f (iarrick's Admit- 
 ts.— I'olitical Ain- 
 lack-linlletl.— 'I'wo 
 ocal DiftkniltifS. - 
 ; Happy Retort. - 
 arroii Hustings. — 
 •ome l-'ilbrt.— 'Ilie 
 cwddtut ( jnici-'li'ss 
 -Adventures wiili 
 "oiiHiioiis ( ireek 
 hVfilic.s at N:!_'i't 
 I St. Gil( -. I : 
 usance. — Sport'iiig 
 ■ Relmke. — Intcin- 
 ns at last. — 15itti'r 
 fe. --Debts of IIo- 
 irtunes ncv ?r come 
 d almost T'orsakeii. 
 idaii.- E.xteniporf 
 
 c1)tor, as tliou 
 liand the stone 
 must confess 
 seem to liave 
 2C into tcmpta- 
 less bountiful, 
 isarms us wlien 
 lien we should 
 miserable end ; 
 brought on by 
 :(!, more bitter 
 th of the hol- 
 
 S/uridaii a Dance. 
 
 lov.ness of man and rottenness of the world: surely this is 
 enough : surely we may hope that a pardon followed. I'.iit now 
 let us view thee in thy upward flight— the geniu.s, the wit. the 
 monarch of mind. 
 
 This great man, this wonderful geniu.s, this. eloquent senator, 
 this most applauded dramatist was— hear it. oh, ye l)oys ! and 
 fling it triumphantly in the faces of your pedagogue.s— Sheridan, 
 .'t \our age, was a di!:^( e '. This was the more extraordinary, 
 inasmuch as his flither, mother, and grandfather were all ri:W 
 hnted for their (piick mental ])ower.s. The last, in fact. Dr. 
 .Sheridan, was a successful and eminent schoolmaster, the inti- 
 mate friend of Dean Swift, and an author. He was an Irish 
 man and a wit, and would seem to have been a Jacobite to 
 I ()()1. for he was dejH-ived of a chaplaincy he held under (lo 
 vernment, for preaching, on King (leorge's birthday, a sermon 
 having for its text 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.' 
 
 Sheridan's mother, again— an eccentric, extraordinary woman 
 —wrote novels and plays : among the latter ''I'he Discovery,' 
 w]ii( h ( '.arrick said was ' one of the best comedies he ever read' ;' 
 and Sheridan's father, Tom Sheridan, was famous, in conner- 
 tion with the stage, where he was so long the rival of David 
 Ci.irrick. 
 
 born of such i)arents, in September, 1751, Richard Drinsley 
 Slieridan was sent in ^\\\e course to Harrow, where that famous 
 o!'l pedant. Dr. I*;ut, was at that time one of the masters. The 
 Doctor has himself described the 1 a /.y boy, in whose face he 
 discovered the latent genius, and whom he attempted to inspire 
 with a love of Clreek verbs and l,atin verses, by making him 
 ashamed of his ignorance. Ikit Richard preferred i-",nglish 
 Verses anrl no verbs, and the Doctor failerl. He did not, even 
 at that period, cultivate elocution, of which his father was so 
 L;'U)d a master; though Dr. Parr remembered one of his si.sters, 
 on a visit to Harrow, reciting, in accordance with her father's 
 teaching, the well-known lines — 
 
 ' A'oui- h'Ut the l)mvc, 
 None Vmt the bravv, 
 
 vhc I. :tt tiiO ur.'.\0 uC3cne t:ii ia:!'. 
 
 lint the real mind of the boy who would not be a scholar showed 
 

 iMMn.-*; 
 
 
 ^1 
 
 'i 
 
 346 Boyish Dreams of Literary Fame. 
 
 itself early enougli. He had only just left Harrow, when he 
 began to display his literary abilities. He had formed at school 
 the intimate acquaintance of Halhed, afterwards a distinguished 
 Indianist, a man of like tastes with himself; he had translated 
 with him some of the poems of Theocritus. The two boys 
 had revelled together in boyish dreams of literary fame — ah, 
 those boyish dreams ! so often our noi)lest — so seldom rea'i/.ed. 
 So often, alas ! the asjjirations to which we can look back as 
 our jjurest and best, and which make us bitterly regret that 
 they were but dreams. And now, when young Halhed went to 
 Oxford, and young Sheridan to join his family at Bath, they 
 continued these ambitious projects for a time, and laid out their 
 fancy at full usury over many a work destined never to see the 
 fmgers of the ])rinter's devil. Among these was a farce, or rather 
 l)urles(iue, which shows immense promise, and which, oddly 
 enough, resembles in its cast the famous ' Critic,' which followed 
 it later. It was called 'Jupiter,' and turned chiefly on the story 
 of Txion — 
 
 ' I-",tiibracing cloud, Ixioii like," 
 
 the lover of Juno, who caught a cold instead of the Queen of 
 Heaven ; and who, according to the classical legend, tortured 
 for ever on a wheel, was in this ])roduction to be condemned 
 for ever to trundle the machine of a ' needy knife-grinder,' 
 amid a grand musical chorus of ' razors, scissors, and pen- 
 knives to grind !' This piece was amusing enough, and clever 
 enough, though it betrayed repeatedly the youthfulness of its 
 authors ; but less so their next attempt, a weekly periodical, to 
 be called ' Hernan's Miscellany,' of which Sheridan wrote, or 
 was to write, pretty nearly the whole. None but the first num- 
 ber was ever completed, and perhaps we need not regret that 
 no more followed it ; but it is touching to see these two young 
 men, both feeling their powers, confident in them, and sunning 
 their halcyon's wings in the happy belief that they were those 
 of the eagle, longing eagerly, earnestly, for the few poor guineas 
 that they hoped from their work. Plalhed, indeed, wrote dili- 
 gently, but liis colleague was not true to the contract, ana 
 though the hope of gold stimulated him — for he was poor 
 
Slicridan in Love. 
 
 347 
 
 TOW, when he 
 med at school 
 L distinguished 
 lad translated 
 riie two boys 
 :iry fame — ah, 
 ;l(lom realized. 
 
 look back as 
 ly regret tluit 
 lalhetl went to 
 ' at Bath, they 
 1 laid out their 
 :ver to see the 
 farce, or rather 
 
 which, oddly 
 ivhich followed 
 ly on the story 
 
 the Queen of 
 
 ■gend, tortured 
 be condemned 
 
 knife-grinder,' 
 sors, and pen- 
 igh, and clever 
 hfulness of its 
 y periodical, to 
 idan wrote, or 
 ; the first num- 
 lot regret that 
 lese two young 
 n, and sunning 
 ley were those 
 w poor guineas 
 eed, wrote dili- 
 
 cuntract, and 
 • he was poor 
 
 enough— from time to time to a great effort, he was always 'be- 
 ginning,' and never completing. 
 
 The only real product of these united labours was a volume 
 of Kpistles in verse from the (ireek of a i)oor writer of late age, 
 Arista^netus. This volume, which does little credit to either of 
 
 jjarents, was i)OsitiveIy ])rinted and i)ublished in 1770, but 
 
 .• rich harvest of fame and shillings which they expected from 
 X w.is never gathered in. Vet the book excited some little no- 
 tice. The incognito of its authors induced some critics to palm 
 it even on such a man as Dr. Johnson ; others praised ; others 
 sneered at it. In the young men it raised hojjes, only to dash 
 them ; but its failure was not so utter as to put the idea of lite- 
 rary success entirely out of their heads, nor its success sufficient 
 to induce them to rush recklessly into print, and tlius strangle 
 their fome in its cradle. Let it fail, was Richard Siieridan's 
 thought; he had now a lar more engrossing ambition. In a 
 word, he was in love. 
 
 \ es, he was in love for a time — only for a time, and not 
 truly. But, be it remembered, Sheritlan's evil days had not 
 < f'lnmenced. He sowed his wild oats late in life,— alack for 
 him :— and he never finished sowing them. His was not the 
 vicioiisness of nature, but the corrujjtion of success. ' In all 
 time of wealth, good Lord deliver us 1' What prayer can wild, 
 unrestrained, unheeding (ienius utter with more fervency ? I 
 I'wn (lenius is rarely in love. There is an egotism, almost a 
 seiiishness, about it, that will not stoop to such common wor- 
 shiln Women know it, and often prefer the blunt, honest, 
 ( oininon-place soldier to the wild erratic poet, (lenius, grand 
 as It is, is unsympathetic. It demands higher-— the highest 
 joys. Genius claims to be loved, but to love is too much to 
 ask it. And yet at this time Sheridan was not a matured Ge- 
 nius. When his development came, he cast off this very love 
 ior which he had fought, manoeuvred, struggled, and was un- 
 taithful to the very wife whom he had nearly died to obtain. 
 
 -Miss Linley was one of a family who have been called 'a 
 nest of nightingales.' Young ladies who practise elaborate 
 pieces and sing simple ballads in the vuicx- yi\ a while mouse, 
 know the nnme of Linley well. For ages the Linleys liave been 
 

 r4 
 
 348 yl Xrs/ of Xiirh[in;-aks. 
 
 the l)ar(ls of England— composers, musicians, singers, always 
 ]iopular, always iMiglish. Sheridan's love was one of the most 
 renowned of the family, but the 'Maid of l?ath,' as she was 
 called, was as celebrated for her beauty as for the magnificence 
 of her voice. When Sheridan first knew her, she was only six- 
 teen years old - very beautiful, clever, and modest. She was a 
 singer by profession, living at JJath, as Sheridan, only three 
 years older than herself, also was, but attending concerts, ora- 
 torios, and so forth, in other ])laces, especially at Oxford. Her 
 adorers were legion; and the Oxford boys especially — always 
 in hjve as (hey are were a.mong them. Ilalhed was among 
 these last, and in the innocence of his heart ( onfidetl his pas- 
 sion to his friend Dick Sheridan. .At sixteen the young l)eauty 
 began her coni[uests. A rich old \Viltshire S(iuire, with a fine 
 heart, as golden as his guineas, offered to or for her, and was 
 readily accepted. Dut 'C!ecilia,'as she was always called, could not 
 sacrifice herself on the altar of duty, and she privately told him 
 that though she honoured and esteemed, .she could never love 
 him. The old gentleman proved his worth, l^id he storm? 
 did he hold her to her enga'^ement ? did he shackle himself 
 witli a young wife, who would only learn to hate him for his 
 ])ertinacity ? Not a bit of it. lie a.cted with a generosity which 
 •..hoiild be held up as a model to all old gentlemen who are wikl 
 enough to fdl in love with girls of sixteen. He knew Mr. 
 ],inley, who was dLlighted with the match, would be furious if 
 it wc'-e broken off. He offered to tak-; on himself all the l)lame 
 of tiie breach, and. to satisfy the angry jiarent, settled _;^i,ooo 
 on the daughter. 'Hie offer was acce])ted, and the trial for 
 breach of promise with which the pere I.inley had threatened 
 !Mr. bong, was of course withheld. Mr. Long afterwards pre- 
 sented Mrs. Sheridan with ^3,000. 
 
 TI.e ' Maid of Bath' was now an heiress as well as a fasci- 
 nating beauty, but her face and her voice were the chief en- 
 chantments with her ardent and youthful adorers. The Sheri- 
 dans had setUed in Meatl Street, in diat town which is celebrated 
 for its gambling, its scandal, and its unhealthy situation at the 
 bottom of a natural basin. Well might the Romans build 
 their baths there : it will take more water than even Bath sup- 
 
singers, always 
 one of the most 
 th,' as she was 
 le magnificence 
 le was only six- 
 cst. She was a 
 Ian, only three 
 L,' concerts, ora- 
 t Oxford. Her 
 lecially— always 
 10(1 was anions; 
 )nfi(le(l his pas- 
 e young locality 
 ire, with a fine 
 )T her, and was 
 :alled, could not 
 ivately told him 
 :)uld never love 
 Did he storm? 
 shackle himself 
 late him for his 
 ;enerosity whicli 
 en who are wild 
 He knew Mr. 
 Id be furious if 
 :lf all the blame 
 settled y7t,ooo 
 1(1 the trial for 
 had threatened 
 afterwards pre- 
 
 well as a fasci- 
 e the chief en- 
 _'rs. The Slieri- 
 ich is celcbraled 
 situation at the 
 
 Romans build 
 even Bath sup- 
 
 7'/u' J/a/(/ of /,\r//^, ^^ 
 
 l.lies to wash out its foHies and ini-iuities. It certainly is stranre 
 hnv waslung and cards go together. One would fancy tliJie 
 were no batiis in Eden, for where\er tiiere are baths, there we 
 find idleness and all its atcendant vices. 
 
 The Linleys were .soon intimate with the Sheridans, and tlie 
 •Maid of Jjath added to her adorers both Riciiard and his elder 
 brother Charles ; only, just as at Marrow every one thought 
 Ku hard a dunce and he (h.appointed them ; so at IJath no one 
 thought Richard would fall in love, and he ,//./ disappoint them 
 none more .so than Charles, his brother, and Halhed his 
 bosom friend. As for the latter, he was almost mad in his de- 
 v<.aion, and certainly extravagant in his expressions, lie de- 
 scribed his passion by a clever, but rather disagreeable simile 
 uluch Sheridan, who was a most di.sgraceful plagiarist, thon^di 
 he had no need to be so. afteruards adopted as his own. 'Ji^st 
 as the Egyptian pharmacists,' wrote Halhed, in a Latin letter 
 m which he described the power of Miss Linley's voice over 
 his spirit, 'were wont, in embalming a dead body to draw the 
 brain out through the ears with a crooked hook, this nightin- 
 gale has drawn out through mine ears not my b'lain only but 
 my heart also.' 
 
 'i'hen among other of her devotees were Norris, the singer, 
 ;!ii(l Mr. Watts, a rich gentleman-commoner, who had also met 
 her at Oxford. Surely with such and other rivals, the chances 
 ut the (juiet, unjjretending, undemonstrative boy of nineteen 
 were small. But no, Miss Linley was fooli.sh enough to be cap- 
 tivated by genius, and cliarmed by such poems as the (]uiet 
 hoy wrote to her, of which this i.s, perhaps, one of the prettiest : 
 
 ' Dr>- that tear, my f^rnllest love ; 
 Be liushd tliat'.stni.L,'j.;ling .si,ijh, 
 Nor seasons, day, nor fate'shall prove 
 
 More li.v'd, more true than I. 
 Iliihli'd tie that .si.;h, lie dry that tear ; 
 Cease l)od.;n<:; doiiI)t, eease an.xious .e.-ir : 
 Hry be liiat tear. 
 
 ' Ask'st thou how loiiij niy love will .stay, 
 W'iien all that's new is jiast? 
 How long, ah Delia, can I say 
 How lonj,' my life will last ? 
 Dry he th;U tea'r. be hu^Ii't! ihnf -.■•-!; 
 At least 111 love thee till I die : " ' 
 ilu-jli'd be that iixh. 
 
c 
 
 11 
 
 crj. 
 
 C-W* 
 
 1 
 
 350 S/tcriJan^s lllopcmcnt luith ' Cecilia^ 
 
 ' And (Iocs tluit tli(nif,'lit nfToct thee too, 
 1 111- lliou^'lit of Sylvios ileatll, 
 I li:it Ik; who only bnath'd for you, 
 
 M^l^t yield that faithful hrenth? 
 lliish'd lie that si^'h. •»' dry that tear, 
 Nor let us lose our He.iveii here : 
 He dry that tear.' 
 
 The many adorers liad not the remotest suspicion of tliis de- 
 votion, and 'gave her' to tiiis, that, or the other eHgible per- 
 sonage ; but the viHanous contUict of a scoundrel soon brougin 
 the matter to a crisis. The wliole story was as romantic as it 
 coukl be. In a three-vohnne novel, critics, always so just an<l 
 acute in their judgment, would call it far-fetched, improbable, 
 unnatural ; in short, anything but what should be the i)lot of 
 the pure 'domestic English story.' Yet, here it is with almost 
 dramatic effect, the simple tale of what really befel one of our 
 most celebrated men. 
 
 Yes, to complete the fiction-like aspect of the affair, there 
 was even a 'captain' in the matter — as good a villain as ever 
 shone in short hose and cut doublet at the 'Strand' or 'Yic- 
 toria.' Captain Matthews was a married man, and a very 
 naughty one. He was an iniimale friend of the Linleys, and 
 wanted to i)ush his intimacy too far. In short, ' not to put 
 too fine a point on it' (too fine a jioint is precisely what never 
 /s put), he attempted to seduce the pretty, innocent girl, and 
 not dismayed at one failure, went on again and again. ' Ce- 
 cilia,' knowing the temper of Linley pere, was afraid to expose 
 liim to her father, and with a course, which we of the present 
 day cannot but think strange, if nothing more, disclosed the 
 attempts of her i)ersecutor to no other than her own lover, 
 .Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 
 
 Strange want of delicacy, undoubtedly, and yet we can 
 excuse the poor songstress, with a father who sought only to 
 make money out of her talents, and no other relations to 
 confide in. But Richard Brinsley, long her lover, now resolved 
 to be l)Olh her i)rotector and her husband. He persuaded her 
 to fly to France, under cover of entering a convent. He in- 
 duced his sister to lend him money out of that i)rovided for 
 the housekeeping at home, hired a jjost-chaise, and sent a ae- 
 dan-chair to her father's house in the Crescent to convey her 
 
:ion of this tic- 
 r eligible pcr- 
 Koon brought 
 •omantic as it 
 's so just and 
 \, improbable, 
 )0 the 1)1 ot of 
 is with almost 
 fcl one of our 
 
 e affair, there 
 villain as ever 
 rand' or "Vic- 
 1, and a very 
 ; Linleys, and 
 t, ' not to put 
 .'ly what never 
 cent girl, and 
 I again. ' Ce- 
 raid to expose 
 of the present 
 disclosed the 
 icr own lover, 
 
 . yet we can 
 lought only to 
 .T relations to 
 •, now resolved 
 pjersuaded Iicr 
 vent. He in- 
 t provided for 
 and scut a se- 
 to convey her 
 
 //is Dud ivith Captain Mai threes. 35 r 
 
 to it, and wafted her off to town. Thence, after a few adroit 
 lies on the part of Sheridan, they sailed to Dunkirk ; and there 
 he persuaded her to become his wife. She consented, and 
 they were knotted together by an obliging ])riest accustomeil 
 to these runaway matches from la pcrfuic Albion. 
 
 The irate parent, Linley, followed, recaptured his daughter, 
 and brought her back to England. Meanwhile, the elopement 
 excited great agitation in the good city of Bath, and among 
 others, the villain of the story, the gallant Captain Matthews, 
 posted Richard IJrinsley as ' a scoundrel and a liar,' the then 
 polite method of expressing disgust. Home cr.me Richard in 
 the wake of Miss Linley, who rejoiced in the unromantic [jrne- 
 nonien of ' Betsy,' to her angry parent, and found matters had 
 liceii running high in his short absence. A duel with Matthews 
 seems to have been the natural consequence, and uj) Richard 
 ].osted to London to fight it. Matthews played the craven — 
 Sheridan the impetuous lover. They met, fought, seized one 
 ;iiiother's swords, wrestled, fell together, and wounded each 
 other with the stumps of their rapiers in true Chevy-Chase 
 fashion. ALatthews, who had behaved in a cowardly manner 
 in the first affair, sought to retrieve his honour by sending .1 
 Second challenge. Again the rivals — well represented in ' The 
 Rivals' afterwards produced — met ..t Kingsdown. Mr. Mat- 
 thews drew ; Mr. Sheridan advanced on hin) at first : Mr. 
 Matthews in turn advanced fast on Mr. Sheridan ; upon which 
 he retreated, till he very suddenly ran in U[)on Mr. .NLitthews, 
 laying himself exceedingly open, and endeavouring to get h(;ld 
 of Mr. Matthews' sword. Mr. ^L^tthews received him at point, 
 and, I believe, disengaged his sword from Air. Sheridan's body, 
 and gave him another wound. The same scene was now 
 enacted, and a combat a routrance took ])lacc, ending in nnitual 
 wounds, and fortunately no one dead. 
 
 Poor little Betsy was at Oxford when all Uiis took place. On 
 lier return to Bath she heard something of it, and unconsciously 
 revealed the secret of her private marriage, claiming the right 
 of a wife to watch over her wounded husband. Then came 
 the denouement. Old Tom Sheridan rejected his son. The 
 angry Linley would have rejected his daughter, but for her 
 
•O- 
 
 ^-2 SttVlddrds of R!(iu/l/i\ 
 
 liDiunir. Richard was sent off into i:s.sc\. an.l in due time the 
 couple were le-ally married in Knglan.l. So ended a wile'. 
 romantic attair, in whi( h Sheridan took a desperate, but . : 
 altoi^'ethcr honourable, part. Hut the dramatist got more out of 
 it than a pretty wile. Like all true .ueniuses, he emi)loyed his 
 own cxi)erience in the production of his works, an<l drew from 
 the very event of his life some hints or touches to enliven the 
 iharacters of his imagination. Surely the bravado and cowardice 
 of Cai)tain Matthews, who on the iirsi meeting in the Park is 
 described as tinding all kinds of diftkulties in the way of their 
 fighting, ol)jecting now to the ground as unlevel, now to tlio 
 presence of a stranger, who turns out to be an oftu er, and very 
 ])olitely moves off when re(iueste<l, who, in short, delays the 
 event as long as possible, must have supi.lied the idea of Bob 
 A( res ; while tlie very conversations, of which we have no 
 record', may have given him some of those hints of character 
 which made the ' Rivals' so successful. That ]>lay- his first- 
 w:is written in i 774. It failetl on its first appearance, owing to 
 the bad acting of the part of Sir Lucius cn'rigger, by Mr. Lee; 
 but when another actor was substituted, the i)iece was at once 
 successful, aiul acted wiUi overilowing houses all over the 
 country. How could it be oUierwise? It may have been ex- 
 aggerated, far-fetched, unnatural, but such characters as Sir 
 Anthony Absolute, Sir Lucius, Uob Acres, Lydia Languish, and 
 most of all Mrs. Malaprop, so admirably conceived, and so 
 carefully and ingeniously worked out, < ould not but be admired. 
 They have become household words ; they are even now our 
 standarils of ridicule, and be tliey natural or not, these last 
 eighty years have changed the world so little that Malaprops 
 and Acreses may be found in the range of almost any man's 
 experieme, and in ever\ class of society. 
 
 Sheridan and his dl\me Betsy were now living in their own 
 house, in that dull little place, Orchard Street, Portman Square, 
 then an aristocratic neighbourhood, and he was diligent in the 
 production of essays, pamphlets, and farces, many of which 
 never saw the light, while others fell tlat, or were not calculated 
 to bring him any fame. What great authors have not expe- 
 vic^n. etrihe same disappointments } What men would ever he 
 
due time the 
 ulcd a W'' '. 
 ■ate, l)Ut . 
 t more out of 
 L-miiloycd his 
 ml drew from 
 ;o enliven the 
 nd cowarthcc 
 in the I'ark is 
 ; way of their 
 ;1, now to the 
 icer, and very 
 1. dehiys the 
 ; idea of Bob 
 
 we have no 
 i of character 
 \y— his first— 
 mce, owinj,' to 
 •. by Mr. Lee; 
 e was at once 
 
 all over the 
 have been cx- 
 .racters as Sir 
 Languish, and 
 eivcd, and so 
 ut be admired, 
 even now our 
 not, these last 
 lat Malaprops 
 lost any man's 
 
 ig in their own 
 ortman Siiuare, 
 
 diligent in the 
 nany of which 
 ! not calculated 
 lave not expc- 
 
 would ever be 
 
 Painful Family listraugcvicnts. 353 
 
 great if they allowed such checks to damp their energy, orwcrr 
 turned back by them from the course in which they feel that 
 their power lies? 
 
 IJut his ne.vt work, the opera of 'The Duenna,' had a yet 
 more signal success, and a run of no less than seventy-five 
 nights at Covent (larden, which put Garrick at Drury I,ane to 
 his wit's c\m\ to know how to comi)ete with it. Old lanley 
 himself composed the music for it ; and to show how thus a 
 family couldi hold the stage, Carrick actually played off the 
 mother against the son, and revived Mrs. Sheridan's comedy of 
 'The Discovery,' to compete with Richard Sheridan's ' Duenna.' 
 
 The first night 'The Rivals' was brought out at IJath came 
 Sheridan's father, who, as we have seen, had refused to have 
 anything to say to his son. It is related as an instance of 
 Richard's filial affection, that during the representation he 
 phued himself behind a side-scene oj-imsite to the bo.\ in which 
 iiis father and sisters sat, and gazed at them all the lime. When 
 he returned to his house and wife, he burst into tears, and de- 
 dared that he felt it too bitter that he alone .should have been 
 forbidden to speak to those on whom he had been gazing all 
 the night. 
 
 During the following year this s])eculative man, who married 
 on nothing but his brain, and had no capital, no wealthy friends, 
 111 short nothing whatever, suddenly appears in the most 
 mysterious manner as a capitalist, and lays down his /"i 0,000 
 111 the coolest and (juietest manner. And for what? For a 
 share in the purchase of Garrick's moiety of the patent of Drury 
 l.ane. The whole property was worth ^70,000; Garrick sold 
 his half for ^35.000, of which old Mr. Linley contributed 
 ,{,10,000, Dr. Ford ^'15,000, and ])enniless Sheridan the ba- 
 lance. Where he got the money nobody knew, and api)arently 
 nobody asked. It was i)aid, and he entered at once on the busi- 
 ness of ])roprietor of that old house, where so many a Roscius 
 Ills strutted and declaimed with more or less name ; so many a 
 walking gentleman done his five shillings' worth of i)oIite comedy, 
 so many a tinsel king degraded the ' legitimate drama,' in the 
 "lost illegitimate manner, nnd w!vv;.j glories were extinguished 
 ^Vith the reign of Macready, when we were boys, nous autrcs. 
 
 23 
 
I 
 
 t l 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 354 ^S//cci'ss of tJw famous ' ScJiool for Scandal! 
 
 The first pic( c he contributed to this stage was 'A'l'ri[)to 
 Scarborough,' which was only a S[)ccics of ' family edition of 
 Vanbrugh's play, 'The Kelajjse ;' but in 1777 he reached the 
 a( me of hi.s fame, in ' The S( hool for Scandal.' 
 
 l)Ut alack and alas for these sensual days, when it is too 
 mu( h trouble to think, and j)eoi)le gc) to the play, if they go at 
 all, to feast their eyes and ears, not their minds ; can aay 
 sensible person believe that if ' 'The School for Scandal,' teeming 
 as it does with wit, satire, and ciiaracter, fmer and truer than in 
 any play produced since tlie days of I'en Jonson, Massinger. 
 and Marlowe, were set on the boards of the llaymarkct at this 
 (lay, as a new piece by an author of no very high celebrity, it 
 would draw away a single admirer from the flummery in Oxford 
 Street, the stiueaking at Covent (larden, or the broad, exagge- 
 rated farce at the Aileli:)hi or Olympic? No : it may still have 
 its place on the London stage when well acted, but it owes that 
 to its ancient celebrity, and it can never compete with the 
 tinsel and tailoring which alone ( an make even Shakspeare go 
 down with a modern audience. 
 
 In those days of Garrick, on the other hand, those glorious 
 days of true histrionic art, high and low were not ashamed to 
 throng Drury Lane and Covent ( larden, and make tlie a])pear- 
 ance of a new play the great event of the season. Lhmdreds 
 were turned away from the doors, when ' The School for Scandal' 
 was acted, and those who were fortunate enough to get in made 
 tlie piece the sul)ject of conversation in society for many a night, 
 passing keen comment on every scene, every line, every word 
 almost, and using their minds as we now use our eyes. 
 
 This brilliant play, the earliest idea of which was deiived 
 from its author's experience of the gossij) of that kettle of 
 scandal and backbiting, Bath, where, if no other commandment 
 were ever broken, the constant breach of the ninUi would suffice 
 to put it on a level with certain condemned cities we have sonic- 
 w here read of, won for Sheridan a reputation of which he at once 
 felt the value, anil made his purchase of a share in the property 
 of Old Drury for the time being, a successful speculation. It 
 [iroduced a result which his good heart perhaps valued even 
 niore than the guineas which now flowed in ; it induced his 
 
•as ' A 'Vx\\i to 
 iiily edition of 
 e rcarhcd the 
 
 dion it is too 
 y, if tlicy go ;it 
 nds ; can any 
 indal,' teeming 
 1 truer than in 
 on, Massingcr, 
 •market at tliis 
 ;h celebrity, it 
 lerj' in Oxfonl 
 broad, exagge- 
 may still have 
 ut it owes that 
 ipetc with the 
 Shakspeare go 
 
 those glorious 
 ot ashamed to 
 ke the a])pear- 
 n. nundrods 
 •ol for Scandal' 
 o get in made 
 ■ many a night, 
 le, every word 
 eyes. 
 
 h was deiived 
 that kettle of 
 Lommandment 
 \ woidd suffice 
 we have some- 
 ich he at once 
 n the properly 
 leculation. It 
 J valued even 
 It induced his 
 
 Opinions of Sluridan and his Iujlucnci\ 355 
 
 father, who had long been at war with him, to seek a recon 
 1 ihalion, and the elder Sheridan actually became manager uf 
 ilie theatre of which his son was i)art proprietor. 
 
 Old Tom Sheridan had always been a proud man, and when 
 t'luehe was offended, was hard to bring round again. His 
 (juarrel with Johnson was an instance of this. In 17C;: the 
 D.Ktor, hearing ♦hey had given Sheridan a pension of two 
 hundred a year, exclaimed, ' What have they given hhn a 
 icnsion? then it is time for me to give up mine.' A 'kind 
 nicnil' took care to repeal the peevish exclamation, without 
 adding what Johnson had said iminetliately afterwards, ' How- 
 ever, I am glad that they have given Mr. Sheridan a pension, 
 for he is a very good man.' 'i'he ador was disgusted; and 
 though I5oswell interfered, declined to be reconciled. On one 
 (K (asion he even rushed from a house at which he was to dine, 
 when he heard Uiat the great .Samuel had been invited. The 
 Doctor had litUe oijinion of Sheridan's declamation. ' 15esi(le>. 
 sir,' .said he, 'what influence can Mr. Sheridan have upon the 
 luiguage of this great country by his narrow exertions. Sir, it 
 is burning a farthing candle at Dover to .show light at Calais.' 
 .siill, when (iarrick attacked his rival, Johnson nobly defended 
 liim. ' No sir,' he said, ' there is to be sure, in Sheridan, some- 
 thing to reprehend, and everything to laugh at ; but, sir, he is 
 :iui a bad man. No, sir,' were mankind to be divided into 
 ,u;ood and bad, he would stand considerably within the ranks of 
 the good.' 
 
 However, the greatest bully of his age {and tlie kindest- 
 hearted man) thought very differently of the son. Richard 
 r.rinsley had written a prologue to Savage's play of ' Sir Thomas 
 C)\eii)ury ' — 
 
 ' Ill-f,Urfl S.i\.i!,'c', ni whus(; birtli was jjiv'n 
 No parent but tlic Miiil', no tiuncl tmt Ilcav'n ;' 
 
 and in this had paid an elegant comjiliment to the great lexi- 
 cographer, winding up with these lines : — 
 
 'So pleads the t.ile tli.tt gives to future times 
 '1 lie Son's niisfnrtiines an'l 'h.e po.rent s trimes ; 
 There iliall his fame, ifown'd to-nij^ht, survive, 
 V\xA by the hiind th.it lids ciir Lm^.i \ .' c -' 
 
 2.^ 2 
 
35^^ 
 
 The T.itcmn Club. 
 
 T3B» 
 
 referring at once to Johnson's life of his friend Savage and to 
 his great Dictionary. It was Savage, every one renienibers, 
 with whom Jolinson in his days of starvation was wont to walk 
 I he streets all night, neither of the-n being able to pay for a 
 lodging, and witli whom, walking one night roimd and round 
 St. lames's Sfiuare, he kept up his own and his companion', 
 Sj.i inveighing against the minister and declaring that 
 
 they land by their country.' 
 
 Doubiie... ihe Doctor felt as iij'.;« Ii phM/aire at the nucd 
 aw.irded to his old companion in misery as at the high com- 
 p]irn«-nt to himself. Anyhow he j.ronounced that Sheridan 
 'had riiten the two best comedies of his age,' and therefore 
 I)roposed him as a member of the Literary Club. 
 
 This celebrated gathering of wit and whimsicality, fuiinded 
 by Johnson himself in conjunction with Sir J. Reynolds, w :s 
 the Helicon of London Letters, and the temple which the 
 greatest talker of his age had built for himself, and in which 
 lie took care to be duly worshipped. If . 't at the Turk's 
 Head in C.enanl Street, Soho, every Friday; and from seven 
 in the evening to almost any hour of night was the scene of 
 such talk, mainly on literature and learning, as has never been 
 heard since in this country. It consisted at this period ot 
 twenty-si.v members, and therj is scarcely one among tlu-n 
 whose name is nut known to-day as well as any in the history 
 of our literature. Besides the high i)riests, Reynolds and 
 Johnson, there came I'ldmund P.urke, Fox, Sheridan, and many 
 another of less note, to represent the senate : doldsmith, (iib- 
 bon, Adam Smith, Malone, Dr. 15urney, Percy, Nugent, Sir 
 William Jones, three Irish bishops, and a host of otiiers, 
 crowded in from the r.mks of learning and literature, (larrick 
 and George Colman found here an indulgent audience ; and 
 the light portion of the company comi)rised such men as Top- 
 ham Beauclerk, liennet Langton, Vesey, and a dozen of lords 
 and baronets. In short, they were i)icked men, and if their 
 conversation was not alwa\s witty, it was because they had all 
 wit and frightened one another. 
 
 Among them the baU3ing Doctor rol'ed in majestic gn.ni- 
 pincss ; scolded, dogr -.i '■.:•- d t . itradicteU, pished and pshawcil 
 
 rk. 
 
Savage and to 
 »c rcnicml)L'rs, 
 i wont to walk 
 I to i>ay for a 
 ind and round 
 s companion's 
 declaring that 
 
 ; al tlic niccil 
 
 tlu' high com- 
 
 that Slieridan 
 
 and therefore 
 
 rahty, founded 
 Reynolds, w ,s 
 il)le which the 
 and in whidi 
 at the Turk's 
 md from seven 
 s the scene of 
 las never been 
 this period of 
 : among then 
 in the history 
 Reynolds and 
 dan, and many 
 loldsmith, C.ib- 
 y, Nugent, Sir 
 lost of others, 
 \ture. (larrick 
 audience ; and 
 I men as Top- 
 dozen of lords 
 .'n, and if their 
 ise they had all 
 
 majestic gri.m- 
 d and pshaweiK 
 
 II 
 
II 
 
 o 
 
 and 
 Intel 
 
 the n 
 bullit 
 'His 
 his c 
 same 
 nion; 
 coun 
 versci 
 the i: 
 servi 
 was 
 
 Tl 
 (Our 
 com: 
 then 
 than 
 c'lair 
 thou 
 will 
 said 
 
 A 
 ahva 
 (Ian 
 heli 
 
 of t 
 duk 
 
 II 
 his 
 and 
 and 
 
 1 
 for 
 spei 
 the: 
 Dri 
 
Anecdote of Garriek's Admittance. 
 
 357 
 
 and made himself generally disagreeable ; yet, hail the omen, 
 Intellect ! such was the force, such the fame of his mind, that 
 the more he snorted, the more they adored him— the more he 
 bullied, the more humbly they knocked under. He was quite 
 ' His Majesty ' at the Turk's Head, and the courtiers waited for 
 his coming with anxiety, and talked of him till he came in the 
 same manner as the laccjueys in the anteroom of a crowned 
 monarch. Boswell, who, by the way, was also a member— ot 
 course he was, or how should we have had the great man's con- 
 versations handed down to us?— was sure to keep them up to 
 the proper mark of adulation if they ever flagged in it, and was as 
 servile in his admiration in the Doctor's absence as when he 
 was there to call him a fool for his pains. 
 
 Thus, on one occasion while ' King Johnson ' tarried, the 
 courtiers were discussing his journey to the Hebrides and his 
 coming away ' willing to believe the second sight.' Some of 
 them smiled at this, but Bozzy was down on them with more 
 than usual servility. ' He is only wiUini; to believe,' he ex- 
 claimed. */ do believe. The evidence is enough for mo, 
 though not for his great mind. What will not fill a quart bottle 
 will fill a pint bottle. I am filled with belief.'— ' Are you?' 
 said Colman, slily ; * then cork it up.' 
 
 As a specimen of Johnson's pride in his own club, which 
 always remained extrenicly exclusive, we have what he said of 
 (larrick, who, before he was elected, carelessly told Reynolds 
 he liked the club, and thought ' he would be of them.' 
 
 * HeUl be of us P roared the Doctor indignantly, on hearing 
 of this. * How does he know we will permit him ? The first 
 duke in England has no right to hold such language !' 
 
 It can easily be imagined that when ' His Majesty' expressed 
 his approval of Richard Brinsley, then a young man of eight- 
 and-twenty, there was no one who ventured to blackball him, 
 and so Sheridan was duly elected. 
 
 The fome of ' The School fur Scandal ' was a substantial one 
 for Richard Brinsley, and in the following year he extended his 
 speculation by buying the other moiety of Drury Lane. This 
 theatre, which took its name from the (jld Corkpit Theatre m 
 Drury Lane, where Killigrew acted in the days of Charles H., 
 
 ^m^'^sisB^^mm^mi^xAk^^^^ 
 
 ! r*! ^^Jkfi.pi 
 

 358 Ot'ii^in of ' The Rejected A ddr esses. 
 
 is famous for the number of times it lias Ijecn rcl)uilt. Tlic first 
 liouse ]iad been destroyed in 1674; and the one in which 
 Clarri( k acted was Iniilt l)y Sir Chrisloi)her Wren and opened 
 with a prologue by Dryden. In 1793 this was rebuilt. Iii 
 1S09 it was burnt to the ground ; and on its re-opening the 
 Committee advertised a prize for a prologue, which was sup- 
 jiosed to be tried for by all the poets and poetasters then in 
 I'jiifland.* Sheridan adding afterwards a condition that he 
 wanted an address without a Phojnix in it. Horace Smith and 
 his brother seized the op])ortunity to parody the style of the 
 most celebrated in their delightful ' Rejected Addresses.' Drury 
 Lane has always been grand in its prologue, for besides Dryden 
 and Byron, it could boast of Sam. Johnson, who wrote the 
 address when Garrick opened die theatre in 1747. No theatre 
 ever had more great names connected with its history. 
 
 It was in i77<S, after the purchase of the other moiety of this 
 ]jroperty, that Sheridan set on its l)oards ' The Critic' Though 
 this was denounced as itself as complete a i)1agiarism as any Sir 
 Fretful JMagiary c-ould make, and though undoubtedly the idea 
 of it was borrowed, its wit, so truly Sheritlanian, and its com- 
 plete characters, enhanced its author's fame, in spite of the dis- 
 appointment of those who expected higher things from the 
 writer of ' The School for Scandal.' Whether Sheridan woukl 
 have gone on improving, had he remained true to the drama, 
 * The Critic' leaves us in doubt. But he was a man of higher 
 ambition. Step by step, unexpectedly, and apparently unpre- 
 jiared, he had taken by storm the out-works of the citadel he 
 V, as determined to capture, and he seems to have cared little to 
 garrison these minor fortresses. He had carried off from among 
 a dozen suitors a wife of such l)cauty that Walpole thus wTitcs 
 of her in 1773 : — 
 
 ' I was at the ball last night, and have only been at the opera, 
 ^\llcre I was infinitely struck widi the Carrara, who is the pret- 
 tiest creature upon earth. Mrs. Hartley I find still handsomer, 
 and Miss Linley is to be the superlative degree. The king 
 admires the last, and ogles her as much as he dares in so holy 
 
 * None of tlie ;i(1(1r"<s('s sent in liaving given satisfaction, Lord Byron was 
 rciiucstcd to write one, which he did. 
 
t. Tlie first 
 e in which 
 md opened 
 rebuilt. In 
 opening the 
 ::h was sup- 
 ;ters then in 
 on tliat lie 
 
 2 Smith and 
 style of the 
 jses.' Drury 
 ides Dryden 
 
 3 wrote the 
 No theatre 
 
 )ry. 
 
 loiety of this 
 -.' Though 
 m as any Sir 
 illy the idea 
 nd its coni- 
 e of the dis- 
 gs from the 
 ridan would 
 
 the drama, 
 m of higher 
 •ently unpre- 
 e citadel he 
 ared little to 
 
 from among 
 : thus wTites 
 
 at the opera, 
 is the pret- 
 1 handsomer, 
 . The king 
 s in so holy 
 
 ,ord Byroa was 
 
 NcK' Flidits-— Political A iitbition. 
 
 359 
 
 a place as an oratorio, and at so devout a service as Alexander s 
 
 Feast.' 
 
 Yet Sheridan did not prize his lovely wife as he should have 
 done, when he had once obtained her. Again he had struck 
 boldly into die drama, and in four years had achieved that fame 
 as a ]jlay-writer to which even Johnson could testify so hand- 
 somely. He now fiuitted tliis, and with the same innate power 
 ■—the same consciousness of success— the same readiness ot 
 genius—took a higher, l^ir more brilliant flight than ever. Yet 
 iiad he garrisoned the forts he captured, he would have been a 
 better, hapiner, and more i)rosperous mar.. Had he been true 
 to the Maid of Bath, his character would not have degenerated 
 as it did. Had he kept up his connection with the drama, he 
 would not have lost so largely by his speculation in Drury l.ane. 
 His genius became his temptation, and he hurried on to triumph 
 
 and to fall. 
 
 Public praise is a syren which die young sailor through life 
 cannot resist. Political life is a tine aim, even when its seeker 
 starts wiUiout a shred of real patriotism to conceal his personal 
 ambition. No young man of any character can think, without 
 a thrill of rapture, on the glory of having his name- now ob- 
 scure- -written in capitals on tlie page of his country's history. 
 A true i)atriot cares nothing for fame ; a really great man is 
 content to die nameless, if his acts may but survive him. She- 
 ridan was not really great, and it may be doubted if lie had any 
 sincerity in his political views. But the period favoured the 
 rise of young men of genius. In former reigns a man could 
 have little hope of political influence without being first a 
 courtier ; but by this time liberalism had made giant strides. 
 The leaven of revolutionary ideas, which had leavened the 
 whole lump in France, was still working ([uietly and less ^ as- 
 sionately in this country, and being less repressed, displayed it- 
 self in the last (juarter of the eighteenth century in the form of 
 a strong and brilliant opposition. It was to this that the young 
 men of ambition attached themselves, rallying under the stan- 
 dard of Charles James Fox, since it was there only that their 
 talents were sufficient to recommend them. 
 
 To this party, Sheridan, laughing in his sleeve at the oxtra- 
 
 !l I 
 
 x?^ 
 
36o 
 
 The Gavtiiio: Mania. 
 
 'b 
 
 vMj^'ance of their demands— so that when they clamoured for a 
 ' parliament once a year, or oftener if need be,' he jironounced 
 himself an ' Oftener-if-need-be' man— was introduced, when his 
 fame as a literary man had brought him into contact with some 
 of its hangers on. P'ox, after his first interview with him, af- 
 firmed that he had always tliought Mare and Charles Townsend 
 the wittiest men he had ever met, but that Sheridan surj^assed 
 them both ; and Sheridan was ecjually pleased with ' the Man 
 of the Peoi)le.' 
 
 The first step to this political position was to become a mem- 
 ber of a certain club, where its leaders gambled away their 
 money, and drank away their minds—to wit, Brookes'. Pretty 
 boys, indeed, were these great Whig patriots when turned loose 
 in these precincts. The tables were for stakes of twenty or 
 fifty guineas, but soon ran up to liundreds. What did it matter 
 to Charles James l'"o.\, to ilie Man of the Peojile, whether he 
 lost five, seven, or ten thousand of a night, when the one-half 
 came out of his fiiiher's, the other out of Hebrew, ])orkets — 
 the sleek, th'ck-lipped owners of which thronged his Jerusalem 
 chamber, as he called his back sitting-room, only too glad to 
 'oblige' him to any amounl ? The rage for gaming at this 
 l)andemonium may be understood from a rule of the club, which 
 it was found necessary to make to interdict it in t/ict\iii/i'^-roo»i, 
 but to which was added the truly Jjritish exception, which 
 allowed two members of Parliament in those days, or two 
 ' gentlemen' of any kind, to /oss up for what they had or- 
 dered. 
 
 This charming resort of the dissipated was originally esta- 
 blished in Pall Mall in 1764, and the manager was that same 
 Almack who afterwards opened a lady's club in the rooms now- 
 called Willis's, in King Street, St. James's ; who also owned the 
 famous Thatched House, and whom (lilly Williams described 
 as having a ' Scotch face, in a bag-wig,' waiting on the ladies at 
 supper. In 1778 Brookes — a wine-merchant and money-lender, 
 whom Tickell, in his famous ' Ki)istle from the Hon. Charles 
 I'"o.\, partridge-shooting, to the Hon. John Townsend, cruising,' 
 describes in these lines : — 
 
311 red for a 
 )ronounco(l 
 d, wlien liis 
 : witli some 
 ith him, af- 
 s Townsend 
 1 surpassed 
 'the Man 
 
 )mc a meni- 
 away tlieir 
 .^s'. Pretty 
 urned loose 
 f twenty or 
 lid it matter 
 whether he 
 he one-half 
 , pockets — 
 ; Jerusalem 
 too glad to 
 iiuj; at this 
 club, which 
 atti/r^-ivoiii, 
 lion, which 
 ys, or two 
 ey had or- 
 
 ^inally esta- 
 that same 
 rooms now 
 D owned the 
 s described 
 he ladies at 
 )ney-lender, 
 Dn. Charles 
 id, cruising,' 
 
 A /mack's — />rooki\:\ 361 
 
 'And know I've bnuglit tlic bt-st cliiinipagnc from Brookes, 
 From libcnil Brookes, wliuse t.p(.'Ciilative skill 
 Is liasty credit, and a distant 1)111 : 
 Who, nurs'd in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade ; 
 Ivxults to trust, and bhishr, to bo paid ' 
 
 built and opened the present club-house in St. J^'^mes's vStrcct, 
 and thither the members of Almack's migrated. Brookes' 
 s[)oculative skill, however, did not make him a rich man, and 
 the 'gentlemen' he dealt with were perhaps too gendemanly to 
 pay him. He died poor in 17S3. Almack's at hrst consisted 
 of twenty-seven membe"s, one of wliom was C. J. Fox. Gib- 
 bon, the historian, was actually a member of it, and rays that 
 in spite of the rage for j)lay, he found the society there rational 
 and entertaining. Sir Joshua Reynolds wanted to be a member 
 of it too. ' You sec,' says Topham Ilcaiiclerk thereupon, 
 • what noble ambition will make a man attempt. That den is 
 not yet opened,' &c. 
 
 Brookes', however, was far more celebrated, and besides Fox, 
 Reynolds, and (iibbon, there were here to be found Horace 
 Walijole, David Hume, Burke, Selwyn, and Garrick. It would 
 lie curious to discover how much religion, how much morality, 
 and how much vanity there were among the set. 'i'he first two 
 A\()uld require a n\icroscope to examine, the last an ocean to 
 < ontain it. But let Tickell descrilje its inmates : — 
 
 'Soon n- 1.1 r.rock.'..'. tinii.-i' iliy foot^tqH bond 
 What gratulation, tiiy a|)proacli attend ! 
 See (libbon rap his \n>x --auspicious sign, 
 That classic cotnplinu-nt and wit conib'ne ; 
 See Beauclerk's cheek a liiige of red surprise, 
 And friendship gi\e what cruel liealth denies ; 
 
 * * » 
 
 Of wit, of ta^te, of fancy we'll debate, 
 If Slieridan for once be not loo late. 
 But scarce a thought on jiolitics we'll spare 
 L'nless on Polish politics with Mare, 
 (lood-natured Devon ! oft shall tliere"appear 
 The cool cumplacence of thy friendly sneer ; 
 Oft shall l-'it/patricks wit, and Stanhope's case. 
 And Burgoyue's manly sense coni'jine to ple;ise. 
 
 'I'o .show how high gaming ran in this assembly of wits, even 
 so early at T'7'7 2t there is a. meiiiora^ndiuu in tlie books sta-tin"" 
 that Mr. Thynne retired from the dub in disgust, because he 
 
362 
 
 Black- lUdlcd. 
 
 f^^. 
 
 IkuI only won ^12,000 in two months. The principal games 
 at this itciiod were (juin/.e and faro. 
 
 Into tliis ehgible chib Richard Sheridan, wlio ten years 
 before had been agreeing with Halhed on the bliss of making 
 a couple of hundred pounds by their literary exertions, now 
 essayed to enter as a member; but in vain. One black-ball 
 sufiiccd to nullify his election, and that one was dropped in by 
 Cleorge Selwyn, who, with degnuling littleness, would not have 
 the son of an actor among ih.m. Again and again he made 
 the attemi)t ; again and again Selwyn foiled him ; and it w.;^ 
 not till 1780 that he succeeded. The Prince of Wales was 
 then his devoted friend, and was determined he should be ad- 
 mitted into the club. The elections at that time took i)lacc 
 between eleven at night and one o'c;lock in the morning, and 
 the ' greatest gentleman in lun-ope ' took care to be in the hall 
 when the ballot began. Selwyn came down as usual, bent on 
 triumph. 'Hie prince called him to him. There was nothin- 
 for it ; Selwyn was forced to obey. The prince walked him up 
 and down the hall, engaging h.im in an apparently most hn- 
 portant conversation, deorge Selw}-n answered him ([ueftion 
 after (luestion, and made desperate attempts to slip away. The 
 other Cleorge had alwa>s something more to say to him. The 
 long fmger of ihe clock went round, and Selwyn's long white 
 fmgers were itching for the black ball. The prince was only 
 more and more intere..ted, the wit only more and more ab- 
 stracted. Never was the young George more lively, or the 
 other more silent. Hut it was all in vain. The finger of the 
 clock went round and round, and at last the members came 
 out noisily from the balloting-room, and the smiling faces of 
 the prince's friends showed to the unhappy Selwyn that his 
 enemy had been elected. 
 
 So, at least, runs one story. The other, told by Sir Natha- 
 niel Wmxall, is [jerhaps more proljable. It appears that the 
 l-.arl of Besborough was no less opposed to his election tluva 
 C.eorge Selwyn, and these two individuals agreed at any cost 
 of comfort to be always at the club at the time of the ballot to 
 throw in dieir black balls. On the night of his -nee.., Lord 
 i5esborough was there as usual, and Selwyn was at his rooms 
 
principal games 
 
 who tell years 
 bliss of making 
 • exertions, now- 
 One black-ball 
 s dropi)e(l in Ijy 
 would not have 
 again he made 
 lim ; and it w.',^ 
 ce of Wales was 
 e should be ad- 
 time took place 
 the morning, and 
 to be in the hall 
 IS usual, Ijcnt on 
 lere was nothing 
 :e walked him up 
 arently most ini- 
 red him ciuestion 
 D slip away. 'I'Ik' 
 ay to him. The 
 iwyn's long white 
 jjiince was only 
 Dre and more ah- 
 ore lively, or the 
 The hnger of the 
 le members came 
 e smiling faces of 
 y Sclwyn that his 
 
 old by Sir Natha- 
 ; appears that the 
 his election than 
 greed at any cost 
 ne of the ballot to 
 f his ^"ccess, Lord 
 a was at his rooms 
 
 Tic'o l'\-rs/o;/s of tJic lllcctio)! Trick. 363 
 
 in (Cleveland Row, preparing to come to the club. Suddenly a 
 (li.iirman rushed into Brookes' with an important note for my 
 loni. who, on tearing it open, found to his horror that it was 
 from his daughter-in-law. Lady Dunrannon, announcing that 
 his house in Cavendish Square was on Hre, and imploring him 
 to come immediately. l'"eeling confident that his fellow con- 
 spirator would be true to his post, the earl set off at once. 
 ]lut almost the sami; moment Sehvyn received a message in- 
 forming him that his adopted daughter, of whom he was very 
 fond, was seized with an alarming illness. 'J'he ground was 
 ( Icared ; and by the time the earl returned, having, it is need- 
 less to say, found his house in a perfect state of security, and 
 was joined by Selwyn, whose daughter had never been better 
 in her life, the actor's son was elected, and the consjjirators 
 found they had been duped. 
 
 Hut it is far easier in this country to get into that House, 
 where one has to rei)resent the interests of thousands, and take 
 a share in the government of a nation, than to be admitted to 
 a club where one has but to lounge, to gamble, and to eat 
 dinner ; and Sheridan was elected for the town of Stafford with 
 ])rol)ably litUe more artifice than the old and stale one of put- 
 ting five-pound notes under voters' glasses, or paying thirty 
 jiQunds for a home-cured ham. Whether he bribed or not, a 
 ])etition was jircsented against his election, almost as a matter 
 ot" course in those days, and his maiden speech was made in 
 defence of the good burgesses of that (p.iiet little county-town. 
 After making this speech, which was listened to in silence on 
 account of his reputation as a dramatic author, but which does 
 not appear to have been very wonderful, he rushed up to the 
 gallery, and eagerly asked his friend Woodfall what he thought 
 of it. That candid man shook his head, and told him oratory 
 was not his forte. Sheridan leaned his head on his hand a 
 moment, and then exclaimed with vehement emphasis, ' It is 
 in me, however, and, by Heaven ! it shall come out.' 
 
 He spoke prophetically, yet not as the great man who clc- 
 termines to conquer difllculties, but rather as one who feels 
 (onscious of his own [)owers, and knows that they must show 
 themselves sooner or later. Sheridan found himself labouring 
 
 i i 
 
 it 
 
364 
 
 Leads a Double Life 
 
 
 under the same natural obstacles as Demosthenes— though in 
 a less degree— a thick and disagreeable tone of voice ; but we 
 do not And in the indolent but gifted Englishman that adnur- 
 able perseverance, that conciuering zeal, which enabled the 
 Athenian to turn these very imi)ediments to his own advantage. 
 He did, indeed, prepare his speeches, and at times had fits of 
 that same diligence which he had disi)layed in the i)reparation 
 of ' '1 he School for Scandal ;' but his indolent, self-indulgent 
 mode of life left him no time for such steady devotion to ora- 
 tory as might have made him the finest si^eaker of his age, for 
 perhaps h'is natural abilities were greater than those of Pitt, 
 Fox, or even liurkc, though his education was inferior to that 
 of those two statesmen. 
 
 From this time Sheridan's life had two phases— that of a 
 politician, antl that of a man of the world. With the former, 
 we have nothing to do 'v^ such a memoir as this, and indeed it 
 is diflicull to say whether it was in oratory, the drama, or wit 
 that he gained the greatest celebrity. There is, however, .some 
 <lilterence baween the three capacities. On the mnnic stage, 
 and on the stage of the country, his fame rested on a very lew 
 grand outburst's— some marred, prepared, deliberated— others 
 spontaneous. He left only three great comedies, and perhaps 
 we may say only one really grand. In the same way he made 
 only two great speeches, or perhaps we may say only one. 
 His wit on the other hand- though that too is said to have 
 been studied—was the constant acc:ompaniment of his daily 
 life, and Sheridan has not left two or three celebrated bon-mots, 
 
 but a hundred. 
 
 But even in his political career his wit, which must then have 
 been spontaneous, won him almost as much fame as his elo- 
 (luence, whi. h he seems to have reserved for great occasions. 
 1 le was the wit of the House. Wit, ridicule, satire, quiet, cool, 
 and easv sneers, always made in good temper, and always 
 therefore the more bitter, were his weapons, and they struck 
 \vith unerring accuracy. At that time— nor at that time only— 
 tlie M)en of Thieves,' as Cobbett called our senate, was^ a 
 <ockpit as vulgar and personal as the present Congress of llie 
 United Slates. Party-spirit meant more than it has ever done 
 
—though in 
 ice ; but wc 
 
 that iuhnir- 
 cnablccl tlic 
 n advantage. 
 ; liad fits of 
 
 l)rcparation 
 iclt-incUilgcnt 
 jtion to ora- 
 ■ his age, for 
 lose of Pitt, 
 erior to thai 
 
 :s — that of a 
 \ the former, 
 nd indeed it 
 rama, or wit 
 )\vover, some 
 mimic stage, 
 n a very few 
 rated — others 
 and perhaps 
 tvay he niade 
 say only one. 
 s said to have 
 t of his daily 
 Lted bon-mols, 
 
 uist then have 
 ,me as his elo- 
 eat occasions, 
 re, quiet, cool, 
 r, and always 
 nd they struck 
 at time only- 
 senate, was a 
 ungress of the 
 has ever done 
 
 Pitt's I'li/^^ar A/tad: 365 
 
 since, and scarcely less than it had meant when the throne 
 itself was the stake for which parties played some forty years 
 before. There was, in fa< t a substantial personal centre for 
 each side. The one party rallied round a resjiectable but 
 maniac monarch, whose mental afflictions took the most dis- 
 tressing form, the other round his gay, handsome, dissolute — 
 nay disgusting — son, at once his rival and his heir. The spirit 
 of each party was therefore personal, and their attacks on one 
 another were more personal than anything we can imagine in 
 the present day in so respectably ridiculous a conclave as 
 the House of Commons. It was little for one honourable gen- 
 tleman to give another honourable gentleman the lie direct 
 before the eyes of the country. The honourable gentlemen 
 descended — or, as they thought, ascended — to the most vehe- 
 ment invective, and such was at times the torrent of personal 
 ;ibuse which parties heaped on one another, while good-natured 
 b)hn liull looked on and smiled at his rulers, that, as in the 
 I'nited States of to-day, a debate was often the prelude to a 
 duel. Pitt and Fox, 'I'ierney, Adam, Fullarton, Lord (ieorge 
 Oermain, Lord Shelburne, and Oovcrnor Johnstone, all ' vindi- 
 (ated their honour,' as llie ])hrase went, by 'coffee and pistols 
 for four.' If Sheridan had not to repeat the liob Acres scene 
 u ilh Captain Matthews, it was only because his wonderful good 
 liumour could i)ut up with a great deal that others thought 
 (ould only be expiated by a hole in the waistcoat. 
 
 Jn the a(hiiinistration of the Marcpiis of Rockingham the 
 dramatist enjoyed tlie pleasures of office for less than a ye'r 
 ns one of the Inder Secretaries of State in 1782. in the 
 next year we fmd him making a happy retort on Pitt, who had 
 somewhat vulgarly alluded to his being a dramatic author. It 
 was on the American <[uestion, perhaps the bitterest that ever 
 tailed forth the acrimony of parties in the House. Sheridan, 
 from boyhood, had l)een taunted with being the son of an 
 actor. One can hardly credit t fact, just after (iarrick had 
 raised the profession of an actor to so great an eminence in the 
 social scale. He had been called 'the player boy ' at school, 
 and his election at Lrookes' had been opposed on the same 
 c;rounds. It was evidentl) his bitterest point, and Pitt probably 
 
'"•if 
 
 366 S/uridan's Happy Retort. 
 
 knew this when, in replying to a spcccli of the ex-dramatist's 
 he sai.l ih.it 'no man tulmired more than he (hcl the abihtics of 
 that ri-ht lionourablc gentleman, the elegant sallies of his 
 thouglu, the gay effusions of his fan( y, his iinvnatic turns, and 
 his q.igrammatir point ; and if they were reserved for the pro- 
 per sta}r, they would, no doubt, receive what the hon. gentle- 
 man's abilities always did receive, the plaudits of the audience; 
 ami it would be his fortune si// pLnisii ;^audcrc thmtri. Hut this 
 was not the proper scene for the exhibition of those elegancies.' 
 This was vulgar in Pitt, and j.robably every one felt so. But 
 Sheriilan rose, cool and coUc.ted, and (piietly replied :— 
 
 'On the particular sort of personality which the right hon. 
 gentleman has thought proper to make use of, I need not make 
 any comment. The proi)riety, the taste, the gentlemanly point 
 „r it, must have been obvious to the House. lUit let me 
 assure the right hon. gendeman that 1 ilo now, and will at any 
 time he chooses to repeat this sort of allusion, meet it with the 
 most sincere good humour. Nay, 1 will say more: flattered 
 and encouragetl by the right hon. :v>ntleman's panegyric on my 
 talents, if ever I again engage in t!u- compositions he alludes to, 
 I may' be templed to an act of presumption— to attempt an 
 improvement on one of Hen Jon.,on's best characters, the 
 character of the An:^ry Boy, in the "Alchemist."' 
 
 The fury of Pitt, contrasted with the coolness of the man he 
 had so shamefully attacked, made this sally irresistible, and 
 from that time neither ' the angry boy ' himself, nor any ot his 
 colleagues, were an.i'jus to twit Sheridan on his dramatic 
 
 pursuits. 
 
 V\ii wanted to lay a tax on every horse that started in a 
 -ace. I -ord Surry, a tiirjis/i individual of the day, proposed one 
 of five pounds on the winner. Sheridan, rising, told his lordship 
 that the next time he vi.-,iled Newmarket he would probably be 
 greeted with the line : — 
 
 ' Jockt'V of N'oi-folk, be not so bold .' 
 
 Lord Rolie, the butt of the Opposition, who had attacked 
 
 , . • ,, r „_ cTt^rn 'Tho "RnMiT! ' SO imiilllnr tll-'lt it Went 
 
 through twenty-two editions in twenty-se\en years, accused 
 
s-dramatist's 
 c abilities of 
 lilies of his 
 ic turns, and 
 for \.\\G pro 
 hon. gentle- 
 10 audience ; 
 /■/. I?ut this 
 „• elegancies.' 
 felt so. Ikit 
 ied:— 
 he right hon. 
 •ed not make 
 iMuanly point 
 I hit let me 
 :l will at any 
 ct it with the 
 ore: tlattered 
 legyric on my 
 he alludes to, 
 o attempt an 
 laracters, the 
 
 )<[ the man he 
 
 resistible, and 
 
 nor any of his 
 
 his dramatic 
 
 t started in a 
 
 proposed one 
 
 Id his lordship 
 
 1(1 probably be 
 
 had attacked 
 iar that it went 
 ^•ears, accused 
 
 Cralfivi's Quip—Shcrula:f 367 
 
 .Sheridan of indammatory speeches anion;.; the 
 nortiiern counties on the cotton (|uesti()n ;, ' 
 
 by saying that he believed J.ord Rolie nui !,. • (J,, , 
 
 sitions less prosaic, but more popular' (mean , • Rolli.n. ), 
 
 .md thus successfully turned the laugh against him. 
 
 It was Orattan, I think, who said, ' When 1 <an't talk sense, 
 I t.ilk metaphor.' Sheridan often talked metaphor, though he 
 .o:iKtimes mingled it with sense. His famous speech about 
 ilie Hegunis of Oude is full of it, but we have one or two 
 instances before that. Thus on the Duke of Richmond's 
 report about fortihcation.s, he .said, turning to the duke, that 
 •liolding in his hand the report made by the Doard of Officers, 
 lie complimented the noble president on his talents as an 
 cn^^iiitrr, which were strongly evinced in planning and construct- 
 ing that very paper He has made it a contest of posts, 
 
 .;nd ( onducted his reasoning not less on i)rincii)les of trigono- 
 metry than of logic. There are certain assumptions thrown up, 
 like advanced works, to keep the enemy at a distance from the 
 principal object of debate ; strong provi.sos protect and cover 
 the flanks of his assertions, his very (jueries are his casemates,' 
 and .so on. 
 
 When Lord Mulgrave said, on another occasion, that any 
 man using his influence to obtain a vote for the crown oni;/;/ to 
 lose his head, Sheridan (piietly remarked, that he kvas glad his 
 lordship had said ^ oir^/it to lose his head,' not 7i'(»///(/ have lost 
 ii. for in that ca.;e the learned gentleman would not have had 
 that evening ^ a face to have .shown among us.' 
 
 Such are a few of his well remembered replies in the House ; 
 hut his fixme as an orator rested on the splendid siieechcs 
 which he made at the impeachment of Warren Hastings. The 
 firht of these was made in the House on the yih of February, 
 1787. The whole story of the corruption, e.xtortion.s, and 
 ( riielty of the worst of many bad rulers who have been imposed 
 upon that unhappy nation of Hindostan, and who ignorant how 
 ioparceresuhjcctis, luuegoneon in their unjust oppression, only 
 vctidering it the more dangerous by weak concessions, is too 
 well known to need a recapitulation here. The worst feature 
 a the whole of Hastings' misconduct was, perhai)s, his treat- 
 
II 
 
 o 
 
 368 The Trial of Warren Ilastni s. 
 
 nicnt of those unfortunate hulics whose money ho rovetci' 
 the licgiuus of Oude. The Opposition was tlctcimincil lu 
 make the governor-general's ((iinhu I a state (juestion, l)Ut their 
 < harges had been re( eived with httle attention, till on this (l;iy 
 Sheridan rose to denounce the cruel extortioner. He spoke 
 for five hours and a half, and surpassed all he had ever said in 
 eloquence. Tiie subject w.is one to fmd sympathy in th; 
 hearts of Englishmen, who, though they beat their own wives, 
 are always indignant at a man who dares to lay a little finger 
 on those of anybody else. Then, too, the subject was Oriental: 
 it might even be invested with something of romance and 
 puetry ; tin; zenanah, .sacred in the eyes |of the oppressed 
 natives, had been ruthlessly insulted, under a glaring Indian 
 .sun, amid the luxuriance of Indian foliage, these acts had been 
 ( ommitted, (Src. tJtc. It was a fertile theme for a i)Oet ; and 
 how little soever Sheridan care<l for the liegums and their 
 wrongs — and that he did care little appears from what he 
 afterwards said of Hastings himself— he could evidently make 
 a telling speech out of the theme. awA he did so. W'alpole 
 says that he turned everybcxly's head. ' One heard everybody 
 in the street raving on the wonders of that .speech ; for my 
 part, I cannot believe it was so supernatural as they say.' He 
 aftirms that there must be a witchery in Mr. Sheridan, who li.ul 
 no diamonds — as Hastings had — to win favour with, and says 
 that the Opposition may be fairly charged with sorcery. Burke 
 declared the spescli to be ' the most astonishing effort of 
 elocjU'-ncc, argument, and wit united, of which there was any 
 recc T tratlilion.' Fox aflirmed that ' all he had ever heard, 
 all he had ever read, when compared with it, dwindled into 
 nothing, and vanished like vapour before the sun.' But these 
 were partizans. Even Pitt acknowledged ' that it surpassed all 
 the eloquence of ancient and modern times, and possessed 
 everything that genius or art could furnish to agitate and 
 control the human mind.' One member confessed himself so 
 unhinged by it, that he moved an adjournment, because he 
 could not, in his then state of mind, give an unbiassed vote. 
 But the highest testimony was that of Logan, the defender of 
 Hastings. At the end of the first hour of the speech, he said 
 
cy he coveted, 
 
 (letcimincd lo 
 stion, but their 
 till on this day 
 cr. He spoki' 
 i<l ever said in 
 mpathy in the 
 leir own wives, 
 y a little fmgcr 
 t was Dricntal ; 
 
 romance and 
 
 the oppressed 
 glaring Indian 
 
 acts had been 
 r a poet ; :in(l 
 iwns and their 
 
 from what he 
 evidently make 
 1 so. AValpole 
 .•ard everybody 
 ipeecli ; for my 
 they say.' He 
 riilan, who had 
 
 with, and says 
 orcery. Burke 
 sliing effort of 
 there was any 
 lad ever heard, 
 
 dwindled into 
 n.' ])Ut these 
 it surpassed all 
 and possessed 
 to agitate and 
 sed himself so 
 it, because he 
 mbiassed vote, 
 le defender of 
 peech, he said 
 
 Wonderful Effect of ShcridaiCs Eloquence, 3^)9 
 
 to a friend, ' All this is declamatory assertion without proof 
 
 Another hour's speak. ng, and he nnittered, ' This is a most 
 
 wonderful oration !* .A third, and he confessed * Mr. Hastings 
 
 . d \ery unjustifiably.' At the end of the fourth, he ev- 
 
 .1, 'Mr. W. 'tifTs is a most atrocious criminal.' And 
 
 ire the speaker had sut down, he vehemently protested tiiat 
 'Of all monsters of iniquity, the most enormous is Warren 
 Hastings.' 
 
 Such in those days was tlie effect of eloquence ; an art whi( h 
 !i , been eschewed in the present F louse of Commons, and 
 which our newspa[)ers affect to think is nnu h out of place in 
 an asseml)ly met for calm deliberation. Perhaps they are right ; 
 but oh ! for the golilen wonls of a Sheridan, a J'ox, even a 
 ritt and Burke. 
 
 It is saiil, though not proved, that on this sanie ni^^ht of 
 .Sheridan's glory in the House of Commons, his 'School for 
 Scandal' was acted with 'ra[)turous applause' at Covent Car- 
 ilen, and his 'Duenna' no less successfully at Drury Lane. 
 What a i)itth of glory f(jr the ilunce who had been shamed 
 into learning Greek verbs at Harrow ! Surely Dr. Parr must 
 then have confessed that a man can be great without the clas- 
 sics — nay, without even a decent English education, for Sheri- 
 <lan knew comparatively little of history and literature, certainly 
 less than the men against whom ho was pitted or whose powers 
 he emulated. He has been known to say to his friends, when 
 asked to take part with them on some important (jueslion, 
 ' Vou know I'm an ignoramus — instruct me and Pll do my 
 best.' He had even to rub up his arithmetic when he thought 
 he had some chance of being made Chancellor of 'he I'",x- 
 ( he(iuer ; but, perhaps, many a statesman before and aft> r him 
 has done as much as that. 
 
 No wonder that after such a speech in the House, the cele- 
 l>ratcd trial which commenced in the beginning of the follow- 
 ing year should have roused the attention of the whole nation. 
 The ])roceedings opened in Westminster Hall, the noblest 
 room in England, on the 13th of February', 1788, The Queen 
 and four of her daughters were seated in the Duke of New- 
 castle's bo.x ; the Prince of Wales walked in at the head of a 
 
 24 
 
o 
 
 370 T/ic Supreme llffort. 
 
 hundred and fifty peers of the reahn. Tlie spectacle was im- 
 j)Osing enough. Ijut the trial proceeded slowly for some months, 
 and it was not till the 3rd of June that Sheridan rose to make 
 his second great speech on this subject. 
 
 The e.vcitement was then at its highest. Two-thirds of tb.e 
 peers with the peeresses and their daughters were present, and 
 tlie whole of the vast hall was crowded to excess. The sui: 
 shone in brightly to light up the gloomy building, and the whole 
 scene was splendid. Such was the enthusiasm that people paid 
 fifty i^ubicas for a ticket to hear the fust orator of his day, for 
 such he then was. The actor's son fell Uie enlivening influence 
 of a full audience. He had been long preparing for this mo- 
 ment, and he threw into his speech all the theatrical eftect of 
 which he had studied much and inherited more. He spoke for 
 many hours on the 3rd, 51)1, and 6th, and concluded with these 
 words : 
 
 ' They (the House of Commons) exhort you by everything 
 that calls sublimely upon the heart of man, liy the majesty of 
 that justice which this bold man has libelled, by the wide fame 
 of your own tribunal, by the sacred pledges by which you swear 
 in the solemn hour of decision, knowing that that decision will 
 then bring you the highest rewartl that ever blessed the heart 
 of man, tlie consciousness of having done llie greatest act of 
 mercy for the world that the earth has e\er yet received from 
 any hand but heaven ! — My Lords, I ha\ e done.' 
 
 Sheridan's valet was very proud of his master's success, and 
 as he had been to hear the speech, was asked what i)art he 
 considered the finest. Plush rejjlied by putting himself into his 
 master's attitude, and imitating his voice admirably, solemnly 
 uttering, ' My Lords, I have done !' He .should ha\e added 
 the word ' nothing.' Sheridan's eloquence had no more effect 
 than the clear proof of Hastings' guilt, and the impeachment, 
 as usual, was but a troublesome subterfuge, to satisfy the Oppo- 
 sition and dust the eyeballs of the country. 
 
 Sheridan's great speech was made. The orator has concluded 
 his oration ; fame was complete, and no more was wanted. 
 Adieu, then, blue-books and parties, and come on the last grand 
 profession of this man of many talents — that of the wit. That 
 
taclc was im- 
 somc months, 
 rose to make 
 
 -thirds of the 
 ; present, and 
 ss. The sih: 
 md the whole 
 It i)eo])lepaid 
 if his day, for 
 ling influence 
 
 for this mo- 
 rical effect of 
 
 He spoke for 
 ctl with these 
 
 ly everything 
 he majesty of 
 ,he wide fimie 
 ich you swear 
 : decision will 
 ed the heart 
 eatest act of 
 received from 
 
 1 success, and 
 what part he 
 imself into his 
 bly, solemnly 
 have added 
 3 more effect 
 impeachment, 
 sfy the Oppo- 
 
 las concluded 
 
 was wanted. 
 
 the last grand 
 
 he wit. That 
 
 The Star Culminates. 
 
 0/ 
 
 it was a profession there can be no doubt, for he lived on it, it 
 was all his capital. He paid his bills in tliat coin ah^ie : 'he 
 paid his workmen, his actors, carpenters, builders with no more 
 sterlmg metal ; with that ready tool he extracted loans from the 
 very men who came to be paid ; that brilliant ornament main- 
 tamed his reputation in the senate, and his character in society. 
 ]Jut wit without wisdom— the froth without the fluid— the capi- 
 tal without the pillar— is but a ])oor fortune, a wretched subst"- 
 tute for real worth and honest utility. For a time men for- 
 gave to Mr. Sheridan— extravagant and reckless as he was— what 
 would long before have brought an honester, better, but less 
 amusing man to a debtor's prison and the contempt of society; 
 but only for a time was this career possible. 
 
 Sheridan has now reached the pinnacle of his fame, and 
 from this point we have to trace that decline which ended so 
 awfully. 
 
 Whilst we call him a dishonest man, we must not be sup- 
 posed to imply that he was so in heart. It is picadc.l for him 
 that he tricked his creditors 'for the fun of the thing,' like a 
 modem Robin Hood, and like that forester bouC' he was 
 mightily generous with other men's money. Deception is de- 
 ception whether in sport or earnest, and Sheridan, no doubt, 
 made it a very profitable employment. He had always a taste 
 for the art of duping, and he had begun early in life— soon after 
 leaving Harrosv. He was spending a few days at Bristol, and 
 wanted a pair of new boots, but could not afford to i)ay for 
 them. Shortly before he left, he called on two bootmakers, and 
 ordered of each a ])air, promising payment on delivery. He 
 fixed the morning of his dei)arture for the tradesmen to send 
 m their goods. When the first arrived he tried on the boots 
 complaining that that for the ;/-/// foot pinched a little, and or- 
 dered Crispin to take it back, stretch it, and bripg it again at 
 lime the next morning. The second arrived soon after, and 
 this time it was the boot for the /.ft foot which pinched. Same 
 complaint ; same order given ; each had taken aw^y only the 
 pinching boot, and left the other behind. The same afternoon 
 •^•hendan left in his new boots for town, and when the two 
 shoemakers called at nine the next day, each with a boot in his 
 
 24— 2 
 
3/2 
 
 A SJirczvd but Graceless Oxonian. 
 
 
 hand, wc can imagine their disgust at finding how neatly they 
 liad been duped. 
 
 Anecdotes of this kind swarm in every account of Richard 
 Sheridan — many of them, i)erha[)S, (luite ajjocryplial, others ex- 
 aggerated, or attributed to this noted trickster, but all tending 
 to show how completely he was master of this high art. His 
 ways of eluding creditors used to delight me, I remember, 
 when an Oxford boy, and they are only paralleled by Oxford 
 stories. One of these may not be generally known, and was 
 worthy of Sheridan. Every Oxonian knows Hall, the boat- 
 builder at Folly Bridge. Mrs. Hall was, in my time, proprie- 
 tress of those dangerous skiffs and nutshell canoes which we 
 young harcbrains delighted to launch on the Isis. Some youth- 
 ful Sheridanian had a long account with this elderly and bashful 
 ■|)ersonage, who had applied in vain for hernioney, till, coming 
 one day to his rooms, she announced her intention not to leave 
 till the money was paid. ' Very well, Mrs. Hall, then you must 
 sit down and make yourself comfortable while I dress, for I am 
 going out directly.' Mrs. H. sat down composedly, and with 
 e(|ual composure the youth took off his coat. Mrs. H. was not 
 abashed, but in another moment the debtor removed his waist- 
 coat also. IMrs. H. was still immoveable. Sundry other arti- 
 cles of dress followed, and the good lady began to be nervous. 
 * Now, Mrs. Hall, you can stay if you like, but I assure you that 
 I am going to change a/i my dress.' Suiting the action to the 
 word, he began to remove his lower garments, when Mrs. Hall, 
 shocked and furious, rushed from the room. 
 
 This reminds us of Sheridan's treatment of a female creditor. 
 He had for some years hired his carriage-lu/ses from FMbrookc 
 in Clarges Street, and his bill was a heavy one. Mrs. Edbrooke 
 wanted a new bonnet, and blew up her mate for not insisting on 
 payment. The curtain lecture was followed next day by a re- 
 fusal to allow Mr. Sheridan to have the horses till the account 
 was settled, Mr. Sheridan sent the politest possible message in 
 reply, begging that Mrs. Edbrooke would allow his coachman to 
 drive her in his own carriage to his tloor, and promising that the 
 matter should be satisfactorily arranged. The good woman was 
 delighted, dressed in her best, and, bill in hand, entered the 
 
low neatly they 
 
 flint of Richard 
 '[)hal, others ex- 
 but all tending 
 high art. His 
 e, I remember, 
 eled by Oxford 
 mown, and was 
 Hall, the boat- 
 y time, proprie- 
 moes which we 
 s. Some youth- 
 erly and bashful 
 ley, till, coming 
 ion not to leave 
 , then you must 
 [ dress, for I am 
 scdly, and with 
 Mrs. H. was not 
 110 ved his waist- 
 ndry other arti- 
 1 to be nervous, 
 assure you that 
 e action to the 
 vhen Mrs. Hall, 
 
 female creditor, 
 from Edbrookc 
 Mrs. Edbrookc 
 ' not insisting on 
 xt day by a re- 
 till the account 
 sible message in 
 liis coachman to 
 oniising that the 
 ;ood woman was 
 nd, entered the 
 
 Dims Oiihvittcd. 
 
 373 
 
 M.P.'s chariot. Sheridan meanwhile had given orders to his 
 servants. Mrs. Edbrooke was shown up into the back drawin"-- 
 rooni, where slight luncheon, of which she was begged to 
 IKirtake, was laid out ; and she was assured that her debtor 
 would not keep her waiting long, though for the moment en- 
 gaged. The horse-dealer's wife sat down and discussed a wing 
 of chicken and glass of wine, and in the meantime her victf- 
 niizer had been watching his oi)portunity, slipped down stairs, 
 jumi)ed into the vehicle, and drove off. Mrs. i:(lbrooke 
 fiiiished her lunch and waited in vain ; ten minutes, twenty, 
 thirty, passed, and then she rang the bell : 'Very sorry, ma'am, 
 but Mr. Sheridan went out on important business half an hour 
 ago.' 'And the carriage ?'— ' Oh, ma'am, Mr. Sheridan never 
 walks.' 
 
 He procured his wine in the same style. Chalier, the wine- 
 merchant, was his creditor to a large amount, and had stopped 
 supplies. Sheridan was to give a grand dinner to the leaders 
 of the Opposition, and had no port or sherry to offer them. On 
 the morning of the day fixed he sent for Chalier, and told him 
 he wanted to settle his account. The importer, much pleased, 
 said he would go home and bring it at once. ' Stay,' cried the 
 
 debtor, 'will you dine with me to-day ; Lord , Sir , and 
 
 So and-soare coming.' Chalier was flattered and readilyaccepled. 
 Returning to his office, he told his clerk that he should dine 
 with Mr. S'^eridan, and therefore leave early. At the proper 
 hour he arrived in full dress, and was no sooner in the house 
 than his host despatched a message to the clerk at the ofiice, 
 saying that Mr. Chalier wished him to send up at once three 
 dozen of Burgundy, two of claret, two of port, &c., &c. No- 
 thing seemed more natural, and the wine was forwarded, just 
 in time for the dinner. It was highly praised by the guests, 
 who asked Sheridan who was his wine-merchant. The host 
 bowed towards Chalier, gave him a high recommendation, and 
 impressed him with the belief that he was telling a polite false- 
 hood in order to secure him other cus'omers. Little did he 
 think that he was drinking his own wine, and that it was not, 
 and probably never would |u^ naid for ' 
 In like manner, when he wanted a particular Burgundy from 
 
374 
 
 TJic Lazvyer Jockeyed. 
 
 «^E 
 
 an innkeeper at Richmond, who decHned ta supply it till his 
 bill was paid, he sent for the man, and had no sooner seen him 
 safe in the house than he drove off to Richmond, saw his wife, 
 told her he had just had a conversation with mine host, settled 
 everything, and woulil, to save them trouble, take the wine with 
 h.im in his carriage. The condescension overpowered the good 
 woman, who ordered it at once to be produced, and Sheritlan 
 drove home about the time that her husband was returning to 
 Richmond, Aveary of waiting for his absent debtor. But this 
 kind of trickery could not always succeed without some know- 
 ledge of his creditor's character. In the case of Holloway, the 
 lawyer, Sheridan took advantage of his Avell-known vanity of 
 his judgment of horse-flesh. Kelly gives the anecdote as authen- 
 tic. He was walking one day with Sheridan, close to the 
 churcliyard of St. Paul's, Covent (larden, when, as ill-luck would 
 have it, up comes Holloway on horseback, and in a furious rage, 
 complains that he has called on Mr. Sheritlan time and again in 
 Hertford Street, and can never gain admittance. He proceeds 
 to violent threats, and slangs his debtor roundly. Sheridan, 
 cool as a whole bed of cucumbers, takes no notice of these 
 attacks, but (quietly exclaims : ' What a beautiful creature you're 
 riding, Holloway !' The lawyer's weak i)oint was touched. 
 
 * You were speaking to me the other day about a horse for 
 Mrs. Sheridan \ now this would be a treasure for a lady.' 
 
 ' Does he canter well ?' asks Sheridan, with a look of busi- 
 ness. 
 
 ' Like Pegasus himself.' 
 
 ' If that's the case, I shouldn't mind, Holloway, stretching a 
 jioint for him. Do you mind showing me his paces ?' 
 
 'Not at all,' replies the lawyer, only too happy to show off his 
 own : and touching up the horse, put him to a ({uiet canter, 
 'I'he moment is not to be lost ; the churchyard gate is at hand ; 
 Sheridan slips in, knowing that his mounted tormentor cannot 
 follow him, and there bursts into a roar of laughter, which is 
 joined in by Kelly, but not by the returning Holloway. 
 
 But if he escaped an importunate lawyer once in a way like 
 this, he required more ingenuity to get rid of the limbs of the 
 law, when they came, as they did frequently in his later years. 
 
pply it till his 
 ooner seen him 
 , saw his wife, 
 le host, settled 
 c the wine with 
 rt'ercd tlie good 
 
 and Sheridan 
 as returning to 
 )tor. But tliis 
 lit some know- 
 ' Molloway, the 
 lown vanity of 
 :(lote as authen- 
 
 close to the 
 .s ili-luck would 
 1 a furious rage, 
 ne and again in 
 He proceeds 
 lly. Sheridan, 
 notice of these 
 creature you're 
 IS touched. 
 )ut a horse for 
 ■ a lady.' 
 1 look of busi- 
 
 ly, Stretching a 
 
 ices ?' 
 
 ^'to show off his 
 
 I quiet canter. 
 
 gate is at hand ; 
 
 rmentor cannot 
 
 iglUer, which is 
 
 Uoway. 
 
 e in a way like 
 
 le limbs of the 
 
 his later years. 
 
 T*^- — — ~ ----- - — ■— ^ — 
 
 "A iJiKAsnn: I'nii \ i ahv 
 
 -IlKUin V\ AM) 1 IIK H\V\ K({. 
 
 A" p. ".Tt. 
 
a. 
 
 It 
 
 sc 
 
 (In 
 tht 
 vcl 
 is ! 
 gai 
 (ill 
 cei 
 sin 
 fill 
 fric 
 (|iii 
 grc 
 riv 
 .sci: 
 ma 
 sor 
 
 l<.)U 
 
 iur 
 line 
 Slu 
 on 
 the 
 risi: 
 whi 
 the 
 mo 
 uhi 
 hos 
 'N( 
 will 
 hat 
 sail 
 wa.s 
 1 
 har 
 fore 
 
Advcuturcs ivith Bailiffs. 375 
 
 It was the fiishionablc thing in bygone novels of the Telham ' 
 .s( Iiool, and even in more recent comedies, to introtluce a well- 
 (hcssed sheriff's officer at a (Hnner party r^r ball, and take him 
 through a variety of predicaments, ending, at length, in the re- 
 \ elation of his real character; and i^robably some such scene 
 i-, still enacted from time to time in the houses of the extrava- 
 gant : but Sheridan's adventures with bailiffs seem to have ex- 
 ( ilcd more attention. In the midst of his difticulties he never 
 ceased to entertain his friends, and 'why should he not do so, 
 since he had not to pay ?' ' Pay your bills, sir ? what a shame- 
 ful waste of money !' he once said. Thus, one day a young 
 friend was met by him and taken back to dinner, '(piite in a 
 qui \ way, just to meet a very olil friend of mine, a man of 
 great talent, and most charming companion.' ^Vhen they ar- 
 rived they found 'the old friend' already installed, and pre- 
 senting a .'-omewhat unpolished api)earance, which the young 
 man explained to himself by supposing him to be a genius of 
 somewhat low extraction. Mis habits at dinner, the eager 
 look, the free use of his knife, and so forth, were all accounted 
 for in the same way, but that he was. a genius of no slight dis- 
 tinction was clear from the deep respect and attention with which 
 Sheridan listened to his slightest remarks, and asked his opinion 
 on English poetry. Meanwhile Sheridan and the servant l)etween 
 them plied the genius very liberally with wine : and the former, 
 rising, made him a complimentary speech on his critical powers, 
 while the young guest, who had heard nothing from his lips but 
 the commonest platitudes in very bad English, grew more and 
 more amused. The wine told in time, the ' genius ' sang songs 
 which were more Saxon than delicate, talked loud, clai)ped his 
 host on the shoulder, and at last rolled fairly under the table. 
 'Now,' said Sheridan, quite calmly to his young friend, ' we 
 will go up stairs : and, Jack,' (to his servant) 'take that man's 
 hat and give him to the watch.' He then explained in the 
 same calm tone, that this was a bailiff of whose company he 
 was growing rather tired, and wanted to be freed. 
 
 But his finest tricks were undoubtedly those by which he turned, 
 harlequin-like, a creditor into a lender. This was done by sheer 
 force of persuasion, by assuming a lofty irdignation, or by j)ut- 
 
j/J 
 
 SJicridaiis Pinucrs of Persuasion. 
 
 O 
 
 tint,' forth his claims to mercy with the most touching eloquence 
 ()\cr uhicli !u.' would laugh heartily when his jjoint was gained. 
 Mc was often compelled to do this during his theatrical manage- 
 ment, when a troublesome creditor might have interfered with 
 the success of the establishment. lie talked over an uphol 
 sterer who came with a writ for ^^350 till the latter handed him, 
 instead, a cheque for ^200. He once, when the actors struck 
 for arrears of wages to the amount of jC^,ooo, and his bankers 
 refused flatly to Kelly to advance another jienny, screwed the 
 Avhole sum out of them in less than a (luarter of an hour by 
 sheer talk. He got a gold watch from Harris, the manager, 
 with whom he had broken several appointments, by complain- 
 ing that as he had no watrji he could never tell the time fixed 
 for their meetings; and, as for i)Utling off ])ressing' creditors, 
 and turning furious foes into affectionate friends, he was such 
 an adept at it, that his reputation as a dun-destroyer iscpiteon 
 a i)ar with his fame as comedian and orator. 
 
 Hoaxing, a style of amusement fortunately out of fashion 
 now, was almost a jnission with him, and liis practical jokes 
 were as merciless as his satire. He and 'I'ickell, who had mar- 
 ried the sister of his wife, used to play them olV on one another 
 like a couple of schoolboys. One evening, for instance, She- 
 ridan got together all the crockery in the house and arranged it 
 in a dark passage, leaving a small channel for escai)e for him- 
 self, and then, having teased Titkell till he ruslied after him, 
 bounded out and i)icked his way gingerly along the passage. 
 His friend followed him unwittingly, and at the first step stimi- 
 bled over a washhand-basin, and fell forwards with a crash on 
 l>iles of plates and dishes, Avhich cut his face and hands in a 
 most cruel manner, Sheridan all the while laughing iaunoderately 
 at the end of the passage, secure from wugLance. 
 
 I'jut his most impudent hoax was that on the Honourable 
 House of Commons itself Lord Belgrave had made a very 
 tt'lling speech which lie wound \\\) with a Greek quotation, 
 loudly applauded. Sheridan had no arguments to meet him 
 with ; so rising, he admitted the force of his lordship's (piota- 
 tion (of which, lie iirolsiibly did not understand :\ word.\ lnU 
 added tlint had he gone a little f\rther, and completed the 
 
'ON. 
 
 Iiing eloquence 
 int was gained. 
 atric:al manage- 
 interfercd with 
 )\LT an iipho) 
 or handed him, 
 e actors struck 
 nd his bankers? 
 •, screwed the 
 nf an liour I)y 
 the manager, 
 ;, by comphiin- 
 the time fixed 
 >sing' creditors, 
 i, lie was such 
 Dver is (juite on 
 
 out of fashion 
 practical jokes 
 , uho iiad mar- 
 Dn one another 
 
 instance, Shc- 
 ind arranged it 
 scape for him- 
 icd after him, 
 4 the passage, 
 "list step stum- 
 ith a crash on 
 tid hands in a 
 ; immoderately 
 e. 
 le Honourable 
 
 made a very 
 eek quotation, 
 
 to meet him 
 rdship's quota- 
 ! a word), but 
 completed the 
 
 House of ComvioHs Greek. ^yy 
 
 passage, he would have seen that the context completely altered 
 the sense. He woukl ]>rove it to the House, he said, and forth- 
 with rolled forth a grand string of majestic gibberish so well 
 imitated that the whole assembly cried, * Hear, hear !' Lord 
 lielgrave rose again, and frankly admitted that the passage had 
 the meaning ascribed to it by the honourable gentleman, and 
 that he had overlooked it at the moment. At the end of the 
 evening, Fox, - ) prided himself on his classical lore, came up 
 to and said to him, 'Sheridan, how came you to be so ready 
 with that passage ? It is certainly as you say, l)ut I was not 
 .iware of it before you quoted it.' Sheridan was wise enough 
 to keei) his own counsel for the time, but must have felt de- 
 lightfully tickled at the ignorance of the would-be savants with 
 A hom he was i)olitically as.sociated. I'robably Sheridan could 
 not at any time have ([uoted a whole passage of (ireek on the 
 ^pur of the moment ; but it is certain that he had not kept up 
 his classics, and at the time in ([uestion must have forgotten the 
 little he ever knew of them. 
 
 This facility of imitating exactly the sound of a language 
 without introducing a single word of it is rot so very rare, but 
 is generally possessed in greater readiness by those who know 
 no tongue but their own, and are therefore more struck by the 
 strangeness of a foreign one, when hearing it. Many of us 
 have heard Italian songs in which there was not a word of 
 actual Italian sung in London l)urK'Si|iu.s. and some of us have 
 laughed at Levassor's cajiital imitation of English ; but perhaps 
 the cleverest mimic of thi' kind I ever heard was M. Laftitte, 
 hrother of that famous banivcr who made his fortune by picking 
 up a pin. This gentleman could speak nothing but French, but 
 had been brought by his business into contact with foreigners ot 
 every race at Paris, and when he once began his little trick, it 
 was impo.ssible to believe that he was not possessed of a gift of 
 tongues. His Clerman and Italian were good enough, but his 
 I'.nglish was so spendidly counterfeiteil, that after listening to 
 him for a short time, I suddenly heard a roar of laughter from 
 all present, for I had actually unconsciously a>isu'crrd h'nii, 
 ' Yes,' ' No.' ■' Exactlv so,' and ' I ("uite aCTee with voi! !' 
 
 I'^ndoubtedly much of Sheridan's depravity must be attributed 
 
Q 
 
 378 The Royal Ihon Companion, 
 
 t(j his iiuirnacy with ;i man whom it was a groat honour to a 
 youngster then to know, but who would itrobably be scouted 
 even from a London cUib in the present day — the Prince of 
 Wales, 'i'he jiart of a courtier is always degrading enough to 
 ])lay ; but to be courtier to a prince whose favour was to be 
 won by proficiency in vice, and audacity in follies, to trucVic to 
 liis tastes, to win his smiles by the invention of a new pleasuie 
 and his ai)probation by the plotting of a new viUany, what an 
 office for the author of ''i'he School for Scandal,' and the orator 
 renowned for denuuncing the wickednesses of Warren Hastings 1 
 "What a life for the young poet who had wooetl and won the 
 Maid of Bath— for the man c " strong domestic affections, who 
 wcjjt over liis father's sternness, and loved his son only too well ! 
 It was bad enough for such mere worldlings asCai)tain Hanger 
 or IJeau IJrummell, but for a man of higher and purer feelings, 
 like Sheridan, who, with all his nmlts, luul some poetry in his 
 soul, siich a career was doubly disgraceful. 
 
 It was at the house of the beautiful, lively, and adventurous 
 Duchess of Devonshire, the parti/au of Charles James Fox, 
 who loved him or his cause— for J'ox ami Liberalism were often 
 one in ladies' eyes — so well, that she could give Steele, the 
 butcher, a kiss for his vote, that Sheridan first met the prince — 
 then a boy in years, but ah-cady more than an adult in vii e. 
 No doubt the youth whom I'ox, lirummell. Hanger, Lord 
 Surrey, Sheridan, the tailors and the women, combined to turn 
 at once into the finest gentleman and greatest blackguard in 
 Europe, was at that time as fascinating in appearance and man- 
 ner as any c r.), prince or not, could be. He was by far the 
 handsomest of the Hanoverians, and had the least amount of 
 their sheepish look. He possessed all their taste and capacity, 
 for gallantry, with apparently none of the German coarseness 
 which certain other Princes of Wales exhibited in their amorous 
 address. Jlis coarseness was of a more sensual, but less im- 
 perious kind. He had\\\?> redeeming points, which few of his 
 ancestors had, and his liberal hand and warm heart won him 
 friends, where his conduct could win him little else than con- 
 temjjt. Sheridan was introduced to him l)y Fox, and Mrs. 
 Sheridan by the Duchess of Devonshire. The prince had that 
 
Anecdotes of Sheridan and ' Wa/es. 
 
 579 
 
 honour to a 
 y be .scouted 
 he I'rinr.e ui 
 ig enough to 
 .ir was to ))e 
 , U) trucVi'.' to 
 new pleasui. 
 any, what :iii 
 md the orator 
 ren Hastings : 
 ;uul won the 
 ffections, who 
 only too well I 
 ptain Hanger 
 )urer feelings, 
 [joetry in his 
 
 I adventurous 
 James Fox, 
 sni were often 
 /e Steele, the 
 t the ])rince — 
 ulult in vice, 
 langer, J.ord 
 bined to turn 
 jlackguard in 
 mce and man- 
 as by far the 
 St amount of 
 : and capacity, 
 m coarseness 
 their amorous 
 , but less im- 
 ch few of his 
 iart won him 
 :lse than con- 
 'ox, and Mrs. 
 rince had that 
 
 which always takes witir lOnglishmcn— a readiness of convivi- 
 ality, and a recklessness of character. He was ready to dial, 
 (Innk, and bet with Sheridan, or any new comer etpially well 
 rcconnnended, and an introduction to young Cieorge was.lway.s 
 followed by an easy recognition. With all this he managed to 
 kcei> up a certain amount of royal <lignity under the most try- 
 ing c ircumstances, but he had none of that easy grace wlii(:h 
 made Charles 11. beloved by his associates. When theCleorge 
 hail gone too far, he had no resource but to cut the individual 
 with whom he had hobbe(' and nobbed, and he was as un- 
 grateful in his enmities as he was ready with his friendship. 
 I'.rummell had taught h.m t.> dress, and Sheridan had given hint 
 wiser counsels : he (luarrelled with both for tritlcs, whi< h, if he 
 had had real dignity, would never have occurred, and if he had 
 had real friendship, would easily have been overlooked. 
 
 Sheridan's breach with the prince was honourable to him. 
 He could not wholly approve of the conduct of that personage 
 and his ministers, and he told him openly that his life was at 
 his senice, but his character was the property of the country. 
 The prince replied that Sheridan ' might impeach his ministers 
 on the morrow— that would not impair tlieir friendshij) ;' yet 
 turned on his heel, and was never Ins friend again. When, 
 again, the 'delicate investigation' came off, he sent for Sheridan, 
 and asked his aid. The latter replied, ' Your royal highness 
 honours me, but I will never take part against a woman, whether 
 she be right or wrong.' His political courage ator.es somewhat 
 for the vvant of moral courage he di.splayed in pandering to the 
 jirince's vices. 
 
 Many an anecdote is told of Sheridan and ' Wales'— many, 
 indeed, that cannot bo rciHited. Their bets were often of the 
 coarsest nature, won by Shcndan in the coarsest manner. A 
 great intimacy sprang up between the two reprobates, and 
 Sheridan became one of the satellites of that dissolute i)rince. 
 There are few of the stories of llieir adventures which can be 
 told in a work like this, but we may give one or two specimens 
 of the less disgraceful character : — 
 
 The Prince, Lord Surrey, and Sheridan were in the ha])it of 
 seeking nightly adventures of any kind that suggested itself to 
 
b 
 
 2^0 Street Frolics at JV/\i^/it. 
 
 their lively minds. A low tavern, still in existence, u\i.> the 
 rendezvous of the heir to the crown and his noble and distin- 
 guished associates. This was the 'Salutation,' in Tavistock 
 Court, Covent CJarden, a nij^ht house for gardener; and 
 
 • ountrymen, and for the sharjiers who fleeced both, and was 
 kipl l)y a certain Mother Butler, who favoured in every way 
 the advenUirous designs of her exalted guests. Mere wigs, 
 smock-frocks, and otlier disguises were in readiness ; and here, 
 at (all, was to be found a ready-made magistrate, whose sole 
 occupation was to deliver the young Haroun and his com- 
 I)anions from the dilemmas which their adventures naturally 
 brought them into, and wliich were generally more or less 
 concerned with the watch. Poor old watch ! what hapj^y days, 
 when members of parliament, noblemen, and future monarchs 
 condescended to break thy bob-wigged head! and— blush, 
 / 350, imniaculate constable — to toss thee a guinea t'; buy 
 ])laster with. 
 
 In addition to the other disguise, '(///(/j-f-j- were of course as- 
 sumed. The j)rince went by the name of IJlackstock, Greystock 
 was my Lord Surrey, and Thinstock Kichard P.rinsley Sheridan. 
 'l"he treatment of women by the i)olice is traditional. The 
 
 * unfortunate'— unhappy creatures! — are their pet aversion; 
 and once in their clutches, receive no mercy. The 'Charley' 
 ol old was quite as brutal as the modern ITeicules of the 
 glazed hat, and the three adventurers showed an amount of 
 zeal worthy of a nobler cause, in rescuing the drunken Lais 
 from his gras]). On one occasion they seem to have hit on a 
 ' deserving case ;' a slight skirmish with the watch ended in a 
 rescue, and the erring creature was taken off to a house of 
 respecta1>ility sufficient to protect her. Here she told her tale, 
 which, liowever improbable, turned out to be true. Jt was 
 a very (ild, a very simple one — the common history of many a 
 frail, foolish girl, cursed with beaut\', and the prey of a prac- 
 tised .seducer. I'hc main peculiarity lay in the fact of her 
 res])ectal)le birth, :uid his position, ;;he being the daughter of 
 a solicitor, he the son of a nobleman. Marriage was promised, 
 
 *urse, as it has been promised a million times with the 
 .s.ane intent, and for the millionth time was not performed. The 
 
'/■// (VJ Talc 
 
 tonre, was the 
 jblc and dislin- 
 ' in Tavistock 
 gardeners and 
 both, and was 
 1 in every way 
 i. Here wi^'s, 
 ess; and here, 
 Lie, whose sole 
 and hia com- 
 itiires naturally 
 ' more or less 
 lat happy days, 
 iiture monarchs 
 ! and — ])kish, 
 guinea to l)uy 
 
 ; uf course as- 
 :ock, Oreystock 
 nsley Sheridan, 
 .ditional. The 
 
 pet aversion ; 
 The 'Charley' 
 eicules of the 
 
 an amount ot 
 : drunken La'is 
 
 have hit on a 
 ch ended in a 
 to a house of 
 e told her tale, 
 
 true. It was 
 ory of many a 
 rey of a [irac- 
 Lhe fact of her 
 le daughter of 
 was promised, 
 times with the 
 erformed. The 
 
 3S1 
 
 so< nrer took her from her home, kept lier r,m-et for a time, 
 lid when the novelty was gone, abandoned her. The ol.l 
 i-ry went on; poverty ~ a child-a mother's love strugglin.' 
 » .th a sense of shame - a visit to her father's house at the 
 ist moment, as a forlorn hope. There she hid crawled on 
 KT knees to one of those relentless parents on whose heads 
 lie the utter loss of their chil.lren's souls. The Adse imde, that 
 loke of the blot on his name, the disgrace of his house- 
 ^^l>c■n a Saviour's example should have bid him forgive and 
 iiise the:penitent in her misery from the dust - whispere.l 
 ' 'in to turn her from his door. He ordere.l the footman to put 
 Kr out, '1 he man, a nobleman in plush, moved by his young 
 mistress's utter mi.sery, would not obey though it cost him his 
 I'l;ue, and the harder-hearted father himself thrust his starving 
 < ink! into the cold street, into the driz/ding rain, ami slammed 
 the door upon licr cries of agony. The footman slipped out 
 alter her, and five shillings-a large sum for him-found its 
 uay from his kind hand to hers. Now the common endin.^ 
 might have come ; now starvation, the slow, unwilling, recourse 
 tn more shame and deeper vice ; then the forced hilarity the 
 unreal smile, which in so many of these poor creatures liides 
 .1 (anker at the heart ; the gradual degradation -lower still an<I 
 lower— oblivion tor a moment sought in the bottle -a life of 
 sin and death ended in a hospital. The will of Provide- e 
 turned the frolic of three volupt- ios to good account- me 
 I-rin. e gave his purse full, Sherid hi>. one last guinea for her 
 I-resent needs 'Le name of the good-hearted Plush was dis- 
 rovered, and h. was taken into Carlton House, <, ,ere he soon 
 became ' -wn as Roberts, the prince's confidential servant • 
 and Mundan bestirred himself to rescue for ever the poor 
 !:»' e beauty still remained as a temptation. He pro- 
 
 ' d her a situation, whcic she studied for the stage, on whic h 
 eventually api)eared. '.Mr. well that ends well:' her 
 'ret was kept, till one admm .■ rame honourably forwanl. 
 !o him It was confided, and he was noble enough to forgive 
 tiie one flilse step of youth. She was well married, and^the 
 \m for whom she had suffered so --ch fell at Traflugir a 
 'leutenant in the navy. ' 
 
b 
 
 382 The Fray in St. Giles s. 
 
 'I'o better men such an adventure would liave l^een a solemn 
 warning ; such a tale, told by the ruined one herself, a sermon, 
 every word of which would have clung to their memories. 
 What effect, if any, it may have had on 151ackstock and his 
 conijianions must have been very fleeting. 
 
 It is not so v^ry long since the Seven Dials and St. Giles' 
 were haunts of wickedness and dens of thieves, into which 
 the police scarcely dared to penetrate. Probably their mys- 
 teries would have afforded more amusement to the artist and 
 the student of character than to the mere seeker of adven- 
 ture, but it was still, 1 remember, in my early days, a great feat 
 to visit by night one of the noted ' cribs' to which ' the profes- 
 sion ' which fills Newgate was wont to resort. 'Die ' I^rown Bear,' 
 in Broad Street, St. Giles', was one of these pleasant haunts, and 
 thither the three adventurers determined to go. This style of 
 adventure is out of date, and no longer amusing. Of course a 
 fight ensued, in which the prince and his companions showed 
 immense pluck against terrible odds, and in which, as one 
 reads in the novels of the * London Journal ' or ' Family 
 Herald,' the natural superiority of the well-born of course dis- 
 played itself to great advantage. Surely Buhver has described 
 such scenes too graphically in some of his earlier novels to 
 make a minute description here at all necessary ; but the 
 reader who is curious in the matter may be referred to a work 
 wliich has recently appeared under the tide of 'Sheridan and 
 his Times,' professing to be written by an Octogenarian, intimate 
 with the hero. The fray ended with the arrival of the watch, 
 who rescued Blackstock, Greystock, antl Thinstock, and with 
 1 )ogberryan stupidity carried them off to a neighbouring lock-up. 
 The examination w-hich took place was just the occasion for 
 Sheridan's fun todis))lay itself on, and pretending to turn informer, 
 he succeeded in bewilde; ing the unfortunate parochial constable, 
 who conducted it, till the arrival of the magistrate, whose duty 
 was to deliver his friends from durance vile. The whole scene 
 is v/ell described in the book just referred to, with, we presume, 
 a certain amount of idealizing ; but the 'Octogenarian' had 
 probably heard the story from Sheridan himself, and the main 
 
)een a solemn 
 jclf, a sermon, 
 eir memories, 
 stock and his 
 
 and St. Giles' 
 :s, into which 
 jly their mys- 
 the artist and 
 ker of adven- 
 •s, a great feat 
 ;h ' the profes- 
 * Brown Bear,' 
 nt haunts, and 
 This style of 
 Of course a 
 inions showed 
 which, as one 
 [ ' or ' Family 
 of course dis- 
 has described 
 rlier novels to 
 sary ; but the 
 rred to a work 
 Sheridan and 
 arian, intimate 
 of the watch, 
 :ock, and with 
 During lock-up, 
 i occasion for 
 ) turn informer, 
 hial constable, 
 e, whose duty 
 le whole scene 
 1, we presume, 
 genarian ' had 
 
 Un-opcncd L cttcrs. 3 g ^ 
 
 points must be accepted as correct. The affair ended, as usu il 
 with a supper at the 'Salutation.' 
 
 We must now follow Sheridan in his gradual downfall 
 One oi the causes of this-as llir as money was concerned- 
 was h.s extreme indolence and utter negligence. He trusted 
 far too much to his ready wit and rapitl genius. Thus when 
 ' I'l/arro ' was to appear, day after day went by, and notliing 
 ^v.ls• done. On the night of representation, only four acts out 
 of five were written, and even these had not been rehearsed 
 tlie principal performers, Siddons, Chades Kemble and Barrv- 
 more, having only just received their parts. Sheridan was up 
 m the prompter's room actually writing the fifth act while the 
 lust was being performed, and every now and then appeared 
 ui the green-room with a fresh relay of dialogue, and setting all 
 in good humour by his merry abuse of his own negligence hx 
 spite of this 'I'izarro' succeeded. He seldom wrote except 
 at nigiit, and surrounded by a profusion of lights Wine wis 
 his great stimulant in comj.osition, as it has been to better 
 a.ul worse authors. ' If the thought is slow to come,' he would 
 say, ' a glass of good wine encourages it ; and when ii does 
 rume, a glass of good wine rewards it.' Those glasses of good 
 wme, were, unfortunately, even more frequent than the good 
 Uwughts, many and merry as they were. 
 
 I lis neglect of letters was a standing joke against him He 
 never took the trouble to open any that he did not exoect 
 and often left sealed many that he was most anxious to' ;ead' 
 lie once appeared with his begging face at the Bank, humblJ 
 asking an advance of twenty pounds. 'Certainly, sir; would 
 you like any more?-fifty or a hundred?' said the smiling clerk 
 bheridan was overpowered. He 7V0Hld like a hundred ' Tu' 
 or three? asked the scribe. Sheridan thought he wa.; jokin^^ 
 l>ut was ready for two or even three-he was ahvavs ready fo; 
 •a^re. But he could not conceal his surprise. 'Have you not 
 received our letter?' the clerk asked, perceiving it. Certainlv 
 he had received the epistle, which informed him that his salary 
 as Receiver-General 01 Cornwall had been paid in, but he had 
 never opened it. 1 , «. i»t. nati 
 
 This neglect of letters once brought him into a troublesome 
 
 ' ti 
 
384 
 
 Reckless Extravasrancc. 
 
 b 
 
 lawsuit about the theatre. It v*'as necessary to pay certain 
 demands, and he had applied to the Duke of Bedford to be 
 his security. The duke had consented, and for a whole year 
 his letter of consent remained unopened. In the meantime 
 Sheridan had believed that the duke had neglected him, and 
 allowed the demands to be brought into court. 
 
 In the same v/ay he had long before committed himself in 
 the affair with Captain Matthews. In order to give a public 
 denial of certain reports circulated in Bath, he had called upon 
 an editor, retiucsting him to insert the said reports in his paper 
 in order that he might write him a letter to refute them. The 
 editor at once com])lied, the calumny was printed and pub- 
 lished, but Sheridan forgot all about his own refutation, which 
 was applied for in vain till too late. 
 
 either causes were his extravagance and intemperance. There 
 was an utter want of even common moderation in everything 
 he did. Whenever his boyish spirit suggested any freak, when- 
 ever a craving of any kind ])ossessed him, no matter what the 
 consequences here or hereafter, he rushed heedlessly into the 
 indulgence of it. Perhaps the enemy had never an easier sub- 
 ject to deal with. Any sin in which there was a show of ])re- 
 sent mirth, or easy i)leasure, was as easily taken up by Sheridan 
 as if he had not a single particle of conscience or religious 
 feeling, and yet we are not at all prepared to say that he lack 
 cither ; he had only deadened both by excessive indulgence . : 
 his fancies. The temptation of wealth and fxme had been too 
 inucli for the poor and obscure young man who rose to them 
 so suddenly, and, as so often happens, those very talents which 
 should have been his glory, were, in foct, his ruin. 
 
 His extravagance was unbounded. At a time when misfor- 
 tune lay thick upon him, and bailiffs were hourly expected, he 
 would invite a large |)arty to a dinner, which a prince might 
 have given, ami to which one prince sometimes sat down. On 
 one occasion, having no plate left from the pawnbroker's, he 
 had to prevail on ' my uncle' to lend him some for a banquet 
 he was to give. The spoons and forks were sent, and with 
 them two of his men. wlio. dressed in livery, waited, no doul>t 
 with the most vigilant attention, on the party. Such at that 
 
to pay certain 
 
 Bedford to be 
 
 5r a whole ycxir 
 
 the meantime 
 
 ected him, and 
 
 itted himself in 
 i give a public 
 lad called ui)on 
 rtr. in his pajjer 
 ite them. The 
 nted and pub- 
 ifutation, which 
 
 perance. There 
 I in everything 
 ny freak, when- 
 natter what the 
 dlessly into the 
 r an easier sub- 
 a show of i)ro- 
 up by Sheridan 
 ice or religions 
 ,' that he lack 
 e indulgence . ; 
 le had been too 
 o rose to them 
 ■y talents whicli 
 1. 
 
 10 when misfor- 
 y expected, he 
 a prince might 
 sat down. On 
 iwnbroker's, he 
 : for a banquet 
 sent, and with 
 lited, no doubt 
 Such at that 
 
 Sporting Ambition. 385 
 
 period was the host's reputation, when he could not even be 
 trusted not to pledge anotlier man's property. At one time his 
 nicome was reckoned at ^15,000 a year, when the theatre was 
 l>rosperous. Of this he is said to have spent not more than 
 ^5,000 on his household, while the balance went to pay for his 
 former follies, debts, and the interest, lawsuits often arising from 
 mere carelessness and judgments against the theatre ! Probablv 
 a great deal of ic was betted away, drank away, thrown away i,; 
 one way or another. As for betting, he generally lost all the 
 wagers he made : as he said himself-' I never made a bet upon 
 n.y own judgment that I did not lose ; and I never won but 
 one, w nch I had made against n.y judgment.' His bets were 
 generally laid in hundreds ; and though he did not gamble, he 
 rould of course run through a good deal of money in this ^vay. 
 e betted on every possible trifle, but chiefly, it would seem, 
 on political possibilities; the state of the Funds, the result of 
 an election, or the downfall of a ministry. Horse-races do not 
 seem to have possessed any interest for him, and, in fact he 
 scarcely knew one kind of horse from another. He was never 
 an adept at field-sports, though very ambitious of being thourdu 
 a sportsman Once, when staying in the country, he ^vento^lt 
 ^^.th a friend s gamekeeper to shoot pheasants, and after wasting, 
 a vast amount of powder and shot upon the air, he was only rest 
 rued from ignominy l,y the sagacity of his companion, who, 
 gomg a htt le behind him when a bird rose, brought it down 
 so neatly_ that Sheridan, believing he had killed it himself 
 snatched it up and rushed bellowing with glee back to the 
 K)use to show that he ../././ shoot. In the same way, he tried 
 h.s hand at fishing in a wretched little stream behind the 
 canery at Winchester, using, ho. .ever, a net, as easier to han- 
 'llo than a rod. Some boys, who had watched his want of suc- 
 |-css a long time, at last bought a few pennyworth of pickled 
 jerrings, and throwing them on the stream, allowed them to 
 iloat down towards the eager disciple of old Izaak. Sheridan 
 saw them coming, rushed in regardless of his clotlies, cast his 
 net, and in great triumph secured them. When he had Innd-J 
 nis^prize, however, there were the boys bursting with laughter, 
 and I iscator saw he was their dupe. ' Ah !' cried he, \xxv<\<^xv^ 
 
 25 
 
 fi 
 
386 
 
 Like FatJicr, like Son. 
 
 b 
 
 in concert, as he looked at his dripping clothes, ' this is a pretty 
 fick/c indeed !' 
 
 iris extravagance was well known to his friends, as well as 
 to his creditors. Lord Ouildford met him one day. ' Well, 
 Sherry, so you've taken a new house, I hear.' — ' Yes, and you'll 
 see now that everything will go on like clockwork.' — ' Ay,' 
 said my lord, with a knowing leer, * tick, lick.' Even his son 
 Tom used to laugh at him for it. ' Tom, if you marry that 
 girl, I'll cut you oft" with a shilling.'— 'Then you must borrow 
 it,' replied the ingenuous youth."' Tom sometimes discon- 
 certed his father with his inherited wit — his only inheritance. 
 He pressed urgently for money on one, as on many an occasion. 
 ' I have none,' was the re])ly, as usual ; ' there isai)air of pistols 
 up stairs, a horse in the stable, the night is dark, and Houns- 
 low Heath at hand.' 
 
 *I understand what you mean,' replied young Tom ; 'but I 
 tried that last night, and unluckily stopped your treasurer, 
 Pcakc, who told me you had been l)eforehand with him, and 
 robbed him of every si.xpence he had in the world.' 
 
 So much for the resjiect of son to father ! 
 
 Papa had his revenge on the young wit, when Tom, talking 
 of Parliament, announced his intention of entering it on an in- 
 dependent basis, ready to be bought by the highest bidder. 
 ' I shall write on my forehead,' said he, " To let." ' 
 
 * And under that, Tom, " Unfurnished," ' rejoined Sherry the 
 elder. The joke is now stale enough. 
 
 Jiut Sheridan was more truly witty in putting down a young 
 braggart wdiom he met at dinner at a country-house. There 
 are still to be found, like the bones of dead asses in a field 
 newly ploughed, in some parts of the country, youths, who are 
 so hopelessly behind their age, and indeed every age, as to look 
 upon authorship as degrading, all knowledge, save Latin and 
 Greek, as ' a bore,' and all entertainment but hunting, shooting, 
 fishing, and badger-drawing, as unworthy of a man. In the 
 last century these young animals, wlio unite the modesty of 
 the iHippy with the clear-sightedness of the pig, not to mention 
 
 * Another version is that Tom replied : 'You don't happen to have it a' m ait 
 voii, sir, do voii ?' 
 
' Uiis is a pretty 
 
 icnds, as well as 
 :ie (lay. 'Well, 
 ■' Yes, and you'll 
 )ck\vork.' — ' Ay,' 
 I'-voii his son 
 you marry that 
 ou must borrow 
 metimes discon- 
 only inheritance, 
 any an occasion. 
 is a pair of pistols 
 ark, and Houns- 
 
 ig Tom ; ' but I 
 . your treasurer, 
 (1 with him, and 
 3rld.' 
 
 en Tom, talking 
 jring it on an in- 
 highest bidder. 
 
 
 oined Sherry the 
 
 ; down a young 
 
 ■y-house. There 
 asses in a field 
 youths, who are 
 
 •y age, as to look 
 save Latin and 
 
 unting, shooting, 
 a man. In the 
 the modesty of 
 
 C, not to mention 
 
 pen to have it al'out 
 
 A Severe and Witty Rebuke. -^^y 
 
 the progressiveness of another ,,uadrupe,!, were more numerot-s 
 Ktn u. the present day, and in consequence more forward i,t 
 w ,"' • :t\ '' ^^'T "'^^ ^' ^'-- ^^-™-g youths, who wJ 
 S Tr "'''' '' '^''''^'''^ ''''^ ^^ho, ciuite unpro- 
 
 oked, began at dmner to talk of 'actors and authors, and 
 hose low .sort of people, you know.' Sheridan said nought 
 'ut patteruly buled his time. TJ^^ next day there was a 1.^ 
 . .nner-party, and Sheridan and the youth happened to sit o^- 
 pos.te to one another in the tnost conspicuous part of the table 
 ^^oung Ntmrod was kindly obliging his si.le o> the table .Si 
 extraorchnary leaps of his hunter, the perfect working of his n^. 
 otd.lc^^arrelIed Manton, ^c, bringing of course m.mber T 
 m .IS the hero m each case. In a moment of silence, Sheridan 
 -han a,r of great politeness, adclressed his unhappy vict n ' 
 He had not,' he saul, ' been able to catch the whole if the v ry 
 
 mterestu^g account he had heard Mr. relating.' All yes 
 
 were urned upon the two. ' Would Mr. _ pennit hin \o 
 sk w o .was who made the extraordinary leap^ he had mer^ 
 tionul?- I sir, replied the youth with some pride. 'Then 
 ;^;o was It killed the wHd duck at that distance?'-'/'^ 
 \Vas ,t your .setter who behaved so well ?'-' Yes mine'iir'' 
 replied the vouth, -rettinc r.ther r .1 . ''^^ ^^^'n^, sir, 
 
 ' Anri ..hr. ' , / °^"'"g ^atiicr red over this examinat on. 
 And who caught the huge .salmon so neatly?'-' I sir' \n.l 
 •so the questioning went on through a do.en more items; till 
 he young man, weary of answering ' I, sir,' and growing red- 
 Icr and redder every moment, would gladly have hid hi^hcad 
 under the table-cloth, in spite of his sporting prowess 1 u 
 Sheridan had to give him the eou/> ./. ^Je. 
 
 'So, sir,' said he. very politely, 'you were tl.e chief ue/or In 
 every anecdote, and the aufAor of them all ; surely it is im- 
 politic to despise your own professions.' 
 
 Sheridan's intemperance was as great and as incurable as his 
 extravagance, and wc think his n.ind, if not his body, lived only 
 on stimulants. He could neither write nor speak wUhout them 
 One day, before one of his finest speeches in the House he 
 - --en to ...I... ..coffee-house, call lor a pint of brandy, and 
 -vallow It 'neat,' and almost at one gulp. His friends oal 
 Monaily interfered. This drinking, they told lu.n, would .Icsiroy 
 
 ! 
 
 M I 
 
 i 1 
 
I I _ 
 
 o 
 
 388 Intemperance. 
 
 the coat of bis stomacli. 'Then iny stomach must digest in its 
 waistc:oat,' laughed Sheridan. 
 
 Where are the toi)ers of yore? Jovial I will not call them, 
 for every one knows that 
 
 ' Mirtli and laughter,' 
 
 worked up with a corkscrew, arc followed by 
 
 ' Ilcaflaclics and liot cojipors tin- day after.' 
 
 But where are those Anakini of the bottle, who f^^/zA/ floor their 
 two of port and one of Madeira, though the saitl two and one 
 floored them in turn? The race, I believe, has died out. Our 
 heads have got weaker, as our cellars grew em])tier. The ar- 
 rangement was convenient. The daughters of F.ve have nobly 
 undertaken to atone for the naughty conduct of their primeval 
 mamma, by reclaiming men, and dragging them from the Hades 
 of the mahogany to that seventh heaven of mufflns and English 
 ballads prepared for them in the drawing-room. 
 
 We are certainly astounded, even to incredulity, when we 
 read of the deeds of a David or a Samson ; but such wonder- 
 ment can be nothing compared to that which a generation or 
 two hence will feel, when si[)ping, as a great extravagance and 
 unpardonable luxury, two thimblefuls of ' African Sherry,' the 
 young demirep of the day reads that three English gentlemen, 
 Sheridan, Richardson, and ^Var(l, sat down one day to dinner, 
 and before they rose again— if diey ever rose, which seems 
 doubtful — or, at least, were raised, had emptied five bottles of 
 port, two of Madeira, and one of brandy ! Yet this was but 
 one instance in a thousand ; there was nothing extraordinary in 
 it, it is only mentioned because the amount drunk is accur- 
 
 atciv given by the unhappy owner of the wine, Kelly, the com- 
 ])oser, who, unfortunately, or fortunately, was not present, and 
 did not even imagine that the three honourable gentlemen were 
 discussing his little store. Yet Sheridan does not seem to have 
 believed much in his friend's vintages, for he advised him to 
 alter his brass plate to ' Michael Kelly, Composer of Wine and 
 Importer of Music' He made a better joke, when, dining with 
 Lord Thurlow, he tried in vain to induce him to produce a 
 second bottle of some extremely choice Constantia from the 
 
List ditrcst in its 
 
 not call them, 
 
 could floor their 
 id two anil one 
 
 died out. Our 
 ])tier. The ar- 
 rive have nobly 
 
 their ])r)mevnl 
 from the Hades 
 ins and English 
 
 ulity, when we 
 t such wonder- 
 a generation or 
 travagance and 
 an Sherry,' the 
 lish gentlemen, 
 ; day to dinner, 
 ', which seems 
 1 five botUes of 
 et this was but 
 extraordinary in 
 L drunk is accur- 
 Kelly, the com- 
 ot present, and 
 gentlemen were 
 lot seem to have 
 advised him to 
 ser of Wine and 
 hen, dining with 
 n to ])roduce a 
 itantia from the 
 
 WortJi Wins at Last. 
 
 389 
 
 ■Cape of Good Hope. 'Ah,' he muttered to his neighbour, 
 ' [KISS mc that decanter, if you please, for I nuist return to Ma- 
 deira, as I see 1 cannot double the Cape' 
 
 But as long as Richard I?rinsley was a leader of political and 
 fashionable circles, as long as he had a position to keep up, an 
 ambition to satisfy, a labour to complete, his drinking was, if 
 not nioderate, not extraordinary for his time and his associates. 
 But when a man's ambition is limited to mere success — when 
 fime and a flash for himself are all he cares for, and there is 
 no truer, grander motive for his sustaining the })Osition he has 
 climbed to — when, in short, il is his own glory, not mankind's 
 good, he has ever striven for — woe, woe, woe when the hour 
 of success is come ! I cannot stop to name and examine in- 
 stances, but let me be allowed to refer to that bugbear who is 
 (ailed up whenever greatness of any kind has to be illustrated 
 — Napoleon the (Jreat ; or let me take any of the lesser Napo- 
 leons in lesser grades in any nation, any age — the men who have 
 had no star but self and self-glory before them — and let me ask 
 if any c.ie can be named who, if he has survivetl the attain- 
 ment of his ambition, has not gone down the other side of the 
 hill somewhat faster than he came u{) it ? Then let me select 
 men whose guiding-star has been the good of their fellow-crea- 
 tures, or the glory of God, and watch their peaceful useful end 
 on that calm summit that they toiled so honestly to reach. The 
 difference comes home to us. The moral is read only at the 
 end of the story. Remorse rings it for ever in the ears of the 
 dying — often too long a-dying — man who has laboured for him- 
 self. Peace reads it smilingly to him vhose generous toil for 
 others has brought its own reward. 
 
 Sheridan had climbed with the stride of a giant, laughing at 
 rocks, at precipices, at sli[)i)ery watercourses. He had spread 
 the wings of genius to poise himself withal, and 'gained one 
 peak after another, while homelier worth was stmggling mid- 
 way, cLxhing the bramble and clinging to the ferns. He had, 
 as Byron said in Sheridan's days of decay, done the best in all 
 he undertook, written the best comedy, best ojjcra, best farce ; 
 spoken the best [)arody, and made the best speech.- Sheridan, 
 when those words of the young poet were told him, shed tears. 
 
o 
 
 390 />//A r I \ings— The Scythe of Death. 
 
 Perhaps the bitter tliought struck him, that lie had jwt led the 
 ])e.st, but the worst life ; that comedy, farce, opera, monody, and 
 oration ux-re notliinij, notliing to a jnire conscience and a peace- 
 ful old age ; that they couUl not save him from shame and po- 
 verty—from debt, disgrace, drunkenness— from grasping, but 
 long-cheated creditors, who dragged his bed from under the 
 feeble, nervous, ruined old man. Poor Sheridan ! his end was 
 too bitter for us to cast one stone more upon him. I,et it be 
 noted that it was in the beginning of his decline, when, having 
 reached tlie climax of all his ambition and completed his fame 
 as a dramatist, orator, and wit, tha the hand of Providence 
 mercifully interposed to rescue this reckless man from hisdown- 
 fdl. It smote him with that common but powerfid weapon — 
 death. 'I'hose he best loved were torn from him, one after 
 another, rapidly, and with little warning. The Linleys, the 
 'nest of nightingales,' were all delicate as nightingales should 
 be : and it .seemed as if this very time was chosen for their 
 deaths, that the one erring soul— more precious, remember, than 
 many just lives might be called ])ark. Almost within one 
 year he lost his dear sister-in-law, the wife of his most intimate 
 friend Tickell ; Maria I.inley, the last of the family; his own 
 wife, and his little daighter. One grief succeeded another so 
 rai)idly that Sheridan was utterly unnerved, utterly brought low 
 by them; but it was his wife's death that told most upon him. 
 A\'ith that wife he had always been the lover rather than the 
 husbantl. She had marrietl him in the days of his poverty, 
 when her beauty was so celebrated that she might have wed 
 whom .she would. She had risen with him and siiared his later 
 anxieties. ^ Yet she had seen him forget, neglect her, and seek 
 other .society. In spite of his tender affection for her and 
 lor his children, he had never made a home oi their home. 
 Vanity Fair had kei)t him ever flitting, and it is little to be 
 wondered at that Mrs. Sheridan was the object of much, 
 though ever respectful admiration.* Yet, in spite of calumny, 
 she died with a fair fame. Decline had long pressed upon her, 
 
 * I.')rd Edw.ird KitzgL-rald was one of the most dovotodof h.-r admirer^ • he 
 cho.c Ins wife, Pamela, bejause ^he reoeinbled .Mrs. Sheridan.— See Moore's Life 
 ot i.ord l.vh'.aid. 
 
rt/i. 
 
 ul //('/ lofl the 
 X, monody, and 
 CO and ;i jicace- 
 hanie and po- 
 
 grasping, but 
 om under the 
 
 ! his end was 
 in. Let it be 
 , wlien, having 
 Icted ]iis fame 
 of I'rovidence 
 from hisdown- 
 rful weapon — 
 lim, one after 
 .' Linleys, the 
 ingales should 
 losen for their 
 3menil)tT, than 
 )st within one 
 most intimate 
 iiily ; his own 
 .'(1 another so 
 y brought low 
 3st upon him. 
 thcr than the 
 f liis jjoverty, 
 gilt have wed 
 hared his later 
 her, and seek 
 11 for her and 
 )f their home, 
 is little to be 
 ect of much, 
 e of calumny, 
 ised upon her, 
 
 her admirers : lie 
 -See Moorc'h Life 
 
 S/wridaii's Sccomi Wife. 391 
 
 vol her last illness was too brief. In 1792 she was taken away, 
 slill in the summer of her days, and with her last breath utter- 
 ing her love for the man who had never duly prized her. 
 
 II is grief was terrible; yet it passed, and wrought no change, 
 lie found solace in his beloved son, and yet more beloved 
 daughter. A few months — and the little girl followed her 
 mother. Again his grief was terrible : again i)assed and wrought 
 no change. Yes, it did work some change, but not for the 
 better ; it drove hii.. to the goblet ; and from that time we may 
 d.i'c the confirmation of his habit -of drinking. The solemn 
 warnings had been unheeded : they were to be repeated by a 
 long-suffering God in a yet more solemn manner, which should 
 touch him yet more nearly. His beautiful wife had been the 
 one restraint upon his folly and his lavishne.s.s. Now she was 
 gone, they burst out afresh, wilder than ever. 
 
 I'or a while after these aftlictions, which were soon com- 
 pleted in the death of his most intimate friend and boyish com- 
 panion, Tickell, Sheridan threw himself again into the commo- 
 tion of the political world. IJiit in this we shall not follow him. 
 Three years after the death of his first wife he married again, 
 lie was again fortunate in his choice. Though now forty-four, 
 he succeeded in winning the heart of a most estimaljle and charm- 
 ing young lady with a fortune of ^5,000. She must indeed have 
 l()\ed or admired the widower very much to consent to be the 
 wife of a man so notoriously irregular, to use a mild term, in his 
 !ile. But Sheridan fascinated wherever he went, and young 
 ladies like 'a little wildness.' His heart was always good, and 
 wliere he gave it, he gave it warmly, richly, fully. His second 
 wife was Miss Esther Jane Ogle, daughter of the Dean of Win- 
 chester. She was given to him on condition of his settling in 
 all ^20,000, upon her — a wise proviso with such a spendthrift 
 —and he had to raise the money, as usual. 
 
 His political career was sufficientlv brilliant, though his real 
 fmie as a speaker rests on his great oration at Hastings' trial. 
 
 III 1806 he satisfied another point of his ambition, long de- 
 sired, and was elected for the city of Westminster, which he had 
 ardently coveted when Fox represented it. But a dissolution 
 threw him again on the mercy of the popular party; and again^ 
 
 ii 
 
 i r 
 
o 
 
 392 Debts of Honour. 
 
 lie offered himself for Westminster: but, in spite of all tli,- 
 efforts made for him, without success. lie was returned, m 
 stead, for Ilchcster. 
 
 Meanwhile his diffiniUies inrre.iscd; extravagance, debt, 
 want of energy to meet both, brought him speedily into that 
 position when a man accepts without i.esitation the slightest 
 offer of aid. The man who had had an income of ;;{]"i 5,000 a 
 year, and settled ^20,000 on his wife, allowed a poor friend 
 to pay a bill for ^-5 for him, am! clutched eagerly at a ^50 
 note when displayed to him by another. Extravagance is the 
 father of meanness, and .Shcrid;;n was often mean in the readi- 
 ness with whi( h he accepted offers, and the anxiety with whii h 
 he imjtlored assistance. It is amusing in ,'the present day to 
 hear a man t Uk of M debt of honour,' as if all debts did not 
 demand honour to pay them— is if all debts in( urred without 
 hope of repayuK-nt were not dishonourable. A story is told 
 relative to the old fashione^l idea of a 'debt of honour.' A 
 tradesman, to whom he had given a bill for ^200, called on 
 him for the amount. A heap ot gold was lying on the table. 
 'Don't look that way,' cried Sheridan, after protesting that he 
 had not a i)cnny in the world, ' that is to pay a debt of honour.' 
 The apjjlicant, with some wit, lore up the bill he held. 'Now, 
 Mr. Sheridan,' quoth he, * mine is a debt of honour too.' It is 
 to be hoped that Sheridan handed him the money. 
 
 The s'.ory of (amler's bill is not so much to his credit. 
 Hanson, an ironmonger, calleil upon him and pressed for pay- 
 ment. A bill sent in by the famous confectioner was lying o\\ 
 the table. A thought struck the debtor, who had no means of 
 getting rid of his importunate applicant. ' You know Gunter ?' 
 he asked. ' One of the safest men in London,' replied the 
 ironmonger. ' Then will you be satisfied if I give you his bill 
 for the amount?'— 'Certainly.' Thereupon Sheridan handed 
 him the neatly folded account and rushed from the room, leav- 
 ing the creditor to discover the point of Mr. Sheridan's little 
 fun. 
 
 Still Sheridan might ha\c weathered through the storm. 
 Drury Lane was a mine of wealth to him, and with a little care 
 might have been really profitable. The lawsuits, the debts, the 
 
pitc of all the 
 IS returned, in- 
 
 vnpancc, debt, 
 .'cdily into tliat 
 n the slightest 
 
 of" jCi5'°°° ;i 
 I a [)OQr friend 
 eriy at a ^,50 
 vaganre is the 
 n in the readi- 
 ietv with whi( h 
 present day to 
 
 debts did not 
 irurred without 
 V story is told 
 of honour.' A 
 200, called on 
 
 on the t.djle. 
 testing that he 
 lebt of honour.' 
 ; held. ' Now, 
 our too.' It is 
 
 y- 
 
 to his credit, 
 iressed for pay- 
 r was lying on 
 d no means of 
 know Gunter ?' 
 n,' replied the 
 ive you his l>t7/ 
 eridan handed 
 the room, leav- 
 heridan's little 
 
 ^h the storm. 
 
 ith a little care 
 
 the debts, the 
 
 /)ru;y Lane nimtt—thc Oivncr's Scrniity. 393 
 
 engagements upon it, all rose from his negligence and extriva- 
 gance. But Old Drury was doomed. On the 24111 February, 
 1 809, soon after the conclusion of the performances, it was an- 
 nounced to be in flames. Rather it announced itself In a 
 few moments it was bla/ing~a royal bonfjre. Sheridan was in 
 the House of Commons at the time. The reddened clouds 
 above London threw the glare back even to the windows of 
 the House, 'i'he members rushed from their seats to see the 
 unwonted light, and in consideration for Sheridan, an adjourn- 
 ment was moved. lUit he rose calmly, though sadly, and begged 
 that no misfortune of his should interrui)t the public business. 
 His independence, he said— witty in the midst of his troubles -- 
 had often been (juestioned, but was now confirmed, for he had 
 nothing more to depend upon. He then left the Plouse, and 
 repaired to the scene of conflagration. 
 
 Not long after, Kelly foimd him sitting quite composed in 
 ' The Bedford,' sii)i)ing his wine, as if nothing hail happened. 
 The musician expressed his astonishment at Mr. .Sheridan's 
 saiv^froid. 'Surely,' replied the wit, 'you'll admit that a man 
 has a right to take his wine by his own firesiile.' But Sheri- 
 dan was only drowning (ire, not disregarding it. The event 
 was really too much for him, though i)erhaps he did not rea- 
 ii/x the extent of its effect at the time. In a word, all he had 
 in the world went with the theatre. Nothing was left either 
 for him or the principal shareholders. Yet he bore it all with 
 fortitude, till he heard that the harpsichord, on which his first 
 wife was wont to play, was gone toe. Then he burst into tears. 
 This fire was the opening of the shaft down which the great 
 man sank rapidly. AViiile his fortunes kept up, his si)irits 
 were not completely exhausted. He drank much, but as an 
 indulgence rather than as a relief. Now it was by wine alone 
 that he could even raise himself to the common requirements 
 of conversation. He is described, before iXmnox, as depressed, 
 nervous, and dull ; after dinner only did the old fire break out, 
 the old wit blaze up, and bick Sheridan was Dick Sheridan 
 once more. He was, in fact, fearfully opi)ressed by the long- 
 accumulated and never-to-be-wiped-off debts, for which he was 
 now daily pressed. In quitting Parliament he resigned his 
 

 394 Misfortunes never conic Sinc^ly. 
 
 s;uH liiary, and left liiinsclf an easy prey to the Jews and Gen- 
 tiles, whom he had so \o\v^ dodged and deUidcd with his ready 
 int;t.nviity. Dniry Lane, as we all know, was rebuilt, and the 
 birth (jf the new house heralded with a i)roIogue by Hyron, 
 about as good as the one in ' Rejected Addresses,' the clever- 
 est ])arodies ever written, and suggesle<l by this very occasion. 
 The building-committee having advertised Ibr a jm/e prologue 
 Samuel Whitbread sent in his own attemjit, in which, as i)ro- 
 bably in a hundred others, the new theatre was t omjjaretl to a 
 riuenix rising out of the ashes of tlie old one. Sheridan said 
 A\ hilbread's description of a Pluenix was excellent, for it was 
 f]utte a /<(>////tr<'\\ (Icsiiil^t'wtt, 
 
 This same Sam \Vhitl>read was now to figure conspicuously 
 in the life of Mr. Richard B. Sheridan. The ex-proprietor 
 was found to have an interest in the theai.c to the amount of 
 /■i5o,ooo not a tritle to be despised; but he was now i)ast 
 sixty, and it need excite no astonishment that, even with all his 
 liabilities, he was unwilling to begin again the (ares of man- 
 agement, or mismanagement which he had endured so many 
 years. Jle sold his inter- %!, in which his son Tom was joined, 
 for ;£'6o,ooo. This sum would have cleared uU" his debts and 
 left him a balance sulficient to secure comfort for his old age. 
 But it was out of the (juestion that any money matters should 
 i'o right with Dick Sheridan. Of the rights and wrongs of 
 the (piarrel between him and Whitbread, who was the chair- 
 man of the committee for l)uiUling the new theatre, I do not 
 jnetend to form an opinion. .Sheridan was not naturally mean, 
 though he descended to meanness uhen hard pressed— what 
 man of his stamp does not? Whitbread was truly friendly 
 to him for a time. Sheridan was always complaining that he 
 was .sued for debts he did not owe, and kept out of many that 
 were due to him. Whitbread knew his man well, and if he with- 
 held what was owing to him, may be excused on the grountl of 
 real friendship. All I know is, that Sheridan and Whitbread 
 quarrelled ; that the former ditl not, or affirmed that he did not, 
 receive the full apiount of his claim on the property, and that, 
 when what he had received was paid over to his principal 
 creditors, there was little or nothing left for my lonl to si)end 
 
ews and Gen- 
 with his ready 
 built, and the 
 ue by Myron, 
 L*s,' the clever- 
 very occasion. 
 ]iri/e prologue 
 which, as pro- 
 1 omparcd to a 
 Sheridan said 
 ent, for it was 
 
 conspicuously 
 '. cx-projjrietor 
 the amount of 
 was now past 
 ,cu with all his 
 cares of man- 
 ured so many 
 jm was joined, 
 ■ his debts and 
 jr his old age. 
 Ill 'Iters should 
 md wrongs of 
 was the chair- 
 .•atre, I do not 
 naturally mean, 
 pressed — what 
 truly friendly 
 aining that he 
 t of many that 
 , and if he with- 
 i the ground of 
 and Whitbread 
 that he did not, 
 perty, and that, 
 > his principal 
 y lord to spend 
 
 395 
 
 idy in 
 
 yVu ll'/iilbtrai/ Quarrel. 
 
 in banquets to parliamentary friemls and jorums of i 
 m.ill cof*"'.'e-houscs. 
 
 Because a man is a genius, he i, not of necessity an upright, 
 
 Vmest, ill-used, oppressed, and cruelly-entreated man. Ge- 
 
 is plays the fool wittingly, and often enough quite know- 
 
 ly. with its own interests. It i.s its privilege to do so, and 
 
 no one has a right to complain. Hut then (lenius ought to 
 
 •lold Its tongue, an.l not make itself out a martyr, when it has 
 
 'lad the (lubious glory of defying ( ommon-sense. If (k-nius 
 
 despises gold, well ami good, but when he has spurne.l il, he 
 
 iM not whine out that he is wr(mgfullv kept froi,; it. Poor 
 
 .-heridan may or m.iy not h;ne been right in the Whitbread 
 
 T^iiTel; he has ha.l his defemlers. and I am not amli- 
 
 nous of being ntimbere.l among them; but whatever were now 
 
 lus troubles were brought on by his own disregard of all th.u 
 
 \\.is right and beautiful in (ondu( t. \{ he went down to the 
 
 ; ra\e a i)auper and a debtor, he had made his own bed, and 
 
 n it he was to !'e, 
 
 lae he d! I, wretchedl), on the most unhappy bed that old 
 .,-,cever la; w. Th.e is little more of importance to chro- 
 iii<Ie of his i.tror d' ,s. The retribution came on slowly but 
 tirnbly. The _areer of a ruined man is not a pleasant- topic 
 to dwell U])on, and I leave Sheridan's misery for Mr. |. B. 
 (lough to whine and roar over when he wants a .shocking ex- 
 .nM'le- Sheridan might have earned many a crown in that 
 ' i'lcity, if temperance-oratory had been the passion of the 
 'I'V. Debt, disease, dei)ravity— these words describe enough 
 the downward career ol his old age. To eat, still more \o 
 'Irink, was now the troublesome enigma of the quondam ge- 
 nius. I say quondam, for ail the marks of that genius were 
 no'.v gone. One after another his choicest p.ropertics made 
 their w^ay to * my uncle's.' The books went first, a.s if they 
 « "u!(l be mo.st easily di.spensed with ; the remnants of his plate 
 iollowed; then his pictures were .sold; and a: last even the 
 portrait of his first wife, by Reynolds, was left in pledge for a 
 ■finiher remittance.' 
 
 'ihe last humiliation arrived in time, and the associate of a 
 pnnce, the eloquent organ of a party, the man who had enjoyed 
 
39^ 
 
 Ruined ! 
 
 i3 
 
 ^i 5,000, a year, was carried off to a low sponging-housc. His 
 l^ride forsook him in that dismal and disgusting imprisonment, 
 and he wrote to Whitbread a letter which his defenders ought 
 not to have published. He had his friends— stanch ones too 
 —and they aided him. Peter Moore, ironmonger, and even 
 Canning, lent him money and released him from time to time. 
 For six years after the burning of the old theatre, he continued 
 to go down and down. Disease now attacked him fiercely. In 
 the spring of 18 16 he was fast waning towards extinction. His 
 day was past ; he had outlived his fame as a wit and social 
 light ; he was forgotten by many, if not by most, of his old as- 
 so'ciates. He wrote to Rogers, ' I am absolutely undone and 
 broken-hearted.' Poor Sheridan ! in spite of all thy faults, who 
 is he whose morality is so stern that he cannot shed one tear 
 over thy latter days ! God forgive us, we are all sinners ; and 
 if we weep not for this man's deficiency, how shall we ask tears 
 when our day comes ? Even as I write, I feel my hand tremble 
 and iny eyes moisten over the sad end of one whom I love, 
 though he died before I was born. ' They are going to put the 
 carjiets out of window,' he wrote to Rogers, 'and break into 
 Mrs. S.'s room and take inc. For God's sake let me see you 1' 
 Sec him !- see one friend who could and would help him in his 
 misery ! Oh ! hajjpy may that man count himself who has 
 never wanted that one friend, and felt the utter helplessness of 
 that want 1 Poor Sheridan '. had he ever asked, or hoped, or 
 looked for that Friend out of /his world it had been better; 
 for ' the Lord thy C^od is a jealous God,' and we go on seeking 
 human friendship and neglecting the divine till it is too late. 
 He found one hearty friend in his physician, Ur. Bain, when all 
 others had forsaken him. The spirit of White's and Brookes', 
 the comi)anion of a prince and a score of noblemen, the en- 
 livener of every ' flishionable' table, was forgotten by all but 
 this one doctor. Let us read Moore's descrii)tion : ' A sheriff's 
 officer at length arrested the dying man in //is bed, and was 
 about to carry him off, in his blankets, to a sponging-house, 
 when Dr. JJain interfered.' Who would live the life of revelry 
 tiiat Sh.eridan lived to have such an end ? A few days after, on 
 the 7th of July, 1816, in his sixty-fifth year, he died. Of his 
 
ng-house. His 
 imprisonment, 
 lefcndcrs ought 
 tanch ones too 
 ngcr, and even 
 a time to time, 
 e, he continued 
 im fiercely. In 
 extinction. His 
 wit and social 
 it, of his old as- 
 ely undone and 
 11 thy fciults, who 
 t shed one tear 
 ill sinners ; and 
 hall we ask tears 
 my hand tremble 
 e whom I love, 
 going to put the 
 and break into 
 et me see you '.' 
 \ help him in his 
 limself who has 
 r helplessness of 
 ed, or hoped, or 
 lad been better ; 
 ,ve go on seeking 
 ill il is too late. 
 )r. Bain, when all 
 ;'s and Brookes', 
 oblemen, the en- 
 ;otten by all but 
 tion : ' A sheriff's 
 ///'s kd, and was 
 sponging-house, 
 he life of revelry 
 few days after, on 
 he died. Of his 
 
 TJlc Dead Man Arrested. 
 
 397 
 
 last hours the late Professor Sniythe wrote an admirable and 
 most touching account, a copy of which was circulated in manu- 
 script. The Professor, hearing of Sheridan's condition, asked 
 to see him, with a view, not only of alleviating present distress, 
 but of calling the dying man to repentance. From his hands 
 the'unhappy Sheridan received the Holy Communion ; his face, 
 during that solemn rite, — doubly solemn when it is performed 
 in the chamber of death, ' expressed,' Smythe relates, ' the 
 deepest aivc' That phrase conveys to tlie mind impressions not 
 easy to be defined, not soon to be forgotten. 
 
 I'eace ! there was not peace even in death, and the creditor 
 pursued him even into the ' waste wide,' — even to the coffin. 
 He was lying in state, when a gentleman in the deepest mourn- 
 ing called, it is said, at the house, and introducing himself as 
 an old and much-attached friend of the deceased, begged to be 
 allowed to look upon his flice. The tears which rose in his 
 eyes, the tremulousness of his quiet voice, the pallor of his 
 mournful face, deceived the unsuspecting servant, who accom- 
 panied him to the chamber of death, removed the lid of the 
 coffin, turned down the shrowl, and revealed features which had 
 once been handsome, but long since rendered almost hideous 
 by drinking. The stranger gazed with profound emotion, while 
 lie quietly drew from his pocket a bailiff's wand, and touching 
 the corpse's face with it, suddenly altered his manner to one of 
 considerable glee, and informed the servant that he had arrested 
 the corpse in the king's name for a debt of ^500. It was the 
 morning of the funeral, which was to be attended by half the 
 grandees of England, and in a few minutes the mourners began 
 to arrive. But the corpse was tlie bailiff's ))roperty, till liis 
 claim was paid, and nought but the money would soften the 
 iron capturer. Canning and Lord Sidmouth agreed to settle 
 the matter, and over the coffin the debt was paid. 
 
 Poor corpse! was it worth ;!^5oo — diseased, rotting as it 
 was, and about to be given for nothing to mother earth ? Was 
 it worth the pomj) of the splendid funeral and the grand hyjio- 
 crisy of grief with which it was borne to Westminster Abbev? 
 ^V'as not rather the wretched old man, while he yet struggled 
 ou in life, worth this outlay, worth this show of sympathy ? 
 
ID 
 
 398 Tiic Stories fixed on Sheridan. 
 
 Folly ; not folly only— but a lie ! What recked the dead of 
 the four noble pall-bearers— the Duke of Bedford, the Earl of 
 I -auderdalc, Ivirl Mulgrave, and the Bishop of London ? What 
 good was it to him to be followed by two royal highnesses— the 
 .Dukes of York and Sussex- by two marquises, seven earls, 
 three viscounts, five lords, a Canning, a lord mayor, and a whole 
 regiment of honourables and right honourables, who now wore 
 the livery of grief, wlien they had let him die in debt, in want, 
 and in misery ? Far more, if the dead could feel, must he have 
 been grateful for the honester tears of those two untitled men, 
 who had really befriended him to the last hour and never aban- 
 doned him, iMr. Rogers and Dr. Bain. But peace ; let him 
 pass with nodding ];lumes and well-dyed horses to the great 
 Walhalla, and amid the dust of many a i)oet let the poet's dust 
 find rest and honour, secure at last from the hand of the bailiff 
 There was but one nook unoccupied in Poet'- Corner, and there 
 they laid him. A simple marble was afforded by another friend 
 without a title— Peter Moore. 
 
 _ .To a life like Sheridan's it is almost impossible to do justice 
 m so narrow a space as I have here. He is one of those men 
 who, not to be made out a whit better or worse than they are, 
 demand a careful investigation of all their actions, or reported 
 actions— a careful sifting of all the evidence for or against 
 them, and a careful weeding of all the anecdotes told of them. 
 This reciuires a separate biography. To give a general idea of 
 the man, we must be content to give that which he inspired in 
 a general a^iuaintance. .Many of his ' mots,' and more of the 
 stories about him, may liave been invented for him, but they 
 woukl scarcely have been fixed on Sheridan, if they had not 
 iitted more or less his character : I have therefore given them. 
 1 might have given a hundred more, but I have let alone those 
 anecdotes which did not seem to illustrate the character of the 
 man. Many another good story is told of him, and we must 
 content ourselves with one or two. Take one that is character- 
 istic of his love of fun. 
 
 Sheridan is accosted by an elderly gentleman, who has for- 
 golicn die name of a street to which he wants to go, and who 
 informs him precisely Uiat it is an out-of-the-way name. 
 
kcd the dead of 
 ford, the Earl of 
 London ? What 
 
 ]iighnesses~the 
 ses, seven earls, 
 lyor, and a nliole 
 s, who now wore 
 in debt, in want, 
 eel, must lie have 
 'O untitled men, 
 and never aban- 
 
 peace ; let him 
 ses to the great 
 t the poet's dust 
 nd of the bailiff 
 Corner, and there 
 ly another friend 
 
 ble to do justice 
 le of those men 
 e than they are, 
 Dns, or rei)orted 
 
 for or against 
 es told of them, 
 general idea of 
 I he inspired in 
 md more of the 
 r him, but they 
 if they had not 
 )re given them. 
 
 let alone those 
 :haracter of the 
 
 I, and we must 
 hat is character- 
 
 II, who has for- 
 o go, and who 
 lame. 
 
 Extempore Wit and Inveterate Talkers. 399 
 
 ' Perhaps, sir, you mean John Street ?' says Shcrr>', all in- 
 nocence. 
 
 ' No, an unusual name.' 
 
 * It can't be Charles Street .?' 
 
 Impatience on the part of the old gentleman. 
 
 ' King Street ?' suggests the cruel wit. 
 
 ' I tell you, sir, it is a street with a ver)' odd name !' 
 
 ' Bless me, is it Queen Street ?' 
 
 Irritation on the part of the old gentleman. 
 
 ' It must be Oxford Street ?' cries Sheridan as if inspired, 
 
 ' Sir, I repeat,' very testily, ' that it is a very otld name. 
 J". very one knows Oxford Street !' 
 
 Sheridan appears to be thinking. 
 
 'An odd name ! Oh ! ah ! just so ; Piccadilly, of course?' 
 
 Old gentleman bounces away in disgust. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' Sheridan calls after him, ' I envy you your ad- 
 mirable memory !' 
 
 His wit was said to have been prepared, like his speeches, 
 and he is even rei)ortcd to have carried his book of /nets in 
 his pocket, as a young lady of the middle class //i/-/it, but sel- 
 dom does, carry her book of etiquette into a party. But some 
 of his wit was no doubt extempore. 
 
 W.ien arrested for non-attendance to a call in the House, 
 soon after the change of ministry, he exclaimed, ' Mow hard to 
 be no sooner out of office than into custody !' 
 
 He was not an inveterate talker, like Macaulay, Sydney 
 Smith, or Jeffrey : he seems rather to have aimed at a strik- 
 ing eflect in all that he said. When found trii)i)ing he had a 
 clever knack of getting out of the difticulty. In the Hastings 
 speech he complimented Gibbon as a ' luminous' writer; ques- 
 tioned on this, he replied archly, ' I said rv; luminous.' 
 
 I cannot afford to be voluminous on Sheridan, and so I quit 
 him. 
 
 11 
 
 L 
 
BEAU BRUMMKLL. 
 
 Q 
 
 'I'wu iwpular Sciences. — ' Buck r>ruinmi.ll' at Eton. Investing Iiis Capital.— 
 VouiiR (.'orni't P.nunnicll. Ilic IVaii'.s Studio.— 'I ht- Toilet. — ' Creasing 
 Uowii.' -Devotion to Dress. — A ^Cireat Gentleman. — Anecdotes ol" Hruni- 
 meli. • ' Don't forj;el, l?riim : Goo-e at Four I' Otters of Intimacy resented. 
 — Never in love.— Bniiniiiell out Hunting. — .\nccdote of Sheridan antl 
 Brunimell.— The Beau's Poetical ElTorts.- The \'alu<' of a Crooked :>]\- 
 penee.— The Breach with the; Prince of Wales. — 'W ii' - y^ur F;it Friend';'' 
 —The Cliina.x is readied. — 'I'he Black-mail of Calai;.. (ieorge the (jreater 
 and (Jeor,t;e tiie Less.— An Kxiraordinary Step.— Down the Hill of Life. — 
 A Miseraiile Old Age. — In the Hospice Du Bon Sauveur. — O Young Men 
 of this Age, be warned ! 
 
 rr is astonisliing to what a number of insignificant 
 things high art lias been applied, and with what suc- 
 cess. It is the vice of higli civilization to look for 
 it and reverence it, where a ruder age would only laugh at its 
 employment. Crime and cookery, especially, have been raised 
 into sciences of late, and the professors of both received the 
 amount of honour due to their acciuiremcnts. Who would be 
 so na'ive as to sneer at the author of ' 'J'he Art of Dining ?' or 
 who so ungentlemanly as not to pity the sorrows of a pious 
 baronet, whose tlevotion to the noble art of appropriation was 
 shamefully rewarded w^th accommodation gratis on board one of 
 Her Majesty's transport-ships ? The disciples of Ude have 
 lefi us the literary results of their studies, and one at least, the 
 graceful Alexis Soyer, is numbered among our i)ublic bene- 
 iactors. We have little doubt that as the art, vulgarly called 
 ' embezzlement,' becomes more and more f.ishiona:ble, as it does 
 every day, we shall have a work on the ' Art of Appropriation.' 
 It is a pity that Brummell looked down upon literature : poor 
 literature 1 il I'lad a hard struggle to recover the slight, for we 
 are convinced there is not a work more wanted than the 'Art 
 
^2uiiZ^ 
 
 ip his f "apital. — • 
 )ilct. — ' ( "rcasinjj 
 cdotLS of Uriirn- 
 itimacy rcsentud. 
 af Sheridan and 
 a Crooked Six- 
 our Fat Fricuid ?' 
 ori^i' the (jRMtor 
 ,■ ilill of Lifo. - 
 — O Young Men 
 
 insignificant 
 ith wliat snc- 
 1 to look for 
 ^ laugli at its 
 'e been raised 
 
 received the 
 ho would be 
 ■ Dining ?' or 
 rs of a pious 
 opriation was 
 I board one of 
 of Ude have 
 i at least, the 
 public bene- 
 ulgarly called 
 ible, as it does 
 ]^l)ropriation.' 
 erature : poor 
 sliglit, for we 
 ,han the 'Art 
 
 Tivo Popular Sciences. .qj 
 
 of Dressing,' and 'George the Less' was almost the last pro- 
 fessor of that elaborate science. ^ 
 
 U the maxim that ' whatever is worth doing at all is worth 
 •lomg well,' hold good, lieau IJrummell must be regarded in t e 
 light of a great man. That dressing is worth doing at all 
 
 loes It If, hen, a man succeeds in dressing better than anv- 
 I'ody e se, u follows that he is entitled to the most universal 
 admiration. 
 
 ]]ut there was another object to which this great man conde- 
 scended to apply the principles of high art- 1 mean affectation 
 How admirably he .succeeded in this his life will show Bui 
 |an we doubt that he is entitled to our g.-catest esteem and 
 heartiest gratitude for the studies he pursued with unremitting 
 patience m these two useful branches, when we f.n.l that a princt 
 ot the blood delighted to honour, and the richest, nobles and 
 mast distinguished men of half a century ago w'ere proud to 
 know h.m ? y, e are writing, then, of no common man no mere 
 beau, but of the greatest professor of two of the niost popuhr 
 snences-Dres.s and Affectation. Let us speak with reference 
 ot this wonderful genius. 
 
 Cieorge Brummell was ' a self-made man.' That is all that 
 nature, the tailors, stags, and padding had not made of him lie 
 ma<le for himself-his name, his fame, his fortune, and 'his 
 riends-and all these were great. The author of 'Self-help' 
 lias most unaccountably omitted all mention "of him, and most 
 erroneously, for if there ever was a man who helped himself 
 and no one else, it was, ' very sincerely yours, George Brummell ' 
 I he founder o^ the noble house of Brummell, the grmd- 
 lather of our hero, was either a treasury porter, or a confectioner 
 or sometlung else.''- At any rate he let lo<lgings in Bury Street' 
 and whether from the fact that his wife did not purloin her' 
 lodg-Ts tea and sugar, or from some other cause, he mnv^^ed 
 to ingratiate himself with one of them-who afterwards became 
 Lord Liverpool-so thoroughly, that through his influence he 
 oinained for his son the post of Private Secretary to Lord 
 
 * -Mr. Jtsse say-i that the neau's irrandfathcr w;u a scrvmt of Vfr r\ , 
 Monson. brother to tlic first Lord Moiison. ^^r^aiit ol Mr. Charles 
 
 26 
 
Id 
 
 402 * Buck Brumnicir at J: ton. 
 
 North. Nothing couhl have Ijccn more fortunate, except, per- 
 hai)s, the son's next move, wliich was to take in marriage the 
 daughter of Richardson, the owner of a well-known lottery- 
 office. Between the lottery of office and the lottery of love, 
 3inimmell/<vrmanaged to make a very good fortune. At his 
 death he left as much as ^^65,000 to be divided among his 
 three children— Raikes says as much as ^30,000 a-piece — 
 so that the Beau, if not a fo(j), ouglit never to have been a 
 pauper. 
 
 George Br\'an Brummell, the :..econd son of t!\is worthy man, 
 Jionoured by his birth the 7th of June, 177H. No anecdotes 
 of his childhood are jjreservcd, eAce|)t that h^ once cried be- 
 cause he couhl not eat any more damson tart. In later years 
 lie would pnjbably have thouglit damson tart ' very vulgar.' 
 He first turn, lij) at Eton at t!',e age of twelve, and even there 
 commences his distinguished career, ..nd is known as ' Ikick 
 ]jrummjll.' The boy showed himself decidedly father to the 
 man here. Master (lecrge was nov vulgar enough, nor so 
 imprudent, it may be added, as u) fight, row, or play cricket, 
 hilt, he distinguished himself by the introduction of a gold 
 buckle in the white slock, by never being flogged, and by his 
 ability in toasting cheese. We do not hear much of his 
 classical attainments, 
 
 'I'he very gentlemanly } outh was in due time passed on to 
 Oriel College, Oxford. I'cre he distinguished himself by a 
 studied indifference to college discipline and an equal dislike 
 to studies. He condescended to try for the Newdigate Prize 
 poem, but his genius leaned far more to the turn of a coat- 
 collar than that of a verse, and, unha]"»pily for the ]5ritish poets, 
 their ranks were not to be dignified by the addition of this 
 illustrious man. The Newdigate was given to another ; and so, 
 to punish Oxford, the competitor left it and poetry together, 
 after having adorned the old (juadrangle of Oriel for less than 
 a year. 
 
 He was now a boy of seventeen, and a very fine boy, too. 
 To judge from a ])ortrait takon in later life, he was not 
 strictly handsome ; but he is described as tall, well built, and 
 of a slight and graceful figure. Added to this, he had got 
 
tc, cxcciJt, pcr- 
 1 marriage the 
 known lotter)'- 
 lottcry of love, 
 irtunc. At his 
 led among his 
 ,000 a-|)iece — 
 3 have been a 
 
 is worthy man, 
 
 No anecdotes 
 
 once cried be- 
 
 In later years 
 
 : ' very vulgar.' 
 
 and even there 
 
 own as ' Buck 
 
 r father to the 
 
 nough, nor so 
 
 )r play cricket, 
 
 tion of a gold 
 
 ed, and by his 
 
 much of his 
 
 ; passed on to 
 himself by a 
 n equal dislike 
 ewdigate Prize 
 urn of a coat- 
 e ])ritish poets, 
 iddition of this 
 other ; and so, 
 loetry together, 
 el for less than 
 
 r fine boy, too. 
 e, he was not 
 well built, and 
 is, he had got 
 
 Investing /'.is Capital. 403 
 
 from Eton and Oxford, if not much learning, many a well-born 
 friend, and he was toady enough to cultivate those of better, 
 and to dismiss those of less distinction. He was, through' 
 life, a celebrated ' cutter,' and Urummell's cut was as much 
 admired— by all but the a/ttcr—aa l^rummell's coat. Then he 
 had some ^25,000 as (■a])ital and how could he best invest it? 
 lie consulted .10 stockbroker on this weighty point ; he did 
 not even buy a shilling Ijook of advice such as we have seen 
 advertised for those who do not know what to do with their 
 money. Tiie question was answered in a moment by the 
 young worldling of sixteen : Ik- would enter a crack regiment 
 and invest his guineas in the thousand per cents, of fashionable 
 life. 
 
 His namesake, the Regent, was now thirty-two, and had 
 spent those years of his life in ac(|uiring the honorary title of 
 tlie ' first gentleman of Europe ' by every act of folly, debauch, 
 dissqjation, and degradation which a jjrince can conveniently 
 perpetrate. He was the hero of London society, which adored 
 and backbit him alternately, and he was precisely the man 
 whom the boy Erummell would worship. The Regent was 
 < olonel of a fiimous regiment of fo])s— the loth Hussars. It 
 uas the most expensive, the most impertinent, the best-dressed, 
 the worst-moralled regiment in the JJriiish army. Its officers,' 
 many of them titled, all more or less distinguished in the trying 
 «:impaigns of London seasons, were the intimates of the 
 I'rince-Colonel. lirummell aspired to a cornetcy in this brilliant 
 regiment, and obtained it ; nor that alone ; he secured, by his 
 manners, or his dress, or his impudence, the favour and com- 
 I'anionship — friendship we cannot say — of the prince who 
 commanded it. 
 
 by this step his rei)utation was made, and it was only 
 necessary to keep it U]). He had an immense fund of good 
 nature, and, as long as his money lasted, of good spirits, too. 
 (iood sayings— that is, witty if not wise— are recorded of him, 
 ;'nd his friends pronounce him a charming companion. Intro- 
 duced, therefore, into the highest circles in Englanrl, he could 
 scarcely fail to succeed. Young Cornet Brummell became a 
 great favourite with the fair. 
 
 26- 
 
* 
 
 o 
 
 404 Voi/f/.i: Cornel nruvimcU. 
 
 His rise in the regiment was of course rapid : in three years 
 lie was at tlie licad of a troop. The onerous duties of a mihtary 
 htc, uhirli vaciUated between I'.rigliton and London, and con- 
 sisted cliietty in makin- oneself agrccahle in the mess-room, 
 were too mucli f.^r our hero. He neglected parade, or arrived 
 too late: it was such a Ijore to have to dress in a hurry. H 
 is saiil that lie knew the troop he commanded only by the 
 peculiar nose of one of the men, and that when a transfer of 
 men had once been made, rode up to the wrong troop, and 
 supporie.l his mistake by ])ointing to the n(jse in (luestion. 
 No fault, however, was found with the Regent's favourite, and 
 nrunmiell might have risen to any rank if he could have sup- 
 ported the terrifi. labour of dressing for parade. Then, too, 
 there came wars and rumours of wars, and our gallant captain 
 shuddered at the vul^arity of shedding blood : the supply of 
 smelling-salts would never have been liberal enough to keep 
 him from fainting on the battle-field. It is said, too, that the 
 regiment was ordered to Manchester. Could anything be more 
 gross or more ill-bred? The idea of figuring before the wives 
 and daughters of cotton-spinners was too fearful ; and from 
 one cause or another our \)rave young captain determined to 
 retire, which he did in 1798. 
 
 It was now, therefore, that he commenced the i^rofession 
 of a beau, and as he is the Prince of Beaux, as his patron was 
 the Beau of Princes, and as his fome has spread to France 
 and Germany, if only as the inventor of the trouser ; and as 
 there is no man who on getting up in the morning does not 
 jnit on his clothes with more or less reflection as to whether 
 they are the right ones to put on, and as beaux have existed 
 since the days' of the emperor of beaux, Alexander the Mace- 
 donian, and will jirobably exi' t to all time, let us rejoice in the 
 high lionour of being permitted to describe how this illustrious 
 genius clothed his poor flesh, and made the most of what God 
 had given him— a body and legs. 
 
 The private life of 15rummell would in itself serve as a book 
 of manners and habits. Th.c two were his profoundest study ; 
 but, alas ! his impudence marred the former, and the latter 
 can scarcely be imitated in the present day. Still as a great 
 
The Toilet. 
 
 405 
 
 n three years 
 ^ of a military 
 Ion, and con- 
 c mess-room, 
 do, or arrived 
 \ a hurry. It 
 1 only by the 
 a transfer of 
 ig trooj), and 
 : in (jiieslion. 
 favourite, and 
 )uUl have sup- 
 :. 'I'hen, too, 
 ;allant captain 
 the supply of 
 ough to keep 
 , too, that the 
 thing be more 
 "ore the wives 
 ul ; and from 
 determined to 
 
 the profession 
 his patron was 
 sad to France 
 ouser ; and as 
 rning iloes not 
 as to whether 
 v have existed 
 ader the Mace- 
 rejoice in the 
 ■ this illustrious 
 St of what God 
 
 erve as a book 
 
 ivj.ndcst study : 
 
 and the latter 
 
 Still as a great 
 
 example he is yet invaluable, and must be described in all 
 detail. 
 
 I lis morning toilette was a most elaborate affair. Never was 
 lirummell guilty o{ dhJiabillc. Like a true man of business, he 
 devoted the best and earliest hours— and many of them too — 
 to his ])rofession, namely— dressing. His dressing-room was a 
 studio, in which he daily compared that elaborate portrait of 
 Cieorge Urummell which was to be exhibited for a few hours in 
 the club-rooms and drawing-rooms of town, only to be taken 
 1<) ])ieces again, and again made up fur the c\ening. Charles 
 I. delighted to resort of a morning to the studio of Vandyck, 
 and to watch his favourite artist's progress. The Regent (ieorge 
 was no less devoted to art, for we are assured ]>y Mr. Raikes 
 that he often visited his favourite beau in the morning to watch 
 his toilet, and would sometimes stay so late that he would send 
 Ills horses away, insisting on l>rummell' giving him a quiet din- 
 ner, ' which generally ended in a tleep potation.' 
 
 There are, no doubt, many fabulous myths floating about 
 r()ncerning this illustrious man ; and his biographer. Captain 
 Jesse, seems anxious to defend him from the absurd stories of 
 I'rench writers, who asserted that he employed two glovers to 
 covers his hands, to one of wliom were intrusted the thumbs, 
 to the other the fingers and hand, and three liarbers to dress 
 his hair, while his boots were polished with champagne, his 
 cravats designed by a celebrated portrait painter, and so forth. 
 These may be pleasant inventions, l)Ut Caplain Jesse's own 
 account of his toilet, even when the Beau was broken, and 
 living in elegant poverty abroad, is quite absurd enough to 
 render excusable the ingenious exaggerations of Tne foreign 
 writer. 
 
 The battcric Jc toildlc, we are told, was of silver, and inchided 
 a spitting-dish, for its owner said 'he could not spit into clay.' 
 Napoleon shaved himself, but Brummell was not quite great 
 enough to do that, just as my Lord So-and-so walks to church 
 on Sunday, while his neighbour, the Birmingham millionaire, 
 can only arrive there in a chariot and pair. 
 
 His ablutions took no less than two whole hours ! What 
 knowledge might have been gained, wiiat good done in the 
 
If 
 
 406 ' Crt'dsiit^i^ PiKvu.' 
 
 time he devoted to rubbiii;; his lovely i>erson with a hair-^^love 1' 
 Cleanliness was, in diet, lirumniell's religion; perhaps because 
 it is generally set down as ' next to godliness,' a proximity with 
 which the Beau was (iiiite satisfied, for he ne\er itltmpted to 
 pass on to that next stage. Toor ,fooI, he might rub every 
 particle of moisture off the skin of his body — he might be clean 
 as a kitten- but he could not and did not purify his mind with 
 , 11 this friction ; and the man who would have fainted to see a 
 i'l't; ,[,eck upon liis shirt, was not at all shocked at the in- 
 acLwUt conversation in which lie and hi ^ comi)anions occasionally 
 indulged. 
 
 Tlic Ijody cleansed, the fat .' had next to be brought up as 
 near perfection as nature would allow. With a small looking- 
 glass in OP'- V •" ' nid twce/.ers in the other, he carefully re- 
 moved liie tmiest hairs that h; could discover on his checks or 
 chin, enduring die pain like a H' u-tyr. 
 
 Then came the shirt, '.vhich was in his palmy days changed 
 three times a day, and then in due course the great business 
 of the cravat. Captain Jesse's minute account of the process 
 of tying this can surely be relietl on, and ])resents one of tlu' 
 most ludicrous pictures of folly and \aiiity that can be imagined. 
 Had Brummell never liv« d, and a jiovelist or play-writer de- 
 scribed the toilet which Cajitain Jesse affirms to have been his 
 daily achievement, he woulil have had the critics about him 
 with tl.j now common phrase— 'T'^ book is a tissue, not only 
 of improbabilities, but of actual impossibilities.' 'i he collar, 
 then, was so large, that in its natural cond.tion it .• .-;e high 
 above the wearer's head, and some ingen.ii!_ was re(iuii xl to 
 reduce it by delicate f 'Ids to exactly that height whi' dre 
 l>eau iudged to be corri.' Then c.mie the all-majcst white 
 neck-tie. a foot in bre:idth. It ^^ not to be supposed that iirum 
 mell had th neck of a swan or m camel — far from it. The 
 V rthy foi d no\'. > undergo, with a<lmirable patient , the 
 mysterious i)rocess known to our papas , * creasing down.' 
 The head was thrown back, as if ready for a dentist ; the stiff 
 white tie a[ ) ied to the throat, and gradually wrinkled into half 
 its actual breadth ijy the slow liownward i.iovement of the chin. 
 When all w,; uonc. we can imair'ne that comfort was sacrificed 
 

 liair-glovc !' 
 ips because 
 ximity wiili 
 itemptctl to 
 
 rub every 
 lit be clean 
 ; mind with 
 ed to see a 
 
 at tlie in- 
 )Ccasionally 
 
 ught up as 
 all looking- 
 :areru]ly re- 
 s (hecks or 
 
 ys changed 
 [\t business 
 :he process 
 
 one of the 
 e imagined, 
 .--writer de- 
 t'e been his 
 
 about him 
 
 ■, not only 
 The collar, 
 L e high 
 reciuii xl to 
 
 whi< the 
 icsl white 
 
 that Brum 
 111 it. Thv. 
 itienc-', the 
 jing down.' 
 ;t; the stiff 
 sd into half 
 of the ciun. 
 IS sacrificed 
 
 Di^L'otwu / Dirss. 
 
 407 
 
 lo elegance, as it was then i onsidered, and that the sudden 
 appen ranee of Venus herself cuiild not have induced the de- 
 luded individua' • turn his head in a hurry. 
 
 It is scarcely i Uable to follow this lesser deity into all \.\\t 
 details of his seh id(jrnment. It must su ffue to ; ly that he 
 affected an e.Mreine neatness and simplicity of dre.s>i, every item 
 of which was studied and discussc<l for many an hour. In the 
 UK^rnings lie was still guilty of hessians and | antaloons, or 
 'tojis' and buckskins, with a blue coat and buff waistcoat. Ihe 
 c()^lume is not so aru ient, but that one may tumble now anil 
 then on a country scpiire u o glories in it and ('mounces us 
 juveniles as 'bears' for want of a similar pre> ^ion Poor 
 Hriimmell, he cordially hated the country squires, and wduUI 
 have wanted rouge for a week if he could ha\e dreamed that 
 his pet attire would, some fifty years later, be represented only 
 by one of that class which he was so an.vious to < ;clude from 
 Watier's, 
 
 J!ut it was in the evening that he displayed his !icipi)y in- 
 vention of the trouser, or rather its introduction from Germany. 
 This articlt ,0 wore very tight to the leg, and buttoned over 
 tlie ankle, exactly as wc see it in old prints ot ' c fishion.' 
 Then came the wiu, and on that the hat. It is a vain ;>n(i 
 thankless task to defend Brumniell from the charge of being a 
 dandy. If one proof of his devotion to dress were wanted, it 
 would be the fact that this liat, once stuck jauntily on one side 
 of the wig, was never removed in the street even to salute a 
 lady — so that, inasmuch as he sacrificed his manners to his 
 appearance, he may be fairly set down as a f m 
 
 The perfect artist could n< Ik- expected to be ( haritable to 
 the less successful. Dukes a i princes consult'xl him on the 
 mke of their coats, and fliscussed tailors wit.) him with as 
 much solemnity as divines might disjnite on a mystery of 
 religion. I'lrummell did not spare them. ' Bedford,' said he, 
 to the duke of that name, fingering a new arment which his 
 grace had submitted to his inspection, 'do you call thi f'lhig^. 
 coat?' Again, meeting a noble ; aainM? re who wore shoes 
 la the ni')niing, he slopi)ed and aske m what lie liad got 
 upon his cot. 'Oh ! shoes are they,' <iuoth he, wii' i well- 
 
4o8 
 
 A Gnat (iiutlcinan. 
 
 o 
 
 brc(l snccT, ' I tlioiiglu they were slippers.' Ik- was even ashanie.l 
 of Ins own hrother, and when the lauer came to town, heg^ed him 
 to keep to tlic Inick streets till his new rlulhes were sent home. 
 Well iniKht his friend the Regent s.iy, that he was 'a mere 
 tailors dummy to hang clothes upon.' 
 
 Jliit in reality Hnmunell was more. I \c ha<l some sharpness 
 and some taste. Hut the former was all brought out in Mieers 
 and the latter in snuff-boxes. His whole nnnd could have been 
 put into one of these. He had a splendid collection of them 
 and was lamous for the grace with which he opn I the lid of 
 his box wuh the thumb of the ham! that carried it, while he 
 <lehcately took his pinch with two fingers of the other .This 
 and his bow were his chief... quiremcnls, and liis reputation for 
 manners was based on the distimtion of his manner. lie 
 could not drive in a public c,jnveyan<e, but he could be rude 
 to a well-meaning lady ; he nes cr ate vegetables--<w pea he 
 c:onfessed to but he did nut mind burrowing from his friends 
 money which he knew he could never return, lie was a great 
 gentleman, a gentleman of his patron's .school- in short a well- 
 dressed .snob. Hut one thing is due to Hrummell : lie made 
 the assumption ol l.cing 'a gentleman' m, laoroughly ridicu- 
 lous that few men of keen sense care now for the title : at 
 least, not as a class-distinciion. Nor is it to be wondered at • 
 when your tailor's assistant is a 'gentleman,' and would be' 
 mightily disgusted at being called anything else, you, with your 
 mdomitable pride of c:astc, can scarcely care for the patent. 
 
 llrummelf,-, claim to the title was based on his walk, his coat 
 his cravat, and the grace with which he indulged, as Captain 
 Jesse dehghthdly calls it, 'the nasal i)astime ' of taking .snuff. 
 all the rest was imjnidence; and many are the anecdotes— most 
 of them familiar as household words— which are told of his im- 
 ])ertmenc:e. The story of Mrs. Johnson-Thompson is one of 
 those oft-told tales, which, from having become Joe Millers 
 have gradually passed out cjf date and been almost forgotten! 
 'Iwo rival party-givers rejoiced in the aristocratic names of 
 Johnson and Thompson. The former lived near Finsbury, the 
 latter near Crosvenor Square, and Mrs. Thompson was some- 
 how sufficiently fashionable to expect the Regent himself at her 
 
s even ashanu'd 
 
 \vn, begged liiii) 
 
 ere sent honic. 
 
 -• was 'a mere 
 
 some sharpness 
 
 t out in sneers, 
 
 juld luive been 
 
 ertion of them, 
 
 1 the hd of 
 
 d it. while he 
 
 c other. -Tliis 
 
 > reputation fur 
 
 manner. lie 
 
 ( oiild be rude 
 
 ;s — o/ic jjea lie 
 
 :)in his friends 
 
 le was a great 
 
 1 short, a well- 
 
 nell : he made 
 
 ■ouglily ri(h'ru- 
 
 the title: at 
 wondered at ; 
 md would be 
 you, w/th your 
 the patent, 
 walk, his coat, 
 •d. as Captain 
 f taking snuff, 
 xdotes — most 
 old ol his im- 
 3on is one of 
 
 Jue Millers, 
 ost forgotten, 
 tic names of 
 Finsbury, the 
 on Vt';i.^ some- 
 himself at her 
 
 A mxdotc of Brmnmill. 409 
 
 assemblies, nrummell among other impertinen( es, was fond .)f 
 going uiicre he wa.s not invited or wanted. The two rivals 
 gave a ball on the same evening, and a card w.is sent to the 
 lieau by her of l-insbury. He (hose to go to the (Irosveuor 
 S(|uare house, in hopes of meeting the Regent, then his foe. 
 Mrs. I hompson was justly disgusted, and with a vulgarity .|uite 
 deserved by the intmder. told him he was not invited. The 
 n<aii made a thousand apoh.gies, hummed, hawed, and drew a 
 ' ird from Ins pocket. It was the rival's invitation, and was in- 
 • li^nantly denounced. 'Dear me. how very unfortunate,' said 
 i!h' Heau, 'but you know Johnson and 'I'liompsc^n - I mean 
 'niomi)son and Johnson are so very much alike. Mrs. fohnson- 
 'I'hompson, I wish you a very good evening.' 
 
 i'erhaps there is no vulgarity greater than that of rallying 
 people on their surnames, but our excjuisite gentleman had no^t 
 wu enough to invent one superior to such a puerile amusement. 
 'I'hus. on our n, vasion, he woke up at three in the morning a 
 «crtam Mr. Snodgrass, and when the worthy i)ut his head out of 
 the window in alarm, said (piietly, ' I'ra)-, sir, is your name Snod- 
 grass ?'— ' Yes, sir, 't is Snodgrass.' 'Snodgrass- Snodgrass — 
 It is a very singular name, (iood-bye, ^\x\snoJ.^rass: There 
 w.is more wit in his remark to I'oodle i?yng, a well-known puppy, 
 whom he met one day driving in the Park with a French dog 
 ui his (urricle. "Ah,' cried the Beau, 'how d'ye do. Hyng? a 
 family vehicle, 1 see.' 
 
 It seems incredulous to modern gentlemen that such a man 
 should have been tolerated even at a club. Take, for instance, 
 his vulgar treatment of Lord iM.-^vor Combe, whose name we 
 still see with others oxer many a imblic-house in London, and 
 who was then a most prosperous brewer and thriving gambler. 
 At iJrookes' one evening the Jk«au and the Brewer were playing 
 at the same table, 'Come, Mash-tub; cried the -gentleman,' 
 'what do you set?' Mash-tub unrcsemingly set a pony, and 
 the r>eau won twelve of him in succession. Pocketing his cash, 
 he made him a bow, and exclaimed, ' Thank you, Alderman, in 
 future I shall drink no porter but yours.' But Combe was 
 v.onny ol Ins namesake, Shaksj;ere's friend, and answered very 
 
b 
 
 410 ' Doii t Forget, I) nun — Goost' at Four ! ' 
 
 aptly, ' I wish, sir, that every otJicr blackguard in London would 
 tell nie the same.' 
 
 'J'hen again, after ruining a young fool of fortune at the 
 tal)les, and being reproached by the youth's f^ither for leading 
 his son astray, he replied with charniing affectation, 'Why, sir, 
 I did all I could for him. I once gave him my arm all the 
 way from White's to Brookes' !' 
 
 When Hrummell really wanted a dinner, while at Calais, he 
 could not gi\e \\\) his impertinence for the sake of it. Lord 
 Westmoreland called on him, and, ])ehaps out of compassion, 
 asked him to dine at three o\ioek with him. ' Your Lordship is 
 very kind,' said the Heau, 'but really 1 could \\o\. feed at such 
 an hour.' Sooner or later he was glad iofeed with anyone who 
 was toady enough to ask him. He was once i)laced in a de- 
 lightfully awkward position from ha\ing accepted the invitation 
 of a charitable but vulgar-looking Britisher at Calais. He was 
 walking with Lord Sefton, when the individual i)assed and 
 nodded familiarly. 'AVho's your friend, Brummell ?' — 'Not 
 mine, he must be bowing to you.' But presently the man passed 
 again, and this time was cruel enough to exclaim, ' Don't for- 
 get, I'.rum, don't forget — goose at four !' The poor Beau must 
 have wished the earth to oj)en under him. He was equally im- 
 prudent in the way in which he treated an old ac 'pu'uitance who 
 arrived at the town to Avhich he had retreated, and of whom he 
 was fool enough to be ashamed. He generally took away their 
 characters summarily, but on one occasion was frightened almost 
 out of his wits by being calletl to account for this conduct. An 
 officer who had lost his nose in an enLraLfcment in the Penin- 
 sula, called on him, and in very strong terms recjuested to know 
 why the Ueau had reported that he was a retired ha.tler. His 
 manner alarmed the rascal, who apologized, and protested that 
 there miist be a mistake ; he had never said so. The officer 
 retired, and as he was going, Brummell added : 'Yes, it must 
 be a mistake, for now 1 think of it, I never ^dealt with a hatter 
 without a nose.' 
 
 So much for the good breeding of this friend of (ieorge IV. 
 and the Duke of York. 
 
 His affectation was (juite as great as his impudence : and he 
 
vr / 
 
 I London would 
 
 fortune at the 
 her for leading 
 ion, ' Why, sir, 
 ny arm all the 
 
 J at Calais, he 
 ce of it. I-ord 
 of compassion, 
 our Lordshi}) is 
 ')t feed at such 
 ith any one who 
 ilaced in a de- 
 d the invitation 
 alais. He was 
 lal ])assed and 
 imcll ?' — ' Not 
 the man passed 
 m, ' Don't for- 
 •oor Beau must 
 was equally im- 
 rid.'.intance who 
 nd of whom he 
 took away their 
 ightencd almost 
 is conduct. An 
 
 in the Penin- 
 [uested to know 
 d hatter. His 
 
 protested that 
 ). The officer 
 
 ' ^'es, it must 
 it with a hatter 
 
 of (ieorLre IV. 
 
 dence : and he 
 
 Offers of Intimacy Resented. 41 1 
 
 won the reputation of fastidiousness— nothing gives more i)res- 
 tige— by dint of being openly rude. No hospitality or kind- 
 ness melted him, when he thought he could gain a march. At 
 one dinner, not liking the champagne, he called to the servant 
 to give him '.some more of that cider:' at another, to which he 
 was invited in days when a dinner was a charity to him, after 
 helping himself to a wing of capon, and trying a morsel of it. 
 he took it u]) in his napkin, called to his dog— he was generally 
 accompanied by a pupi)y, even to parties, as if one at a time 
 uere not enough— and presenting it to him, said aloud, ' Here, 
 ./Av/y, try if you can get your teeth through that, for I'm d— d 
 if f can 1' 
 
 To the last lie resented offers of intimac:y from those whom 
 he considered his inferiors, and as there are ladies enough every- 
 where, he had ample opportunity for administering rebuke to 
 those who pressed into his society. On one occasion he was 
 Muntering with a friend at Caen under the window of a lady who 
 longed for nothing more than to have the great arbiter clci^an- 
 //./yv/w at her house. When seeing him beneath, she ])Ut her 
 head out, and called out to him, ' C.ood evening, Mr. IJrummell, 
 won't you come up and take tea ?' The P>eau looked u]) with 
 extreme severity expressed on his face, and replied. 'Madam, 
 VMii take medicine— you take a walk— you take a liberty -but 
 \ou drink tea,' and walked on, having, it may be hoped, cured 
 the lady of her admiration. 
 
 In the life of such a man there could not of course be much 
 striking incident. He lived for 'society,' and the whole of his 
 story consists in his rise and fall in that narrow worUl. 'J'hough 
 admired and sought after by the women— so much so that at his 
 death his chief assets were locks of hair, the only things he 
 
 ( ould not ha\e turned into money -he never married. Wedlock 
 
 might have sobered hiin, and made him a more sensible, if not 
 111 Te respectable memlxT of society, but his advances towards 
 lu.itrimony never brought hiu. to the criNis. He accounted for 
 one rejection in his usual way. ' What could I do, my dear 
 t'-lhir: hclisi)ed, 'when I actually saw Lady Mary eat cabbage .>' 
 .\! anotlicr tune he is said to liave induced sonic deluded young 
 '■reatnre to elope with him from a ball-room, but managed the 
 
412 
 
 Never in Love. 
 
 b 
 
 affair so ill, tliat the lovers (?) were cauj^ht in the next street, 
 and the affair came to an end. He wrote rather ecstatic love- 
 letters to Lady Marys and Miss — -— s, gave married ladies ad- 
 vice on tlie treatment of their spouses and was tender to vari- 
 ous widows, but tliough he went on in tiiis way through life, he 
 was never, it would seem, in love, from the mere fact that he was 
 incapable of jjassion. 
 
 Perha])s he was too much of a woman to care much for 
 women. 1 le was certainly egrcgiously effeminate. About the 
 only creatures he could love were poodles. When one of his 
 dogs, from over-feeding, was taken ill, he sent for two dog- 
 doctors, and consulted very gravely with them on the remedies to 
 beap])lie(l. The canine physicians came to the conclusion that 
 she must be bled. ' JJled 1' said lirummell, in horror ; ' I shall 
 leave the room : inform me when the operation is over.' When 
 the dog died, he shed tears — probably the only ones he had 
 shed since cliildhood : and though at that time receiving 
 money from many an old friend in England, complained, with 
 .tou( hing melancholy. ' that he had lost the only friend he had '.' 
 His grief lasted three whole days, during which he shut himself 
 lip, and would see no one; but we are not told that he e\er 
 thus mourned over any human being. 
 
 His effeminacy was also shown in his dislike to field-sports. 
 His shooting exploits were confined to the n\urder of a pair of 
 ])et ])igeons perched oil a roof, while he confessed, as regards 
 hunting, that it was a bore to gel uj) no cirly in tlie morning 
 only to have one's jioots and leathers si)lashed liy gallopnng 
 farmers. However, hunting was a fashion, and lirumuiell must 
 needs appear to hunt. He therefore kei)t a stud of hunters in 
 his better days, near Belvoir, the Duke of Rutland's, where he 
 was a freiiuent visitor, and if there was a near meet, would ride 
 out in pink and to|)s to see the hounds l)reak cover, follow 
 through a few gates, and return to the more congenial atmo- 
 sphere of the drawing-room. He, however, condescended to 
 bring his taste to bear on the hunting-dress ; and, it is said, 
 introduced white tops instead of the ancient mahoganies. That 
 he rr'//A/ ride there seems reason to believe, but it is couallv 
 probable that he was afraid to do so. His valour was certainly 
 
he next street, 
 r ecstatic love- 
 rried ladies ad- 
 tender to vari- 
 through life, he 
 ; fact that he was 
 
 care much for 
 .le. About the 
 'hen one of his 
 It for two doe;- 
 
 the remedies to 
 : conclusion that 
 lon-or ; ' I shall 
 
 is over.' When 
 ly ones he had 
 
 time receiving:; 
 oni])Iaincd, with 
 I friend he had !' 
 
 he shut himself 
 Id that he c\cr 
 
 'i to field-sports, 
 (ler of a pair of 
 ;ssed, as regards 
 
 in the morning 
 id l)y galloi-'ing 
 
 Erummell must 
 [d of hunters in 
 and's, where he 
 licet, would ride 
 ik cover, follow 
 congcrnal atmo- 
 ondescended to 
 
 and, it is saitl, 
 ahoganies. That 
 ut it is cijuallv 
 )ur was certainly 
 
 Anecdote of Slicriilau aiiJ Ihinumcll. 41 3 
 
 composed almost entirely of its ' better part,' and indeed had 
 so much prudence in it that it may be doubted if there was 
 any of the original stock left. Once when he had been taking 
 away somebody's character, the 'friend' of the maligned gen""- 
 tleman entered his apa-'tment, and very menacingly demanded 
 satisfaction for his principal, unless an apology were tendered 
 'in five minutes.' 'Five minutes :' answered the exquisite, as 
 ])ale as death, 'five seconds, or sooner if you like.' 
 
 brummell was no fool, in si)ile of his follies. He had talents 
 of a mediocre kiml, if he had chosen to make a better use or 
 them. Yet the general opinion was not in favour of his wisdom. 
 He (piite deserved Sheridan's cool satire for his affectation, ir 
 not for his want of mind. 
 
 The Wit and the I]eau met one day at Charing Cross, and it 
 (an well be imagined that the latter was rather disgusted at being 
 seen so far east of St. James's Street, and drawled out to Sher?- 
 dan,— 'Sherry, my dear l)oy, don't mention that you saw mc in 
 this filthy part of the town, though, perhaps. I am rather severe, 
 for his (^.race of Northumberland resides somewhere about this 
 si)ot, if I don't mistake. The fact is, my dear boy, I have 
 
 been in the d d City, to the llank : I wish they would re- 
 
 iiio\e it to the West luid, for re-all-y it is quite a bore to go 
 to such a place; more particularly as one cannot be seen in 
 one's own equipage beyond Somerset House,' etc etc. etc. in 
 the P>runiniellian style. 
 
 ' Xay, my good fellow,' was the answc to this peroration, 
 ' travelling from tlie East ? impossible :' 
 ' ^^'hy, my dear boy. why ?' 
 ' Because the wise men came from the East.' 
 ' So, then, sa-ar — you think me a fool ?' 
 ' By no means ; I know you to be one,' quoth Sherry, and 
 turned away. It is due 10 both the parties to this anecdote 
 to state that it is quite apocryi)hal, and rests on the slenderest 
 :iathority. However, uheLier fool or not, Brumniell has one 
 certain, though small, claim upon certain small readers. Were 
 \-ou l)orn in a modern generation, when scraps of i)oetr>' were 
 iurwiiiacn .ti your nursery, and iiu uliier ])abulum was otTered 
 10 your infant stomach, but the r.ilhcr dull biographies of rather 
 

 414 7V/C' /nan's Pociical Efforts. 
 
 <lu]l, thougli very ui^riglit men ? — if so, I jjity you. Old airs of 
 a jaunty jig-like kind arc still haunting the echoes of my brain. 
 Among them is — 
 
 ' 'J'lic hntti'rfly was ;i fjcntli'tnan, 
 Wliicli iiolxidy criii rofiito : 
 He U'ft liis la(l\-l<i\t' at lionu-, 
 Ami roaiiK'd in a velvet suit.' 
 
 I remember often to have nniiinated over this character of 
 an innocent, and, I believe, calumniated, insect. He was a 
 gentleman, and the co.iset[Uences thereof were twofold : he 
 abandoned the young woman who had trusted her affections to 
 him, and attired his person in a complete costume of the best 
 J.yons silk-velvet, //('/ the proctor's velvet, which Theodore felt 
 with thumb and linger, impudently asking 'how much a yard?' 
 I secretly resolved to do the same tiling as Mr. Duttertly when 
 J came of age. But the said Mr. .Huttertly had a varied and 
 somewhat awful history, all of which w^s narrated in various 
 ditties chanted by my nurse. 1 could not (juitejoin in her vivid 
 assertion that she would 
 
 ' lio a Iniitci-fly, 
 
 Horn in a bowrr, 
 C"iiristcn(.'cl in .1 ti'a-pot, 
 Anil dead in an hour.' 
 
 .•1'".lat. four, life is dear, and the idea of that earlv demise 
 was far from welcome to me. I pri\ily agreed that I would //t'.' 
 be a bulterlly. liut there was no end to the history of this 
 very inconstant insect in our nursery lore. We didn't care a 
 drop of honey for Dr. Watts's ' lUisy ]3ee ;' we infinitely pre- 
 ferred the account — not in the 'Morning Post' — of the 'But- 
 triily's Ball' and the ' drasshopper's Feast ;' and few, perhaps, 
 ever given children more ]!lcasures of imagination than 
 William Roscoe, its author. There were some amongst us, how- 
 ever, who were already being weaned to a knowledge of life's 
 mysterious changes, and we sought the third volume of the ro- 
 mance of the flitting gaudy thing in a little poem called 'The 
 lUiiterfly's Funeral.' 
 
 Little dreamed we, when in our prettly little song-books we 
 Haw tlic initial ' B.' at llie bottom of tliese verses, that a real 
 
s. 
 
 ou. Old airs of 
 Its of my brain. 
 
 his character of 
 ;ct. He was a 
 re twofold : he 
 her afferlions to 
 lime of the best 
 li Theodore felt 
 much a yard?' 
 . Ikittertly when 
 :l a varied and 
 ated in various 
 join in her vivid 
 
 It early demise 
 hat I would ;/i'.' 
 history of this 
 i didn't care a 
 infinitely pre- 
 '— of the 'But- 
 d few, perhaps, 
 lagination than 
 iiongst us, how- 
 wledge of life's 
 lume of the ro- 
 :m called 'The 
 
 song-books we 
 ;es, that a real 
 
 T/u- Value of a Crooked Sixpence. 415 
 
 human butterfly had written them, and that they conveyed a 
 solemn prognostication of a fate that was not his. Little we 
 dreamed, as we lispe<l out the verses, that the 'gentleman who 
 roamed m a' not velvet but 'plum-colourcd suit,' according to 
 I.ady Hester Stanhope, was the illustrious (Jeorge ]5rummell 
 ! he lleau wrote these trashy little rhymes-pretty in their way 
 -and, smce I was once a child, and learnt them off by heart 
 I wUl not cast a stone at them. iJrummell indulgcl in su. h 
 tiilimg poetizmg, but never went further. It is a p'ity he di.l not 
 \\ rue his memoirs ; they would have added a valuable pa-e to 
 the history of 'Vanity Fair.' "^ 
 
 I '.rummell's London glory lasted from 179S to 1816 His 
 c hiet club was Watier's. It was a superb assemblage of game- 
 sters and fops -knaves and fools ; and it is difficult to say whi( h 
 dement predominated, lor a time Bmmmell was monarch 
 there ; but his day of reckoning came at last. I'.yron and 
 Moore, Sir Henry Mildmay and Mr. Pierrepoint, were amon- 
 the members. Play ran high there, and Prummell once won 
 nearly as much as his squandered patrimonv, / 2(^ 000 Of 
 < ourse he not only lost it again, but much more-indeed his 
 uhole capital. It was after some heavy loss that he was walk- 
 mg home through Berkeley Street with ^Ir. Raikes, when he 
 saw something glittering in the gutter, picked it up, and found 
 It to be a crooked sixpence. Like all small-minded men he 
 had a great fund of superstition, an<l he wore the talisman of 
 good luck for some time. For two yeais, we are told, after this 
 tuuhng of treasure-trove, s, ..cess attended him in j.lay-macao 
 the very pith of hazard, was the chief game at Watier's— md 
 lie attributed it all to the si.xpence. At last he lost it, and 
 hick turned against him So goes the story. Ii is proluibly 
 much more easily accountable. Few men i)layed honestly in 
 those days without losing to the dishonest, and we have no 
 reason to chaise the Beau widi mal-practice. However this 
 may be, his losses at play first brought about hi. ruin. The 
 lews were, of course, resorted to ; and if Prummell did not 
 hke Charles Fox, keq) a Jeru.salem Ckimber, it was only be- 
 
 ( ause the sum tnf.nl '" ' (>it+i,«.^ „,.,„ -jra-^-^- ,>--i! 1 i 
 
 — ••••^'irr^ tTa=|jreuy Well Known to the 
 
 money-lenders. 
 
 1 i 
 
b 
 
 416 The Breach ivith the Prince of Wales. 
 
 ' Then camo tin- cliantjf, tlie check, the fall : 
 Paiti rises \\\), old pleasures pall. 
 'I'liere is one remedy for all.' 
 
 This remedy was the crossing of tlie Channel, a crossing 
 kept by l)eggars, who levy a heavy toll on those who pass 
 over it. 
 
 The decline of the Ueau was rapid, hut not without its klat. 
 A breach with h.is royal patron led the way. it is jiresumed 
 that every reader of these volumes has heard the fimous story 
 of ' Wales, ring tlie bell !' but not all may know its particulars. 
 
 -V deep impenetrable mystery hangs over this story. Perhaps 
 .some (lerman of the twenty-hrst century- some future (liffard, 
 or who not will put his wils to work to solve the riddle. \\\ 
 very sooth // iic rant pas hi chandcllc. A cpiarrel did take 
 ])lace I'ctween (leorge the Prince and (leorge the Less, but of 
 iis causes no living mortal is cognizant : we can only give the 
 received versions. It appears, then, that dining with H. R. 11. 
 the Prince of \Vales. Master lirummell asked him to ring the 
 bell. Considering the intimacy between them, and that the 
 Regent often sacrificed his dignit}' to Iiis amusement, there was 
 nothing extraordinarv in this. lUit it is added that the Prince 
 did ring the bell in (piestion-^unhappy bell to jar so between 
 two su( h illustrious friends ! — and when the servant came, or- 
 dered *.^Ir. P.rummeirs carriage!' Another version jndms off 
 the impertinence on a drunken midshipmrm, who, being related 
 to the Comptroller of the Household, had been invited to 
 dinner by the Regent. Another yet states that Brummell, being 
 risked to ring the said bell, rej)lied, 'Your Royal Highness is 
 close to it.' No one knows the truth of the legend, any more 
 than whether Homer was a man or a m\ih. It surely tloes not 
 matter. 'I'he friends ([uarrelled, and perhajjs it was time they 
 should do so, for they had never improved one another's 
 morals ; but it is only fair to the Ileau to atld that l^.e always 
 denied the whole affair, and that he himself gave as the cause 
 of the ([uarrel his own sarcasms on the Prince's increasing cor- 
 l)ulency, and his resemblance to Mrs. fii/herbert's porter, 'Big 
 Jien.' Certainly some praise is due to the Beau for the sau:^ 
 Jroid with which he a])peared 10 ireai the matter, though in 
 
ales. 
 
 inci, a crossing 
 those who pass 
 
 vithoul its cciai. 
 It is jircsumed 
 ic famous story 
 V its particulars, 
 story. Pcrli;ips 
 I future (liffanl, 
 the ridille. Ju 
 uarrcl diil take 
 Ik' Less, but of 
 n only give the 
 ; with'Tl. R. II. 
 lini to ring the 
 I, and that the 
 nient, there was 
 that the Prince 
 jar so between 
 rvant came, or- 
 rsion j)alms off 
 o, being related 
 )een invited to 
 irummell, being 
 •al Highness is 
 gend, any more 
 surely does not 
 was time they 
 one another's 
 that liC always 
 e as the cause 
 increasing cor- 
 rt's porter, ' Big 
 lu for the Scvii;- 
 liter, thougii in 
 
 ' JV/ios youy Fat Fiend r . , - 
 
 reality dreadfully cut up about if n.i 
 
 intimate with the I'rinr-,. ,xJ, . * , , ^ ^'"'' ^^^^ 
 
 nn ine 1 luv e, ;\lio, to make the (Ut themorf nvirl-,.,l 
 st')i)i)i"( •nil iiM-..,! ♦ I • ■ , "^ '■"^ "I'JiL m.irKed, 
 
 1 I'Lu and talked to him without til-lncr fi, . r i , • 
 
 of JJrumni..|l Xd .■ , , '^ ^ "■ '^''y''l^''^t notice 
 
 'I'^-rning round half wav, so thit h s u H ^^'^'^/'.'''l-nK- ' 
 
 i'canl by the retreating Cnt t Le Hc^u ti' I n "' '" ^' '" 
 
 "> Hi-s usual drawl . u" -11 T i ""^ '^'' '"""^l^^^'^'^^" 
 
 (iiawi, Weil, Jack, who's vour fat fri,.n,l >> -n 
 
 1 W,ell ,vas .co.cl,e,. rn.I.or ,l,nn kill.,, ,,,. „„. ,-„,,,,, ,•„. 
 
 )-. of \ or. and lo„ml ,„ hi,,, >.,„„,,. |„,,„|. .|.|,, ,,„,''= 
 -',.. . , a-u<H„ar r„,„,,K.. r„r Cog.,, of ...ici, s To 
 
 h.He kq,t no fc>v,.r, al one time, liian a l,„„,ire,l a.l.l I I 
 1 "P,;y B™,,,,,,.,, ,o U,e .^:, a,„l .rea.e.l hi,, ''""„' ^ 
 
 ■ ' "!i":li little coiHloscension «.,s mive,l l'i„ J -.i '""" 
 'iH.enortheblooa-rovlcan -, . neither „„,m- 
 
 ■ ^.ny when l,e pla" •; "tir .l , "'" "'" '," !'"'"• '^^'^^ 
 .!, )•,,- u , ^"^ deei)er an( ( eeuer intn 
 ;. .lillK. ilty ana „ ,„,„^, „,^.^,^.^,^__^ ^ ^^^^^^^_ al.„ n„i "y 
 
 ' ' B'-'""'^'"^'" "1.0 lhen<efor>var,l went hy the na.neof Dick 
 
 I 
 
 27 
 
41.S 
 
 The Climax is Reached. 
 
 llic Dandy killer, oljligod him to think of ])larc and poverty in 
 another land. He looked in vain for aid, and arnont; others 
 Serope Davics was written to to lend liini 'two hundred,' 'be- 
 cause his money was all in the three per cents.' Scrope reijlied 
 laconically — 
 
 ' Mv 1)1 AR Gkokcf,, 
 
 ' It is \ery unfortunate, but my money is all in the three 
 per cents. Yours, 
 
 'S. Davies.' 
 
 o 
 
 It was tlie last attempt. The Beau went to the opera, as 
 usual, and drove away from it clear off to l)o\er, wlienc e the 
 ])a(kc't look him to safety and slovenliness in the anf lent town 
 of Calais. His few effects were sold after his departure. I'or- 
 ce'aine, buhl, a drawing or two, <louble-barrelled Mantons (pro- 
 bably never used), plenty of old wine, linen, furniture, and a 
 few well-bound books, were the Beau's assets. 11 is debts were 
 willi half the chief tradesmen of the West End and a large 
 number of his personal frientls. 
 
 The clima.x is reached : henceforth Master (Icorge Bryan 
 Bruuunell goes rajjidly and gracefully down the hill of life. 
 
 The jiosition of a Calais beggar was by no means a bad one, 
 if the reduced indi\idual had any claim whatever to distinction. 
 A black-mail was sedulously levied by the outcasts and e.xiles 
 of that town on every Englishman who jiassed through it ; and 
 in those days it was customary to pass some short time in this 
 entrance of France. The English ' residents' were always on 
 the look-out, generally crowding round the packet-boat, and the 
 new arrival was sure to be accosted by some old and attached 
 friend, who had not seen him for years. Just as Buttons, who 
 is always breaking the plates and tumblers, has the invariable 
 mode of accounting for his carelessness, 'they fell a])art, sir, in 
 my 'ands !' so these expatriated Britons had always a tale of 
 confulen( e misplaced — security for a bond — bail for. a delin- 
 (juent, or in short any hard case, which compelled them, much 
 against their wills, to remain 'for a period' on the shores of 
 Fnuice. To such men, whom vou had known in seven-<^uinea 
 
c and poverty in 
 1(1 anion.:; others 
 I'O hundred,' ' be- 
 ' Scropc replied 
 
 all in the three 
 
 *S. Davif.s; 
 
 to the oi)cra. as 
 >\ er, \vhen( e the 
 the ancient town 
 de|>arture. Por- 
 jd Mantons (pro- 
 fiirniture, and a 
 I lis (lel)ls were 
 'A\d and a large 
 
 ;r (icorge Bryan 
 L' hill of life, 
 neans a bad one, 
 cr to distinction, 
 tcasts and exiles 
 
 through it ; and 
 lort time in this 
 
 were always on 
 kct-boat, and the 
 lid and attached 
 as Ikittons, who 
 IS the invarial)le 
 
 fell aj)art, sir, in 
 always a tale of 
 :xiil for. a delin- 
 lled them, much 
 •n the shores of 
 
 in sevcn-cuinea 
 
 T/^i • niack-mail of Calais. ^ , ,. 
 
 pound note, an.l in time the bl uk mail of r i ^ ' 
 
 ti.ijjcu iiunseli IS a waiter n f julli ,,.,.' . 
 -. bu, ,,„.a.n„- „.„„l,| have wi.l,hel,I its bla„, > 1 , ' '' 
 
 01 ihL l,r<,U-ii licau. Vcl, jl it >vorc doubted tint his .„„l 
 
 , to Mr. ka.kes m the tune of his poverty would settle 
 
 e .luestion. ' 1 heard of you the other dav in a - is c•o^t 
 
 ' IjU^s you considerable credit, spick-and.pan ,rl > ^? 
 
 b^o^l stnpe, saIn,on-colour, and cra.otsc. Don't la them 
 
 Y'i^^ youuMo a relapse-into the (lothic -as th u of vo 
 
 rS f r r "-^•' '^^. ^P-^^^ of the army 0/0".'^ • 
 ^ '--iscals m red coats vmrng for cinliarkation ' '••■',.-'■(. 
 ^^-cafu,,/ l,c say. ■„ anotl.cr fat.r, 'may be'alVvcry wjii'i^ 
 
 27—2 
 
 -i 
 
o 
 
 420 George the Greater and tJw /.<xr. 
 
 in~.lni(i il>o hcmmiiv^' of hnn'Ikcrrhicf*', . v rnni. 
 
 of a coil ntry-( Ian 'L', liiii notliiii, 'I 
 
 ( onsolation to your dci lining y^ ii-. to ac Mnir daughicrs coinc 
 into the room upon llcir elbows, and to find tlicir ;u * omiilis! 
 nicnts limited to broad native phrascoloi^'y in ronvcrsation, or 
 tlnimping the "Woodpecker" upon a di,s( ordant spinet.' And 
 lie proceeds to recommend a 'good French formaiio,, of 
 niannt ■>,' and so f'rth. 
 
 Nor did he display any of that dignity and ||!f re^pei 1 which 
 are generally supposed to mark the ' gentleman.' W uea hi.s 
 l.itc friend and foe, by this time a king, passed throiigh Calais, 
 the lleau, broken in every ^cnso, had not jdde enough to keep 
 f)ut of his way. Many stories ar. lold ot tlie numier in wliic h 
 he pressed himsell into (ieorL' l\'.'s notice, but the v:;ni ;s 
 legenils mostly turn ujion a cert lin snuff-box. Accordim; to one 
 'juite as reliable as any other, the Prince and the Deau had 
 in their days of amity intended to e\( h nge snuff-boxes, and 
 (ieorge the (Ireaterhad given (ieorge the Less an order on his 
 jeweller for a A/ArZ/Vvv witli hi-^ port? 'it on the tofi. On llu t 
 (juarrel this order w.i-n with Nei; \<m\ taste, resc'nded, although 
 Urummell's snuffbox !i,id already pas^c' ^'rince's hands 
 
 and had not been returned. It is said t, ,1 u^ IJeau employed 
 .1 friend to remind the king of this agreenK.it, and ask for his 
 box; lo wlioni the latter saiil that the :-!■.' was all nonsense, 
 ;ind that he supposed ' the poor de\il,' M).eanmg his late intimate 
 triend, wanted J^yoo and should h \e it. lioue\er, it is doubt- 
 fal if the money ever readied the 'poor devil. ' The story 
 does not tell over well, for whatever were the failings and faults 
 of (ieorge IV., he seems to have had a certain amount of good 
 nature, if not absolutely (jf good heart, and possessed, at least, 
 sulficient sense of what became a prince, to prevent his doing 
 so shabby an act, thougli he may ha\e defnuuled a hundred 
 tradesmen. In these days there TiT/v such things as 'debts of 
 honour,' and they were punctiliously attended to. There are, 
 as we have said, various versions of this story, Init all tend to 
 show that IJrummell courted the notice of his late master and 
 patron 6n his way through the [)lace of his exile; and it is not 
 remarkable in a man wlio borrowed so fre« ly from a!! liis ac- 
 
/.,xr 
 
 V roni; 
 
 1 poi'T 
 (Ian ( oiiie 
 
 lioir .11 ■ oiuplisl; 
 roiivcr.iation, or 
 U si.iiift.' And 
 h furmaliui. of 
 
 i!rrc,-.|K'( 1 which 
 
 an.' W iicii his 
 
 ihrongh Cahiis, 
 
 cnuii;4li to keep 
 
 njnncr in which 
 
 1)111 the ^■;•.;.■ 
 
 < (onlin^ tu one 
 
 , the Ueau had 
 
 sniirf-bos'cs, and 
 
 an order on his 
 
 to;!. On ihtir 
 
 'ndcd, although 
 
 . Prince's ham!- 
 
 Beau enii)loycd 
 
 and ask for his 
 
 ill nonsense, 
 
 his late intimate 
 
 L'ver, it is doubt- 
 
 .i!.' The story 
 
 ilings and faults 
 
 amount of good 
 
 isesscd. at least, 
 
 rev (.111 his doing 
 
 idetl a hundred 
 
 gs as ' debts of 
 
 to. There are, 
 
 , but all tend to 
 
 late master and 
 
 e; and it is not 
 
 fri )»^t 'ill MIC nr- 
 
 All Exfraoniiiuvy Step. .,, 
 
 Urumsnell inulo one grand i 
 
 ''c outhved hunself. For sonu 
 
 ^ Jliglif from Kngjand, to w,, 
 
 lor a 1 !i, was an assiduo: 
 
 ;';''''t' ' . ''■''"''^- •^^'^";-''" obtamidlh 
 '"UU of con .lii ut the good old Xorm,,, town of ( 
 
 ike in Ins career as a Ik-aii : 
 
 •■"ir years he uvivnl 
 
 y he never rcuirncd. 
 
 r of begging letters ar ' 
 
 H I.oilU 
 lis 
 
 «xs almost a s,ncu,rc, ami the- lieu t.,„k ,.,rc „, kc,-,, „ so 
 I.." nu one ca„ ac,„„n, f„r .l,o.Mr,,„r.l,„ar> ,,cn he took ,™i 
 ^••- enu-nng „„ his consular ,lu,ics. He , ^e t , I 
 
 u 1,1, 1,; '^"'^ ^^'''^ ^'"-^'f^-'l in accordance 
 
 ;;:^r^o.eo,a,rha„k.,,,eu,a„a«j;;i::^:.;-^^ 
 
 "» imau. I,ui ,;oul,l not lonx sul,si,i in ,!„, way ami tl„. 
 
 i e » ,s l,i,erale,l I.e a,,.uu re ,„! l,is primrose gim es, his 
 
 in ntl'f "';,""'' ''" """" ^■'"'" '■■"• '■'■' l«»'s. thou, a 
 a. , „e hterally M,,,|,„r,ed u lu.s faemls « i,h an all„>™Kc 
 
 >f been' unl'TV " ""■ "'■' '■''' "' '■•™ '''-^ 'his ,voul,l 
 '-'■" V' '"->f-!°° •' >>--->r in l-:ni.|an<l, and ceriiinlv 
 
 ■ l".g the provuler of u a • seouu.Irel/ because he vu,.ur:, 
 !^ fur us money. 1\-I,a, f„,,,,ery. .hat folly was a li ! 
 
 u^rrr':^,.; ':■-■";-",'-"* '-^■-"-'.^^:^- 
 
 hi 
 
 ••> extravagance : h 
 
 e w 
 
 ■ l> Ui.d ioiiowed 
 
 ■as actually compelled to exchange his 
 
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MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART 
 
 ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No 2 
 
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 1.25 
 
 Hi 
 
 S50 
 an 
 
 I. 
 
 Z8 
 
 IIJ12 
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 1.4 
 
 II 2.5 
 2.2 
 
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 1.8 
 
 1.6 
 
 J d^ PLIED I NA^GE In: 
 
 S3-. '653 East Mam Sireel 
 
 ~.JS ''ochesler, Ne« York 14609 u A 
 

 
 ^ 
 
 42 2 J^own the Hill of L ife. 
 
 white for a black cravat. Toor martyr ! after such a trial it is 
 impossible to be hard upon him. So, too, the man who sent 
 repeated be-ing-letters to the Kn.t^lish grocer, Armstrong, threw 
 out of window a new dressing-gown because it was not ot the 
 pattern he wished to have. . 
 
 Retribution for all tliis f(^lly came in tmic. lbs mmd went 
 even before his health. Though only some sixty years ot age 
 almost die bloom of some men's life, he lost his memory ami 
 his powers of attention. His old ill-manners became positively 
 l,.vd m-mners. ^\ lien feaste.l and feted, he could find nothing 
 better to say than ' What a half-starved turkey.' At last the 
 Ikau was reduced to the level of that slovenliness which he 
 had considered as the next step to penlition. Reduced to one 
 pair of trousers, he had to remain in bed till they were mended. 
 He -rew indifterent to his personal appearance, the surest sign 
 of dt;cay. Drivelling, wretche.l, in debt, an object of contempt 
 to all honest men, he dragged on a miserable existence, btill 
 widi his boots in hobs, and all the honour of beau-dom gone 
 for ever, he clung to the last to his Kau de Cologne, and some 
 few other luxuries, and went down, a fool and a top, to the 
 <.rave To indulge his silly tastes he had to part with one i-iece 
 of property after\molher ; and at length he was left with litt.e 
 else than the locks of hair of which he had once boasted. 
 
 I remember a story of a labourer and his dying wite. 1 he 
 poor woman was breathing her last wishes. 'And I^sa>, 
 William, vou'U see the old sow don't kill her young uns?- Ay, 
 av, wife, 'set thee good.' ' And, I say, William, you'll see Li.zy 
 goes to schule reg'lar?'-' Ay, ay, wife, set thee good. .And, 
 \ say, William, you'll see Tommy's breeches is men.led against 
 • he goes to schule again?'-' Ay, ay, wife, set thee good. -- 
 ' .\ml I sav, William, you'll see I'm lai<l proi)er m the yardi- 
 WiUia'm grew impatient. ' Now never thee nnnd them thmgs, 
 wife, rUsee to 'em all, you just go on with your dying- ^o 
 doubt Brummell's friends heartily wished that he would go on 
 with his dying, for he had already lived too long ; but he won d 
 live on He is described in his last days as a miserable, 
 slovenly, half wilted old creature, <Teeping about to the houses 
 of a few friends he retained or who were kind enough to notice 
 
such a trial it is 
 e man who sent 
 irnistrong, threw 
 t was not of the 
 
 His mind went 
 ay years of age, 
 his memory and 
 >ecame ])Osilively 
 juld fnid nothing 
 .cv.' At hist the 
 nhness which he 
 
 Reduced to one 
 iL-y were mended. 
 
 c, the snrest sign 
 bject of contempt 
 J existence. Still 
 j{ beau-dom gone 
 ologne, and some 
 and a fop, to the 
 art with one piece 
 was left with little 
 )n('o boasted. 
 
 dying wife. The 
 es. 'And, I say, 
 young uns ?' — * Ay, 
 111, you'll see Lizzy 
 hee good.' 'And, 
 
 is mended against 
 , set dice good.'— 
 )roper in the yard ?' 
 
 mind them things, 
 1 your dying.' No 
 i:it he would go on 
 long ; but he would 
 lys as a miserable, 
 about to the houses 
 nd enough to notice 
 
 A Miscmble Old Age. 423 
 
 him still, jeered at by \\-\q gamins, and remarkable now, not for 
 the cleanliness, but the filthiness and raggedness of Iiis attire. 
 
 Poor old fool! one cannot but pity him, when wretched, 
 friendless, and miserable as he was, we find him, still graceful, 
 in a poor aifc near the Place Royale, taking his cup of coffee, 
 and when asked for the amount of his bill, answering very 
 vaguely, ' Qui, Madame, h la pleine lune, a la pleine lune.' 
 
 The drivellings of old age are no tit subject for ridicule, yet 
 in the case of a man who had sneered so freely at his fellow- 
 creatures, they may afford a useful lesson. One of his fancies 
 was to give imaginary parties, wlien his tallow dips were all set 
 alight and his servant announced with proper decorum, ' The 
 Duchess of Devonshire,' ' r,ord Alvanley, 'Mr. Sheridan,' or 
 whom not. The poor old idiot received the imaginary visitors 
 with the old bow, and talked to them in the old strain, till his 
 servant announced their imaginary carriages, and he was put 
 drivelling to bed. At last the idiocy became mnnia. Me burnt 
 his books, his relics, his tokens. He ate enormously, and tlie 
 man who had looked upon beer as the nc plus ii'fra of \ui;a- 
 rily, was glad to imagine it champagne. Let us not follow the 
 poor maniac through his wanderings. Rather let us throw a 
 veil over all his drivelling wretchedness, and tind him at his 
 last gasp, when coat and collar, hat and brim, were all fo'-otten, 
 when the man who had worn three shirts a day was co t to 
 < hange his linen once a month. What a lesson, what a .earn- 
 ing ! If Prummell had come to this pass in luigland, it is hard 
 to say how and where he would have died. He was now utterly 
 penniless, and h;id no jjrospect of receiving any remittances. 
 It was determined to remove him to the Hosi)ice du Bon Sau- 
 veur, a Maison dc C/iarite, where he would be well cared for at 
 no expense. The mania of the poor creature took, as ever, the 
 turn of external preparation. When the landlord of his inn 
 entered to try and induce him to v^ '^e found him with his wig 
 on his knee, his shaving apparatus by his side, and the (quon- 
 dam beau deei)ly intere.-^ted in lathe- mg the peruke as a 
 preliminary to shearing it. He resisted every proposal to 
 move, and was carried down stairs, kicking and shrieking. 
 Once lodged in the Hospice, he was treated by the sa'urs 
 

 424 In the Hospice dn Bon Sauven;'. 
 
 lie charltc with tlic rjreatest kindness and consideration. An 
 attempt was made to recall him to a sense of his future peril, 
 that he might at lease die in a more reli-ious mood tliart he had 
 lived ; l'".l in vain. It is not for us, erring and sinful as we are, 
 to judge any fellow-creature ; but perhaps P'oor Ihummell w.^s 
 the last man to whom religion had a meaning. His heart was 
 good; his sins were moie those of vanity than those of hate ; it 
 may be thai they are reganled mercifully where the fund of mery 
 is unbounded. God grant that they may be so ; or who of us 
 would escape ? None but fiends will triumph over the death of 
 any man in sin. Men are not fiends ; they must and w ill always 
 feel for Uieir fellow-men, let them die as ihey will. No doubt 
 Brummell was a fool-a fool of tb.e fust water, but that he was 
 e-iually a knave was not so certain. Let it never be certain to 
 blind man, ^^ho cannot read the heart, that any man is a 
 knave. He died on t'.ie 30th of March, 1840, and so the last 
 of the Beaux passed away. Teople have claime^l, indeed for 
 D'Orsay, the honour of Brummell's descending manUe, but 
 D'Orsay was not strictly a beau, for he had other and higher 
 tastes than mere dress. 1 1 has never been advanced that Ikum- 
 meli's heart was bad, in si-ite of his many faults. Vanity did 
 all. Vanitas vanitatem. O you.,g men of this age, be warned 
 by a Beau, and tlee his doubtful rei^utalion '. l'ea<e dien to 
 die ooat-Uiinker. Peace to all— to the worst. Let us look 
 within and not judge. It is enough that we are not tried in the 
 same balance. 
 
sideration. An 
 liis future peril, 
 ood thart he had 
 
 sinful as we are, 
 : JSrummell Wc^s 
 His heart was 
 tb.ose of hate ; it 
 he fund of mer'-y 
 :> ; or who of us 
 over the death of 
 stand will always 
 will. No douht 
 
 but that he was 
 ver be certain to 
 at any man is a 
 , and so the last 
 inied, indeed for 
 ling manUe, but 
 3lher and higher 
 anced tliat Brum- 
 ulls. Vanity did 
 is age, be warned 
 : Peace then to 
 rst. }.et us look 
 ire not tried in the 
 
 THEODORE EDWARD HOOK. 
 
 The Grontisf of Nfodcrn Wits. — What Coleridi,'!' saidof Hook. — Ilcxik's Family. 
 -- Ri'dfcminij Points. Wrsatiiity. — V'arictifs uf lloa.ving.- 'I'ho Hlack- 
 wa.fcrcd Horse. — '1 hi' BiTiiers Street Hoax. — Siicci-ss of the Sehcme.— 'Ihc 
 Stroji of 1 luiijjer. " Kitehen I'..\aiuinalions.- 'I he Wroni; House.- -.Xngling 
 for an Invitation. — The Haekney-coacii Device. Tiir I'lot^ of Hook and 
 Mathews. — Hook's Talents as an Inijirovisatore. I he (jilt becomes iiis 
 Hane. Hooks .\ovt Is, — ( '(jlleye Fun. Piaitini; a Proctor. --The Punning 
 I'aculty. — OlTicial Life Opens. -Troublesome Pleasantr\'. — Charge of Km- 
 bezzl.'uient.—Misftjrtiuie. —Doubly Disgraced.— No liifort to remove the 
 f-'ain.— Attacks on the Queen.— An Incongruous Mixture. — Specimen of 
 the kamsbottoin Letters. — Hook's Scurrility. — Fortune and I'opularity. — 
 The End. 
 
 pA'i#i^F it be difficidt to 3ay -.vjiat wit is, it is well nigh as hard 
 !ra ^ ^° pronounce what is nol: wit. In a sad world, .nirth 
 tflg^'y"! hath its full honour, let it c jnie in rags or in purple 
 raiment. The age that i)atronises a ' Punch ' every Saturday, 
 and a pantomime every Christmas, has no right to comi)Iain, if 
 it finds itself barren of w"' ; while a riv.il ,igc has Itrought forth 
 her dozens. Mirtli is, no doubt, very gixxl. We would see 
 more, not less, of it in this tmniinliful land. W'c would fain 
 imagine the shrunken-cheeked factory cirl singing to herself a 
 hai)py b'iiThen, as she .shifts the lo()iii. the burthen of her Hfe, 
 and fain l:)elieve that the voice was innocent as the sky-lark's, 
 but if it be not so — and we know ii is not so — shall we quarrel 
 with any one who tries to give the poor ( .irL'-worn, money-sing- 
 ing public a little laughter for a few pence ? No, truly, but it 
 does not follow that tlie man who raises a titter is, of necessity, 
 a wit. The next age, perchance, will write a l)(H)k of ' Wits 
 and Beaux,' in which Mr. Douglas Jerr.^id, Mr. Mark Lemon, 
 and so on, will represent the a'// of this passing day ; and that 
 future age will not ask so n.icelv wliat wit i*^. and n.ot look for 
 that last solved of riddles, its definition. 
 
O 
 
 426 The Greatest of Modern Wits. 
 
 Hook has been, l-y common consent, placed at the head of 
 modern wits. When kings were kings, they bulHed, beat, and 
 and brow-beat their jesters. Now and then tliey treated them to 
 a few years in the 'lower for a little extra impudence. Now that 
 the people are sovereign, the jester fares better— nay, twO well. 
 His books or his bon-mots are read with /est and grins ; he is 
 invited to his Grace's and implored to my Lord's ; he is waited 
 for, watched, pampered like a small Graml Lama, and, in one 
 sentence, the greater the fool, the more fools he makes. 
 
 If Theodore Hook had lived in the stirring days of King 
 Henry WW., he would have sent Messrs. Patch and Co. shari)ly 
 to die right-about, and been presented with the caps and bells 
 after his first comic song. No d?)ul)i he was a jester, a fool m 
 many senses, though he did net, like Solomon's fool, ' say m his 
 hcarV very much. He jested away even the i)racticals of life, 
 jested himself into disgrace, into i.rison, into contempt, into the 
 basest employment— that of a libeller tacked on to a i)arty. 
 He was a mimic, too, to whom none could send a challenge ; 
 an improvisatore, who beat Italians, Tyroleans, and St)Tians 
 hollow, sir, hollow. And laslly-oh ! shame of the shuffle- 
 tongued-he was, too, a punster. Ves, one who gloried in puns, 
 a maker of pun upon i^un. a man whose whole wit ran into a 
 pun as readily as water rushes into a hollow, who could not keep 
 out 01 a pun, let him loathe it or not, and who ma<ie some of 
 the best and some of the worst on record, but still— puns. _ 
 
 If he was a wit withal, it was mal:;re s,u, for fun, not tor wit, 
 was his 'aspiration.' Vet the world calls him a wit, and he 
 has a claim to his niche. There were, it is true, • many a man 
 in his own set who had mc^e real wit. There were James 
 Smith, Thomas Ingoldsby, Tom Hill, and others. Out of his 
 set but of his time, there was Sydney Smith, ten times more a 
 wit- but Theodore could amuse, Theodore could astonish, 
 Theodore could be at home anywhere; he had all the impu- 
 dence, all the readiness, all the indifference of a jester, and a 
 
 jester he was. .,, , , -r ^i ■ 
 
 I et any one look at his portrait, and he will doubt if this 
 
 be the kings jeslev, painted by Hul^;•.n■, o. m.. m 1--- 
 
 Hook, painted by Eddis. The short, thick nose, the long upper 
 
[ at the head of 
 Hied, beat, and 
 ^ treated them to 
 :iK:e. Now that 
 —nay, t.^0 well, 
 md grins ; he is 
 I's ; he is waited 
 ma, and, in one 
 ic makes, 
 ig days of King 
 1 and Co. sharply 
 c cajis and bells 
 I jester, a fool in 
 'stool, ' say in his 
 [jracticals of life, 
 ontempt, into the 
 I on to a i)arty. 
 end a challenge ; 
 ns, and Styrians 
 ic of the shuffle- 
 10 gloried in puns, 
 le wit ran into a 
 ho could not keep 
 10 made some of 
 it still — puns. 
 )r fun, not '"or wit, 
 im a wit, and he 
 rue, many a man 
 here were James 
 thers. Out of his 
 , ten times more a 
 ire couUl astonish, 
 had all the impu- 
 of a jester, and a 
 
 will doubt if this 
 
 or Mr. Tlieodore 
 
 ose, the long upper 
 
 U7u7/ Cokridgc said of Hook, 427 
 
 lip, the sensual, whimsical mouth, the twinkling eyes, all be- 
 long to the regular maker of fun. Hook was a certificated 
 jeslcr, with a lenient society to hear and applaud liim. instead 
 of an irritable tyrant to keep him in order: and he filled his 
 l)0st well. \Vhether he was more than ;i jester may well be 
 doubted; yet Coleridge, when lie heard him, said : 'I have 
 before in my time met with men of admirable promptitude of 
 intellectual power and play of wit, which, as Stillingtleet says: 
 
 "Tlic rays of wit gild whcrcsoc'er tlicy .strifte," 
 
 but T never cpuld have conceived su( li n- 'iness of mind and 
 resources of genius to be poured out on tne mere subject and 
 impulse of the moment.' The poet was wrong in one respect. 
 Ceiiius can in no sense be ajpplied to Hook, tiiough readiness 
 was his chief charm. 
 
 The famous Theodore was liorn in the same year as ]]yron, 
 iT'^^S, the one on the 22M of January, the other on the 22nd 
 of September ; so the i)oet was only nine months his senior. 
 Hook, like many"other wits, was a second son. Ladies of sixty 
 or seventy well remember the name of I bwk as that which 
 accompanied their earliest miseries. It was in learning Hook's 
 exercises, or i)riniers, or whatever they were called, that they 
 tirst had their fingers slapped over the i)iano-forte. The flither 
 of Theodore, no doubt, was the unwitting cause of much un- 
 liappiness to many a )oung lady in her teens. Hook fere was 
 an organist at Norwich. He came up to town, and was engaged 
 at Marylebone (lardens and at Vauxhall ; so that Theodore had 
 no excuse for being of decidedly plebeian origin, and, 'I ory as 
 lie was, he was not fool enough to asj)ire to [(alricianism. 
 
 Theodore's flimily was, in real foct, Theodore himself. He 
 made the name what it is, and raised himself to the position 
 he at one time held. Yet he had a brother whose claims to 
 celebrity are not altogether ancillary. James Hook was fifteen 
 years older than Theodore. After leaving Westminster School 
 he was sent to immortal Skimmery (St. Mary's Hall), Oxford, 
 which has fostered so many great men— and si)oiled them. He 
 was advanced in the church from one nrefsTment to anoth-er 
 and ultimately became Dean of Worcester. The character of 
 
'o 
 
 428 Iloolcs fanii')'. 
 
 tlic reverend gentleman is i^retly well known, l)iit it is unnc- 
 cessarvlure to ^o into it larihcr. He is only nienl... .-.l as 
 Theo.iore's br.Aher in tl.is sket.h.* He was a (lahhkr n. I.tera- 
 ture, like his brother, but s< arcely to the banie extent a dabbler 
 
 in wit. . . , 11 
 
 The voun-er son of < Hook's I'-Aerii-s developed early 
 
 enough a taste for ingenious lying-so mu. h admired m his 
 t.rede':essor-Sheri<lan, He 'fancied himself a genius, and 
 therefore, from s.:ho..l-age, not amenable to the ( ommon laws 
 of ordinary men. Frequenters of the now fashionable pn/e- 
 ring-thanks to two brutes who have brought that degraded 
 pastime inlo prominent notice- -will hear a great deal about a 
 man ' fancying himself.' It is .ommon slang and heeds litde 
 explanation. Hook ' fancied himself from an eady period, and 
 continued to ' fancy himself,' in spite of repeated disgraces, till 
 a very mature age. At Harrow, he was the < ontemporary, but 
 scarcely the friend, of l.ud r.yion. No two characters could 
 have been more unlike, b.very .,ne knows, more or less, what 
 IJyron's was ; it need only be said th.it Hook's was the reverse 
 of it in every respect. I'.vron felt where I look laughed, liyron 
 was morbid where Hook was gay. Byron abjured with di>,uu.t 
 the social vices to which he was introdu.;e.l ; Hook fell m with 
 them livron indul-ed in vice in a romantic way ; Hook 111 
 the coarsJst. 'Ihere is some excuse for 15yron, much as he has 
 been blamed. 'I'here is little or no excuse for Hook, much as 
 his faults have been palliated. The iact is that goodness of 
 heart will soften, in men's minds, any or all misdemeanours. 
 Hook, in spite of many vulgar witticisms and cruel jokes, seems 
 to have had a really good h.eart. _ 
 
 I have it on the authority of one of Hook's most mtimate 
 friends, that he was capable of any act of kindness, and by way 
 of instance of his goodness of heart, I am told by the same 
 person that he on one occasion <iuitted all his town amuse- 
 ments to solace the spirit of a friend in the country who was m 
 s-rious trouble. I, of course, refrain from gnmg names: but 
 the same person informs me that much of his tune was devoted 
 
 * Dr Tamos Hook, Dean of Worcoster. was lather to Dr. \yauci Faiquhar 
 Hook, now tlic excellent Dean of Chichester, late \ icar of Leeds. 
 
but it is unnc- 
 y iiicntii. -■'l as 
 alibkr in litcra- 
 xlcnt a liubblcr 
 
 lovcloped early 
 
 admirotl in his 
 ' u genius, and 
 e coninion laws 
 shionablc jtri/e- 
 t that (Icgradcil 
 jat deal about a 
 and heeds litllc 
 early period, and 
 ud disgraces, till 
 jiucmporary, but 
 iharacters could 
 ore or less, what 
 was the reverse 
 laughed, llyron 
 ured with disgust 
 [look fell in with 
 ( way ; Hook in 
 1, nnich as he has 
 
 Hook, much as 
 that gooilness of 
 
 mistlemeanours. 
 ruel jokes, seems 
 
 k's most intimate 
 dness, and by way 
 told by the same 
 
 his town amuse- 
 3untry who was in 
 i\ ing names : but 
 
 lime was devoted 
 
 I Dr. Waller raiciuhar 
 jf Leeds. 
 
 I Versatility. 429 
 
 in a like manner, to relieving, as far as j^ossiblc, the anxiety 
 (if his friends, often, indeed, arising from his own carelessness. 
 Il is due to Ib^ok to Mia!;e this impartial .slali nit, nt beNjre en- 
 tering on a sketch of his 'Sayings and Doings,' which muht 
 necessarily leave the impression that he was a heartless man. 
 
 Old Hook, the father, soon perceived the value of his son's 
 talent;; and, .leicrmined to turn them to account, encouraged 
 his natural mclination to song-writing. At the age of sixteen 
 'I'heodore wrote a kind of comic opera, to which his father sup- 
 plied the music. This was called 'The Soklier's Return.' It 
 was followed by others, and young Hook, not yet out of his 
 teens, managed to keep a Drury Lane audience alive, as well as 
 liimself and family. It must be remembered, however, that 
 Lision and Matthews couUl make almost any piece amusing. 
 The young author was introduced behind the scenes through 
 his fLither's connection with the theatre, and often jdayed the 
 fool under the stage wiiile otiiers were playing it for him above 
 it, practical jokes being a passion with him which he develope I 
 tliiis earl)-. These tricks were not always very goo>!-natured, 
 whi( h may be said of many of his jokes out of the theatre. 
 
 He soon showetl evidence of another talent, tiiat of ,i( tinrr 
 as well as writing pieces. Assurance was one of the main fea- 
 tiu-es of his character, and to it he owed his success in society; 
 i)Ut it is a remarkable f u t, that on .us fir>t appearance before 
 :!U audience he entirely lost all his ncr\e, turned jiale, and 
 (ould scarcely utter a syllable. He rapidly recuvereil, however, 
 .nd from this time became a favourite i^erfoniier in private 
 tiicatric.;!s, in whic h he was supporterl 1 y Mathews and Mr<. 
 Mathews, and some amateurs who were almost e(|ual to any 
 i'loles'^ional actors. His attempits were, of course, i-hielly in 
 broad farce and roaring burles([ue, in which his c(,imic I'u .-, with 
 lis look of mock gravity, and the twinkle of the ev^,-^, it-.rif c' - 
 < Ued roars of laughter. Whether he would ,.;-/e succeeded as 
 well in sober ( oniedy or upon public boar^is may well be 
 doubted. ProbaMv he would not have given to the profession 
 that careful attention and entire devotion that are necessary to 
 bring forward properly the highest natural talents. It is said 
 duit for a long time he was anxious to lake to iiie stage as a 
 
 111 
 

 430 Varieties of Hoaxing. 
 
 profL'ssion, but, i-crhaps— as the event seems to show— unfortu- 
 nately for liim, he was dissuatleil from wlial his friends must 
 have ihouKht a very rash steji, and in after yea'-s lie took a vio- 
 lent dislike to tlie profession. Certainly the sta^e rould not 
 have offered more temptations than did the society in whii h he 
 afterwards n^ixed ; and perhaps under any ( ircumstances Hook, 
 whose moral education had been neglected, and whose princ i 
 pies were never very good, would have lived a life more or less 
 vicious, though he might not have died as he did. 
 
 Hook, however, was not long in coming very i.rominently 
 before the public in another rapacity. Of all stories told 
 about him, none are more common or more poi)ular than those 
 which relate to his practical jokes and hoaxes. Thank heaven, 
 the world no longer sees amusemenl' in the misery of others, 
 and the fashion of sui h clever performance is gone out. It is 
 fliir, however, to jiremisc, that while the cleverest of Hook's 
 hoaxes were of a victimizing character, a large number were 
 just the reverse, and his admirers afiirm, not without some reason, 
 that when he had got a dinner out of a person whom he did 
 not know, by an ingenious lie, ailmirably sujjported, he fully 
 paid for it in the amusement he afforded his host and the ring- 
 ing metal of his wit. As we have all been boys— except those 
 that were girls— and not all of lis very good l)oys, we can ap- 
 preciate that passion for robbery which began with orchards 
 and passed on to knockers. It is difficult to sober middle-age 
 to imagine what entertainment there can be in that breach of the 
 eightircomm;tndment, which is generally regarded as innocent. 
 As Sheridan swindled in fun, so Hook, as a young man, robbed 
 in fun, as hundreds of medical students and others have done 
 before and since. Hook, however, was a proficient in the art, 
 and would have made a successful ' cracksman ' hail he been 
 born in the Seven Dials. He collected a comi)lete museum of 
 knockers, bell-pulls, wooden Higlilanders, barbers' jjoles, and 
 shop signs of all sorts. On one occasion he de\oted a whole 
 fortnight to the abstraction of a golden 'eagle over a shop 
 window, by means of a lasso. A fellow dilettante in the art 
 had confidentially informed him of its whereabouts, adding 
 that he nimsclf despaired of ever obtaining it. At length Hook 
 
show — unfortu- 
 lis friends must 
 s he took a vio- 
 itage roiild not 
 icly in \vhi( h ho 
 nst;ni(X'S I look, 
 1(1 whose princi 
 life more or less 
 i.l. 
 cry ])roniincntly 
 
 all stories told 
 i])ular than those 
 
 Thank heaven, 
 (lisery of others, 
 gone out. It is 
 erest of Hook's 
 i^e number were 
 out some reason, 
 m wliom he did 
 [(ported, he fully 
 ost and the ring- 
 ys — except those 
 boys, we can ap- 
 n with orchards 
 sober middle-age 
 hat breach of the 
 rded as innocent, 
 ung man, robbed 
 others have done 
 ificient in the art, 
 lan ' had he been 
 iplete museum of 
 irbers' jjoles, and 
 
 devoted a whole 
 
 igle over a shop 
 
 ntante in the art 
 
 .^eabouts, adding 
 
 At length Hook 
 
 The Black-Wafard Horse. 431 
 
 invited his friend to dinner, and on the removal of the cover of 
 wlial was supposed to be the joint, me work of art apj.eired 
 served up an.l appropriately garnished, 'Iheodore was radiant 
 with triumj.h; but the friend, j.robably thinking that there 
 ought to be honour among thieves, was higlily in.lignant at beinc 
 thus surpassed. *" 
 
 Anotlicr achievement of this kind was the robbery of a life 
 si/e<l Highlander, who grace<l the Moor of some unsuspedinu 
 tobacconist. There was little dilticulty in the n^ere displace^ 
 ment of the figure ; the troul)lesome part of the business wis 
 10 get the barelegged Celt home to the museum, where ..ro- 
 bably many a Lilliputian of his race was already awaiting him. 
 A cloak, a hat, and Hook's ready wit effected the transfer. The 
 first was thrown over him. the second set upon his bonneted 
 Iiead, and a passing hackney coach hailed by his captor, who 
 bclore the unsuspecting driver could defend, had oj)ened the 
 door, pushed in the prize, and whispered to Jehu, 'My friend 
 -very rcsjicctable man-but rather tipsy.' How he managed 
 to get hiin out again at the end of the journev we are not told 
 Hook was soon a successful and valuable writer of light pieces 
 for the stage. 15ut farces do not live, and few of Hook's are 
 now Hivourites wiih a i)ul)lic which is always athirst for some- 
 ilnng new. The incidents of most of the pieces — many of 
 tlicm borrowed from the French —excited laughter by their 
 very improbability; but the wit which enlivened thein was 
 not of a higli order, and Hook, though so much more recent 
 than Sheridan, has disappeared before him. 
 
 but hi., hoaxes were far more famous than his collection of 
 curiosities, and quite as much to the puri)osc ; and the imi)ru- 
 <Kii'e he displayed in them was only equalled by the (juaint- 
 ness of the humour which suggested them. Who else would 
 have ever thought, for instance, of covering a white horse with 
 black wafers, and driving it in a gig along a Welsh highroad' 
 merely for the satisfaction- of being stared at ? It was almost 
 worthy of Barniira. Or who, with less assurance, could have 
 played so admirably on the credulity of a lady and daughters 
 fresh from the countrj- as he did, at the trial of Lord Mefville? 
 Tlio lady, who stood next to him, was, naturally, anxious to 
 
'■If' 
 
 b 
 
 432 The Bcnurs Strat Hoax, 
 
 understand the procee.lings, and betrayed her ignorance at 
 once by a remark which slie nia«le to her dauj^hter about the 
 procession of the Lords into the House. When the bishops 
 cntcn-d in full episcopal costume, slie api.hed to Hook to know 
 VN ho were * tho^e gentlemen ?' ' (lentlemen/ (juoth I look, with 
 charming simplieity; 'ladies, I think you mean ; at any rate, 
 those are the dowager peeresses in their own right.' (Question 
 followeil (liiestion as the procession came on, antl Theodore 
 iu.lulged his fancy more an<l more. At length the Si)eaker, \\\ 
 full robes, became the subject of imiuiry. ' And pray, sir, who 
 is th It fme looking person ?'— ' That, ma'am, is Cardinal Wolsey,' 
 was the calm an-l audacious reply. This was too nuich even 
 for Sussex ; and the lady drew herself up in majestic indigna- 
 tion. ' We know belter than that, sir,' she replied : ' Cardinal 
 Wolsey has been dead many a good year.' Theodore was un- 
 moved. ' No such thing, my dear madam,' he answered, without 
 the slightest sign of perturbation : ' I know it has been generally 
 reported so in the country, but without the slightest foundation ; 
 the newspapers, you know, will say anything.' 
 
 But the hoax of hoaxes, the one which filled the i)apers of 
 the time for several days, and which, eventually, made its author 
 the very prince of hoaxsters, if such a term can be admitted, 
 was tliat of I'.erners Street. Never, perhaps, was so much 
 trouble expended, or so much attention devoted, to so frivolous 
 an object. In T.erners Street there lived an elderly lady, who, 
 for no reason tliat can be ascertained, had excited the animosity 
 of the young Theodore Hook, who was then just of age. Six 
 weeks were si)ent in preparation, and three persons engaged in 
 the affair. Letters were sent off in every direction, and Theo- 
 dore Hook's autograph, if it could have any value, must have 
 been somewhat low in the market at that periotl. from the 
 number of applications which he wrote. On the day in (lueslioii 
 he and his accomi)lices seated themselves at a window in 
 Berners Street, opposite to that unfortunate Mrs. Tottenham, of 
 No 54, and there enjoyed the fun. Advertisements, ,;nnouncc- 
 nients, letters, circulars, and wliat not, had been most freely 
 issued, and were as freely responded to. A score of sweeps, 
 all 'invited to aucnd profesoluaally,' opened the ball at a 
 
 111- 
 
ignorance at 
 .lighter about ihc 
 'hen llic bishops 
 Lo Hook to know 
 juoth Hook, with 
 an ; al any rate, 
 right.' (Question 
 II, ami Theodore 
 ih the Speaker, in 
 am\ pray, sir, who 
 Cardinal Wolsey,' 
 IS t(K) nuK h even 
 majestic, indigna- 
 •pHed : 'Cardinal 
 l'heoiU)ve was un- 
 imswcred, without 
 las been generally 
 [htest foundation ; 
 
 led the papers of 
 ly, made its author 
 can be admitted, 
 ps, was so much 
 :ed, to so frivolous 
 elderly lady, who, 
 ited the animosity 
 1 just of age. Six 
 ersons engaged in 
 eciion, and Theo- 
 • value, must have 
 
 period, from the 
 he ilay in i[uestion 
 
 at a window in 
 irs. Tottenham, of 
 ements, mnounce- 
 
 bcen most freely 
 I score of sweeps, 
 ed the ball at a 
 
 Sncccss of the Scheme. 43.? 
 
 very early hour, and daimcd admittance, in virtue of th( 
 i;Mii(c tliey had received. The maidservant iiad only 
 juit time to assure them tint all the < himneys were dean, 
 .1 ,d their servi( es were not re(|uired, when some do/en 
 of coalcarts drew up as near as possible to the ill-fated 
 house. New jjrotestations, new indignation. The grimy and 
 irate coalheavers were still being discoursed with, when 
 
 bevy of neat and polite individuals arrived from «lifferent 
 (juarters, bearing each untler his arm a splendid ten-guinea 
 wcdiling cake. The maid grew distractetl ; her mistress was 
 single, anil had no intention of doubling herself; there must 
 be some mistake ; the confectioners were dismissed, in a very 
 (lillerent humour to that with which they had » ome. But ihe> 
 were scarcely gone when crowds began to storm the house, all 
 'on business.' Rival doctors met in 'stonishment and disgust, 
 [irepared for an ixccoiichcmait ; undertakers stared one another 
 nnilely in the face, as they deposited at die iloor coifms made 
 to onler— -elm or nil. .., many feet and so many inches; the 
 (Icrgymen of i\ll the neighbouring parishes, high church or low 
 (liiirch. were ready to minister to the spiritual wants of the 
 uutortunate moribund, but retired in disgust when they found 
 that ;;ome forty fishmongers had been engaged to jiurvey eod's 
 head and lobsters' for a person professing to be on the brink 
 of the grave. 
 
 The street now became the scene of fearful distraction. 
 Furious tradesmen of every kind were ringing the housed)ell, 
 and rapping the knocker for admittance— such, at least, as 
 could ijress through the crowd as fiir as the house. Bootmakers 
 arrived with Hessians and Wellingtons— * as per order'— or the 
 most delicate of dancing-shoes ^ox the sober old lady ; haber- 
 dashers had brought the last new thing in evening dress, ' (juite 
 the fiishion,' and 'very chaste;' hat-makers from Lincoln and 
 r.ennett down to the Hebrew vendor in i\lar)'ebone Lane, 
 arrived with their crown-[)ieces ; butchers' boys, on stout little 
 nags, could not get near enough to deliver thelegsof mutton which 
 had been ordered ; the lumbering coal-carts ' still stopped the 
 way.' A crowd — the easiest curiosity in the world to collect- - 
 soon gathered round the motley mob of bulehers, bakeib, 
 
 28 
 
a 
 
 434 Tlic Strop of Iliiugcr. 
 
 t andlcstick-makcrs, and makers and sellers of everytliing else 
 that mortal can want ; the mob tlironged the pavement, the carts 
 filled the road, and soon the carriages of the nohle of the land 
 (lashed up in all the ])anoply of state, and a demand was made 
 to clear the way for the Duke of (lloucester, for the Governor 
 of the Bank, the Chairman of the East India Company, and last, 
 l)Ut, oh ! not least, the grandee whose successor the originator 
 of the plot afterwards so admirably satirized— the great Lord 
 Mayor himself. The consternation, disgust, and terror of the 
 elderly female, the delight and chuckling of Theodore and his 
 accom[)lices, seated at a window on the oi)posite side of the road, 
 ' can be more easily imagined than described ;' but what were 
 the feelings of tradesmen, ])rofessional men, gentlemen, noble- 
 men, and grand officials, who had been sununoned from distant 
 si)0ts by artful lures to No. 54, and there battled wiih a crowd 
 in vain only to find that there were hoaxed ; peoj)lf:' who had 
 thus lost both time and money, can be neither described nor 
 imagined. It was not the idea of the hoax — simple enough in 
 itself -which was entitled to the admiration accorded to in- 
 genuity, but its extent and success, and the clever means taken 
 by the conspirators to insure tlie attendance of every one who 
 ought not to have been there. It was only late at night that 
 the police succeeded in clearing the street, and the dupes 
 retired, murmuring and vowing vengeance. Hook, however, 
 gloried in the exploit, which he thought ' perfect.' 
 
 But the hoaxing deafest to Theodore — for there was some- 
 thing to be gained by it — was that by which he managed to 
 obtain a dinner wlien either too hard-U[) to })ay for one, or in 
 the humour for a little amusement. No one who has not lived 
 as a bachelor in London and Ijeen reduced — 'in respect of 
 coin — to the sum of two])ence-halfi)enny, can tell how exceb 
 lent a strop is hunger to sharpen wit ui)on. We ail know that 
 
 ' Mortals wiih btoma'jlis can't live without dinner ;' 
 
 and in Hook's day the substitute of ' heavy teas' was not in- 
 vented. Necessity is very soon brought to bed, when a man 
 puts his fingers into his pockets, fmtis tliem untenanted, and 
 remembers that the only friend who would consent to lend him 
 
K lichen Examinations. 
 
 435 
 
 3f everything else 
 avenicnt, the carts 
 
 noble of the land 
 iemand was made 
 , for the Governor 
 Jompany, and last, 
 ssor the originator 
 d— the great Lord 
 
 and terror of the 
 Theodore and his 
 te side of the road, 
 1 ;' Imt what were 
 
 gentlemen, noble- 
 lonetl from distant 
 ttled wilh a crowd 
 
 ; i)eo])le who had 
 iher described nor 
 -simple enough in 
 II accorded to in- 
 ever means taken 
 
 of every one who 
 
 late at night that 
 I, and the dupes 
 Hook, however, 
 feet.' 
 
 r there was some- 
 h he managed to 
 pay for one, or in 
 : who has not lived 
 ed— 'in respect of 
 an tell liow excel- 
 
 \Ve all know that 
 
 dinner ;' 
 
 )' teas' was not in- 
 
 bed, when a man 
 
 ;:; liiitcnantcd, and 
 
 onsent to lend him 
 
 five shillings is gone out of town ; and the inflint, Invention, 
 ])resently smile.s into the nurse's flice. But it was no uncomnion 
 thing in those days for gentlemen to invite themselves where 
 they li;;ted, and stay as long as they liked. It was only neces- 
 sary for tliem to make themselves really agreeable, and deceive 
 their host in some way or other. Hook's friend, little Tom 
 Hill, of whom it was said that he knew everybody's affairs for 
 better than they did themselves, was famous for examining 
 kiichens about the hour of dinner, and (quietly selecting his 
 host according to the odour of the viands. It is of him that 
 the oKl ' Joe Miller" is told of the ' haunch of venison.' Invited 
 to dinner at one house, lie happais to glance down into the 
 kitchen of the next, and seeing a temiJting haunch of venison 
 on the spit, throws over the inx'iter, and ingratiates himself 
 will) liis neighbour, who ends ];y asking him to stay to dinner. 
 'Hie fare, however, consisted of notliing more luxurious than 
 an Irish stew, and the disappointed guest was informed that he 
 had been 'too cunning by iialf,' inasmuch as the venison be- 
 longed to his original inviter, and had been cooked in the house 
 he was in by kind permission, because the chimney of the owner's 
 kitchen smoked. 
 
 The same princi^. often actuated Theodore ; and, indeed, 
 llierc are few stories which can be told of this characteristic of 
 the great frolicker, which have not been told a century of times, 
 
 Yox instance : two young men are strolling, tov.artls 5 p.m., 
 in the then fashionable neighbourhood of Soho ; the one is 
 Terry, the actor — the other. Hook, the actor, for surely he de- 
 serves the title. They ])ass a house, and sniff the viands cook- 
 ing underground. Hook ([uietly announces his intention of 
 (lining there. He enters, is admitted and announced by the 
 servant, mingles with the company, and is quite at home before 
 lie is perceived by the host. At last the daiotionent came ; the 
 (Inmer-giver approached the stranger, and with great })oliteness 
 asked his name. ' Smith' was, of course, the reply, and revert- 
 ing to mistakes made by servants in announcing, &c., ' Smitli' 
 liurried off into an amusing story, to put his host in good hu- 
 mour, 'i'he conversation that ioiiowed is taken from ' In- 
 goldsby' : — 
 
 z8— 2 
 

 436 The Wrong House. 
 
 ' lUit, really, my dear sir,' the host put in, ' I think the mis- 
 take on the present occasion does not originate in the source 
 you allude to ; I certainly did not anticipate the honour of Mr. 
 Smith's comi)any to-day.' 
 
 ' No, I dare say not. You said four in your note, I know, 
 and it is now, I see, a (juarter past five ; but the fact is, I have 
 been detained in the City, as I was going to explain—' 
 
 ' Pray,' said the host, ' whom do you supjiose you are ad- 
 dressing?' 
 
 'Whom? why AFr. Thompson, of course, old friend of my 
 father. I have not the pleasure, indeed, of being personally 
 known" to you, but having received your kind invitation yester- 
 day,' eVc. &c. 
 
 ' No, sir, my name is not Thompson, but Jones,' in highly 
 indignant accents. 
 
 'Jones '.'was the well-acted answer: 'why, surely, I cannot 
 liave — yes I must — good heaven ! I see it all. My dear sir, 
 wliat an unfortunate blunder; wrong house— what must you 
 think of such an intrusion ? I am really at a loss for words in 
 which to ai)ologize ; you will ijermit me to retire at present, and 
 to-morrow — ' 
 
 ' Pray, don't think of retiring,' rejoined the host, taken with 
 the appearance and manner of the young man. ' Your friend's 
 table must have been cleared long ago, if, as you say, four was 
 the hour named, and I am too hajjpy to be able to offer you a 
 seat at mine.' 
 
 It may be easily conceived that the invitation had not to be 
 very often repeated, and Hook kept the risiide muscles of the 
 company upon the constant stretch, and paid for the entertain- 
 ment in the only coin with wOiich he was well supplied. 
 
 There was more wit, however, in his visit to a retired watch- 
 maker, who had got from government a premium of ;^io,ooo 
 for the best chronometer. Hook was very partial to journeys 
 in search of adventure ; a gig, a lively companion, and sixpence 
 for the first turnpike being generally all that w.is reciui.site; in- 
 genuity supplied the rest. It was on one of these excursions, 
 that Hook and his friend found themselves in the neiglibourhood 
 of Uxbridge, with a horse and a gig, and not a sixpence to be 
 
[ think the mis- 
 :e in tlie source 
 le honour of Mr. 
 
 ir note, I know, 
 le fiict is, I have 
 <plain — ' 
 ose you are ad- 
 
 )I(1 friend of my 
 being personally 
 invitation yester- 
 
 [ones,' in highly 
 
 surely, I cannot 
 11. My dear sir, 
 -what must you 
 loss for words in 
 re at i)resent, and 
 
 host, taken with 
 
 ' Vour friend's 
 
 ^'ou say, four was 
 
 lie to ofter you a 
 
 3n had not to be 
 e muscles of the 
 for the entertain- 
 sui)plied. 
 ) a retired watch- 
 ium of ;!^ 1 0,000 
 irtial to journeys 
 lion, and sixpence 
 vas re(iuisite; in- 
 these excursions, 
 lie neighbourhood 
 a sixpence to be 
 
 •'-K- 
 
 
 '-■J^i 
 
 ■\ 
 
 5 ".:■;, 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 I HKoiiDHi-: iiodK > i:N(iiM:i:ui.vu nini ic. 
 
 ■V. ' |). i:i>. 
 
b 
 
 
 
 r 
 
 y 
 
 h 
 \\ 
 
 w 
 n 
 (1 
 t( 
 
 tl 
 n 
 
 Si 
 
 t( 
 s< 
 u 
 
 V 
 
 V 
 
 w 
 w 
 
 Ci 
 
 w 
 
 ri 
 a( 
 ti 
 ir 
 III 
 tl- 
 k 
 
 y< 
 
 fu 
 
 l\ 
 
 F 
 
The Ilackitcy-Conch Dcviic. 
 
 437 
 
 found in any pocket. Now a liorse and gig are property, Imt 
 of what use is a valuable of which you cannot dispose or de- 
 ])Osit at a ])awnl)roker's, while you are prevented proceeding on 
 your way by that neat white g;ae with the neat white box of a 
 house at its side? The only alternative left to the young men 
 was to drive home again, dinnerless, a distance of twenty miles, 
 with a jaded horse, or to fmd gratuitous acconunodation for 
 man and l.-east. In such a case Sheridan would simply have 
 driven to the first inn, and by j)ersuasion or stratagem contrived 
 to elude payment, after having drunk the best wine and eaten 
 the best dinner the house could afford, liook was really more 
 refmed, as well as bolder in his pillaging. 
 
 The villa of the retired tradesman was perceived, and the gig 
 soon drew up before the door. The strangers were ushered in 
 to the watchmaker, and Hook, with great ]<oliteness and a 
 serious respectful look, addressed him. He said that he felt he 
 was taking a great liberty — so he was -but that he could not 
 ])ass the door of a man who had done the country so mu( h ser- 
 vice by the invention of what nnist prove the most useful and 
 valuable instrument, without expressing to him the gratitude 
 which he, as a British sul)ject devoted t(j his country's good, 
 could not but feel towards the inventor, iVc. iVc. The Ikittery 
 was so delicately and so seriou.sly insinuated, that the worthy 
 citi/en could only receive it as an lionest expression of sincere 
 achiiiration. The Rubicon was passed ; a little lively conversa- 
 tion, artfully made attractive by Hook, lollowed, and the watch- 
 maker was more and more gratified. He felt, too what an ho- 
 nour it would be to entertain two real gentlemen, and remarking 
 that they were far from town, brought out at last the longed- 
 for invitation, wliich was, of course, declined as out of the 
 fjuestion. Thereujjon the old gentleman became pressing: the 
 young strangers were at last prevailed upon to accept it, and 
 very full justice they did to the larder and cellar of the success- 
 ful chronometer-maker. 
 
 There is nothing very original in the act of hoaxing, and 
 Hook's way of getting a hackney-coach without ])aying for it 
 was, perhaps, suggested by Sheridan's, out was more laughable. 
 Finding himself in the vehicle, and icnowing that there was 
 
:3S 
 Q 
 
 438 The Plots of Hook mid M'atlu-i.'S. 
 
 notliing either in his purse or nt home to pay the fare, he cast 
 about for expc<hents, and at last remembered the a.ldress of an 
 eminent sur-eon in the neighbourhood • He ordered the coach- 
 man to (h-ive to his house and knock violently at the door, 
 which was no sooner opened than Hook ru>lied in. terribly 
 agitated, demanded to see tlie doctor, to whom in a fcsv mco- 
 herent an<l a-itated sentences, he gave to understand that his 
 wife needed his services, immediately, being on the pomt of 
 becoming a mother. 
 
 'I will start directly,' replied the surgeon ; ' I will or<ler my 
 
 carriage at once.' 
 
 'But, my <lear sir, there is not a moment to spare. I have 
 a coach at the door, jump into that.' 
 
 The surgeon obeyed. The name and address given were 
 those of a middle-aged spinster of the most rigid virtue. We 
 can imagine her indignation, and how sharply she rung the 
 bell, when the surgeon had deli( ately explained the object of 
 his visit, and how eagerly he took refuge in the coach. Hook 
 had, of course, walked .luieily away in the meantime, and the 
 Galenite had to pay the demand of Jehu. 
 
 'Hie hoaxing stories of Theodore Hook are numberless. 
 Hoaxing was the fashion of the day, and a childish fashion too. 
 Charles Ahithews, whose face possessed the tlexibiliiy of an 
 acrobat's body, and who could assume any character or (lisguise 
 on the shortest notice, was his great confederate in these 
 Idiots. The banks of the Thames were their great resort. At 
 one point there was Mathews talking gibberish in a disguise 
 intended to represent the Spanish Ambassador, and actually 
 deceiving the Woolwich authorities by his clever impersonation. 
 At another, there was Hook landing uninvited with his friends 
 upon the well-known, sleek-looking lawn of a testy little gentle- 
 man,drawing out a note-book and talking so authoritativelyabout 
 the survey for a canal, to be undertaken by Oovernment, that 
 the owner of the lawn becomes frightened, and in his anxiety 
 attempts to conciliate the mighty self-made official by the ofler 
 of dinner — of course accepted. 
 
 'Hien the Arcades ambo show off their jesting tricks at Croydon 
 fair, a most suitable place for them. On one occasion Hook 
 
the fare, he cast 
 he a(Ulr(;ss of an 
 rdcred the coach- 
 Uly at the door, 
 slied in, terribly 
 II in a few ini-o- 
 derstand that his 
 on the point of 
 
 ' I will order my 
 
 D spare. I liave 
 
 dress given were 
 riL^id virtne. We 
 ply she rung the 
 u;d the ul'ject of 
 ic coach. Hook 
 eantime, and the 
 
 are nnniherless. 
 lildish fashion too. 
 c llexibility of an 
 aracter or disguise 
 federate in these 
 
 great resort. At 
 rish in a (hsgnise 
 idor, and aclually 
 >vcr impersonation. 
 ;d with his friends 
 I testy little genlle- 
 iithoritativelyabout 
 
 ("lovernment, tliat 
 ukI in his anxiety 
 jfficial by the offer 
 
 iu;iricksai Croydon 
 ne occasion Hook 
 
 IIool's Talents as an hnprovisatorc. 439 
 
 pcrsonatesa mathiian, accusing Mathews, 'his brother,' of keej)- 
 ing him out of his rights and in his custody. 'I'iie whole fair 
 collects arounil them, and begins to symi.atliise with Hook, who 
 legs them to aid in his escape from his 'brother.' A sham 
 esca|)e and sluim cajtture take place, and the jiarty adjourn to 
 the inn, where Alathews, who had been taken by sur[)rise by 
 the new jiart suddenly played l)y his confederate, seized upon 
 a hearse, whi( h drew uj) before the inn, on its return from a 
 faneral, persuaded the company to bind the 'madman,' who 
 was now beconn'ng furious, and who would have dejiosited him 
 in the gloomy vehicle, if he had not succeede.l in snapping his 
 fetters, and so escaped. In .short, they were two bovs, with the 
 sole difference, that they had sufficient talent and experience of 
 the world to maintain admirably the parts they assumed. 
 
 I5ut a far more famous and more admirable talent in Theo- 
 dore than that of deception was that of improvising. The art 
 of improvising belongs to Italy and the Tyrol. The womlerful 
 gift of ready verse to express satire, and ridicide, seems, as a 
 rule, to be confined to the inhabitants of 'those two lands. 
 Others are, indeed, scattered over the world, who possess this 
 gift, but very sparsely. Theodore Hook stands almost alone in 
 this coimtry as an imjjroviser. \'et to judge of su(-h of his 
 verses as have been preserved, taken down from memory or 
 what not, the grand effect of them— and no doidjt it was grand 
 —must have been owing more to his manner and his acting, 
 than to any intrinsic value in the verses themselves, which are, 
 for the most jf.irt, slight, and devoid of actual wit, though 
 abounding in jams. Sheridan's testimony to th- wonderful 
 {)0wers of the man is, perhaps, more valuable than that of any 
 one else, for he was a good judge both of verse and of wit. 
 One of Hook's earliest displays of his talent was at a dinner 
 given by the Drury Lane actors to .Sheridan at the Pia/./.a ColTee 
 House in 1808. Here, as usual. Hook sat down to the piano, 
 and touching off a tew chords, gave verse after verse on all 
 the events of the entertainment, on eachijerson jjresent, though 
 he now saw many of them for the first time, and on anything 
 (onnected with the matters of interest before them. Sheridan 
 was delighted, and declared that he could not have believed 
 
440 
 
 The Gift becomes his Pnvie. 
 
 
 sue 
 
 h a fnnilty possible if he had not witnessed its cft'erts : that 
 
 an 
 
 no description ' could have ronviiu ed liitn of so peculiar 
 instance of genius,' and so forth. 
 
 One of his most extraordinary efforts in this line is related 
 by Mr. Jerdan. A dinner was given \>y Manscll Reynolds to 
 Lockhart, Luttrell, Coleridge, Hook, Tuni Hill, ami others. 
 The grown-uj) schoolboys, i)retty far gone in I'alernian, of a 
 home-made, and very homely vintage, amused themselves by 
 breaking the wine-glasses, till Coleridge was set to demolish the 
 last of them with a fork thrown at it from the side of the lal)le. 
 ],et it not be supposed that any teetotal sjiirit suggested this 
 inconoclasm, fiir from it—the glasses were too small, and the 
 ])oets, the wits, the punsters, the jesters, preferred to drink their 
 l)()rt out of tumblers. After dinner Hook gave one of his songs 
 which satirized successively, and successfully, each i)erson i)re- 
 sent. He was then challenged to irnj'rovise on any given subject, 
 and by way of one as far distant from poetry as could be, <W(?- 
 nut oil was fixed upon. Theodore accepted the challenge; and 
 after a moment's <onsideration began his lay with a description 
 of the Mauritius, which he knew so well, the negroes dancing 
 round the cocoa-nut tree, the process of extracting the oil, and 
 so forth, all in excellent rhyme and rhythm, if not actual poetry. 
 Then came the voyage to England, hits at the Italian ware- 
 housemen, and so on, till the oil is brought into the very lamp 
 before them in th.it very room, to show them with the light it 
 feeds and make them able to break wine-glasses and get drunk 
 from tumblers. This we may be sure Hook himself did,- for 
 one, and the rest were probably not much behind him. 
 
 In late life this gift of Hook's— improvising 1 mean, not get- 
 ting intoxicated — was his highest recommendation in society, 
 and at the same time his bane. Like Sheridan, he was ruined 
 by his wonderful natural powers. It can well be imagined that 
 to improvise in the manner in which tlook did it, and at a 
 moment's notice, required some effort of the intellect. This 
 effort became greater as circumstances depressed his spirits more 
 and more and yet with every care upon his mind, he was ex- 
 l)ected, wherever he went, to amuse the guests with a display 
 of his talent. He could not do so without stimulants, and 
 
J look's N'ovcls. 
 
 441 
 
 1 its cfterts : th.it 
 )f so -ictniliar an 
 
 is line is rchiteil 
 ist'U Reynolds lo 
 Hill, and others. 
 '\ I'alcrnian. of a 
 .■(1 themselves hy 
 et tO(le)iiolish the 
 side of the table, 
 •it sii<j;geste(l this 
 
 small, and the 
 rred to drink their 
 e one of his songs 
 each ])erson pre- 
 any given subject, 
 as could be, cocoa- 
 hc challenge; and 
 with a description 
 
 negroes dancing 
 icting the oil, and 
 not actual ])oetry. 
 the Italian ware- 
 ito the very lamp 
 
 with the light it 
 ses and get drunk 
 c himself did,- lor 
 hind him. 
 g I mean, not get- 
 dation in society, 
 an, he was ruined 
 
 1 be imagined that 
 did it, and at a 
 
 le intellect. This 
 sed his spirits more 
 mind, he was ex- 
 
 lis UlUi tt Ul.-:j-flttjr 
 
 It stimulants, and 
 
 rather than give up society, fell into habits of drinking, which 
 hastened his death. 
 
 We have thrown together the foregoing anecdotes of Hook, 
 irrespective of time, in order to show what the man's gifts were, 
 and what liis title to be ( onsidered a wit. ^\ e mu>t proceed 
 more steadily to a review of his lile. Successful as Hook had 
 proved as a writer for the stage, he suddenly and without any 
 sufficient cause rushed off into another branc h of literature, that 
 of novel-writing. His first attempt in this kind of fiction was 
 'The Man of Sorrow,' ])ul)lished under the noiit df plume oi 
 Alfird Allaulalc. Tiiis was not, as its name W(juld seem to 
 imply, a novel of pathetic cast, but the history of a gentleman 
 whose life from beginning to end is rendered wretched by a 
 succession of mishaps of the most ludicrous l)ut improbable 
 kind. Indeed Theodore's novels, like his stage-i)ieces, are gone 
 out of date in an age so jjractical that even in romance it 
 will not allow of the slightest departure from reality. Their 
 very style was epiiemeral, and their interest could not outlast the 
 generation to amuse which they were ])enned. This fust novel 
 was written when Hook was one-and-twenty. Soon after he 
 was sent to Oxford, where he had been enteretl at St. Mary's 
 I lall, more affectionately known by the nickname of * Skimmery.' 
 Xo selection could have been worse. Skimmery was. at that day, 
 and, until quite recently, a den of thieves, where \oung men 
 of fortune and folly submitted to be pillaged in return for being 
 allowed perfect licence, as much to eat as they coidd [tossibly 
 swallow, and far more to drink than was at all good for them. 
 It has required all the enterprise of the present excellent Prin- 
 cipal to convert it into a ])lace of sober study. It was then 
 the most 'gentlemanly' residence in (Jxford ; for a gentleman 
 in those days meant a man who did nothing, sj)ent his own or 
 his Other's guineas with a brilliant indifference to conse((uences, 
 and who ajiplied his mind solely to the art of frolic. It was 
 the ver)' place where Hook would be encouraged instead of re- 
 strained in his natural propensities, and had he remained there 
 he would probably have ruined himself antl liis father long be- 
 fore he had put on the sleeves. 
 At the matriculation itself he gave a specimen of his ' fun.' 
 
'"Jin 
 
 'b 
 
 44- Colks;': Fun. 
 
 When nskcd, arrordin,;^' to llu: usual form, • if he was willing to 
 sign the Thirty-nine Articles,' he replied, ' Certainly, sir, >//v 
 if you i.JLMse.' The gravity of the stern Nice CIi.uk ellor was 
 upset, hut as no Oxford Don can ever pardon a joke, however 
 good, .Master Theodore was very nearly being dismissed, had 
 not his brother, by this time a Prebendary of W inc hester, and 
 'an honour to liis college, sir,' interceded in his favour. 
 
 'I'he ni-ht before, he had given a still better si)ecimen of his 
 effrontery. He had j/icked uj) a number of old liarrowvians, 
 with whoui he had repaired to a ta\ern for song, sujiper, and 
 sociability, and as usual in such cases, in the lap of Alma Mater, 
 the babes became sufficiently intoxicated, and not a little up- 
 roarious. Drinking in a tavern is forbidden by Oxonian sta- 
 tutes, and one of the proctors h.ippening u> pass in the street 
 outside, was attracted inl(j the house by the sound of somewhat 
 imscholastic merriment. 'I'he eflect can be imagined. .Ml the 
 youths were in absolute terror, except Theodore, and looked 
 in vain for some way to escai)e. The wary dwA faithful ' bull- 
 dogs' guard e.l the doorway; the marshal, predecessor of the 
 modern omniscient IJrown, advanced respectfully behind the 
 proctor into the room, and passing a i)enetrating glance from 
 one youth to the other, all of whom— except Theodore again— 
 he knew by sight— lor that is the pride and pleasure of a mar- 
 shal—mentally registered their names in secret hopes of getting 
 half-a-crown a-piece to forget them ag.iin. 
 
 No mortal is more respectful in his manner of accosting you 
 than an Oxford proctor, for he may make a mistake, and a 
 mistake may make him very miserable. When, for instance, u 
 highly resi>ectable lady was the other day lodged, in spite of 
 protestations, in the ' Procuratorial Rooms,' and there locked 
 up on suspicion of being somebody very difterent, the over- 
 zealous proctor who had ordered her incarceration was sued for 
 damages for ;^3oo, and had to i)ay them too ! Therefore the 
 gentleman in cjuestion most graciously and suavely incjuired of 
 Mr. Theodore Hook — 
 
 • I beg your i)ardon, sir, but are you a member of this uni- 
 versity?' — the usuaJ forn.i. 
 
 ' No, sir, I am not. Are you ?' 
 
f he was willint,' to 
 Certainly, sir, ye//)' 
 ice-ChanccIlor was 
 :)!) a joke, licnvever 
 .■iiii,' dismissed, had 
 :)\' \\ iiK liester, and 
 his favour, 
 er specimen of his 
 old Ilarrowvians, 
 sons,', sujjper, and 
 lap of Alma Mater, 
 nd not a little up- 
 -•n by Oxonian sta- 
 pass in the street 
 iound of somewhat 
 magined. All the 
 xlore, and looked 
 jnd faithful ' bull- 
 predecessor of the 
 ctfully behind the 
 rating glance from 
 Theodore again — 
 l)leasure of a mar- 
 et hopes of getting 
 
 r of accosting you 
 a mistake, and a 
 en, for instance, a, 
 odged, in spite of 
 antl there locked 
 ifferent, the over- 
 ation was sued for 
 ) ! Therefore the 
 uavcly incjuired of 
 
 ember of this uni- 
 
 I'idifiu!^ a Proctor. 443 
 
 The suavity at on. x- < hanged to grave dignity. The proctor 
 lifted uj) the hem of his garment, which being of broad velvet, 
 with the seivage on it, was one of the insignia of his ofiice, and 
 sternly said, — ' You see this, sir.' 
 
 'Ah!' said Hook, cool as ever, and (juietly feeling the ma- 
 terial, which he examined with api)arent interest, Vl see ; Man- 
 chester vel'-et : and may ] take the liberty, sir, of ln([uiring how 
 nuich you have paid jjcr yard for the arti( le ?' 
 
 A roar of laughter from all i)resent burst forth with such ve- 
 hemence that it shot tlie poor official, red with su[)presse(l 
 anger, into the street again, and the merrymakers continued 
 their bout till the approach of midnight, when they were obliged 
 to return to their res[)ective colleges. 
 
 Had 'I'heodore j)roceeded in this way for several terms, no 
 doubt the outraged authorities would have added his name to 
 the list of the grecvt men whom they have expelled from lime 
 to time most unproi)hetically. As it was, he scon left the 
 groves of Academus, anil sought those of Fashion in town. 
 His matriculation into this new university was much more 
 auspicious ; he was hailed in society as a'ready fit to take a 
 (Icuree of bachelor of his i)articular arts, and ere long his im- 
 provising, liis fun, his mirth — as yet natural and over-boiling — 
 his wicked punning, and his tender wickedness, induced the 
 same institution to offer him the grade of ' ^blster' of those 
 arts. In after years he rose to be even ' Doctor,' and many, 
 perhaps, were the minds diseased to which his well-known 
 mirth ministered. 
 
 It was during this period that some of his talents were dis- 
 played in the manner we have described, though his great fame 
 as an improvisatore was established more completely in later 
 days. Yet he had already made himself a name in that spe- 
 cies of wit — not a very high one— which found favour with the 
 society of that period. W'e allude to imitation, ' taking off/ 
 and punning. The last contem{)tible branch of wit-making, now 
 happily confined to ' Punch,' is as old as variety of language. 
 It is not possible with simple vocabularies, and accordingly is 
 seldom met with in purely-derived languages. Yet we have 
 Roman and Greek puns ; and English is peculiarly adapted to 
 
I » 
 
 
 444 The * Piinniiis;^ Faculty. 
 
 tliis ( hildish exercise, because, bciii^' iiuule up of several lan- 
 guages, it necessarily contains many words which are like in 
 souivl and unlike in nieaniuL'. Piinning is, in fact, the vice of 
 laiglish wit, the temptation of Iaiij;hsh mirth-makers, and, at 
 last, we trust, the scorn of laiglish good sense. JUit in 'I'hco- 
 (lore's day it held a Iii;,'h place, and men who had no real wit 
 iiboi ( ould twist and turn words and combinations of 
 
 words uiiu ^1' at ingenuit)- and much readine^s, to the delight 
 of their listeners. I'un nuking was a i l^.hion among the con- 
 versationists of that day, and tuok the pkue of belter wit. Hook 
 was a disgrac:eful i)unster, ami a successful one. He strung 
 jtuns together by the score— nothing more easy- in his imjiro- 
 vised songs and conversation. Take an instance from his (jiiiz 
 on the march of intellect : — 
 
 ' II .cknoy-conchmcn from Snuff A\M reply, if you ftnl 
 
 AiiiiDVed .it tiring nordli-.sNly sil.tki'ii ; 
 Ami liiitilR-rs, of CDurie, bo flippaiU \rom Stcfle, 
 
 And pig-dnvers wfll versed in /Siiri'ii. 
 From /.('iXi' shall tlie Micksmiih-. jiiitliurily ' 
 
 Anil ,i,Ms-mei) ciie (\iki' at disen lion ; 
 Undert.ikers t.ilk f'liy as lliey jfu to \\\i.: f^rui'C, 
 
 And watermen h'^.i^-c by profession.' 
 
 I have known a party of naturally stupid people produce a 
 whole century of puns one after another, on any subject that 
 presented itself, and I am inclined to think that nothing can, 
 at the same time, be more nauseous, or more destructive 
 to real wit. Yet Theodure's strength lay in jiuns, and when 
 shorn of them, the i'hilisliiies might well laugh at his waiit of 
 strength. Surely his title to wit does not lie in that direction. 
 
 However, he amused, and that gratis ; and an annising man 
 makes his way anywhere if he have only suflicient tact not to 
 abuse his privileges. Hook grew great in London society for 
 a time, and might have grown greater if a change had not 
 come. 
 
 He had supported himself, up to 1S12, almost entirely by his 
 pen : ami the goose-cpiill is rarely a staff, though it may some- 
 times be a walking-stick. It was clear that he needed — what 
 so many of us need an'' :vMr»t get — a certainty. Hai)py 
 fellow ! he might have begged ii>r an appoint' tieiil; for years in 
 vam, as many another d_:r^ put ii fell into his lap, no one 
 
up of several l.in- 
 s \Uiicli arc like in 
 
 in fac t, the vice of 
 irth-inakcrs, and, at 
 LMise. lUit in ThtM)- 
 ivlio had no real wit 
 nd (onibinations ot' 
 ncss, to the dehght 
 ion among the run- 
 
 of belter wit. Hook 
 111 one. He strung 
 easy — in his imiiro- 
 stance from his i\mi 
 
 ,', if you ft" < I 
 ■live, 
 
 1 people produce a 
 Dn any subject tliat 
 c that nothing can, 
 • more destructive 
 in ])uns, and when 
 ugh at his waiit of 
 c in that direction, 
 id an amusing man 
 ifficient tact not to 
 London society for 
 a change had not 
 
 Imost entirely by his 
 lough it may some- 
 t he needed — what 
 certainty. Happy 
 ifiieiu for years in 
 ito his laj), no oiic 
 
 Tronbh'soiiic Pleasantry, .p) ; 
 
 knows how, and at four-an<l-lwenty .Mr. 'Ilu(>(h)re I'.dwaid lluuk 
 w.i-. made treasurer to the Island of Matirititis, with a salary of 
 £2,000 jier annum. 'I'liis was not to be, and was not, despised. 
 In spite of climate, 'us(iuitoes, and so i.-ni Hook took the 
 money and s;uled. 
 
 V. c have no inteii ;i ul ,_,,,^ ,,,i- minutely U|/on his conduct 
 in this office, which has nothing to do with his character is a 
 wit. There are .1 1' )nsan<l .i,, ! one reasons for believing him 
 -iiilty of the charges brought against him, and a thousand and 
 one for supposing him guiltl .. Here w.i man, gav, 
 
 jovial, given to society entirely, and not at all to.uulmietic, put 
 into a very trying and awkward position— native clerks who 
 would che.it if they could, Paiglish governors who would 
 find fuilt if they could, a disturbed trea.sury, an awkward 
 (urrency, liars for witnes.ses, and undeniable evidence of defal- 
 cation. In a word, an examiiuition was made into the state of 
 the treasury of the island, and a large deficit found. It re- 
 mained to trace it home to its original author. 
 
 Hook had not accpiired the best character in the island. 
 Those who know the official dignity of a small bitish colony 
 ( in well imder : ind how his pleasantries must h .e shocked 
 those worthy big wigs who, exalted from Pump Cnrrt, Temple, 
 or Paradise Row, Old Prompton. to places of honoi r and high 
 .salaries, rode their high horses with twice the exchi; vcness of 
 those 'to the manner born.' For instance. Hook wa^ once, by 
 a mere chance, obliged to take the (hair at an official dinner, 
 on which occasion the toasts propo.sed by the ( h.iini 11 were 
 to be accompanied by a .salute from guns without. Hook went 
 through the list, and seemed to enjoy toast-drinking .si much 
 that he was (luite sorry to have come to the end of it, an 1 con- 
 tinued, as if still from the list, to propose successively the health 
 ot each officer present. The gunners were growing (piite eary, 
 but having their onlers, dared not complain. Hook w, de- 
 li.^hted, and went on to the amazement and amusement ( i all 
 who were not tired of the noise, each youthful sub, take! by 
 sui'i nse, lieing (|uiie gratified at the honour done him. At 
 la>l there was no one left to toast ; but the wine had taker, t;! cf. 
 and Hook, amid roars of laughter inside, and roars of savage 
 
b 
 
 446 CJiargc of Embezzlement. 
 
 artillery witlioiit, proposed the health of the waiter who had so 
 ably officiated. 'I'his done, he bethought him of the cook, who 
 was sent for to return thanks ; but the artillery officer had by 
 this time got wind of the affair, and feeling that more than 
 enough ]jouder had been wasted on the health of gentlemen 
 who were determincfl to destroy it by the number of their jjota- 
 tions, took on himself the responsibility of ordering the gunners 
 to stop. 
 
 On another occasion he incurred the displeasure of the 
 governor, (Icneral Hall, by fighting a duel — fortunately as 
 harmless as that of Moore and Jeffrey — 
 
 ' W'lirn Little's Icadlcss pistol met his cyo, 
 And liuw-htreci mynniilons stood laughing by," 
 
 as Byron says. The go\ernor was sensible enough to wish to 
 put down the ' Gothic aj^peal to arms,*" and was therefore the 
 more irate. 
 
 These circumstances must be taken into consideration in 
 Hook's favour in examining the charge of embezzlement. It 
 must also be slated that the information of the deficit was sent 
 in a letter to the governor by a man named Allan, ( hief clerk 
 in the Treasury, who had, for irregular conduct, been already 
 threatened with dismissal. Allan had admitted that he had 
 known of the deficit for fifteen months, and yet he had not, 
 till he was himself in trouble, thought of making it known to 
 the proper authorities. Before his examination, which of course 
 followed, could be concluded, Allan committed suicide. Now, 
 does it not, on the face of it, seem of the highest ])robability 
 that this man was the real deliiupient, and that knowing that 
 I look had all the responsibility, and having taken fair precau- 
 tions against his own detection, he had anticii)ated a discovery 
 of the affair by a revelation, incriminating the treasurer? 
 Qiticn sabe ; — dead men tell no tales. 
 
 The chest, how-ever, was examined, and -the deficit found far 
 greater yet than had been reported. Hook could not explain, 
 could not understand it at all ; but if not criminal, he had 
 necessarily been careless. He was arrested, thrown intoi)rison, 
 a!id by the first vessel despatched to England to take his trial, 
 his property of every kind having been sold for the Government. 
 
cut. 
 
 le waiter who had so 
 lim of the cook, who 
 :illery officer had by 
 ling that more than 
 heakh of gentlemen 
 number of their pota- 
 ordering the gunners 
 
 displeasure of the 
 luel — fortunately as 
 
 eye, 
 ghingby." 
 
 ; enough to wish to 
 nl was therefore the 
 
 ito consideration in 
 f embezzlement. It 
 
 the deficit was sent 
 d Allan, chief clerk 
 )nduct, been already 
 mitted that he had 
 md yet he had not, 
 making it known to 
 tion, which of course 
 itted suicide. Now, 
 
 highest j)robability 
 I that knowing that 
 I taken fair precau- 
 icipated a discovery 
 ting the treasurer ? 
 
 the deficit found far 
 : could not explain, 
 ot criminal, he had 
 :, thrown into prison, 
 nd to take his trial, 
 for the Government. 
 
 Misfortune. aa7 
 
 Hook, in utter destitution, might be supposed to have lost his 
 usual spirits, but he could not resist a joke. At St. Helena he 
 met an old friend going out to the Cai)e, who, surprised at see- 
 ing him on his return voyage after a residence of only five years, 
 said: 'I hojje you are not going home for vourhealth.'— ' Why,' 
 said Theodore, ' I am sorry to say they think there is something 
 wrong in the c/us/: « Something wrong in the chest ' became 
 henceforward the ordinary phrase in London society in referring 
 to Hook's scrape. 
 
 Arrived in I'lngland, he was set free, the Government here 
 having deciiled that he could not be c.-iminally tried ; and thus 
 Hook, guilty or not, liad been ruined and disgraced for life for 
 simi)le carelessness. True, the cust.xly of agination's i)roi)erty 
 makes negli-ence almost criminal ; but that does not excuse the 
 punishment of a man before he is tried. 
 
 He was summoned, however, to the Golonial Audit Board, 
 where he underwent a tr}-ing examination ; after which he was 
 declared to be in the debt of Government : a writ of extent 
 was issued against him ; nine months were i^issed in that de- 
 lightful ])lace of residence— a Sponging-house, which he then 
 exchanged for the ' Rules of the Iknch'— the only rules which 
 have no exception. l-'roin these he was at last liberated, in 
 1825, on the understanding that he was to repay the money tt) 
 Government if at an) time he should be in a i)o.sition to do so. 
 His liberation was a tacii arknowiedgment of his innocence 
 of the charge of robbery ; his encumberment with a debt caused 
 by another's delinquencies was, we presume, a signiticalion of 
 his responsibility and some kind of j)unishment for his careless- 
 ness. Gertainly it was hard u;)on Hook, that, if innocent, he 
 should not have gone forth without a stain on his character for 
 honesty; and it was unjust, that, if guilty, he should not have 
 b-.'en punished. 'J'he judgment was one of those compromises 
 with stern justice which are seldom satisfactory to either i)arty. 
 The fact was that, guilty or not guilty, Hook had been both 
 incompetent and inconsiderate. Doubtless he congratulated 
 himself highly on receiving, at the 'age of twenty-fnx% an ap- 
 
 ■ '"''^ -'Ona ^,^,^-_v ,; ;.-,■: ::i iwe j)araM,>.- ui uie world; 
 
 but how short-sighted his satisfaction, since this very appoint- 
 

 f.*tm 
 
 448 Doubly Dis^:;raccd. 
 
 ment left him some ten years later a pauper to begin life anew 
 with an indelible stain on his character. It was absurd to give 
 so young a man such a post ; but it was absolutely wrong in 
 Hook not to do his utmost to carry out his duties i)roperly. 
 N;^y, he had trilled with the public money in the same liberal 
 — perhaps a more liberal — spirit as if it had been his own — 
 made advances and loans here and there injudiciously, and taken 
 little heed of the conseciuences. Probably, at this day,' the 
 conunon opinion ac(iuits Hook of a designed and complicated 
 fraud ; but common opinion never did accjuit him of miscon- 
 duct, and even by his friends this affair was looked upon with 
 a susi)icion that ])referred silence to examination. 
 
 but why take such pains to exonerate Hook from a charge of 
 robbery, when he was avowetUy guilty of as bad a sin, of which 
 tlie law took no cognizance, and which society forgave far more 
 easily than it could have done for robbing the State ? Soon 
 after his return from the Alauritius, he took lodgings in the 
 cheap, but unfashionable nciglibourhood of Somers Town. 
 Here, in the moment of his misfortune, when doul ting whether 
 disgrace, imprisonment, or what not awaited him, he sought 
 solace in the alTection of a young woman, of a class certainly 
 much beneath his, and of a character unfit to make her a valu- 
 able companion to him. Hook had received Utile moral train- 
 ing, and had he done so, his im[)ulses were sufficiently strong' to 
 overcome any amount of principle. With this person — to use 
 the modern slang which seems to convert a glaring sin into a 
 social misdemeanour — 'he formed a connection.' In other 
 words, he destroyed her virtue. Hateful as such an act is, we 
 must, before we can condemn a man for it without any recom- 
 mendation to mercy, consider a score of circumstances which 
 have rendered the temptation stronger, and the result almost 
 involuntary. Hook was not a man of high moral character — 
 very far from it— but we need not therefore suppose that he sat 
 down coolly and deliberately, like a villain in a novel, to eflfect 
 the girl's ruin. But the Rubicon once passed, how difticult is 
 the retreat ! There are but two paths open to a man, who 
 would avoid living a life of sin : the one, to tnarry his virtirrj ; 
 the oUier, to break off the connection before it is too late. The 
 
r to begin life anew 
 t was absurd to give 
 absolutely wrong in 
 his duties ])roi)erly. 
 in the same liberal 
 lad been his own — 
 Lidiciously, and taken 
 i\y, at this day,' the 
 led and complicated 
 luit him of miscon- 
 s looked upon with 
 lation. 
 
 ook from a charge of 
 ; bad a sin, of which 
 iety forgave far more 
 g the State ? Soon 
 jok lodgings in the 
 of Somers Town, 
 en doul ling wliether 
 ited him, he souglit 
 of a class certainly 
 to make her a valu- 
 ed Utile moral train- 
 sufficiently strong' to 
 this person — to use 
 1 glaring sin into a 
 mection.' In other 
 ) such an act is, we 
 without any recom- 
 :ircumstances which 
 d the result almost 
 I moral character — 
 : supi)ose that he sat 
 in a novel, to effect 
 ied, how difficult is 
 :)cn to a man, who 
 o marry ]v.% virturij 
 e it is too late. The 
 
 No Effort to Remove the Stain. 449 
 
 first is, of course, the more proper course ; l)ut there are cases 
 where marriage is imi)ossible. From the latter a man of any 
 heart must shrink with horror. Yet there .?/r cases, even, where 
 the one sin will prove the least— where she who has loved too 
 well may grieve bitterly at parting, yet will be no more open to 
 temptation tlian if she had never fallen. • Such cases are rare, 
 and it is not probable that the young person with whom Hook 
 JKid become connected would have retrieved the fatal error. 
 She became a mother, and there was no retreat. It is clear 
 that Hook ought to have married her. It is evident that he 
 was selfish and wrong not to do so ;— yet he shrank from it, 
 ueakly, wickedly, and he was punished for his shrinking. He 
 had sufficient feeling not to throw his victim over, yet lie was 
 content to live a life of sin, and to keep her in such a life. This 
 1.. i^erhaps the blackest stain on Hook's character. When Fox 
 married, in consequence of a similar connection, he 'settled 
 down,' retrieved his early errors, and became a better man 
 morally, than' he had ever been. Hook ow^ht to have married.' 
 It was the cowardly dread of public opinion that deterred him 
 from doing so, and, in consequence, he was never happy, and 
 felt that this connection was a perpetual burden to him. 
 
 Wrecked and ruined, Hook had no resource but his literary 
 talents, and it is to be dejjlorcd that he should have prostituted 
 these to serve an ungentlemanly and dishonourable party in 
 their onslaught ujjon an unfortunate woman. ^Vhate\■er 'ma\ 
 be now thought of the queen of ' the greatest gentleman'— or 
 rouc~Q{ Europe, those who hunted her down will never be par- 
 doned, and Hook was one of those. We have cried out against 
 an Austrian general for condemning a Hungarian lady to the 
 lash, and we have seen, with delight, a mob chase him through 
 the streets of London and threaten his very life. But we have 
 not only pardoned, but even praised, our favourite wit for far 
 worse conduct than this. Even if we allow, which we do not, 
 that the queen was one half as bad :,s her enemies, or rather 
 her husband's parasites, would make her out, we cannot forgive 
 the men Avho, shielded by their incognito, and perfectly free 
 from danger of any kind, set upon a woman with libels, invee- 
 tives, ballads, epigrams, and 'lampoons, which a lady could 
 
 2y 
 
450 
 
 Attacks on the O/icrn. 
 
 b 
 
 scarcely read, and of which a royal lady, and many an L .. ,ish 
 gentlewoman, too, were the butts. 
 
 The vilest of all the vile papers of that day was the ' John 
 Bull,' now settled down to a (piiet i)erio(Iical. Perhai>s the 
 real John Hull, heavy, good-natured lumberer as he is, was 
 never worse represented than in this journal which bore his 
 name, but had little of his kindly spirit. Ifook was its origin- 
 ator, and for a long time its main supporter. Scurrility, scandal, 
 libel, baseness of all kinds formal the fuel with which it blazed,' 
 and the wit, bitter. unlliiK hiiig, unsparing, which puffed the 
 tlame uji, was its chief rccomnicmlation. 
 
 No more disgraceful climax was ever reached by a disgrace- 
 ful dynasty of iirolligates than that which found a King of Eng- 
 land— long, as Regent, the leader of the ].roHigate and de- 
 graded—at war with his injured (,)ueen. None have deserved 
 l)etter the honest gratitude of their country than those who, 
 like Henry Hrougham, defended the oppressed woman in spite 
 of 0])position. oblotpiy, and ri(li( ule. 
 
 liut we need not go deejjly jnto a history so fresh in'the 
 mincls of all. as that blot which shows John' Ikill himself up- 
 holding a wretched dissi|)ated monarch against a wife, who, 
 whatever her faults, was still a woman, and whatever her S])irit' 
 —for she had much of it, and showed it grandly at need— was 
 still a lady. Suffice it to say that 'John J]ull ' was the most 
 violent of the periodicals that attacked her, and that Theodore 
 Hook, no Puritan himself, was the principal writer in that 
 paper. 
 
 If you can imagine ' Punch' turned Conservative, incorpo- 
 rated in one paper with the ' Morning Herald,' so that a column 
 of news was printed side by side with one of a jocular character, 
 and these two together devoted without principle to the sup- 
 port of a party, the attack of ^\■higgism, and an unblushing 
 detraction of the character of one of our princesses, you can 
 form some idea of what ' John Pull ' was in those days. There 
 IS. however, a ditTerencc: T'unch' attacks public characters, and 
 ridicules public events; 'John JJuH' dragge.l out the most re- 
 tired from their privacy, and attacked them with calumnies for 
 whici), often, there was no foundation. Then, again, ' Punch ' 
 
h\ many an K. , ,ish 
 
 (lay was tlie 'John 
 ilical. Perhaps the 
 bcrer as he is, was 
 nal whirh bore his 
 look was its origin- 
 Scurriiity, scandal, 
 .'ith which it blazed, 
 , which puricd the 
 
 died by a disgrace- 
 and a King of Eng- 
 proHigate and de- 
 one have deserved 
 y than those who, 
 sed woman in spite 
 
 iry so fresh in the 
 n ]}ull himself iip- 
 ;ainst a wife, who, 
 ivhatevcr her sjjirit 
 indly at neeil — was 
 Jiiir was the most 
 and that Theodore 
 )al writer in that 
 
 servative, incorpo- 
 1,' so that a column 
 1 jocular character, 
 !!( ii)le to the sup- 
 nd an unblushing 
 rincesses, you can 
 hose days. There 
 blir characters, and 
 1 out the most re- 
 with calumnies for 
 n, again, ' Punch ' 
 
 An Incongnious Mixture. 451 
 
 is not nearly so bitter as was ' John Bull :' there is not in the 
 'London Charivari' a determination to say everything tint 
 spite can mvent against any i)articu|ar set or ],artv • thert- is 'a 
 goocl nature, still, in master ' Punch.' It was quite the reverse 
 .n John Pull,' establishe<I for one purpose, and devoted to 
 that. Yet the w.t in Theodore's paper ,ioes not rise much 
 higher than that of our modern laughing philosoi.her. 
 
 Ot Hook's contributions the most remarkable was the 
 'Ramsbottom Letters,' in which Mrs. Lavinia Dorothea Rams- 
 bottom descrd>es all the munory hillUms of her various tours at 
 home and abroad, always, of course, with more or less allusion 
 to ,)oht.cal afitairs. The ' fun ' of these letters is very inferior 
 to that of ' Jeames ' or of the ' .Snob Papers,' an<l consists more 
 .n Malaprop absurdities and a wide range of bad puns, than 
 in any real wit displayed in them. Of the style of both we 
 take an extrait anywhere :— ' 
 
 'Oj, : Mr. Hull, Room is raley a beautiful place We 
 entered it by the Point of Molly, which is just like the Point 
 al^■l Sally at Porchmouth, only they call .Sallv there Port, which 
 IS not known in Room. 'I'he Tiber is a nice river. It looks 
 yellou-, but it does the snnie there as the 'I'hames does here 
 ^\ c hired a carry-lett/, and a cocky-ol!y, to take us to the Church 
 01 .Vlt Peter, which is juodigious big; in the centre of the 
 l-i/aiTo there is a basilisk very high, on the right and left two 
 handsome foun.llings ; and the farcy, as Mr. I-uhner , ailed it, 
 IS ornamented with collateral statutes of some o^" the Apostates.' 
 We can (piite imagine that 1 dook wrote many of these letters 
 when excited by wine. Some are laughable enough, but the 
 majority are .so deplorably stupid, reeking with^ puns and 
 Murrility. that when the temporary interest was gone, there 
 wjs n.aiiing left to attract the reader, it is srarcely possible to 
 kmghat the Joe-.Milleri.sh mistakes, the old world puns, antl the 
 tnte stories of Hook 'remain.s.' Remains ! indee<l ; they had 
 belter have remained whore thev wer^-. 
 
 Besides ])rose of this kind. Hook contributed various jingles 
 —there is no other name for them— arranged to j.opular'tune.s, 
 
 ;nid intended to jie'^nm'- f'lviMr.lt, .. ,. i.i, «i .„. . . , 
 
 , . ' — ■■'' '-■■^'^ t-utiiiiry peojoie. 
 
 1 hese like the prose effusions, served the purpose of an hour, 
 
Q 
 
 452 Hook's Scurrility. 
 
 and liave no interest now, Whetlier tliey were ever really 
 l)oi)u]ar remains to be proved. Certes, they are forgotten now, 
 and long since even in the most Conservative corners of the 
 country. Many of these have the appearance of having been 
 originally nxitati, and their amusement must have depended 
 chiefly on the face and manner of the singer — Hook himself; 
 but in some he displayed that vice of rhyming which has often 
 made nonsense go down, and v.'hich is tolerable only when 
 introduced in the satire of a' Don Juan' or the first-rate 
 mimicry of ' Rejected Addresses.' Hook had a most wonderful 
 facility in concocting out-of-the-way rhymes, and a ic\s verses 
 from his song on Clubs will suflice for a good specimen of his 
 talent : — 
 
 ' If nny in;xn loves comfort, and lias litth- cash to Iniv it, lie 
 Should i^i't into a crowded club— a nio'it select society ; 
 While solitude and niulton-cnilets si.Tve infeiix uxor, he 
 
 May have his club (Like Hercules), and revel there in luxury. 
 
 Bow, wow, wow, &c. 
 
 'Yes, clubs knock houses on the head ; e'en Ilatehett's can't demolish them ; 
 
 Joy grieves to see their ni.i^nituile, ;uid l>ong longs to abolish tlieni. 
 Thr inns are out ; hotels for single men scarce kee]) alive on it ; 
 Wiiile none but iiouses that are in the family way thrive on it. 
 
 Bow, wow, wow, &c. 
 
 ' There's first the Athcn.Tuni Club, so wise, there's not a man of it, 
 
 That has not sense enough for six (in fact, that is the plan of it) ; 
 Tile very waitt-rs answer you with eioi|uence Soeratical ; 
 And always place tiie knives and forks in order mathematical. 
 
 Bow, wow, wow, &c. 
 « * # * # 
 
 • F2'en Isis has a house in town, and Cam abandons her city. 
 The master now hangs out at the Trinity University. 
 
 ***** 
 
 'The Union Club is quite superb ; its best apartment daily is, 
 The lounge of lawyers, doctors, merchants, beaux, cutn multis aliis. 
 
 * * * * # 
 
 'The Travellers are in Pall Mall, and smoke cigars so cosilv. 
 And dream they climb the highest Alps,. or rove the plains of Moselai. 
 
 * # * * # 
 
 'These are the stages which .ill men propose to jilay their parts upon, 
 For clubs are what the Londoners have clearly set 'their hearts upon. 
 Bow, wow, wow, tiddy-iddy-idd^-iddy, bow, wow, wow,' <lv:i.. 
 
 This is one of the harmless ballads of ' Bull.' Some of the 
 political ones are scarcely lit to print in the present d: ■... We 
 cannot wonder that ladies of a certain position gave out that 
 
jy were ever really 
 y are forgotten now, 
 itive corners of the 
 ance of having been 
 uist have {lejjended 
 ger — Hook himself; 
 ling which has often 
 tolerable only when 
 an ' or the first-rate 
 lad a most wonderful 
 2s, and a few verses 
 ood specimen of his 
 
 t, lie 
 
 
 
 
 c'ty ; 
 lie 
 
 
 
 
 in liixi 
 Bow, 
 
 wow, 
 
 wow, 
 
 &c. 
 
 Mt's can 
 to aho 
 
 't demolish them ; 
 isli tlieni. 
 
 ilive on 
 
 it ; 
 
 
 
 iirivc oil it. 
 Bow, wow. 
 
 wow, 
 
 &c. 
 
 L a man 
 he i)lan 
 
 ii ■ 
 
 of it, 
 of it) 
 
 t 
 
 
 1 1 , 
 
 thcmati 
 Bow, 
 
 cal. 
 wow. 
 
 wow, 
 
 &c. 
 
 •r city. 
 
 d;iily is, 
 im multis aliis. 
 
 cosily, 
 
 ilains of Moselai. 
 
 Iicir parts upon, 
 ;ir hairts uixjii. 
 nv, wow,' (ii,. 
 
 '■ Bull.' Some of the 
 le present d ,. We 
 sition gave out that 
 
 
 Fortune and Popularity. 453 
 
 they would not receive any one who took in this paper. It 
 was scurrilous to the last degree, and 'i'heodore Hook was the 
 .soul of it. He pre.served his incognito .so well, that in spite of 
 all attempts to unearth him, it was many years before he could 
 he certainly fi.xed ujwn as a writer in its columns. He even 
 went to the length of wr-'ting letters and articles against himself, 
 in order to disarm suspicion. 
 
 Hook now lived and thrived purely on literature. He j.ub- 
 li.hed many novels— gone where the bad novels go, and luiread 
 in the present day, unless in some remote coimtry town, which 
 boasts only a very meagre circulating libraiy. Improbability 
 took the place of natural painting in them; punning supplied 
 that of better wit; and personal portraiture was so freely used, 
 
 that his most intimate friends— old Mathews, for instance cHd 
 
 not escape. 
 
 Meanwhile Hook, making a good fortune, returned to his 
 convivial life, and the enjoyment — if enjoyment it be— of 
 general society. He 'threw out his bow window' on the 
 strength of his success with 'John Bull,' and spent much more 
 than he had. He mingled freely in all the London circles of 
 thirty years ago, whose glory is still fresh in the minds of most 
 of us, and everywhere his talent as an improvisatorc, and his 
 conversational powers, made him a general favourite. 
 
 Unhai>i)y popularity for Hook ! He, whc was yet deeply in 
 debt to the nation— who had an illegitimate family to maintain, 
 who owed in many quarters more than he could e^'er hope to 
 pay—was still fool enough to entertain largely, and rc< xive both 
 nobles and wits in the handsomest manner. \\\\y did he not 
 live quietly? why not, like Fo.x, marry the unhappy woman 
 whom he had made the mother of his children, and content 
 himself with trimming vines and rearing tulips? Why, forsooth? 
 because he was Theodore Hook, thoughtless and foolish to the 
 hist. The jester of the people must needs be a fool. Let him 
 lake it to his conscience that he was not ^s much a knave. 
 
 In his latter years Hook took to the two dissipations most 
 likely to bring him into misery— play and drink. He was 
 ULterly unfitted for the former, being too gay a spirit to sit down 
 and calculate chances. He lost considerably, and the more he 
 
454 
 
 The End. 
 
 b 
 
 lost the more he played. Drinking became almost a necessity 
 with him. lie had a rei)iitati()n to keef) uj) in society, and had 
 not the moral courage to retire from it altogether. Writing, 
 improvising, conviviality, ])lay, demanded stimulants. His 
 mind was overworked in every sense. He had recourse to the 
 only remedy, and in drinking he found a temporary relief from 
 anxiety, and a short-lived sustenance. There is no doubt that 
 this man, who hnd amused I-ondon circles for many years, 
 hastened his end by drinking. 
 
 It is not yet thirty years sinrc Theodore Hook died. He 
 left the world on August the 24th, 1841, and by this time he 
 remains in tlie memory of men only as a wit tiiat was, a 
 jjunster, a hoaxer, - sorry jester, with an ample fund of fun, 
 but not as a great man in any way. Allowing everything for 
 his education — the imes he lived in, and the unhapi)y error of 
 his early life — we may adm.t that Hook was not, in character, 
 the worst of the wits. He died in no odour of sanctity, but 
 he was not a blasjihemer or reviler, like others of this class. 
 He ignored the bond of matrimony, yet he remained faithful 
 to the woman he had betrayed • he was undoubtedly careless 
 in the one resjjonsible office with wliich he was intrusted, yet 
 he cannot be taxed, taking all in all, with deliberate pecula- 
 tion. His drinking and playing were bad— very bad. His 
 improper connection was bad — very bad ; but perhaps the 
 worst feature in his career was his connection with ' John Ikill,' 
 and his ready giving in to a system of low libel. There is no 
 excuse for this but the necessity of living ; l)ut Hook, had he 
 retained any princii)le, might have made enough to live upon 
 in a more honest manner. His name does, certainly, not stand 
 out well among the wits of this country, but after all, since all 
 were so bad, Hook may be excused as not being the worst of 
 them. Rcquicscat in pace. 
 
 •.'^^ 
 
almost a necessity 
 n society, ami luul 
 Dgcthcr. Writing, 
 stimulants. His 
 ad recourse to the 
 iiporary relief from 
 x- is no doubt that 
 > for many years, 
 
 e Hook died. He 
 il I>y lliis time he 
 I wit that was, a 
 iiple fund of fun, 
 ng everything for 
 
 uiihappy error of 
 ; not, in i;haracter, 
 ir of sanctity, but 
 hers of this class. 
 
 remained faithful 
 loubtedly careless 
 was intrusted, yet 
 deliberate pecula- 
 — very bad. His 
 
 but i)erhai)S the 
 
 with ' John IJull,' 
 )el. There is no 
 but Hook, had he 
 3Ugh to live upon 
 ertainly, not stand 
 after all, since all 
 )eing the worst of 
 
 f 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 Th,> 'Wise Wit.' Oclrliiics of II,.- Fail„T. V, , ..-ninkinir at W „u I.-m-t. - 
 
 urau- .iff on .Salis nny I'lain.--()kl F.clmlmr<;li. Its .Social ami .Arclii- 
 
 l.riural Ksitur.'s.-.\I.,l,injr !,„,,■ M..tapl,v.icallv, Tlu- Oi.l S, nii,.|, .Sun- 
 
 I.r. -llif .\I.Mi of Mark pavsinp aw.iy— 'riie 'Haml of VoiinL' Spirits. '- 
 
 ...u-hams I..ariy I .nifity,- Fitting up Conversations.-' Old .SdiooF 
 
 C,!vniunics.--llu..S|v,iilativc.S,,ci,.ty. .\ Uriiliant .S,.t.^Sv(ln.vs Opinion 
 
 liH lTifnds.--Holi,m(l Hon.sr, - I'r.McJKT ;it the ' FoumllinLT ' .Sydn.Vs 
 (-la.nmarof I-ife. -;nK. I'icture .Mania. -..\ laving' Conies at I.ast'.-^The 
 
 U a s Ministry — riu- i'arsonairc Jlouse at Foston-l(-( ■j.iv. ( nnntrv ( Miict 
 Ihc I mv.Ts.il ScratclRT. -Country Life and Country I'rejtidic'.'.-llie 
 ( ..•mal Magistrate —(;iinipse of l-.dinhurm, Society, -.Mrs. (Irani of \:^^^•■^x\. 
 A I .nsion l)itliculty.--Jcffreyai,<I(ockl,urn.---Craijrcrook,- Sv(lnrvSmith's 
 ( ii.erluiness.- lis Riieumatic .\rniour. .\o I'.i.hopric, -He'conies Canon 
 
 01 St. I auls. -Anecdotes of I.ord Dudlrv. A Sharp Rc-proof.-Svdneys 
 C la.,si(ication of .Society. — Last Strokes of Humour. 
 
 |^HTH'S reputation— to quote from Lord Cockburn's 
 ' Memorial of I':dinl)urgh ' — ' here, then, was the 
 same as it has been throughout his life, that of a wise 
 ^vlt.' A wit he -vas, but we must deny him the reputation of 
 being a beau. For that, nature, no less than his holy office, 
 iiad disciualified him. ^Vho that ever beheld him in a London 
 drawing-room, when he went to so many dinners that he used 
 to say he was a walking patty— who could ever miscall him a 
 beau ? How few years have we numbered since one i)erceived 
 the large bulky form in canonical attire— the i^lain, heavy face, 
 large, long, unredeemed by any expression, except that of sound 
 hard sen.se— and thought, 'can this be the Wit?' How few 
 years is it since Henry Cockburn, ha. ..g London, and conn'ng 
 bn- ..rely to what he called the 'devil's drawing room,' stood 
 near him, yet apart, for he was the most diffident of men ; his 
 wonderful hnninous eyes, his clear, almost youthlul, vivid com- 
 I'lexion, contrasting brightly with the gray, j)allid, jjrebend.vl 
 complexion of Sydney ? how short a time since Francis J effery, 
 
45(5 
 
 The' Wise Wit: 
 
 ^ 
 
 3 
 
 llic smallest of great men, a hcau in Iiis old age, a wit to tlu- 
 last, stood hat in hand to handy words with Sydiuy crc he 
 rushed off to some siili gayer scene, some more fashionable 
 '•ircle: yet lliey are all gone — gone from sight, living i,, 
 memory i.lone. 
 
 i'erhai>s it was time: they might have lived, indeed, a few 
 short years longer ; we might have heard their names amongst 
 lis ; listened to their voices ; ga/ed upon the deep ha/el, ever- 
 sparkhng eyes, that constituted the charhi of Cockburn's hand- 
 some face, and made all other f u es seem tame and dead: we 
 might have marvelled at the ingenuity, the h;ippy turns of ex- 
 pression, the polite sarcasm of Jeffrey; we might'have revelled 
 m Sydney Smith's immense natural gift of fun, and listened to 
 the 'wise wit,' regretting with Lord Cockl.urn, that so much 
 worldly wisdom seemed almost inappropriate in one wlio 
 should have been in some freer sphere than within the pale of 
 holy orders : we might have done this, but the picture might 
 lurve been otherwise. Cockburn, whose intellect rose, and 
 became almost sublime, as his spirit neiP'd death, might have 
 sunk into the depression of conscious weakness ; Jeffery mi-lu 
 have repeated himself, or turned hypochondriacal ; Sydney 
 Smith have grown garrulous: let us not grieve: they went in 
 their prime of intellect, before one quality of min.l had been 
 touched by the frostbite of age. 
 
 Sydney Smith's life is a chronicle of literary society. He 
 was born in 177,. and he riM in 1S45. V.-hat a succession of 
 great men does that i^eriod comprise ! Scott, ]cflrcy, Mackin- 
 tosh, Dugald Stewart, Horner, Brougham and Cockburn were 
 his familiars— a constellation which has set, we fear, for ever. 
 Our world i)resents nothing like it: we must look back, not 
 around us, for strong minds, cultivated up to the nicest i>oint. 
 ( >ur age is too diffused, too practical for us to ]iO]>e to witness 
 again so grand a si)ectacle. 
 
 From his progenitors Sydney Smith inherited one of his 
 best gifts, great animal sjjirits— the only spirits one wants in 
 this racking life of ours ; and his were transmitted to him by 
 his father. That flxther, Mr. Robert Smith, was odd as well 
 as clever. His oddities seem to have been coupled with folly ; 
 
1 njjc, a wit to the 
 
 ith Sydiuy ere he 
 
 more fashionable 
 
 n sight, Hviiig in 
 
 a-d, indeed, a few 
 
 .ir names amongst 
 ; deep ha/el, ever- 
 Cockbiirn's hand- 
 me and dead : we 
 i;il'I'y turns of ex- 
 ligiit have revelled 
 in, and listened to 
 irn, that so much 
 iate in one wlio 
 kvithin the pale of 
 the picture might 
 ilelleet rose, and 
 leath, might have 
 ss ; J e fiery might 
 idriacal ; Sydney 
 ve : thc\' wrnt in 
 " mind had been 
 
 ary society. ITc 
 
 \t a succession of 
 
 Jeffrey, Mackin- 
 
 Cockburn were 
 
 vc fear, for ever. 
 
 >t look back, not 
 the nicest jjoint. 
 
 • ho]je to witness 
 
 rited one of his 
 its one wants in 
 lifted to him by 
 vas odd as well 
 Lipled with folly ; 
 
 OthUth's of the Father, 
 )Ut tli.it of .Syilncy was sobcri/ed by thought. 
 
 ui tense common se 
 
 ...v....,v. v.,„.M„v^„ ntn.^i.-. I lie Mtlier liad .1 n, 
 and altering pl.ices : one need hardlv s,iy thit i 
 Ilavmg done .so, he generally sold t'h 
 
 places were thus th 
 
 e .source of expense to h 
 
 iie spoiled them, 
 tin ; and tiindecn various 
 
 t' the pecuniary interests of his famil 
 
 nil, and of injury 
 
 This str, 
 
 mge spendthrift married a .Miss Olier, a d 
 
 a I'rench emigrant, from I 
 member the charming attribut 
 
 uigluer of 
 
 :inguedoc. Juery 
 
 one ma 
 
 y r. 
 
 icr delicious tale, 'Nathalie.' 
 
 given by Miss Kavanagh, in 
 
 South. This Miss ()| 
 
 c,' to the l-rencl 
 
 ler seems to have realized all 
 
 1 women of the 
 
 one's ideas 
 
 ,,r ,1, . 1 , " .v..,i,.>.,i .1,1 uiies Ideas 
 
 of the handsome, sweet-tempere.l, high-minded .Southrons of 
 la lulL J'ranec J o her .Sydney Smith traced his native gaiety • 
 
 -beauty did not, ce^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 o» I er other descendants. When Tallevrand was livin.^ in 
 England as an emigrant, on intimate terms with Robert Smith, 
 .Sydneys brother, or Hobu.s, as he was calle.l bv his intimates 
 the conv-ersation turne<l one <lay on hereditary beautv. Hobus 
 ^poke o his mother's personal perfections: ^ Ah, ' .non a,ni^ 
 'ncd lalle>Tand, c\(aU apparanmcnt, monsieur: votrc plrc uui 
 
 This Jiobus was the schoolfellow at Kton of Canning and 
 iTere; and with John Smith and those two youths, wrole the 
 
 M.croco.sm. Sydney, on the other hand, was placed on the 
 I'onndation at Winchester, which was then a stern place of 
 instruction for a gay, spirited, hungry boy. Courtenay, his 
 younger brother, went with him, but ran away twice. To owe 
 ones education to charity was. in those days, to be half starved 
 ^ ever was there enough, even of the coarsest food, to satisfy 
 
 'e boys and the urchins, fresh from home, were left to f.re'as 
 tlioy might. ' Neglect, abuse, and vice were,' Svdnev use<l to 
 say, the pervading evils of Winchester; and the svstem of 
 leaching, if one may so call it, savoured of the old monastic 
 narrowness. ... I believe, when a boy at school, I made above 
 ten thousand Latin verse.s, and no man in his senses uouM 
 dream of ever making another in after-life. So much for life 
 
 iind time W.TStocI ' 'I'h,- vpr*;- ^nf-Mr- w • • ■ 
 
 , ; "H \trsc-inciiing process is, neveitiieiess, 
 
 remorselessly earned on during three years more at Oxford, 
 
b 
 
 and i> miK h oficiicr ilic lust ol' i).'.ticiu stuiutlity than of aspir 
 iii|; laknt. Vcl of wlutt stii|»en(loiis im|i()rt,in(c it is in tho 
 atlainiiKiit of s(l)ular.slii|)S ami |.ri/is ; and liow zealous, Iiow 
 tcnacioi dons and 'coaches' in h.)l(h"iig to that which far 
 
 hii;licr (lassie s, the ('•crnians, ngard with contempt ! 
 ; 8y(hiey's profu ien( y promoted him t.j l>e taptain of the 
 sdiool, and he left U ini hester for New College, ( )\ford- one 
 of the noblest and most abused institutions then of that grand 
 imiversiiy. Having obtained a scholarship, as a matter of 
 course, and afterwards a fellowshij), he remarked that the usual 
 bumi)ers of port wine at college were as nuK h the order of the 
 day among the lellows as Latin verses among the under- 
 graduates. We may not, however, pi( ture to ourselves Sydney 
 as i)artaking of the festivities of the connnon room ; with more 
 I'lobability let us imagine !iim wandering with steady gait, 
 even ({/Av Hal! a thing not even then or ikjw certain in col- 
 leges- in those evergreen, leafy, varied gardens, flanked by 
 that old St. I'eter's ( hurch on the one side, and guarded by 
 the high wall, once a fortification, on the other. He was poor, 
 and therefore safe, for poverty is a guardian angel to an imder- 
 graduate, and work niay protect even the Fellow from utter 
 deterioration. 
 
 lie was turned out into the world by his fiuher with his 
 hundred a year from the Fellowship, and never had a far- 
 thing from the old de;:fr'jyer of country-seats afterwards. He 
 never owed a sixpence ; nay, he paid a debt of thirty pounds, 
 whicli (' ;nay, who had no iron in his character, had in- 
 curred at W mchester, and had not the courage to avow. The 
 next step was to choose a ])rofession. The bar would have been 
 Sydney's choice ; but the church was the choice of his flUher. 
 It is the cheapest channel by whii h a man may pass into gen- 
 teel poverty; 'wit and independence do not make bishops,' as 
 Lord Cockburn remarks. A\e do not, however, regard, as he 
 does, Sydney Smith as 'lost' by being a churchman. He was 
 happy, and made others hapi.y ; he was good, and made others 
 good. Who can say the same of a successful barrister, or of a 
 poinilar orator? His first sphere was in a curacy on Salisbury 
 Plain; one of his earliest clerical duties was to marry lui 
 
(idity than of aspir 
 ortaiH c it is in the 
 I how zealous, how 
 1^ to that which far 
 >ntcm|tt ! 
 
 I)r < .ijitain of the- 
 Dllt^f, ( )\ror(l— one 
 s then of that grand 
 \\), as a matter of 
 arkcd that the usual 
 H Ii the order of the 
 among the under- 
 to ourselves Sydney 
 n room ; with more 
 ^ with steady gait, 
 now certain in col- 
 ardens, flanked by 
 c, and guarded by 
 her. He was jjoor, 
 angel to an under- 
 Fellow from utter 
 
 his father with his 
 never had a far- 
 ts afterwards. He 
 )t of thirty pounds, 
 character, had in- 
 rage to avow. The 
 )ar would have been 
 hoice of his flither. 
 may pass into gen- 
 t make bishops,' as 
 a'\er, regard, as he 
 un hinan. He was 
 1(1, and made others 
 ful barrister, or of a 
 :uracy on Salisbury 
 was to marry hia 
 
 Cimitc-Lifc oil Stifishtiy Plain. ^^^^ 
 
 brother Robert (a barrister) to .Miss \'ernon, aunt to I.onI 
 Lansdowne. -.Ail I .an t.ll you of ,l,, „,,rri.ge,' Sydney 
 wrote- tn his mother, 'is that he eric ,m,,| i ,,i,,,|- {^ 
 
 wi. . d.brate.1 in .1 , 'ibrary at l!.,wuo.i, where .Sydney so 
 often enchanted the captivating circ le afterwards by his wit 
 
 Nothing could be more gloomy than the young pastor's life 
 on .Salisbury I'l.nn : ' the hrst and poorest pauper of the hamlet.' 
 as he c.,!ls a curate, he wa, seated down among a few scattered 
 rottaycs on this vast flat ; visited even by the butcher's cart 
 only once a week from Salisbury ; accosted by i^ss htnnan 
 bcMigs; shunned by all who loved social life. lUit the prola- 
 lion was not lon^s an.l after being nearly destroyed by a 
 tlumder-storm m one of his rambles, he (juitted Salisbury Plain., 
 alter two years, for a more genial scene. 
 
 There was an hosj.itable s.|uire, a Mr. Heach. living in Smith's 
 parish ; the v.llageof Xetherhaven, near Amesl.ury. Mr. Meach 
 had a son; the <iuiet Sundays at the Hall were enlivened by 
 the curate's company at dinner, and Mr. Heach found his guest 
 l;"tl' nmusmg and sensil,le, and begged him to become tutor to 
 the young scpure. Smith accepted; and went awav with his 
 b"p.l, u)tendmg to visit (lermany. The IVench Revolution 
 was, however, at its height. (Jerniany was impracticable, r-d 
 'we were driven,' .Sydney wrote to his mother, ' by stress of 
 politics, into Edinburgh.' 
 
 This accident,--this seeming accident,— was the foundation 
 of Sydney Smith's opportunities ; not of his success, for that 
 his own merits procured, but of the direction to which his efforts 
 were applied. He would have been eminent, wherever destin- 
 had led him ; but he was thus made to be useful in one espec-al 
 manner; 'his lines had, indeed, fallen in pleasant places.' 
 
 Edinburgh, in .797, was not, it is almost needless to say 
 the Edinburgh of .860. An ancient, picturesque, high-buiU 
 looking city, with its wynds an.l closes, it had far more the 
 characteristics of an ol<l French vill, J, pr.rincc than of a 
 northern capital. The foundation-stone of the new College 
 was laid m 17S9, but the building was not finished until more 
 than fortv vears afterw.ink 'i'li.- ed!«ir<' •'> - - - ' • •' -it 
 01 helds and gardens. 'Often,' writes Lord Cuckburn, 'did 
 
4^0 
 
 Old luiiuhurcJi. 
 
 
 
 we stand to admire the l^lue and yellow crocuses rising tliroiigh 
 the clean earth in the first days of spring, in the house of Doc- 
 tor Monro (the second), whose house stood in a small field 
 entering from Nicolson Street, within less than a hundred yards 
 from the college.' 
 
 ^J'he New Town was in progress when Sy(hiey Smith and liis 
 pupil took refiige in ' Auld Reekie.' With the rise of every 
 street some fresh innovation in manners seemed also to begin. 
 Lord Cockhurn, wedded as he was to his beloved Reekie, V't 
 unprejudiced an<l candid on all points, ascribes the change in 
 customs to the intercourse with the Knglish, and seems to°date 
 It from the Union. Thus the overflowing of the old town into 
 fresh spaces, ' implied,' as he remarks, ' a general alteration of 
 our habits.' 
 
 As the dwellers in the Fau])ourg St. Germain regard their 
 neighbours across the Seine, in the Faubourg St. Honore, with 
 (hsap|>roving eyes, so the sojourners in the Canon-ate and 
 the Cowgate considered that tlie inundation of modern popu- 
 lation vulgarized their 'prescriptive gentilities.' Cockburn's 
 description of a Scottish assembly in the olden time is most 
 
 interesting 
 
 'For example, Saint Cecilia's Hall was the only public resort 
 of the musical ; and besides being our most selectly fashionable 
 place of amusement, was the best and most beautiful concert- 
 room I h:i\e ever seen. And there have I myself seen most 
 ot our literary and fashionable gentlemen, predominating with 
 their side curls and frills, and ruliles, and silver l)uckles ; and 
 our stately matrons stiffened in hoops, and gorgeous satin; and 
 our beauties with high-heeled shoes, powdered and pomatumed 
 hair, and lofty and composite head-dresses. All this was in the 
 Cowgate ; the last retreat now-a-days of destitution and disease. 
 The building still stands, through raised and changed. AVhen I 
 last .saw it, it seemed to be partly an old-clothesman's shop an<l 
 I)attly a brazier's.' Jhlls were I'leld in the beautiful rooms of 
 (leorge Square, in spite of the ' New Town piece of presumption,' 
 that is, an attempt to force the fashionable dancers of the reel 
 into the George Street apartments. 
 
rising tlirough 
 
 house of l)o'> 
 
 a small fit-Id 
 
 Inimlred yards 
 
 Smith and liis 
 i rise of every 
 also to begin. 
 ;d Reekie, yet 
 the change in 
 seems to date 
 old town into 
 d alteration of 
 
 1 regard their 
 
 Honore, with 
 
 :inongate and 
 
 modern |)0|hi- 
 
 Cockburn's 
 
 time is most 
 
 ■ public resort 
 iy fashionable 
 itiful concert- 
 ?lf seen most 
 ninating with 
 )uckles ; and 
 us satin ; and 
 1 pomatumed 
 his was in the 
 1 and disease, 
 cd. ^\'hen I 
 m's shop and 
 iful rooms of 
 presumption,' 
 s of the reel 
 
 iMaldug Love MctaphysicaHy. ^(.^ 
 
 'And here,' writes Lonl Cockburn, looking back to the days 
 vhen he was that 'ne'er-do-weel' Harry CocAburn, 'were I ! 
 ^remamsot the ball-room discipline of the pr^:edm a I" 
 Ma t.net dowagers and venerable beaux acted as nuste^s ml 
 ^stresses of ceremonies, and made all the preliminary^an 
 ments. ^o couple could dance unless each ,)arty was prov I'^d 
 w.th a fcket prescnbing the precise place, in' the .<^" 
 If here was no t.cket, the gentleman or the lalv was dea 
 with as an mtrudcr, and turned out of the dance. If the t k 
 had marked upon it-say for a country-dance, the figures c 
 this meant that the holder was to place hin.self in thc» 3rd lam'e' 
 and 5th from the top; :.n.\ if he was anywhere else he 't 
 
 r^t or excluded. And the partner's ticket must ^c^^ , ^ 
 
 a vonT r: '"' "'° "''^ ^''^'^'^ - 7- -- ^-nd opposi 
 a>outh marked 5, 9 ! It was flirting without a Heence and 
 looked very ,11, and wouhl probably be reported by th t'ick 
 director of that dance to the mother.' 
 
 All this had passed away ; and thus the aristocracy of a few 
 UKUKluals was ended; and society, freed fron. sLne of 
 
 There were still a sufficient number of peculiarities to ratify 
 one who had an eye to the ludicrous. S>,' Inev Snn-th soTd s 
 
 a true bcot. It ,v,|,i.rcs,' he usc.l to say, ' a ,„r.,i,-,| od.t iiin,, 
 
 so eml,„c,l wuh n,el,,|,l,„ic,s, that thoy cv.,, ,„; kc love .„m- 
 Phpically. overhear.1 a yo„„g ,a,ly of n,y acquaint.; "at 
 a a„ce ,„ I.„h„ln,rgh, exelaiu, in a sudden |,anse .I'the ,nl 
 
 «as lost. He was, however, most deeply touched bv the nr.bl.. 
 attrtbute of that nation which retains wh.a' is so re- tie Tt' i 
 bute of bc.ng true friends. Me ,lid ample justice o "heir 
 UK ,ness of heart. ' If you n.eet with an' aeculent,' S 
 
 alf Ednrburgh unmed.ately iloeks to your doors o inquire 
 after yo,ir/«. hand, or your /.,„ foot.' .Their iem,,^' ° 
 observed, • stands anything but an attack on their climate • even 
 
4^2 
 
 TJic Old Scottish Supper. 
 
 
 
 JeftVey cannot shake off the illusion that myrtles flourish at 
 Craig Crook.' The sharp reviewer stuck to his myrtle allusions, 
 and treated Smith's attempts with as much contempt as if he 
 had been a ' wild visionary, who had never breathed his caller 
 air,' nor suffered under the rigours of his climate, nor spent five 
 years in 'discussing metaphysics and medicine in that garret end 
 of the earth,~that knuckle end of Pjigland— that land of Cal- 
 vin, oat-cakes, and sulphur,' as Smith termed Scotland. 
 
 During two years he bra\ ed the winters, in which he declared 
 hackney-coaches were drawn by four horses on account of die 
 snow ; where men were blown Hat down on the face by tlie 
 winds; and wnere even 'experienced Scotch fowls did not dare 
 to cross the streets, but sidled along, tails aloft, without ventur- 
 ing to encounter the gale.' lie luxuriated, nevertheless, in the 
 true Scotch sujijjer, than which nothing more pleasant and more 
 unwholesome has ever been known in Christendom. Edin- 
 burgh is .said to have been the only i)lace where people dined 
 twice a day. The wri.er of this memoir is old enough to re- 
 member the true Scottish Attic supper before its fmal 'fading 
 into wine and water,' as Lord Cockburn describes its decline. 
 ' Sup])ers,' Cockburn truly says, 'are chea|)er than dinners,' and 
 Edinburgh, at that time, was the cheapest place in Great Britain. 
 Port and sherry were the staple wines : claret, duty free in 
 Scotland until 1780, was indeed beginning to be a luxury; it 
 was no longer the ordinar}- beverage, as it was when as Mac- 
 kenzie, the author of the ' Man of Feeling,' described — it used, 
 upon the arrival of a cargo, to be sent through the town on a 
 cart with a horse l)efore it, so that every one might have a 
 sam{)Ie, by carrying a jug to be filled for sixpence . still even 
 at the end of the eighteenth century it was in frecjuent use. 
 Whisky toddy and plotty (red wine mulled with spices) came 
 mto the supper-room in ancient flagons or stoi/ps, after a lengthy 
 rei)ast of broiled chickens, roasted moorfowl, jiickled mussels, 
 flummery, and numerous other good things had been discussed 
 by a i)arty who ate as if they had not dined that day. 'We 
 will eat,' Lord Cockburn used to say after a long walk, *a i)ro- 
 fligate supper,' — a supper without regard to discretion, or diges- 
 tion ; and he usually kept his word. 
 
riles flourish at 
 myrtle allusions, 
 itcmpt as if he 
 ithed his caller 
 J, nor spent five 
 1 that ^^irret end 
 lat land of Cal- 
 :otland. 
 
 lich he declared 
 account of the 
 he face by the 
 wis did not dare 
 without ventur- 
 ertheless, in the 
 .■asant and more 
 icndoni. Kdin- 
 e jteople dined 
 
 enough to re- 
 ts final ' fading 
 )es its decline. 
 \n dinners,' and 
 n (Ireat Jkitain. 
 t, duty free in 
 >e a luxury ; it 
 when as Mac- 
 :ribed — it used, 
 the town on a 
 
 might have a 
 nee . still even 
 1 frequent use. 
 1 spices) came 
 , after a lengthy 
 rkled mussels, 
 been discussed 
 hat day. 'We 
 ; walk, ' a pro- 
 retion, or diges- 
 
 m Men of Mark Passing A zvay. 463 
 
 In Edinburgh, Sydney Smith formed the intimate icnudnf 
 
 ance of Lord Jettrev. and that acquaintance rjUZ a 
 
 nendsh.p only close.l ydeath. The frien.lshipo ;1 ! 1! 
 
 s^le men he looked upon as one of the greatest p.eas.n;.:- . 
 
 The 'old suns,' Lord Cockburn tells us, 'were settin. when 
 the band o great thinkers and great writers who afterwards 
 concocted the " KdinburLdi R.niru- " „- .. • • • "^™^^'^*^'S 
 Prinrin.i P ^ ' ""^7^" '^^^ '^^S ^^^''^e n.^ing mto Celebrity.' 
 Inncipa Robertson, the historian, had departed this life in 
 1793, a kuKlly old n.an. A\-ith beann-ng ey s un J -l J 
 «V...ed an,l curled wig, and a trumpet tial w^, " h k n , 
 to the button.hole of his coat, tor L wa \^ ^^^"^ 
 1-t or wnters showe<l how he could be also . m ^ :do s 
 c^dmer. Old Adam Ferguson, the historian of i::„:i 
 set also : one of the finest specinu-ns of humanitv had ^one 
 from among h,s people in him. old people not dv'r v 
 
 place, tl,c rear, ,lu„„,, an action, I,,,, persisted in l,e ' ■ ' 
 
 IT 1 1 ' "iTj .u ilmc, alter a oult abonniic 
 
 ot l-.njil,in,I, the design of vvl,i,:l,, in n,al<i„g a chapter on • ts 
 "lanners, an.. Ii,era,„re separate fro,,, „,.. nLa.ive ,,; 'r' t o 
 
 , T', ■ '"'""*■ '''""™' 'o^'fricn.I a pile of Looks 
 'vi>.ch l,e ha.l gone throngi,, „,erely to satisfy l,i,n,elf „ Itlt 
 |vorl, as to what ,lesc,iption of trousers uas ,™rn 1,. e'. on 
 H.S death was ca ,„ as his life, .fo.ne out to ,„e-di,-e,,K "^i 
 
 to to hi ':. "k"'; f '"""'■ "°""'^«^^ • ' '-« .^- -™cthi ; 
 
 10 (10 tnib week ; I have got to die.' 
 
 It was in 1 80 1, that iJugald Stewart began his course of 
 
 ectures on political economy. Hitheno all pub,. W .^f 
 been on the s,<le of the Tories, and independen, e of Z:« 
 was a sure way to n.cur discouragement fron. the Bencl u ul k 
 
 Church, and from everv (Jovernuvn, r,. .,,..; T ' " ^''^ 
 
 political economy were regarded as intiovation;; but thry'lonne!! 
 
i 
 
 4^>4 The Band of Young Spirits. 
 
 a forerunner of that event wliich had nia<le several important 
 changes in our literary and jjolitical hemisphere : the com- 
 mencement of the Vl':dinburgh Review.' This undertaking was 
 tlie wor'. of men wlio were separated from the mass of their 
 l)rother-townsmen l)y their jjohtics ; tlieir isolation as a class 
 ])in(ling them the more closely together by links never broken, 
 in a brotherhood of hoi)e and ambition, to which the natural 
 spirits of Sydney Smith, of Cockburn, and of Jeffrey, gave an 
 irresistible charm. 
 
 Among those who the most early in life ended a career of 
 promise was Francis Horner. He was the son of a linen-draper 
 in Edinburgh ; or, as the Scotch call it, following the French, 
 a men hant. Horner's best linen for sheets, and table-cloths, 
 and all the iDtdcr _^(vniaits of housekeeping, are still highly 
 esteemed by the trade. 
 
 'My desire to know Homer,' Sydney Smith states, 'arose 
 from my being cautioned against him by some excellent and 
 feeble-minded people to whom 1 brought letters of introduc- 
 tion, and who rei)resented him as a i)erson of violent i»olitical 
 opinions.' Sydney Smith interpreted this to mean that Horner 
 was a man who thought for himself; who lovetl trulh better 
 than he loved Uundas (Lord Melville), then the tyrant of Scot- 
 land. ' It is very curious to consider,' Sydney Smith wrote, in 
 addressing Lady Holland, in 1817, ' in what manner Plorner 
 gained, in so extraordinary a degree, the affections of such a 
 number of i)ersons of both sexes, all ages, parties, and ranks 
 in society ; for he was not remarkably good tempered, nor par- 
 ticularly lively and agreeable ; and an inflexible politician on 
 the unpopular side. The causes are, his high character for pro- 
 bity, honour, and talents; his fine countenance ; the benevolent 
 interest he took in the concems of all his friends ; his sinij)le 
 and gendemanlike manners; his untimely deadi.' 'Grave, 
 studious, honourable, kind, everything Horner did,' says Lord 
 Cockburn, ' was marked by thoughtfulness and kindness ;' a 
 beautiful character, which was exhibited but briefly to his con- 
 temjioraries, but long remembered after his death. 
 
 Henry Brougham was another of the Edinburgh band of 
 young spirits. He was educated in the High School under 
 
s. 
 
 everal important 
 [jherc : the com- 
 ; undertaking was 
 lie mass of their 
 ation as a class 
 ks never liroken, 
 hich the natural 
 Jeffrey, gave an 
 
 ided a career of 
 of a linen-draper 
 ving the French, 
 and table-cloths, 
 are still highly 
 
 ih states, 'arose 
 le excellent and 
 tters of introduc- 
 ■ violent political 
 lean that Horner 
 »ved truth better 
 10 tyrant of Scot- 
 ' Smitli wrote, in 
 manner Horner 
 ctions of such a 
 irties, and ranks 
 npered, nor jwr- 
 )le ])olitician on 
 iharacter for pro- 
 ; the benevolent 
 Mids ; his simple 
 ealh.' '(irave, 
 did,' says Lord 
 nd kindness ;' a 
 •iefly to his con- 
 th. 
 
 nburgh band of 
 ;h School under 
 
 Broui^ham's Early Tenacity. ^(,^ 
 
 Luke Fraser, the tutor who trained Walter Scott and Franc is 
 Jeffrey. Lrougham used to be pointed out 'as the fellow who had 
 beat the master.' He had dared to differ with Fraser, a iiot pe- 
 dant, on some piece of Latinity. Fraser, irritated, punished 
 tl^ rebel, and thought the matter ended. P.ut the next day 
 Harry, as they calle.l him, appeared, loaded with books, re- 
 newed the charge, and forced l.uke to oun that ho was 
 beaten. 'It was then,' says Lord Cockburn, 'that 1 first saw 
 lum. 
 
 After remaining two years in ICdinburgh, Sydnev Smith went 
 southwards to many a former schoolfellow of his sister Maria's 
 —a Miss Pybus, to whom he had been attached and en-nrred 
 at a very early j.eriod of his life. The young ladv. uho s'vas ot 
 Uost Indian descent, had some fortune; but her husband's 
 only stock, on which to begin housekeeping, consisted of siv 
 siher tea-spoons, worn away with use. One day ho rushed 
 into the room an.l threw these attenuated articles into her 
 lap-' I here, Kate, I give you all my fortune, you lucky 
 
 With the small ./.;/, "and the thin silver-spoons, the young 
 couple set up housekeeping in the ' garret end of the earth ' 
 iheir first diHiculty was to know how money could l)e obtaine<l 
 to begin with, for Mrs. Smith's sm.dl fortune was settled on 
 herself by her husband's wish, 'fuo row. of pearls ha.l been 
 gu-en her by her dioughiful mother. These she < onvcii, d into 
 noney, and obtained for them ^500. Several years after- 
 Avards, when visiting the shop at which she sold them, with 
 Miss \crnon and Miss Fox, Mrs. Smiih s;iw her pearls, every 
 one of whu-h she knew. She aske.l what was the price. 
 .t,r,5°o/ was the reply. 
 The sum, however, was all important to the thrifty coiqile. 
 It distanced the nightmare of the jwor and honest,--debt 
 £1^0 was presented by Mr. Ueach, in gratitude for the care 
 of his son, to Smith. It was invested in the fimd.s, and formed 
 the nucleus of future savings,-' Cc„\st .///.• Ic premier pas qui 
 coutc, 13 a trite saying. ' Cest le premier pas ,jui ^a^nel might 
 
 be applied to this and simil-r- r^'^'c^- A i;..). -i >. 
 
 Holland, the wife of the celebrated physician, Sir Henry Hol- 
 
 30 
 
i 
 
 
 
 466 Fitting up Conversations. 
 
 land— was sent to ])less the sensil)lc pair. Sydney had wished 
 that she might l)e born with one eye, so that he might never 
 lose her ; nevertheless, though she hai)pened to i)e born with 
 two, he bore her secretly from the nursery, a few hours after 
 her birth, to show her in trium])h to the future Edinburgh Re- 
 viewers. 
 
 The birth of the * Edinburgh Review' quickly followed that 
 of the young lady. Jeffrey, — then an almost starving barrister, 
 living in the eighth or ninth ilatof a house in Buccleuch IMace, 
 — Brougham, and vSy(hiey Smith were the triumvirate who pro- 
 ])0unded the scheme, Smith being the first mover. He proposed 
 a motto : ' Tenui Musam meditanum avenir :' We cultivate lite- 
 rature on a little oatmeal ; but this being too near the truth, 
 they took their motto from Publius Syrus ; ' of whom,' said 
 Smith, ' none of us had, I am sure, read a single line.' To this 
 undertaking Sydney Smith devoted his talents for more than 
 twenty-eight years. 
 
 Meantime, during the brief remainder of his stay in Edin- 
 burgh, his circumstances improved. He had done that which 
 most of tlie clergy are obliged to do — taken a pupil. He had 
 now another, the son of Mr. Gordon, of Ellon ; for each of 
 these young men he received ^^'400 a year. He bec&.me to 
 them a father and a friend ; he entered into all their amuse- 
 ments. One of them saying that he could not find con- 
 versation at the balls for his ])artners, ^ Never mind,' cried 
 Sydney Smith, Til fit you uj) in five minutes.' Accord- 
 ingly he wrote down conversations for them amid bursts of 
 laughter. 
 
 Thus happily did years, which many persons would have 
 termed a season of adversity, pass away. The chance \\hich 
 brought him to Edinburgh introduced liim to a state of so- 
 ciety never likely to be seen again in Scotland. Lord Cock- 
 burn's * Memorials' afford an insight into manners, not only as 
 regarded suppers, but on the still momentous point, of dinners. 
 Three o'clock was the fashionable hour, so late as the com- 
 mencement of the present century. That hour, ' not without 
 groans and predictions,' became four — and four was long and 
 conscientiously adhered to. ' Inch by inch,' people yielded, 
 
i-rlney had wislicd 
 : he might never 
 to l)e born with 
 L few hours after 
 re Edinburgh Rc- 
 
 kly followed that 
 starving barrister, 
 Buccleuch Place, 
 nvirate who pro- 
 .•er. He proposed 
 We cultivate lite- 
 
 near the truth, 
 ' of whom,' said 
 
 gle line.' To tiiis 
 s for more than 
 
 his stay in Edin- 
 done that which 
 
 1 pupil. He had 
 Ion ; for each of 
 
 He became to 
 » all their anuise- 
 d not find con- 
 iver mind,' cried 
 inutes.' Accord- 
 1 amid bursts of 
 
 sons would have 
 he chance which 
 to a state of so- 
 nd. Lord Cock- 
 mers, not only as 
 point, of dinnern. 
 late as the com- 
 )ur, ' not without 
 bur was long and 
 ' people yielded, 
 
 ' Old School ' Ceremonies. 
 
 467 
 
 and five continued to be the standard polite hour from 1806 to 
 i^^-^o. ' Six has at length i)revailed.' 
 
 The most punctilious ceremony existed. When dinner was 
 announced a t.Ie of ladies went first in strict order of prece- 
 •ionce. Mrs. Colonel Such an One;' 'Mrs. Doctor Such an 
 
 ^^asto be taken by a guest without comi.rehending a ladv or 
 a covey o lad.es. ' I was i,resent,' says Eord Cockburn, 'when 
 
 le late Duke ot Juccleuch took a glass of sherry by himself 
 at the table of Charles Hope, then Lord Advocate, and ilu's 
 was noticec as a piece of ducal contempt.' Toasts, and when 
 the ladies had retired, rounds of toasts, were drunk. ' The 
 l-randial nuisance,- Lord Cockburn wrote, 'was horrible, liut 
 It was nothing to what followed.' 
 
 Jl.^'% ^^l^a^ts, though less at these than at boisterous 
 suppus, a frequent visitor at the same table with Sydney Smith 
 
 as the Illustrious Sir James Mackintosh, a man to whose decp- 
 th.nking mind the world is every day rendering justi. c Tile 
 
 ofVo ';\ "'V^'^"-.^^''^'^''"^^^'^ ---^ l^orn on the banks 
 
 of Loc. Ness: us mother, a Miss Eraser, was aunt to Mrs. 
 
 aser Jytle., wife of Lord Woodhouselee, one of the judges of 
 
 he Court of Session .nA mother of the late historian 0? that 
 
 lionoured name. 
 
 Mackintosii had Ikc, sl„dying at Aberdeen, in the same 
 classes ,v,th Robert Hall, whose conversation, he avowed, h.ad 
 a great ntUnence over his nn'nd. }le arri>ed in l-Minljurgh 
 alott ,7,S4, ,n,certan, to what ..rofession to belong; sonie- 
 -ha. anx,.„,s to be a bookseller, in order to revelin "the 
 iwadtse o books;' he tnrned his attention, however, ,„ n.e' 
 ■hcnte, .ind became a llnmonian, that is, a dis.iple of John 
 f.row„, the founder of a theory whieh he followed o„t to , le 
 xtent nr ,,rac„ee. The n,ain feature of the now defunc 
 systen,, wh.eh set scientific Europe in a blaze, seems to Inve 
 l^een a „,a,l indulgence of the ,,assions; and an unbri i d 
 ..se of ,ntox,ca,M,g liquors, lirown fell a victim to hi v ces 
 \earsafter he had been laid in his grave, his tiat.ghtr': 
 Phem,a. beu,,, n, peat indigence; received real ki.t.e fro , 
 i.r janies and Lady Mackintosh, the fontter of whon, used to 
 
 3C— 2 
 

 
 46s TJic Speculative Soeiety. 
 
 delij^lit in idling tlie story of her father's saying to her: ' Effy, 
 bring mc the niooderate stimuhrs of a hoomlenl draps o' huul- 
 aninn in a glass o' brandy.' 
 
 Mackintosh had not (luitted lulinburgh when Sydney Smith 
 reached it. Smith became a member of the fanvms S[iecula- 
 tive Society. 'I'heir acciuaintance was renewed years aflerwanls 
 in London. A\'ho can evL-r forget the small, ([uiet dinners given 
 by Mackintosh when living out of Parliament, and out of office 
 in Cudogan Place ? Simitle but genial were those repasts, 
 forming a strong contrast to the Edinburgh dinners of yore. 
 He had then long given up both the theory and jjractice of the 
 Brunonians, and took nothing but light French and (lerman 
 wines, and these in moderation. His tall, somewhat high- 
 shouldered, massive form ; his calm brow, mild, thoughtful ; his 
 dignity of manner ; his gentleness to all ; his vast knowledge ; 
 his wonderful appreciation of excellence ; his discrimination of 
 faults — all combined to form one of the finest specimens ever 
 seen, even in that illustrious period, of a philosopher and his- 
 torian. 
 
 Jeffrey and Cockburn were contrasts to one Avhom they ho- 
 noured. Jeffrey, 'die greatest of British critics,' was eight 
 years younger than .Mackintosh, having been born in 1773. ^^'^ 
 was the son of one of the depute clerks to the Supreme Court, 
 not an elevated position, though one of great respectability. 
 ^Vhen Mackintosh and Syihiey Smith first knew him in I'jlin- 
 burgh, he was enduring, with all the impatience of his sensitive 
 nature, what he called ' a slow, obscure, [ihilosophical starva- 
 tion' at the Scotch bar. 
 
 ' There are moments,' he wrote, * when I think I could sell 
 myself to the ministers or to the devil, in ortler to get above 
 these necessities.' Like all men so situated, his (iejjression 
 came in fits. Short, si)are, with regular, yet not aristocratic 
 features ; — speaking, brilliant, yet )iot pleasing eyes ; — a voice 
 consistent with that mi^non form ; — a somewhat jjrecise and 
 anxious manner, there was never in Jeflrey that charm, that 
 abandon, \s\\\{:\\ rendered his valued friend, Henry Cockburn, 
 the most delightful, the most beloved of men, the very idol of 
 his native city. 
 
ig to her : * F,tT\ , 
 il (Iraps o' huul- 
 
 ;ii Sydney Smith 
 famous Spccula- 
 1 years afterwards 
 liet dinners given 
 and out of office 
 e those repasts, 
 (Hnners of yore, 
 id practice of the 
 ich and derma n 
 somewhat high- 
 ly thoughtful ; his 
 vast knowledge ; 
 discrimination of 
 ; specimens ever 
 )soplier and his- 
 
 ; whom they lio- 
 ritics,' was eight 
 )rn in 1773. He 
 ; Supreme Court, 
 at respectabih"ty. 
 .'W him in I'"din- 
 e of his sensitive 
 osopliical starva- 
 
 ink I could sell 
 
 Icr to get above 
 
 1, liis depression 
 
 : not aristocratic 
 
 ; eyes ; — a voice 
 
 hat ])recise and 
 
 that charm, that 
 
 Icnry Cockburn, 
 
 the very idol of 
 
 A BrilUaut Set. 
 
 469 
 
 The nol)le licad of Cockburn, bald, almost in youth, with its 
 pliant, refmed features, and its fresh tint upon a cheek always 
 clear, generally high in colour, was a strong contrast to the rigid 
 fx'fiti'sse of Jeffrey's physiognomy ; much more so to the large 
 1 oportions of Mackintosh ; or to the ponderous, plain, and, 
 later in life, swarthy countenance of Sydney Smith. I ,ord Webb 
 Seymour, the brother .•'" the late Duke of Somerset, gende, 
 modest, intelligent, — 'I'homas Thomson, the anti(iiiary,— and 
 'Jiiarles and (George Bell, the surgeon and the advocate, —Mur- 
 ray, afterwards Lord ^[urray, the generous pleader, who gave 
 up to its riglitful heirs an estate left him by a client,— and 
 brougham -formed the staj)leof that set now long since extinct. 
 
 It was partially l)roken uj) by Sydney Smith's coming, in 1803, 
 lo London. He there took a house in Doughty Street, being 
 partial to legal society, which was chietly to be found in that 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Here Sir Samuel Romilly,Mackintosh,Scarlett (Lord Abinger), 
 the eccentric and unhappy x\Ir. Ward, afterwards lord Dudley,' 
 'Conversation' Sharp, Rogers, and Luttrell, formed the circle 
 in which Sidney delighted. He was still very poor, an<l obliged 
 to sell the rest of his wife's jewels: luit his brother Robert 
 allowed him ^100 a year, and lent him, when he subsequently 
 removed into Yorkshire, ^500. 
 
 He had now a life of struggling, but those struggles were the 
 lot of his early friends also; Mackintosh talked of going to 
 India as a lecturer ; Smith recommended Jeffrey to do the same. 
 Hapjiily, botli had the courage auu sense to await for better 
 times at home; yet Smith's opinion of ^Llckintosh was, that 
 'he never saw so theoretical a head which (oiuaiiK'd so much 
 practical understanding ;' and to Jeffrey he wrote : 
 
 •You want nothing to be a great lawyer, and nothing to be 
 a great speaker, but a deeper voice— slower and more simple 
 utterance— more humility of face and neck- and a greater con- 
 tempt for csj^rit than men 7u/io have so much in general attain to.' 
 
 The great event of Sydney Smith's first residence in London 
 was his introduction at Holland House ; in that 'gilded room 
 wlrich furnished,' as he said, '• the best and most agreeable 
 society in the world,' his happiest hours were passed. John 
 

 
 470 Sydiuys Of^inion of /lis F rum Is. 
 
 Allen, wliom Smith had introdurcd to Lord Holland, was the 
 Ijccr's librarian and friend. Mackintosh, who S)(ln'ey Smith 
 thought only wanted .1 lew had ([ualities to get on in the world. 
 Kogers, laittrell, Sheridan, iJyron, were among the 'suns' that 
 •shone, where Addison had suffered and studied. 
 
 Jietween I.ord Holland and Sydney .Smith the most cordial 
 friendship existed ; and the eccentric and fascinating Lady Hol- 
 land was his constant correspondent. Of this able won'ian, it 
 was said by 'ralle>rand : ' /-://e est toutc asserthm ; f/uiis t/iian,it»t 
 ihmaiuk la pnitvc c\'st ut sou secret: Of Lord Holland, the 
 keen diplomatist observed : ' Cest la lyenveilLwce ineme, mus la 
 bicnveillaiiic la plus f^erturbatricc, (/ilon ait jamais 7'ite: 
 
 Lord Holland did not commit the error ascribed by Rogers, 
 in his Recollections, to Marlay, Hishop of Waterford, who 
 when poor, with an income of only ^{^'400 a year, used to give 
 the best dinners i)ossible ; but, when made a bishoj., enhiTgcd 
 his table, and lost his fame— had no more good company— there 
 was an end of his enjoyment : he had lords and ladies to his 
 table—foolish jjeople— foolish men— and foolish women— and 
 there was an en.l of him and us. ' Lord Holland selected his 
 lords and ladies, not for their rank, but for their peculiar merits 
 or acquirements.' 'J'hen even J.ady Holland's oddities were 
 amusing. When she wanted to get rid of a fop, she used to 
 say: 'I beg your pardon, but I wish you would sit a little far- 
 ther off; there is something on your handkerchief which I don't 
 quite like.' Or when a i)oor man happened to stand, after the 
 fashion of the lortls of creation, with his back close to the 
 chimney-piece, she would cry out, ' Have the goodness, sir, to 
 stir the fire.' 
 
 Lord Holland never asked anyone to dinner, ('not even 
 me,' says Rogers, ' whom he had known so long,') without ask- 
 ing Lady Holland. One day. shortly before his lordship's death, 
 Rogers was coming out from Holland House when he met him.' 
 ' Well, do you return to dinner ?' I answcrcil, ' No, I have 
 not been invited.' The precaution, in fact, was necessary, for 
 Lord LFolland was so good-naiurcd anil hospitable that he 
 would have had a crowd daily at his table had he been le.a to 
 himself. 
 
u/s. 
 
 lollind, was the 
 
 o S)(lncy Siiiitli 
 
 on ill tlic world, 
 
 : the ' suns' tluit 
 
 I. 
 
 he most cordial 
 
 laling Lady llul- 
 
 al)lc woman, it 
 ': mais (juand on 
 rd Holland, the 
 ICC inc/nc, /itifis la 
 is vuc.'' 
 
 bed by Rogers, 
 ^^'atertbrd, who 
 ar, used to give 
 bishop, enlarged 
 -ompany — there 
 id ladies to liis 
 Ji women — and 
 w^. selected his 
 ■ pecniliar merits 
 s oddities were 
 >!'. she used to 
 
 ^\i a little far- 
 ef which I don't 
 stand, after the 
 k close to the 
 ,'ooclness, sir, to 
 
 ler, ('not even 
 ■,') without ask- 
 ordship's death, 
 icn he met him. 
 1, ' No, I have 
 s necessary, for 
 [citable that he 
 he been left to 
 
 Pfcachcr at tJ. 
 
 'Hudling. 
 
 47 » 
 
 The'death of I,ord Holland completely broke up the unri- 
 valled dinners, and the subse(|uent evenings in the 'gilded 
 chamber.' Lady Holland, to whom Holland Flouse was left 
 for her lifetime, declined to live there. With Holland House, 
 the mingling of aristocracy with talent ; the blending ranks by 
 force of intellect; the assembling not only of all the celebrity 
 that Kuroi)e could boast, but of all that could enhance private 
 enj(.)yment, had ceased. I.oiulon. the most intelligent of cajii- 
 tals, i)Ossesses not one single great lu ■•.;e in which jjomp and 
 wealth are made subsidiary to the true lu.xury of intellectual 
 conversation. 
 
 On the morning of the day when Lord Holland's last illness 
 began, these lines were written by him, and foundafter his death 
 on his ilressing-table : — 
 
 ' Ncphiw of Fox, nntl Friond of Grey, 
 
 S\iriii.ii.'iit lor iTiy faiiu', 
 If tliDSf who know mi: licst shall say 
 I tarnibliL'd lUMthcr nana'.' 
 
 Of him his best friend, Sydney Smith, left a short but discrimi- 
 native character. 'There was never (amongst odier things he 
 siys) a better heart, or one more purified from all the bad pas- 
 sions — more abounding in charity and compassion — or which 
 seemed to be so created us a refuge to the helpless and op- 
 pressed.' 
 
 Meantime Sydney Smith's circumstances were still limited ; 
 ^50 a year as e ening i)reacher to the Foundling Hospital was 
 esteemed as a great help by him. 'I'he writer of this memoir 
 remembers an amusing anecdote related of him at the table of 
 an eminent literary character by a member of Lord Wood- 
 houselee's family, who had been der^irous to obtain for Sydney 
 the patronage of the godly. To this end she i)ersuaded Robert 
 Grant and Charles Grant (afterwards Lord Glenelg) to go to the 
 Foundling to hear him, she hoped to advantage ; to her con- 
 sternation he broke forth into so fomiliar a strain, couched in 
 terms so bordering on the jocose, — though no one had deeper 
 religious convictions than he had, — that the two saintly brothers 
 listened in disgust. They forgot how .South let loose the powers 
 of his wit and sarcasm ; and how the lofty-minded Jeremy 
 
472 Sjiiiicys ' Graiinnat' of Life* 
 
 r.iylor applied theforre of Imrnour to lighten the prolixity of 
 argutnent. Sydney Smith hecanie, nevertheless, u most popular 
 preacher; but the man who prevents peojtle from sleeping once 
 a week in their pews is sure to be < riti< ised. 
 
 Let us turn to him, however, as a member of society. His 
 circle of ,h (luaintanrc was enlarged, not only by his visits to 
 Ifollanil House, but by his Itctures on moral philosophy at the 
 Royal Institution. Sir Robert Peel, not the most impression- 
 able of men, but one whose cohl shake of the hand is said— 
 as Sydney Smith said of Sir James Mackintosh— ' to have come 
 imder the genus Mortmain' was a very young man at the time 
 when Albemarle Street was crowded with ( arriages from one 
 end of the street to the other, in consetjuence of Sydney Smith's 
 lectures ; yet he de( lared that he had never forgotten the effect 
 given to the s])eech of Logan, the Indian chief, by Sydney's 
 voice and manner. 
 
 His lectures prodtu'ed a sum sufllcient fur .Sydney to furnish 
 a house in On hanl Street. Doughty Street raised to celebrity 
 as having been the residence, not only of .Sydney Smith, but of 
 Charles Dickens—was too far for the hal>itiic of Holland House 
 and the orator of Albemarle Street long to .sojourn there. In 
 Orchard Street, .Sydney enjoyed that domestic comfort which he 
 called ' the grammar of life ;' delightful suppers, to about twenty 
 or thirty persons, who vxwmi and went as they pleased. A great 
 part of the same amusing and gifted set used to meet oiue a 
 week also at Sir James .Mackintosh's, at a supper, which, though 
 not exactly Cowper's ' radish and an egg,' was simple, but plen- 
 tiful -yet most eagerly sought after. ' 'J'here are a few livi%r,' 
 writes .Sydney Smith's daughter, ' who can look back to them', 
 and I have always found them do so with a sigh of regret.' 
 
 One night, a country cousin of Sydney Smith's was present 
 at a supper. ' .\ow, Sydney,' whispered the simjile girl, ' I 
 know all these are very remarkable people; do tell me who 
 they are.'—' ( )h, yes ; there'. Hannibal,' pointing to a grave, dry, 
 stern man, Mr. Whishaw : he lost his leg in the Carthagenian 
 war : there's Socrates,' pointing to Luttrell : ' that,' he added, 
 turning to Horner, 'is Solon.' 
 
 Another evening, Mackintosli biuuglu a raw Scotch cousin — 
 
I tliL' prolixity of 
 is, a most populir 
 om sk'qiing oin c 
 
 of society. I lis 
 ' by his visits to 
 (hilosophy at the 
 nost iinj)ression- 
 Iiand is saitl - 
 — ' to have come 
 man at the time 
 riagcs from one 
 f Sydney Smith's 
 ■gotten the effect 
 lief, by Sydney's 
 
 >(hK*y to furnish 
 liscd to celebrity 
 ey Smith, but of 
 ' Holland House 
 ourn fh'Tc. In 
 omfuri \. hich he 
 to about twenty 
 eased. A great 
 
 meet once a 
 , which, though 
 ;imi)le, but [)!en- 
 "e a few livii^r,' 
 
 back to them, 
 
 1 of regret.' 
 
 h's was present 
 simple girl, ' I 
 o tell me who 
 ; to a grave, dry, 
 e Carthagenian 
 hat,' he added, 
 
 Jcotch cousin — 
 
 473 
 
 T//r Pii-fntr Mauia. 
 
 an en.sign in a Highland legnnent with him. The yountr 
 mans hea.l could carry no i.lea of glory cx.cpt ^^^ regi.ncnt.ds. 
 Suddenly, nudging Sir James, he whispered. ' Is that the great 
 Sir Sydney Sn.ltl, ' • \ ., . ,; „,,,,,r,.,, sir James; and in- 
 Stantly lellmg .Sydney who he w.is suppose! to be, the gr.vc 
 cvenmg preacher at the Foundling immediately assum.-.l ,he 
 cl.ara. ter ascrd.ed to him, and act..-<l the hero of .A. re to per- 
 fection, fighting his battles over again- -even charging the Turks 
 ^vhilst the )oung .Scot was .so enchanted bv the great Sir Syd- 
 ney s condescension, that he wante<l to fct. 1. the pipers of his 
 regiment, and pipe to the great Sir y.lnev, who had never en- 
 joyed the agom/ing strains of the bagpipe. Upon this the party 
 broke up, and Sir James carried the Highlander off. lest he 
 should (md out his mistake, and cut his throat from shame and 
 vexation. One may readily , ..nreive .Sy.Inev Smith's enjoying 
 this joke, for his spirits were those of a bov : his gaiety was 
 irresistible ; his ringing laugh, infectious ; but it is difficult for 
 those who knew M.ickintosh in his later years - the .luiet, almost 
 pensive inv.di.l- to realize in that remembrance any trace of 
 the .Mackintosh of Doughty Street and Orchard Street days 
 
 One day Sydney Smith <ame home with two hackney coaches 
 full ot pictures, which he had pi< ked up at an au< tir.n. His 
 daughter thus tells the story : ' Another dav he came home with 
 two hackney-coach loads of p.ictures. whi- he had met with at 
 an aun,.;,. living found it impossible tc sist so many vards 
 of brown-lookmg figures anl fuled landscapes going for '••d.so- 
 Intely nothing, u„i. f sacrifices." -Kate"i,an!K new 
 
 whether to lam' ay ,.nen she saw these horriblv dingy-look- 
 ing objects,- i.r pretty little drawing-room, ami h>oked at 
 ."' •'; ': >''i Inm half mad ; and half mad he was but 
 
 with ,lelig!u at his purchase. He Kept walking up and down 
 the room, uaving his arms, putting them in fresh hght. declxr- 
 ing thev ^ere exquisite specimens of an, mim ifn..' ,v die very 
 lH> ^. masters, merited to be so. He invited his friends, und dis- 
 1 -' his pictures; discovered fresh beauties for each new 
 ' omer ; and tor three or f^,ur days, under the magic influence 
 
 "I ins wit and im.am"n'it''^n t^'P'if' f»i- .. -- -i.i .; . 
 
 biii..i.„.j, u.ese 5,.. V uiti pictures Wcic a 
 
 perpetual source of amusement and fun.' 
 
b 
 
 474 A Livin^^ cojiii's at Last. 
 
 At last, finding that he was considered no authority for the 
 fine arts, off went the pictures to another auction, but all re- 
 christened by himself, with unheard-of names. ' One, I re- 
 member,' says Lady Holland, ' was a l)eautiful land;sca])e, by 
 Nicholas de Falda, a pupil of Valdez/.io, the only ixiinting by 
 that eminent artist. The pictures sold, I believe, for rather less 
 than he gave for them under their original names, which were 
 probably as real as their assumed ones.' 
 
 Sydi-vey Smith had long been styled by his friends the 'Bishop 
 of Mickleham,' in allusion to his visits to, and influence in, the 
 house of his friend, Richard Sharp, who had a cottage at that 
 place. A piece of real i)rt;ferment was now his. This was the 
 living of Foston-le-Clay, in .Yorkshire, given hnn by Lord 
 Erskine, then Chancellor. Lady Holland never rested till she 
 had prevailed on Krskine to give S\(hiey Smith a living. Smith, 
 as Rogers relates, went to thank his lordship. ' Oh,' said 
 Erskine, 'don't thank me, Mr. Smith; I gave you the living 
 because Lady Holland insisted on my doing so; and if she had 
 desired me to give it to the devil, /ic must have had it.' 
 
 Notwithstanding the i)rediction of the saints, Sydney Smith 
 proved an excellent i)arish priest. Even his most admiring 
 friends did not expect this result. The general impression was, 
 that he was infinitely better fitted for the bar than for the church. 
 ' Ah ! Mr. Smith,' Lord Stowell used to say to him, ' you would 
 be in a for better situation, and a far richer man, had you be- 
 longed to us.' 
 
 One Jen (f esprit more, and Smith hastened to take possession 
 of his living, and to enter upon duties of which no one better 
 knew the mighty imi)ortance than he did. 
 
 Among the Mackintosh set was Richard Sharp, to whom we 
 have already referred, termed, from his great knowle<lge and 
 ready memory, ' Con\ersatioii Sharp.' ALmy peojile may think 
 that this did not imply an agreeable man, and they were, jjer- 
 haps, right. Sharp was a jjlain, ungainly man. One evening, 
 a literary lady, now living, being at Sir James ALickintosh's, in 
 company with Sharp, Sismondi, and the late Lortl Denman, 
 then a man of middle age. Sir James was not only particularly 
 partial to Denman, but admired him personally. ' Do you not 
 
thority for the 
 on, 1)11 1 all re- 
 'Onc, I re- 
 ]andsca])c, by 
 ly painting by 
 , for rather less 
 .'s, which were 
 
 ds the ' Bishop 
 
 ifluencc in, the 
 
 ottage at that 
 
 'I'his was the 
 
 hull by Lord 
 
 rested till she 
 
 living. Smith, 
 
 ). '"oh; said 
 
 you the living 
 
 and if she had 
 
 lad it.' 
 
 , Sydney Smith 
 most admiring 
 mpression was, 
 for the church, 
 m, ' you would 
 1, had you be- 
 take possession 
 no one better 
 
 ), to whom we 
 cnowledge and 
 ople may think 
 they were, ])er- 
 One evening, 
 lackintosh's, in 
 L.ord Denman, 
 nly jiarticularly 
 ' Do you not 
 
 The Wifs Mifiistty. 475 
 
 think Denman handsome?' he inquired of. the lady after the 
 guests were gone. 'No? I'hen you must think Mr. Sharp 
 handsome,' he rejoined ; meaning that a taste so perverted as 
 not to admire Denman must be smitten with Sharp. Sharp is 
 said to have studied all the morning before he went out to 
 dmner, to get up his wit and anecdote, as an actor does his 
 part. Sydney Smith having one day received an invitation 
 from hull to dine at Fishmongers' Hall, sent the following 
 reply : — " ° 
 
 'Mucli do I love 
 
 Till- monsters of the deep to eat ; 
 To see the rosy sahiioii Ivini,', 
 By f^niehs encircled, born for frying ; 
 And from tiie cliin^i lioat to pour 
 On flaky cod the tlavoured >ho\vcr. 
 Thue above all, I rmicli re<,'ard, 
 Flatter than J,ongmans flattest bard, 
 Much-honourd turbot ! .sore I jjrieve 
 TIhv and thy dainty friends to leave. 
 I'ar from ye .ill, in sniigtjest corner, 
 I go lo dine with liiiit- llonier ; 
 He who with jiliilusophic eye 
 Sat brooding o'er his (.'iiristnias pie ; 
 Then linn resolved, with either thumb, 
 lore forth the crust-enveloped plum ; 
 .And mad with youthful dreams of deathless fame 
 1 roclaiined the deathless glories of his name.' ' 
 
 One word before we enter on the subject of Sydney Smith's 
 ministry. In this biography of a great Wit, we touch but 
 hghtly upon the graver features of his character, yet they cannot 
 wholly be passed over. Stanch in his devotion to the Church 
 of England, he was liberal to others. The world in the pre- 
 sent day IS afraid of liberality. Let it not be forgotten that 
 It has been the fanatic and the intolerant, not the mild and 
 practical, among us who have gone from the Protestant to 
 the Romish faith. Sydney Smith, in common with other 
 great men, had no predilection for dealing damnation round 
 the land. How noble, how true, are ALu:kintosh's reflec- 
 tions on religious sects ! ' It is impossible, I think, to look 
 uito the interior of any religious sect, without thinking better 
 of It. I ought, indeed, to confine myself to those of Chris- 
 nan Euroi;e, but with that limitation it seems to me the 
 remark is true; whether I look at the Jansenists of Port 
 

 
 476 'flic Parsfluai^c House at Foston-lc-Clay. 
 
 Koyal, or the ()u:iker.s in Clarkson, or the Methodists in 
 tlicse journals. All these sects, which appear dangerous or 
 ridiculous at a distance, assume a much more ami.'ahle 
 character on nearer insi)ection. Thev all inculcate pure virtue 
 and practise mutual kindness; an<l they exert great force of 
 reason m rescumg their doc'rines from the absurd or pernicious 
 conse-iuences which naturally flow from them. Much of this 
 arises from the general nature of religious principle-much also 
 Jrom the genius of the (;os])el.' 
 
 Nothing could present a greater contrast with the comforts 
 of Orchard Street than the place on which Svdney .Snuth's 
 ines had now ' fallen.' Uuing to the non-re.sidence of the 
 clergy, one-third of the ])arsonage-houses in England had 
 fallen mto decay, but that of Foston-le-Clay was pre-eminently 
 wretched. A hovel represented what was still called the 
 parsonage-house : it stood on a glebe of three hundred acres 
 of the stiflest clay in Yorkshire : a brick-floored kitchen 
 with a room a1.)ove it, both in a ruinous con.liiion was 
 he residence which, for a hundred and fifty years, had never 
 been mhabite<l by an incumbent. It will not be a matter 
 of surprise that for some time, until 1808, Sydney Smith 
 with the permission of the Archbishop of York, continued 
 o resue in London, after having appointed a curate at 
 roston-Ie-Clay. 
 
 The first visit to In's living was by no means promising 
 Picture to yourself, my rea<ler, Sy.Iney Smith in a carriage 
 in US superfine black coat, driving into the remote villaV 
 and i.arley.ng with the old parish clerk, who after some con- 
 versation, observed, emphatically, shaking his stick on the 
 ground, 'Master Smith, it stroikes me that people as comes 
 froe London is such >;/.•.'_' I see you are no fool.' was the 
 prompt answer; and the parson and the clerk parted mutually 
 satisfied, ^ 
 
 'J'lie i)rof,ts, arising from the sale of two volumes of ser- 
 mons, carried Sydney Smith, his family, and his furniture to 
 loston-le-Clay in the summer of 1809, and he took up his 
 abode m a pleasant house about two miles from Yc 
 Heslington. 
 
 orK, at 
 
n-lc-CIay. 
 
 the Methodists in 
 l)car dangerous or 
 -h more amicable 
 culcate pure virtue, 
 ^crt great force of 
 bsurd or pernicious 
 .'m. Much of this 
 inciple — much also 
 
 witli the comforts 
 h Sydney Smith's 
 n residence of the 
 in jMighmd liad 
 was pre-eminently 
 s still called the 
 ree hundred acres 
 v-floored kitchen, 
 IS condition was 
 " years, had never 
 not be a matter 
 3, S3'dney Smith, 
 York, continued 
 nted a curate at 
 
 neans i)romising. 
 th in a carriage, 
 e remote village, 
 after some con- 
 his stick on the 
 people as comes 
 no fool,' was the 
 : jjarted mutually 
 
 volumes of ser- 
 in's furniture, to 
 he took up his 
 i from York, at 
 
 H1 DNHV smith's \M 
 
 TIV ANSWKI! Til THK dl. 
 
 I' PAHISII (rilKK. 
 
 p. I7li. 
 

 
 t 
 
 \- 
 
 w 
 
 f) 
 tl 
 
 \\ 
 o 
 
 C( 
 
 ai 
 n 
 fr 
 h. 
 fa 
 
 gi 
 P< 
 th 
 cr 
 ni 
 
 of 
 
Country Quiet. ^^y 
 
 T,et us now, for a time, forget the wit, the editor of the 
 'Edinburgh Review,' the diner out, the evening preacher at 
 the FoundHng, and glance at the i)ea-eful and useful life of 
 a country clergyman. His spirits, his wit, all his social 
 quahiies, never deserted Sy(hiey Smith, even in the retreat 
 to which he was destined. Let us see him driving in his 
 second-hand carriage, his horse, ' J'eter the Cruel,' with Mrs. 
 Smith by his side, summer and winter, from Heslington to 
 Foston-le-Clay. Mrs. Smith, at fust, trembled at the in- 
 experience of h.jr charioteer; but 'she soon,' said Sydney, 
 praised my wages, and considered me an excellent Jehu.' 
 ' Mr. iJrown,' said Sydney to one of the tradesmen of York- 
 through the streets of which he found it difficult to drive! 
 'your streets are the narrowest in Europe.'— ' Narrow, sir? 
 there's plenty of room for two carriages to pass each other, and 
 an inch and a h;df to spare :' 
 
 Let us see him in his busy peaceful life, digging an hour or 
 two every day in his garden to avoid sudden death, by pre- 
 ventmg corpulency; then galloping through a book, and 
 when his family laughed at him for so soon dismissing a 
 quarto, saying, 'Cross-examine me, then,' and going well 
 through the ordeal. Hear him, after fini.shing liis nmrnin-'s 
 writing, .saying to his wife, 'There, Kate, it's done: do look 
 over It ; put the dots to the i's, and cross the t's :' an<l off he 
 went to his walk, surrounded I)y his children, who were his 
 companions and confidants. See him in the hme, talking to 
 an old woman whom he had taken into his gig as she was 
 returning from market, and picking up all sorts of knowledge 
 from her; or a(hninister!ng medicine to the j.oor. or to his 
 horses and animals, sometimes committing mistakes next to 
 fatal. One day he declared he found all his pigs intoxicated, 
 grunting 'God save the King' about the sty. Lie nearly 
 poisoned his red cow by an o\er-dose of castor-oil ; and Peter 
 the Cruel, so called because the groom once said he had a 
 cruel face, took two bo.xes of opium pills (boxes and all) in his 
 mash, without ill consecpiences. 
 
 See him, too, rushing out after dinner— for he iud a horror 
 of long sittings after that meal— to look at his ' scratcher.' 
 
478 
 
 The Universal Scratchcr, 
 
 He used to say, Lady Holland (his daughter) relates, * I am 
 all for cheap luxuries, even for animals ; now all animals 
 have a passion for scratching their backbones ; they break 
 down your gates and palings to effect this. Look ! there is 
 my universal scratcher, a sharp-edged pole, resting on a high 
 and a low post, adapted to every height, from a horse to a 
 lamb. Even the Edinburgh Reviewer can take his turn : you 
 have no idea how popular it is ; I have not had a gate broken 
 since I put it up ; I have it in all my fields.' 
 
 Then his experiments were numerous. Mutton fat was 
 to be burned instead of candles ; and working-peoi)le were 
 brought in and fed with broth, or with rice, or with })orridge, 
 to see which was the most satisfying diet. Economy was 
 made amusing, benevolence almost absurd, but the humorous 
 man, the kind man, shone forth in all things. He was one of 
 the first, if not the first, who introduced allotment-gardens 
 for the poor : he was one who could truly say at the last, 
 when he had lived sixty-six years, 'I have done but 
 very little harm in the wodd, and I have brought up my 
 
 family.' 
 
 Wc have taken a glimpse — and a glimpse merely — of the 
 'wise Wit' in London, among congenial society, where every 
 intellectual power was daily called forth in combative force. 
 See liim now in the provincial circles of the remote county 
 of York. ' Did you ever,' he once asked, ' dine out in 
 the country? What misery do human beings inflict on 
 each other under the name of pleasure !' Then he de- 
 scribes driving in a broiling sun thiough a dusty road, to 
 eat a haur ' of venison at the house of a neighbouring 
 parson. A mbled in a small house, ' redolent of frj'ing,' 
 talked of roads, weather, and turnips; began, that done, 
 to be hungry. A strii)ling, caught up for the occasion, 
 calls the master of die house out of the room, and announces 
 that the cook has mistaken the soup for dirty water, and 
 has thrown it away. No help for it— -agreed ; they must 
 do without it ; perhaps as well they should. Dinner an- 
 nounced ; they enter the dining-room : heavens ! what a gale ! 
 the venison is high ! 
 
relates, * I am 
 ow all anirp.als 
 es ; they break 
 Look ! there is 
 sting on a high 
 m a horse to a 
 e his turn : you 
 1 a gate broken 
 
 kTiitton fat was 
 ing-[)eople were 
 
 with j)orridge, 
 
 Economy was 
 It the humorous 
 
 He was one of 
 lotment-gardens 
 ^ay at the last, 
 ave (lone but 
 
 brought up my 
 
 merely — of the 
 ety, where every 
 lombative force. 
 I remote coanty 
 , ' dine out in 
 ings inflict on 
 Then he de- 
 dusty road, to 
 a neighbouring 
 olent of fr)'ing,' 
 ^an, that done, 
 r the occasion, 
 , and announces 
 dirty water, and 
 eed ; they must 
 (1. Dinner an- 
 s ! what a gale ! 
 
 Con;i/rj' L ifc and Country Prejudice. 479 
 
 Various other adverse incidents occur, and the party return 
 
 home grateful to the j.ost-boys for not being dnmk, an.l 
 
 thankful to Providence for not being thrown into a wet 
 
 ditch. 
 
 In addition to these troubles and risks, there was an enemy 
 at hand to api)rehend-iTejiidice. The Squire of Heslington 
 -'the last of the S(iuires'~regarded Mr. Smith as a Jacobin • 
 and his lady, 'who looked as if she had walked straight out' 
 of the Ark, or had been tlie wife of Enoch,' used to turn aside 
 as he i)assed. When, however, the squire found ' the peace of 
 the village undisturbed, harvests as usual, his dogs uninjured 
 he first bowed, then called, and ended by a pitch of con- 
 fidence;' actually discovered that Sydney Smith had made a 
 joke ; nearly went into convulsions of laughter, and finished by 
 mviting the 'dangerous fellow,' as he had once thought him, 
 to see his dogs. 
 
 In 1 8 13 Sydney Smith removed, as he thought it his duty 
 to do, to Fostca-le-CIay, and, ' not knowing a turnip from a 
 carrot,' began to farm three hundred acres, and not having any 
 money, to build a parsonage-house. 
 
 It was a model parsonage, he thought, the plan being 
 formed by himself and ' Kate.' Being advised by his neigh- 
 bours to purcliase ox-m, he bought (and christened) four oxen 
 'Tug and Eug," Crawl and Haul.' But Tug and Lug took 
 to faintmg, Haul and Crawl to lie (iown ii the mud, so he 
 was compelled to sell them, and to purchse a team of 
 horses. 
 
 The house plunged him into debt for twenty years ; and 
 a man-servant being too expensive, the 'wise \\'it' caught 
 up a country girl, made like a mile-stone, and christened 
 her 'Bunch,' and Bunch became the best butler in the 
 county. 
 
 He next set up a carriage, which he christened the ' Im- 
 mortal,' for it grew, from being only an ancient gTeen 
 chariot, sujjposed to have been the earliest invention of the 
 kmd, to be known by all the neighbours; the village dogs 
 barked at it, the village boys cheered it, and ' we had no false 
 sha'me.' 
 
480 Tlic Genial j\Tagistratc. 
 
 Oncfould lin;;er over the annals of Sydney Smith's useful, 
 happy life at Foston-lc-Clay, visited there indeed hy Mack- 
 intosh, and each day achieving a higher and higher rei<uta- 
 tion in literature. We see him as a magistrate, ' no friend 
 to game,' as a countr)' S(|iiire in Suftolk solenmly said of a 
 neighbour, but a friend to man ; with a pitying heart, that 
 forbade him to ( onnnil young delinciuents to gaol, though he 
 would lecture them severely, and call out, in bad cases, 'John, 
 bring me out \\\\ [^liratc };>.}lhni<s' which brought the jjoor boys 
 on their knees. We behold him making visits, and even tours, 
 in the 'Immortal,' and receiving Lord and Lady Carlisle in 
 their roa( h and four, which had stuck in the middle of a 
 ploughed field, there being scarcely any road, only a lane up 
 to the house. IJehold him receiving his poor friend, Francis 
 Horner, who came to take his last leave of him. and died at 
 Pisa, in 1S17, after earning honours, j^aid, as Sir James 
 Ahxckintosh remarkc 1, to intrinsic claims alone— 'a man of 
 obscure birth, who never filled an office.' See Sydney Smith, 
 in 18 [6, from the failure of the harvest (he who was in 
 London 'a walking jxitty'), sitting down with his family to 
 rei)ast without Ijread. thin, unleavened cakes being the sub- 
 stitute. See his cheerfulness, his submission to many priva- 
 tions : picture him to ourselves trying to ride, but falling off 
 incessantly; but obliged to leave off riding 'fur the good of 
 his family, and the peace of his i)arish' (he had christened his 
 horse, 'Calamity'). See him suddenly prostrate from that 
 steed in the midst of the streets of York, 'to the great joy of 
 Dissenters,' he declares : another time flung as if he had been 
 a shuttlecock, into a neighbouring ])arish, very glad that 
 it was not a neighbouring planet, for somehow or other liis 
 horse and he had a ' trick of parting com])any.' ' T used,' he 
 wrote, ' to think a fall from a horse dangerous, but much ex- 
 perience has convinced me to the contrary. I have had six 
 Hills in two years, and just behaved like the Three per Cents., 
 when th.ey fell — I got up again, and am not a bit the worse for 
 it, any more than the stock in ciuestion.' 
 
 His country life was varied by many visits. In 1820 he 
 went to visit Lord Grey, then to Edinburgh, to Jeffrey. 
 
cy Smith's useful, 
 idccd 1))' Mack- 
 (1 higher R'puta- 
 ;rate, * no tVicnd 
 cmnly said of a 
 tying lieart, that 
 
 gaol, though he 
 lad cases, ' John, 
 It tile jioor hoys 
 , and even tours, 
 Lady Carlisle in 
 the middle of a 
 1, only a lane up 
 Dr friend, Francis 
 lini, and died at 
 1, as Sir James 
 3ne — 'a man of 
 }e Sydney Smith, 
 (he who was in 
 Lh his family to 
 
 being the sub- 
 i to many priva- 
 j, but falHng off 
 'for the good of 
 id christened his 
 trate from that 
 ) the great joy of 
 s if he had been 
 
 very glad that 
 D\v or other his 
 y.' ' I used,' he 
 us, but much ex- 
 I have had six 
 1iree per Cents., 
 bit the worse for 
 
 ts. In t820 he 
 rgh, to Jeflrey. 
 
 Glimpse of Edinburgh Society. 48 r 
 
 Travelling by the coach, a gentleman, with whom he had been 
 talkmg, said, 'There is a very clever fellow lives near here 
 Sydney Smith, I believe ; a devilish odd fellow.'-' Ho may be 
 an 0,1.1 fellow,' cried Sydney, taking olT his hat, ' but here he is. 
 odd as he is, at your service.' 
 
 S)-,lney Smith found great changes in Edinburgh — chan-es 
 however, ,n many respe<:ts for the better. The society" of 
 Edinburgh was then in its greatest perfection. ' Its brilliancv 
 l-onl Cockburn remarks, ' was owing to a variety of peculiar 
 circumstances, whi, h only operated during this period. The 
 Pnnc.pal of these were the survivance of several of the 
 eminent men of the preceding age, and of curious old habits 
 Nvhicli the modem flood had not yet obliterated; the rise 
 of a powerful comnuinity of young men of ability the 
 exclusion of the llritish from the Continent, which made 
 this place, both lor education and for residence, a favourite 
 resort of strangers; the war, which maintained a constant 
 excitenient of military preparation and of military idleness • 
 the blaze of that popular literature which made this the 
 second city in the empire for learning und science; ami 
 the extent and the ea.e with which literature and so. ietv 
 embellished each other, without rivalry, an.l without pedantrv 
 Among the 'best young 'as his lordship styles them, were 
 l^ord U ebb Seymour and Francis Horner; whilst those of 
 the 'interesting old' most noted were Eli-^abeth Hamilton 
 and Mrs. (irant of Laggan, who had 'unfolded herself 'to 
 borrow Lonl Cockburn's words, in the ' Letters from the 
 Afountains,' 'an interesting treasury of good solitary thoughts' 
 Ot these two ladies, Ford Cockburn says, 'They were ex- 
 cellent women, and not too blue. Their sense covered the 
 colour.' It was to Mrs. Flamilton that Jeffrey said, ' That 
 there was no objection to the blue stocking, provided the 
 petticoat came low • enough to cover it.' Neither of these 
 ladies possessed personal attractions. Mrs. Hamilton had 
 the plain face proper to literary women; Mrs. Grant was 
 a tall dark woman, with much dignity of manner : in spite 
 of her hfe of misfortune, she had a great flow of spirits 
 Lcautilully, indeed, does Lord Cockburn render justice to 
 

 
 482 ^^I's. Grant of [.(iz^aii. 
 
 her diameter : ' She \v;is always under the infliieiirc of an 
 affectionate and (leH;^htful enthusiasm, \vhi< h, umiuenched by 
 time and surrow, survived tlie wreck of many don)e^tlc 
 attachments, and shed a glow over the close of a very ijro- 
 
 tracted life.' 
 
 Both she and Mrs. Hamilton succeeded in drawing' to their 
 i,>in'irS(izioiii, in small rooms of unpreteiiding style, men of 
 the highest order, as well as attractive women of intelligence. 
 Society in l-:dinl)urgh took the form of Parisian JC/VvVf, and 
 although much divided into parties, was sufficiently general to 
 lie varied. It is amusing to fmd that Mrs. (".rant was at one 
 lime one of the supposed ' Autho-s of " Waverley,'" until the 
 disclosure of the mystery silenced reports. It was the popu- 
 larity of ' Marmion,' that made Scott, as he himself confesses, 
 nearly lose his fooling. Mrs. Cram's observation on him, 
 after meeting the (Ireat I'nknown at some brilliant party, has 
 been allowc'd, even by the sar( astic Lockhart, to be 'witty 
 enough.' ' Mr. Scott always seems to tne to be like a glass, 
 thro'agh whi( h the rays of admiration pass wiihout sensil)ly 
 affecting it; but the bit of ])aper* that lies beside it will [.re 
 sendy be in ablaze— and no wonder.' 
 
 Scott endeavoured to secure Mrs. C.rant a pension ; merited 
 as he observes, by her as an authoress, ' but much more.' in 
 his opinion, 'by the firmness and elasticity of mind with which 
 she had borne a great succession of domestic calamities.' 
 • i:nha[)])ily,' he adds, 'there was only about ,/Tioo open on 
 il'.e Pension List, and this the niinister assigned in eciual por- 
 tions to Mrs. G— and a distressed lady, grand-daughter of a 
 forfeited Scottish nobleman. Mrs. G— , proud as a.IIigh- 
 landwoman, vain as a ])oetess, and absunl as a blue-stockuig, 
 has taken this partition in nnihvn partem, and written to Lord 
 Melville about her merits, and that her friends do not con- 
 sider her claims as being fairly canvassed, with something 
 like a demand that her petition be submitted to the kmg. 
 This is not the way to make hex p/ack a lum'l'cc, and Lord 
 M -, a little iiu/fld in turn, sends the whole correspondence 
 10 mc to know whether Mrs. G— will accept the ^/Jso or not. 
 
 * Alluding to Lady Scott. 
 
influcnrc of an 
 li, iiiii|uciu Iic'd by 
 f 111, my (lonic'stic 
 sc uf a vciy jjro- 
 
 1 drawing to their 
 ing stylo, men of 
 en of intelligence, 
 risian soifra, and 
 'icicntly general to 
 Cirant was at one 
 verley,'" until the 
 It was the popu- 
 hiniself conresses, 
 iser\'ation on him, 
 l)rilliant party, has 
 hart, to be 'witty 
 o bo like a glass, 
 ■; without sensibly 
 beside it will pre 
 
 pension ; merited 
 It mucli more,' in 
 if mind with whicli 
 niestic calamities.' 
 ut ,/?ioo open on 
 rned in e(iual por- 
 rand-daughter of a 
 l)roud as a. High- 
 is a bhie-stocking, 
 nd written to Lord 
 friends do not con- 
 1, with something 
 nitled to the king. 
 
 Ihru'bce, and Lord 
 )le correspondence 
 i)t the ^50 or not. 
 
 7t'Jfry and Cockhiirn. 
 
 4«3 
 
 ^o^v ha.ng to deal with ladies when they nrein an t.nrea- 
 sond.Ie hu,n,M,r, I have got the good-humoured M... of 
 K-el,ng to .n.i out the lady's mind, and I take on mvself the 
 ask of n.akmg hef peace with Lord Af^-. After all/the poor 
 lady Ks greatly to be p.tied :-her .sole remaining .laughter IxZ 
 and far gone \x\ a decline.' ' 
 
 The Man of Feeling proved successful, and reporto.l soon 
 aftenvanls t at the 'dirty pudding ' was eaten b the ahno" 
 -tau e authore.ss Scott's tone in the letters whi. h refer to 
 h..s subject does httle cre<lit to his good taste and delica.y o 
 i^^^nv^, whi( h were really attributable to his , hara.ter 
 
 cry lew m.tues o.cur of any intercourse between .K.ot. 
 bdneySmnh ,n Lockharfs ' Lilc.' It was not, indeed, 
 nt.I 18.7 that S.ott coul.l be suffuiently cooled down fr.n 
 he fennent of pohtics which ha.l been going on to meJ 
 
 Muna>, the I ord Advocate, and n.ct Jeffrey, Cockburn, the 
 
 la Lo.l ...UK.rh.nl, then M,. Rutherford, and others of 
 
 tlut t,k.. he J.ronounced the i,artv to be 'verv pleasant 
 
 ;r;otr''-r""'T''^"^^'"^'"^-'^'-'^^ 
 
 nr tv , "'n '■ "^!^^'\' '^"^^^ '^ i^' l^'' -'-- ^ an. out with 
 
 pari) o u.y Oppos.uon fnends, the day is often merrier than 
 
 ^vhenwuhourownset. Itisbecau.se they are cleverer ? |effj " 
 
 ^ Hany Cockburn are, to be sure, very .^J^, 
 
 ; ^ •', ," Tr''""^ '^ '''"' ''"^'''^■'>'- ^ ''^•'■^■^■^- '">"' parties 
 ■ncet wuh the fe.hng of something like novelt .-. We have no 
 
 .•orn otu our jests tn daily contact. There is also a deposition 
 on such occasions to bo courteous, and of course to !)e 
 pleased. 
 
 On his side Cockburn did ample justice to the 'genius 
 who to use h,s own words, 'has immortalized Ldinburgh 
 and delighted the world.' Mrs. Scott could not, however 
 .y.-over the smarting inilicted by the critiques of Jeffrey on 
 K luisband's works. Her -'And I hope, Mr. Jeffrey, Mr. 
 (-unstable paid you well for your Artule' (leffrey inin^ 
 w.th her that^day), had a depth of simple satire in it that even 
 ^■■n Ldmburgn reviewer could iiardly exceed. It was, one 
 
 31—2 
 
a 
 
 4.94 Cmij^crook. 
 
 must add, imjicrtincnt nnd in had l.isto. * Vou are ver)" good 
 at (titling up.' 
 
 Sydney Smith found JcftVcy nnd C'cxkhurn rising barristers. 
 }Iorner, on leaving Kdinhurgli, had left to Jcftrey his bar 
 wig, and the bequest had been hicky. Jeffrey was settled at 
 Craigrrook, a lovely Mnglish-looking spot, witli w()()dc<l slopes 
 and green ghules, near Ivlinburgh ; and ("ockburn had. siin .• 
 181 1, set up his riu-al g(jds at bonally, near Colinton, just 
 under the Perlland Hills, and he wrote, ' I'nless some aveng 
 ing nngel shall expel me. I shall never leave that paradise.' 
 And a paradise it w.is. DciUMth those rough, bare hills, 
 broken here and there by a trii kling burn, like a silver thread 
 on the l»rown sward, stands a Norman tower, the addition, by 
 riayfair's skill, to what was <>n< e a scarcely habilaMe firm- 
 house. That tower contained Lord C'orklnirn's fine library, 
 also his ordinary sitting-rootns. There he read and wrote, and 
 received sucli society as will ne\er meet ;igain. there or else- 
 where -amongst them Sydney Snush. lieneath around the 
 tower — stretches a delicious ganl .i, composed of terraces, 
 and laurel-hedged walks, and beds of tlowers, that bloomed 
 freely in that sheltered spot. A bowling-green, shaded by one 
 of the few trees near the hou.se, a sycamore, was the care of 
 ninny ::' hour; tor tr) make the turf velvety, the sods were 
 fetched fom the hills above — from * yon hills,' as Lord Cock- 
 burn would have called them. And this was for many years 
 one of the ndlying points of the best Scottish society, and, 
 as each autumn ca.me round, of what the host called his 
 Carnival. Friends were summoned from the north and the 
 south — 'death no apology.' High jinks within doors, excur- 
 sions without. Every Ktlinburgh man reveres the spot, 
 hallowed by the remembrance of Lord Cockburn. 'Every 
 thing exiept the two burns, he wrote, 'the few old trees, 
 and the mountains, are my own work. Human nature is 
 incapable of enjoying more hajipiness than has been my lot 
 here. I have been too hai)py, aiid ollen tremble in the 
 anticipation that the (loud nuist come at last.' And come it 
 dill ; but found liini not i.nprepared, altliough the burdcr: 
 that he had to bear in after-lit>' was heavy. In their enlarged 
 
o\\ are very good 
 
 rising; hanistcii. 
 jc It rcy his bar 
 ;y was settled at 
 1 wooik'd slopes 
 \l)uni 1) id. siiK I' 
 ir Colintcni, just 
 less some aven^^- 
 L' that paradise.' 
 )iigh. bare hills, 
 :e a silver thread 
 
 the ad<lition, by 
 
 habila lie fartii- 
 rn's fine library, 
 d and wrote, and 
 n. iliere or else- 
 ith -around tin: 
 sed of terraces, 
 •s, that lildomed 
 1, shaded l»y one 
 ', was the care of 
 ;, the sods were 
 ,' as Lord Cock- 
 s for many years 
 tish society, and, 
 
 host called his 
 J north and the 
 It ill doors, excur- 
 s'cres the spot, 
 ickburn. ' I'.very 
 i few old trees, 
 unian nature is 
 has l)een my lot 
 
 tremble iii the 
 t.' And come it 
 ligh the burdcr: 
 In their enlarged 
 
 SydNCv S)nif/is Clwcrfnlicss, 485 
 
 and philosophic 1. iid in tieir rai)itl trnn >ition from .sciisc to 
 nonsense, tlurc was an affinity in the lii.raders of Sydnev 
 Smith and of J.ord Co( kburn whi<h was not carrieil out in 
 any other point. Smith's conversation was wit Lord Cock- 
 burn's was elotpRMK e. 
 
 From the festivities of Kilinburgh Sydney Smith returned 
 < ontentedly to Foston-le-CIay, and to Hunch. Amongst other 
 gifted visitors u , Mrs. Marcet. 'Come here, JJunch,' .1 , 
 Sydney Smith one day; 'come and repeat your crimes to Mrs. 
 ALircet.' 'Jhen Banch, grave as a judge, began to repeal . 
 ' I'late-snatching, gravy-spilling, door-slamming, blue-bottle tly- 
 catching, and curtsey-bobbing.' ' I'.liie - bottle tlycatdiing,' 
 means standing with lier mouth open, and not attending; and 
 ' curtsey-bobbing ' was curtseying to the centre of the «Mrili. 
 
 One night, in the winter, during a tremendous snowstorm, 
 JUmch rushed in, exclaiiMing, ' f.ord and Lady Nhu kirn rush is 
 comVl in a coach an', foi;r.' The lord and l.idy proved to be 
 Sir James and his ci lu.vaor, . 'h) had arrived to stay with his 
 friends in the remot- p.;rsor. > ■ of i'osion Ie-(,'lay a {^w days, 
 and had sent a letter. ' ,irive«l the day afterwards to an- 
 
 nounce their visit. 'I'lieir slay beg.Mi with a bluntler ; and when 
 Sir James dejjarted. leaving kind feelill,^s behind him— books, 
 his hat, his gloves, his i)ai)ers ami other articles of ajip.irel were 
 found also. 'What a man that would be.' said .Sydney Smith, 
 'had he one jtarlicle of gall, or the K■a^t knowledu'' of tlie 
 value of red taj.e !' It was true that the indolent, desultory 
 character of Ahickintosh interfered i)erpetually with his progress 
 in the world. He loved far better to lie on the sofa reading a 
 novel than to attend a Privy Council ; the slightest indisposi- 
 tion was made on his part a i)lea for avoiding the most import- 
 ant business. 
 
 Sydney Smith had said that 'when a clever man takes to cul- 
 tivating turnips and retiring, it is generally an imi)osture ;' but 
 in him the retirement was no impjosture. His wisdom shone 
 forth daily in small and great matters. 'Life,' he ju.s-ly thought, 
 'was to be fortified by many friendships,' and he acted up to 
 his principles, ami kepi up l"riendships i)\ idlers. Checrtuhicss 
 he thought might ue cultivated by making the roomo one lives 
 
486 
 
 I I is RJicmuatic A nnour. 
 
 
 
 in as comfortable as possible. Plis own drawing-room was 
 papered on this principal, with a yellow flowering pattern ; and 
 filleil with 'inei^nilar regularities;' his t'lres were blown into 
 briglitness by Shadrachs, as he called them— tubes furnished 
 with air opening in the centre of each fire. His library con- 
 tained his rlieuinatic armour : for he tried heat and comiires- 
 sion in rheumatism ; jjut his legs into narrow buckets, which 
 he called his jack-boots; wore round his throat a tin collar; 
 over each shoul.ler he had a large tin thing like a .shoulder of 
 mutton ; and on his head he displayed a hollow helmet filled 
 with hot water. In the middle of a field into which his win- 
 dows looked, was a skeleton sort of a machine, his rniversal 
 Scratcher; with which every animal from a lamb to a bullock 
 could scratch itself. Then on the Sunday the Immortal was 
 called into use, to travel in .state to a church like a barn ; about 
 fifty people in it; but the most original idea was farming through 
 the medium of a tremendous speaking-trumpet froui his own 
 door, with its companion, a teIescoi)e, to see what his people 
 are about! On the 24ih of January, 1828, the first notable 
 piece of i)referment was conferred on him by Lord Lyndhurst, 
 then Chancellor, and of widely differing political opinions to 
 Sydney Smith. This was a vacant stall in the cathedral at 
 Bristol, where on the ensuing 5th of November, the new canon 
 gave the Mayor and Corporation of that Protestant city such a 
 dose of 'toleration as should last them many a year.' lie went 
 to Court on his appointment, and appeared in siioestrings in- 
 stead of buckles. ' I found,' he relates, ' to my suri)rise, peoitle 
 looking down at my feet : I could not think what they were at. 
 At first I thought they had discovered the beauty of my legs; 
 but at last the truth l)urst on me, by some wag laughing and 
 thinking I had done it as a good joke. I was, of course, ex- 
 ceedingly annoyed to have l)een suii])ose(I capable of such a 
 vulgar unmeaning piece of disresi^ect, and kept my feet as 
 coyly under my petticoats as the veriest prude in the country, 
 till I should make mv escape.' His circumstancLS were now 
 imjjroved, and though moralists, he .said, thought property an 
 evil, he declared himself hai)pier every guinea he gained. He 
 thanked God for his animal spirits, which received, unhappily, 
 
rawing-room was 
 ing pattern ; ami 
 crc blown into 
 -tubes furnished 
 His library con- 
 at and ('omi^res- 
 .V buckets, which 
 oat a tin collar ; 
 :e a shoulder of 
 ow helmet filled 
 I which his win- 
 e, his I'niversal 
 nb to a bullock 
 e Immortal was 
 e a barn ; about 
 . farming th.rough 
 -•' from his own 
 what his |>e0|)le 
 the first notable 
 Lord Lyndhurst, 
 ical opinions to 
 he cathedral at 
 ", the new canon 
 slant city such a 
 year.' lie went 
 > siioestrings in- 
 ' sur[)rise, people 
 at they were at. 
 ity of my legs ; 
 g laughing and 
 , of course, ex- 
 )able of such a 
 vcpt my feet as 
 in the country, 
 mces were now 
 ^ht property an 
 he gained. He 
 ved, unhappily, 
 
 No Bishopric. 48 7 
 
 in 1S29, a terrible shock from the deatli of his eldest son, 
 Douglas, aged twenty-four. 'I'his was the great misforlune of his 
 life ; the young man was promismg, talented, affectionate, lie 
 exchanged Foston le-Clay at this time for a living in Somer- 
 setshire, of a beautiful and characteristic name -Combe I'lore)'. 
 
 Combe Florey seems to have been an eariiily paradise, seated 
 in one of those delicious hollows or in Combes, for which that 
 ];art of the west of i'aigland is celebrated. His withdrawal 
 from the Edinburgh Review— Miickintosh's death— the mar- 
 riage of his eldest daughter, Saba, to Dr. Holland (now Sir 
 Henry Holland)— the termination of Lord Crey's Administra- 
 tion, which ended Sydney's hopes of being a bishoj), were the 
 leading events of his life for the next few years. 
 
 It ai)pears that Sydney Smith felt to the hour of his death 
 pained that those by whose side he had fo' ght for fifty years, 
 in their adversity, the Whig party, should never have offered 
 what he declared he should have rejected, a bishojjric, when 
 they were constantly bestowing sue h promotions on persons of 
 mediocre talent and claims. Waiving the point, whether it is 
 right or wrong to make men bish.:>ps b.. ause they have been 
 ])oHlical parii/.ans, the cause of this alleged injustice may be 
 found in the tone of the times, which was eminently tinctured 
 with cant. The Clapham sect were in the ascendancy ; and 
 Ministers scarcely dared to offend so influential a body. l':ven 
 the gentle Sir James Mackintosh refers, in his Journal, with 
 disgust to the phraseology of the day : — 
 
 'They have introduced a new language, in which they never 
 say that A. B. is good, or virtuous, or even religious ; but that 
 he is an " advanced Christian." Dear Mr. Wilberforce is an 
 " advanced Christian." Mrs. C. has lost three children without 
 a pang, and is so " advanced a Christian " that she could see 
 the remaining twenty, " with poor dear Mr. C," removed with 
 perfect tranquillity.' 
 
 Such was the disgust expressed towards that school by Mack 
 intosh, whose last days were described by his daughter as 
 having been passed in silence and thought, with his IJible be- 
 fore him, breaking that silence — and portentous silence — to 
 si^eak of God, and of his Maker's disjjoaition towards man. 
 
i 
 
 4^^ rnxomcs Canon of St Pants 
 
 ■••.a ChmlK,,, ,.„ all l.y ,1,, .,,Iot. of his ,i,„c ' "'" 
 
 i^ydncy Smilh's notions of a Ijisliou iv.-re r<Tf,i„l,. l 
 ;n-ns earn., o„f in l.is own person and ch „ f";, L™ 
 
 n. n, I. II of Greek, ivilh sound vieivs of the mid.ile voi.e i„,l 
 r^ ,, ,per ect tense ; gentle and kind to his poor cLV of 
 o«er „ and cotn.nanding elo.p.ence in I'arlin nent neveT to 
 C|n, .own when the great interests of „,anki„d v "o, 
 er ed, iean.ng to the (iovern.nent when it was right Ln, 1 
 
 ui U0(l had , lied hnn to that h gh office he wns nll,.,l f,„ 
 "0 .nean purpose, but rather that seeing c -, , ■ i„e , 
 atu, ...tending purely, he .night eonfer ,1.,.:;; •.l.^r^^o:";;,','- ! 
 
 de,;;:a:/'o'f s;°p.,',':- z':^:^ '•""■•'■ '""'" = '"""" r--- 
 
 if 1,.,-. ■ ' '""""" >'''-• ."ilivwasw ihhekl, althoi.Ldi 
 
 of ;i':r:''''""-"''''r. '■°''' •■'^■>' "•"> ''-""«' ^ >■ f' " 
 
 01 tlic iirbt vacancies in lui^^land 
 
 .n....orta] fr.endship' she looked astonish. ' I oo .t 
 oat , an kept it. -What be.ter.fou.rda.ion for «:,, • 
 'isks, than similarity of tastes ?' 
 
 He gave an evening party once t w^f^i- • „ r ■ 
 
 Of wa.|igh.s was his r-a'ssio!,." ' VC^^ e^ oLr^:!:;: 
 
 ev,:;; ',";"""' """"'^ "^' "■^'»- ■■" f-'.^Wa,nels1^^d 
 eh" , ''"''''■"' '" "•'-''•y'l'ing; ?,'rcat indee,l w-as the 
 cha.,,e ,r„m h.s lor,„er res.dence at I'oslon, whiel, he used to 
 
uts. 
 
 ilations ; politics in- 
 relationship to his 
 'et Mackintosh was 
 (1 Christian, oi even 
 lie. 
 
 re certainly by no 
 laracter. 'J never 
 •p : a grave, elderly 
 
 middle voice and 
 lis poor clergy, of 
 rlianient, never to 
 lankind were con- 
 was right, leaning 
 
 that if the Spirit 
 he was called for 
 riy, acting boldly, 
 benefit u]jon man- 
 
 th a Canon Resi- 
 vilhheld, although 
 tined him for one 
 
 ?ht him still more 
 I'vliis 'wise wit.' 
 '1 ill whispers to 
 poke to his neigh- 
 owever, he broke 
 ^ay in a sweet 
 tl, ' I have all my 
 vy, let us swear 
 I but took the 
 r friendship,' he 
 
 'en a profusion 
 - young i)eople 
 I blameless and 
 ndeed was the 
 litli he used to 
 
 A ticcdotcs of L ord Dudley. 489 
 
 say was twelve miles from a lemon. Channing as his parties at 
 home must have been, they wanted the bo„-ho,nmie mmX simpli- 
 city of former days, and of the homely suppers in ( )rchanl .Street. 
 Lord Dudley, Rogers, Moore, 'Voting Macaulay/ as he was 
 called for many years, formed now his soc ietv. Lord Dudley 
 ^vas then in the state whiVh afteru-ards became insanitv, and 
 darkened conipletely a mind sad and peculiar from childhood, 
 liankes in Ins 'Journal,' relates an anecdote of him about this 
 tune when, as he says, ' Dudley's mind was on the wane ; but 
 st.Il his caustic humour would find vent through the cloud which 
 was gradually over-shadou'ing his m.i.ierlv intellect ' ]fe wis 
 one day sitting in his room soliloquizing aloud; his favourite 
 Newfoundland-dog was at his side, and .seemed to engross all 
 his attention. A gentleman was present who was good-looking 
 and good-natured, but not o\erburthene<l with .sense I ord 
 Dudley at last, patting his dog's head, said, 'l^do mio, they say 
 
 t ogs have no souls. Humph, and still thev .say ' (naming 
 
 tlie gentleman present) ' has a soul !' One day Lord Dudley 
 met Mr. Allen, Lord Holland's librarian, and asked him to dine 
 with hiin. Allen went. When asked to describe his dinner he 
 ^said, ' 1 here was no one there. Lord Dudlev talked a little to 
 his servant, and a great deal to his dog, but said not one word 
 to me. 
 
 Innumerable are the witticisms related of Sydney Smith 
 when seated at a dinner table-shaving swallowed in life whai 
 he calle, a 'Caspian Sea' of soup. Talking one day of Sir 
 Char es Lyell s book, the subject of which was the phenomena 
 which the earth might, at some future period, present to the 
 geologusts. ' Let us imagine,' he said, ' an excavation on the 
 site of St. Paul's ; fancy a lecture by the Owen of his future 
 era on the thigh-bone of a minor canon, or the tooth of a 
 dean : the form, qualities, an.l tastes he would discover from 
 tliem ' It IS a great proof of shyness.' he .said, ' to crumble 
 your bread at dinner. Ah ! I see,' he .said, turning to a young 
 lady, you re afraid of me : you crumble your bread. I do it 
 when I sit by the JJishoi, of London, and with both hands wh.^n 
 1 sit uy the Archbis'--- ' 
 
 H( 
 
 shop. 
 
 gave a capital reproof to a lively young ^LP. who 
 
 was 
 

 
 490 A Sliarp Reproof. 
 
 accompanying him after dinner to one of the solemn evening 
 receptions at l.ambeth Palace during the life of the late 
 Archbishop of Canterbury. The M.I', had been calling him 
 'Smith,' though they had never met before that day. As 
 the carriage slopped at the J'alace, Smith turned to him and 
 said, ' Now don't, my good fellow, don't call the Archbishop 
 " Howley." ' 
 
 Talking of foncy-balls— ' Of course,' he said, ' if I went to 
 one, I should go as a Dissenter.' Of Macaulay, he said, 'To 
 take him out of literature and science, and to put him in the 
 House of C:ommons, is like taking the chief jjliysician out of 
 Tondon in a pestilence.' 
 
 Nothing amused him so much as the want of perception 
 of a joke. One hot day a Mrs. Jackson called on him, and 
 spoke of the oppressive state of the weather. 'Heat! it 
 was dreadful; said Sydney ; ' I found I could do nothing 
 for it but take off my flesh and sit in my bones.' — ' Take 
 off your fle.sh and sit in your bones ! Oh, Mr. Smith ! how 
 could you do that?' the lady cried. 'Come and see ne.\t 
 time, ma'am— nothing more ea.sy.' She went away, however, 
 convinced that such a proceeding was very unorthodox. No 
 Avonder, with all his various acipiirements, it should be said 
 of him that no ' dull dinners were ever remembered in his 
 company.' 
 
 A hapj)y old age concluded his life, at once brilliant and 
 useful, 'j'o the last he nc\cr considered his eilucation as 
 finished. His wit, a friend said, 'was always fn.-sh, always 
 had the dew on it. He latterly got into what Lord Jeffrey 
 called the vicious habit of water drinking. Wine, he said, 
 destroyed his understantling. He even ' forgot the number 
 of the Muse.s, and thought it was thirty-nine, of course.' He 
 agreed with Sir James Mackintosh that he had found the 
 world more good and more foolish than he had thought A\hen 
 young. He took a cheerful view of all things ; he thanked 
 (iod for small as well as great things, even for tea. 'I 
 am glad,' he used to say, ' I was not born before tea.' 
 His domestic aflections were strong, and were heartily reci- 
 procated. 
 
solemn evening 
 life of the late 
 )een calling him 
 
 that day. As 
 ned to him and 
 
 the Arthbishop 
 
 il, ' if I went to 
 
 ay, he said, ' 'lo 
 
 put him in the 
 
 jihysician out of 
 
 It of perception 
 led on him, and 
 ler. ' Heat ! it 
 )uld do nothing 
 bones.' — * Take 
 Mr. Smith ! how 
 e and see next 
 : away, however, 
 morthodox. No 
 sliould be said 
 lembered in his 
 
 ice brilliant and 
 is education as 
 ys fn.'sh, always 
 lat Lord Jefirey 
 
 Wine, he said, 
 ■got the number 
 of course.' He 
 
 had found the 
 ad thought A\hen 
 gs ; he thanked 
 LMi for tea. * I 
 :)rn before tea.' 
 :rc heartily rcci- 
 
 Sj'd^uys Classification of Society. 491 
 
 General society he divide.! into classes: "l>e noodles - 
 very numerous and well known. The affliction won.an -a" va- 
 l^Kihle UKMnber of society, generally an ancient spinster in small 
 circumstances, who packs up her bag and sets iff in cas o 
 Illness or death, ''to con.fort, flatter, fetch, and carry." The 
 up-takers-people who see from their fingers' ends and iro 
 ^^ugh a room touching everything. The dearers-^-h^^eg?: 
 at a chsh and go on tasting and eating till it is finished. The 
 heep-walkcrs-who go on for ever on the beaten track. The 
 lemon-squeezers of society-who act on you as a wet blanket 
 seeacloud„..sunshme; the nails of theUln in tl. , ,0 s' 
 of a bnde; extn.gu.sh all hope ; people, whose very look sJ 
 
 the nfolf '" "^ "^^"- '''" '^'^--"-'o-rs, cousin-german \o 
 he noodles-yet a variety, and who are afraid to act, and think 
 It safer to stand still. Then the washerwomen-very nn.ero s - 
 who always say, " Well, if ever I put on my best bonnet^ 'is 
 sure to rain," &:c. i^^uin-i, us 
 
 'Besides this there is a very large class of people always 
 ^rea<hng on your gouty foot, or talking in your deaf ear or ask 
 ing you to g,ve them something with your lame hand,' .(. 
 
 1 unng the autumn of the year 1S44, Sydney SnnVn feit the 
 death-sroke approaching. ' I am so weak, both in body and 
 r.n^, he sa,' that I believe if the knife were ^^^^^ 
 und, should not have strength enough to stick it into i 
 Dissenter/ In Octobe. he became seriously ill. ' Ah 1 
 Charles he said to General Fox (when he was being kept very 
 
 but erfly. He dreaded sorrowful fi^ces around him; but con- 
 
 tt. Vl" T ^^^^'^"^' ^^""i^ Kay-and to her alone- his 
 sense of his danger. 
 
 Almost the last person Sydney Smith saw was his beloved 
 bvo her Eobus,;. ho followed him to the grave a fortnight at!. 
 he had been laid in the tomb 
 
 his'^n.s"' H- ^ f .''' ""^' °' ''^^""'^^>' ^^45. His son closed 
 -s tjes. His last act was, bestowing on a poverty-stricken 
 clergyman a living. ' 
 
 He was buried at Kensal Green, where his eldest son, Doug- 
 us, had been mterred. '^ 
 

 492 
 
 I lis CJtaractcr, 
 
 It has been justly and beautifully said of Sydney vSmitli, that 
 Christianity was not a dogma with him, but a practical and most 
 beneficeir rule of life. 
 
 Asa clergyman, he was liberal, practical, staunch \ free from 
 the latitudinarian principles of Hoadley, as from the bigotry of 
 Laud. Mis wit was the wit of a virtuous, a decorous man; it 
 had pungency »vithout venom ; humour without indelicacy; anil 
 was cojjious without being tiresome. 
 
Sydney Sniilli, that 
 X practical and most 
 
 staunch ; free from 
 from the higotry of 
 I decorous man ; it 
 out indelicacy ; and 
 
 ^w i ± i'_i!:--^j" jj. " '^ " " ■■ ^ 
 
 ' " II II II It =a=r 
 
 GEORGE BUBB DODINGTOX, LORD MKLCOMBE. 
 
 A Dinnor-sivinfflonlly 1V„|. - .\ .Mi.f,„mnr for a Man of Sodrtv - P.ruu\rn 
 Ljj,' . .-A\ ,1,1 Sp,,.,nH.n of tlu. IVH.,.--A\-a|pol.. on Doding^, ,^ ' )iar7' 
 
 T would have been well for Lord Mclcombe's memory, 
 Horace Walpole remarks, ' if his fnne had been suf- 
 fered to rest on the tradition of his wit, and the evi- 
 dence of his poetry.' And in the present day, that desirable 
 result has come to pass. We remember Bubl) Dodington chiefly 
 as the courtier whose person, houses, and furniture were replete 
 with costly ostentation, so as to provoke the satire of I-oote 
 who brought him on the stage under tlie name of Sir Thomas 
 1-ofty in 'The Patron.' 
 
 A\-e recall him most as 'rAmphyirion chez qui on dine.' 'My 
 Lord of Melcombe,' as Mallet says— 
 
 ' Whose soups and sauces rhilv season 'd 
 Whoso wit wvll timd and si-n^c well rcason'd, 
 Oivc lhiri,'undy a hricditcr stain, 
 And add new flavour to Champagne." 
 
 Who now cares much for the court intrigues which severed 
 bir Robert Walpole and Bul)b Dodington ? ^^'ho now reads 
 without disgust the annals of that funous cpiarrel between 
 (xeorge 11. and his son, during which each party devoutly 
 wished the other dead ? AVho minds whether the time-serving 
 Lui)b Dodington went over to Lord Bute or not? Who cares 
 whether his hopes of political preferment were or were not 
 
f *■',; . 
 
 
 
 494 A D inner- <-hing Lordly Poet. 
 
 KratiHal? iJnhh Dclfnyton was, in fact, the .linner-glving 
 lordly poet, to whom even the saintly Voung could write:- 
 ' Yuii f,'ivo ijrotccti.ni, - 1 a \vortliIe.ss strain.' 
 iJorn in i69r, the acromph'sherl courtier answered till he 
 had attained the age of twe.Uy-nine, to the not very eupho- 
 nious nan.e of Huhh. Then a benevolent uncle with a lan^e 
 estate .\^..\ and left hiui, with his lands, the n.ore exalted 
 surname of Do.lington. lie sprang, however, from an ob- 
 scure family, who had settled in Dorchester; but that disad- 
 vantage, which, according to J.onl Ilrougham's famous pam- 
 phlet acts so fatally on a young n.an's advancement in 
 Knghsh public life, was obviated, as most things are, bv a great 
 fortune. • ^ ^^ •■ 
 
 Mr. IJubl, had l)ccn educated at Oxford : at the age of 
 twenty-f.K.r he was elected AI.l'. for \\-inrhclsea ; he was\oon 
 afteruanls muned Envoy at the Court of Si.ain, but returned 
 home after his accession of wealth to provincial honours, and 
 became J.ord-laeutenant of Somerset. Nay, poets began to 
 worship him, and even pronounced him to be well born :— 
 
 ' Descended from old IViiisIi sires; 
 (Jreat bodin.i^ioii to kin,<;s allied ; ' 
 My patron then, my laiirels' pride. 
 
 It would be consolatory to find that it is only Welsted who 
 thus profanetl the Muse by this abject flattery, were it not 
 recorded that Ihomson dedicated to him his 'Summer' The 
 .led.cation was prompted by Lord IJinning; and 'Stunmcr' was 
 published m 1727 when Dodington was one of tiie /,ords of 
 the Ireasury, as welUis Clerk of the Pells in Ireland It 
 seemed, tlierefore, worth while for Thomson to ])en such a pas- 
 sage as this :-' Vour example sir, has recommended poetry 
 with the greatest grace to the example of those who are en^^iu'd 
 ■n the most active sc:enes of life; and this, though confessedly 
 the least considerable of those (pialities that dignify your cha- 
 racter, must be particularly pleasing to ^w whose only hope of 
 bemg introduced to your regard is thro' the recommendation 
 oi an art in which you are u master.' ^Varton adding this tri- 
 oute : — 
 
^oct. 
 
 tlie dinner-giving 
 1, could write : — 
 train.' 
 
 r answered, till he 
 e not very eupho- 
 iincle with a hir'^e 
 
 the more exalted 
 ever, from an ob- 
 r; but that disad- 
 ani's famous pam- 
 
 advancement in 
 ngs are, by a great 
 
 1 : at the age of 
 sea ; he was soon 
 >ain, but returned 
 cial honours, and 
 , poets began to 
 well born : — 
 
 nly Welsted who 
 ery, were it not 
 'Summer.' The 
 id 'SummiT' was 
 of the i.ords of 
 in Ireland. It 
 I I)en such a pas- 
 nniended {)0etry 
 who are engag'd 
 ugh confessedly 
 lignify your cha- 
 se only hope of 
 "ecommcndation 
 adding this tri- 
 
 A Misfort line for a Man of Society. 
 
 'To praiM- n I)„,li„ir,on nisi. h;,nl • f,.rl)<.,nr 
 \\ Ml .■,,„il,yu,Mk,,M.lil!.tuM',lvcmv avail 
 ^\ Inn on that thon,,.. boll. Vo„„jr ,.,,,1 Thomson fail v 
 
 495 
 
 Yet even when mi.hvay in his career, Dodington, in the famous 
 pohfca cancature called 'The Motion.' is de;i.te,la;^'r 
 
 t^^^ ''^T '" ^'"^ "^ ^'^y''^ '^^^' -''"^t h 
 grace rsdnvmg a coach at full spee.l to the Treasury, with a 
 sword u^stead of a uhip in his hand, with I.onl ChesterV.el iVs 
 Post.hon, an<l Lord Cobham as a footntan, holding on U the 
 straps : even then the servile though pon,>ous chan^-ter o t is 
 me man of the world was comprehended com,,lctely . 
 
 Bubb Dodmgton's characteristics never changed 
 
 nnd^ve^'j;''"'"''"^' ^'"'"^'"^ "^" '' -Ifish, obser.uious, 
 nncMer.satde as to mcur universal opprobrium; he had also 
 
 alarg.c. My brother Ned,' Horace Walpole remarks, ' savs 
 he IS grown of less conseqt.ence, though more weight.' A, d 
 on another occas.on, speaking of a majority in th^ Rous 
 ■onls, he adds, < I ,,o not count Dodingto!,, who must now 
 •Uways be tn the ,nn.ority, for no tnajority will accept him.' 
 
 ^Vinlst, however, during the f.ctious reign of George 11 
 the toun ..s declared, even by Homce to be wo.Klrous dt I • 
 operas unfrequented, plays not in fashion, and amours oi 
 - marrtages. Bubb Dodington, with his wealth and prof sio 
 ontr.^■ed always to be in vogue as a host, while hi was t a 
 'l.scount as a politician. Politics and literature are the h uh 
 oads n. England to that tnuch-craved-for distinction an 
 l.n.ttance.nto the great world; and Dodington t.nite.l these 
 pa sports m Ins own person : he was a poetaster, ami v o < 
 l;oht.cal pamphlets. The latter were published and a m e • 
 ne poen,s were referretl to as 'very prettv love verses' y 
 -on Lyttelton. and were never published-and never ought to 
 have been published, it is stated. "" 
 
 His />on n,ofs, his .sallies, his fortunes and places, an<l con- 
 t-.al danghng at court, j rocured Bubo, as Poj. s tyl 1 hn 
 one pre-etmnence. His dinners at Hammersmith v e h '. 
 most r,c/<ar/,h in the metropolis, y.,.r., '^' 
 
 Brandenburgh House, wh 
 
 remembers 
 
 ' -• ••"•- i^Hicniuers 
 
 en the hapless Caroline of Brunswick 
 
49^ 
 
 Briindoihu-- Ji House. 
 
 
 
 licM Iicr court iIkmc, ami wlicrc iicr brave heart,— hiinlcncd 
 probably uitli sonic sins, as well as with endless regias,— 
 broke at last. It had been the residence of the beautiful and 
 famous Margravine of Anspai h, whose loveliness \w vain 
 tempts us to believe hei innorent, in despite of facts. IJefore 
 those eras — the |)resence of the Afargravine, whose infulelities 
 were almost avowed, and the abiding of the ([ucen, whose 
 error'; '■ ' > ill events, verged on the very conlines of guili 
 — t' .s owned liy Dodinglon. There he gave din- 
 
 1 -• ; i '^ lie gratified a passion for display, which was 
 puerile; there he indulged in eccentricities which aijiost 
 implied insanity; there he ccncot ted his schemes for court 
 advancement; ami tlicrc. later in life, he contributed some of 
 the treasures of h rmatic literature. -The Wishes,' 
 
 a comedy, by IViuicy, was sujjpo^ed to owe much of its point 
 to the brilliant wit of Dodington*. 
 
 At Biandenburgh Mouse, a nobler jtrcsencc than that of 
 Dodington ^,till haunted the groves and alleys, for Prince 
 Kupert had once owned it. When Dodinglon bought it, he 
 gave it— in jest, we must i)rcsuinc tlie name of I -a Trappc ; 
 and it was not called Uramlcnburgh House until the fair and 
 frail Margnu me came to li\e there. 
 
 Its gardens were long famous; and in the time of Doding- 
 ton were the scene of revel. Thomas Hentley, the son of 
 Richard iSentley, the celebrated critic, 'i written a pla} 
 called 'The Wishes;' and during the summer of 1761 it was 
 acted at Drury Lane, and met with the especial approbation 
 of (leorge III., who sent the author, through Li.rd Mute, a 
 present of two hundred guineas a^ i tribute to the good senti- 
 ments of the production. 
 
 This piece, which, in spite :"its moi.il tendency, has died 
 out, whilst plays of 'ess virl'.ious characer have liveil, was 
 rehe ,mI i ■ the ,: dens of Brandenburgh House. ]!ubb 
 Dodington associated much with those who give wane; but 
 he courted amongst them also those who could revenge 
 atfroncs by bitter ridit •. Amon^.^ the actors ami literati who 
 wtre then sometimes at Drandenburg'i House were Foote 
 *.Sce WaliX'ij J ' u nd Noble Authors." 
 
hc;irt, — Inirdcneil 
 endless rcgias, — 
 
 the beautiful ancl 
 oveliness in vain 
 e of tacts. Hcfore 
 , whose iiifidelitie.s 
 the qticcn, whose 
 
 confines of guilt 
 rhere he j,Mve din- 
 splay, which was 
 ics \vhi( ii , iiost 
 (hemes for court 
 (utrihutcd some of 
 J. -The Wishes,' 
 
 much of its point 
 
 :nce than that of 
 dleys, for Prince 
 I >n boiiglit it, he 
 r I, a Trapjje ; 
 miil tlie fair and 
 
 time of I'Joding- 
 nlley, the son of 
 ! written a pla} 
 :r of 1 76 1 it was 
 scial a|)probation 
 l;Ii Lord Bute, a 
 o the good senti- 
 
 idency, lias died 
 liavc iivcd, was 
 Hon .'. ];uhl) 
 ) i\e jne; but 
 » t-ould revenge 
 and Hterati who 
 )Mse were Foote 
 
 ' The DiviTsious of the Mov„in<r ' ^,^, 
 
 i:"'l""-.,i with i„u,g„, „.;„, , ,„.„, 
 
 M... a,„l h,s.or„aI „,„ s ; |.o«c«c,l of a brilli , l^- 
 
 riiimloiiv »h,|>t the rchuarwls of ' Tlic Uisl,,., ■ ,,, , „„ 
 -o.e .vas „o„„g ,l„„.n all .l,c |,c,:uli, ,ri„V, o I,; i o , of 
 
 critif n 1 , ^'""''^ Melcombe was an arisfn- 
 
 I el '""';^V/'k'"""' '>' ""'' «^^*^ self-con,placency, , 
 , nJ^ tt " ^^'f^^' ^^^^^ ^^- KngHsh^Ar. 
 l^c. ore (m 1747) opened the little theatre of the Hivmark.t 
 - a sort c^ monologue play. 'The Diversions ^f he N ^ 
 J. .n winch he convulsed his audience with the perl • "on 
 oi a mnn.cry never beheld before, and so wonderful tl c " 
 the^^ons Of h. models seemed to stand be.>re the ^^^^ 
 
 th7amho^t;i""T"- '","'"' '^^ ^°"^"^-^'- -- -' -- 
 Uc author and performer, have been admirably revived bv 
 
 Albert bmith. 1 he W estnnnster ustices, furious and alarmed 
 opposed the danng j^erfonnance, on which Foote chan 'ed tl ■ 
 name of his piece, an.l called it ' Afr Foote mvin. r . 
 Friends.' himself till ^\. .1 -^ootc givmg J cm to his 
 
 P-otc.„. iiL V • I '°''' *''^^°'"' '^"'^ changing w.th 
 
 otcus-i ke celenty from one to the other. Then r,n . 
 '^- Auction of Pictures,' and Sir Thomas de \'eil one o, 
 --e. the justices, was introduced. Orator {^^ :,, 
 Co the auctioneer tigured also; and >car after year • 
 I . enchanted by that which is most gratify ng ,0 . 
 
 1^ He .. .Ke, the finished exhibition of fauUs and Tollie 
 One stern voice was raised in reprobation, that of Su d' 
 ohnson : he, at all events, had a due horror ^f buff^ „ 
 even he owned himself vanquished. ' 
 
 herlert s. Having no uood opinion of He fell.v. 1 Z 
 esohed not to be pleas- -1 : and ic i. ... ,, ,,^u to please 
 >nan against his .il,. I went on eating my di^ T^t^ 
 
49'^ 
 
 Churchill an i Uhc Rosciad: 
 
 
 
 .sullenly, afTccttn^' not to inirnl liim ; liut thi .Iol; was so very 
 ronii<\il, tli.it I was oMigcd to Kiy down my knife iind fork, 
 throw niys'jif hack in my chair, nnd fairly l.i'Jgh it out. Sir, 
 he was irre.sistihie.' Consoled by Foote's misfortunes and 
 ultimate couiiihcated misery iur his lessened iuipurtanc e, 
 iUii.I) Dodington still reigned, however, in the hearts of some 
 learne<l votaries. Richard iientley, the » riiic, compared him 
 to Lord Halifax — 
 
 ''Jlial Ilalif.i.x, my I.(iril, as yon do yet, 
 Stixxl t'r)rlli the t'ri.Mid of [lo'ciry and wif, 
 Somjlit iili'iit iin hi in tlic sfcivt cell, 
 
 Ami Hrav'n. n ■■\.'ii m,m, r'"iJd hiin ■;! ' 
 
 A more remorseless foe, howe\er, than I-'oote appeared in 
 
 the jterson of Ciiarles Churchill, the wild and unclerical 
 
 son of a poor curate of Westminster. Foote laughed Jiubb 
 
 Dodington down, but Churdiill ].erpetuated tlie satire; h^x 
 
 Chun hill was uliolly unscrupulous, and his fauIlN had been 
 
 reckless and (lesi)erate. Wholly unfit for a clergyman, he 
 
 had taken orders, obtained a curacy in Wales at jCt:,o j year 
 
 -not being able to subsist, took to kee]iing a cider cellar, 
 
 became a sort of bankrupt, and ([uitting Wales, succeeded to 
 
 the (uracy uf his father, who had ju.-,l died, .'^till famine 
 
 haunted his home ; Chur( hill took, therefore, to teaching 
 
 young ladies to read and write, and conducted himself in the 
 
 boardingschool where his duties lay, with wonderful pro- 
 
 jiriety. He had man I'd at seventeen; but even that step 
 
 had not protected his morals : he fell into abject poverty. 
 
 I. ioyd, father of his friend Robert J.loyd, then second master 
 
 'if Westminster, maile an arrangement with his creditors. 
 
 Voung Lloyd had iiublisheti a poem called ' 'I'he Actor;' 
 
 Churchill, in imitation, now produced ''I'he Ro.sciail,' and 
 
 liubb Dodington was one whose ridiculous jioints were salient 
 
 in those days of personality. ' 'J'he Rosciad' had a signal 
 
 success, whi< h completed the ruin of its author: he became a 
 
 man of the town, forsook the wife of his youth, and abandoned 
 
 the clerical character. There are few sights more contemptible 
 
 than that of a clergyman who has cast off hi., piotession, or 
 
 whose profession lias cast him otit. liut Churchill's talents 
 
(log wns so 
 
 very 
 
 kiiife ami 
 
 lurk, 
 
 I'jgh It out. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 misfortunes 
 
 and 
 
 -■ned iin|iuitan(c, 
 
 c hearts of some 
 
 f, < oinparcil 
 
 him 
 
 It, 
 
 
 ootc; appeared in 
 1 and unclerical 
 )tc Uuighed JUil^l) 
 1 tlie satire ; *br 
 
 faulis had been 
 a ('lcrg)'man, he 
 -s 'It £30 a year 
 ig a rider rellar, 
 les, succeeded to 
 ed. Still famine 
 ore, to teaching 
 ■d himself in the 
 
 wonderful jiro- 
 t even that step 
 ) abject poverty, 
 n second master 
 h his credllors. 
 .1 "The Actor;' 
 le Rusciad,' and 
 oints were salient 
 ad' had a signal 
 or : he became a 
 , and abandoned 
 lore contemptible 
 lii:-i ]iiufession, or 
 hurchill's talents 
 
 PcrsP,ia/ Rhihtlc in its Prof,,- T. IHif. ^^ 
 
 for a time kept him from utter dcstitmion l!,il"l. u.n- 
 
 n..y have ,..„ .„,.,, „. ,„ ^ ,„;;;;,_. J • ■ ",r- 
 
 Dr. Johnson, who ha,l spok.n sli^.|,linKlv of Clinr l,m^ ■ 
 
 .l»c; In,. ,.H,a,.s .he ,no». faithful ■ „ j" '^ "I,, ""' "^ 
 .nKtons d.an.c.er was famished l,v hin sfi„ „;".",; ; 
 '"«n,h, a, il iKis heen well observed he u -ll ' 
 
 nake,Iness of his ,ni„d. and dis,,la,ed „ eif I" 
 
 . o.np„.,n„ of n,e„n ,0 „„,. .',„ ^oli.ie'rr L ,, J''" >' 
 
 n-a). m |.a.ss,ng. I,e remarked, iha. few n,en f„.„re well , 
 
 .^n.;eLr:::M;nri;;jr:;?'v:-;;rv:™r'^ 
 
 n.en,e, but Jlr. Cnnberlan.l is a n" J ; '": rT 
 c..lo«i,nn, Cun,berlan<l has be.raje i" low hm ' ,'" 
 
 unbounded vani.y. worldline.s. and an „ L i 3' .'i!; 
 
 v.miicnui, nor the careful nnnuifr of ('mr1w.ri.,„ i i •. 
 cannot be ranked amom^ t.knts ;,- ,, ^'"''^'^''^"'''^'''''^t they 
 sort of social treache^^ e e^-io , if ^^\ ^''^^'-P')' ^ 
 -.nandjohnson^laces;;^^^^^^^^ 
 
 in^ Characters. Johnson.—' Sir, it is not a t;dent~it is i v\r. ■ 
 . .s what other, abstain ,>om. H is not comed^ which" ^"^ 
 the character of a species-a.s that of a nu.cr' ^athe e d W 
 .-.ny m>sers u is n.rce. which exhibits in<,ividuS^^ ^.^: * 
 - Did not he thmk of exhibiting you, .r.P' Johnson 'Si ' 
 carresjrau.edhun; he knew I would have broken l"" botK.' 
 I uoul.lhave saved him the tr„uble of cutting of 1., 
 Hoi.ld not have left him a leg to cut off.' " " 
 
 I'ew annals exist o'" <li" ...-.■'-.ffl i;c- .r t, , , ,, ,. 
 ■ho.e few are di^eredUable. """ ''"''■"«'™> ''■" 
 
 32- 
 

 
 500 m/,/ Spcdmoi of the Poet. 
 
 l.ikc most men of his time, and like many men of all times 
 D.HJ.ngton was entangled by an unhappy and perplexing in- 
 tngue. ° 
 
 'i'hcre was a certain ' l.huk woman,' as Horace Walpole calls 
 a Mrs. Strawbndge, whom Eul.l. Dodington admired This 
 handsome bnmcltc lived in a corner house of Saville Row in 
 Piccadilly, where Dodington visited her. The result of their 
 intimacy was his giving this la.lya bond often thousand pounds 
 to be paid If he married any one else. The real object of his 
 attections was a Mrs. iJehan. with uhom he lived seventeen 
 years, and whom, on the death of Mrs. Strawbndge, he eventu- 
 ally married. 
 
 Among IJubb Dodington's ndmirers anrl disciples was Paul 
 M lutehead, a wild specimen of the poet, rake, .satirist, drama- 
 tist, all in one ; and what was (luite in character, a Templar 
 to boot. Paul— so named from being born on that Saint's day 
 -wrote one or tu-o pieces which brought him an ephemeral 
 fame, such as the 'State Dunces,' and the ' Kpistle to Dr 
 I hompson," Manners,' a s:,tire, and the ' dymnasiad,' a mock 
 heroic poem, inten.le.l to ridicule the passion for bo.ving, then 
 prevalent. Paul Whitehead, who died in 1774, was an infa- 
 mous but not, m the opinion of Walpole, a despicable poet, 
 yet Churchill has consigned him to everlasting intUrny as a re- 
 l^robate, in these lines :— 
 
 ' M^iv I (can worso rli^praco on manhood fall >) 
 Me born a WhitLbrfad, and ba])tibcd a Paul,' 
 
 Paul was not, however, worse than his satirist Churchill • 
 and both of these wretche.l men were members of a society 
 ong the theme of horror and disgust, even after its existence 
 had <:eased to be remembered, except by a few old people. 
 Ihis was the ' Hell-fire Club,' held in aj>propriate orgies at 
 Medmenham Abbey, Buckinghamshire. The j^rotligate Sir 
 trancis Da.shwood, Wilkes, and Churchill, were amongst its 
 most prominent members. 
 
 With such associates, and living in a court where nothing but 
 the basest passions reigned and the lowest arts prevailed, we 
 are inclined to accord with the descendant of Bubb Dodington 
 
Oct. 
 
 \y men of all times, 
 and ])C'rple.\ing in- 
 
 'orace Walj)ole calls 
 »n admired. This 
 of Savilie Row, in 
 file result of their 
 -Ml thousand pounds 
 real object of his 
 ie lived seventeen 
 vbridge, he eventu- 
 
 isciples was Paul 
 kc, satirist, drama- 
 racter, a Templar 
 )n th;ii Saint's day 
 lini an ejihemeral 
 .' ' Kpistle to Dr. 
 mnasiad,' a mock 
 
 for boxing, then 
 774. was an infa- 
 
 des])icable poet, 
 I infamy as a re- 
 
 ;ill ?) 
 lui; 
 
 itirist Churchill ; 
 ers of a society 
 ter its existence 
 iew old people, 
 spriate orgies at 
 - prolligate Sir 
 ere amongst its 
 
 here nothing but 
 ts prevaileti, we 
 Subb ! )odington, 
 
 Walpolc on Dodiug!ons ' Diary: 50 j 
 
 theeditorof his 'Diary,' Henry Pcnruddocke Wvndham who 
 dedares that all Lord Mela.nbe's political conduct wa. wi: ^ 
 t^ >y the base motives of vanity, sdhshness. and avar.c ' 
 Lord Afelcombe seems to have been a man of the worhl of the 
 very worst .W,/v.; sensual, servile, and treacherous; rea Iv 
 clunng the hlet.me of his patron, FredcnVk, Prince of\" ^ ' 
 
 ^inccl^! n' 1 V"^^ ''^ "'^""^ ''''''^ ^' ^'^^ ^•^"^--- tlKU 
 CO o' ' -'■^~-«-. '-^^ter the death of Lredcrn k, to 
 
 court tho.e powerful men with fiwning servility 
 
 1 he famous 'Diary' of JJubb Dodington supplies the inf.r 
 muon^om which these conclusions l^uebeindm:t^ 
 nee ^Valpole who knew Dodington well, <lescribes how he re.ui 
 ^^.th avuh y the ' D.ary,' whi< h was published in 178 ^ 
 
 lJ^^^"''r^ Melcombe's heirs has published that 
 
 Lords D.ary." Li<ieed ,t commences in 1749, and I gneve 
 
 was not dated twenty years later. Howeve^' t de,.,. in ^ ! 
 
 )a are twenty tunes more familiar and fresh to n>v men ory 
 
 1- ay passage that has happened within these six month ' 
 
 land, and certamly n.eant to flatter himself, it is a ruer nor- 
 tra. than any of his hirelings would l.ue g.ven. Xeve s 
 uch a composition of vanity, versatility, tnd serv.Ht; , 
 
 in the uhole book there are not three sallies ' 
 
 1 he editor of this ' Diary' remarks, ' that he will no doubt 
 
 c consxlered a very extraordinary editor ; the practice of whou 
 
 - genera, y been to ,.e^r flattery to truth, and partialit; ^ 
 
 justice 1 o understan<l, not the flattery which his contenL- 
 
 mnes eaped upon ,..bb Dodington, luu the opprobrium ^'^ 
 
 but I r " "^ '•' memory-to comprenend not his merits 
 
 b h,s dements-t ,s necessary to take a brief survev .f his 
 
 political life from the commencement. He began life as we 
 
 have seen, as a servile adherent of Si; Robert Wal.ole I 
 
 po htiol epistle to the Minister was the prelude to a tempora;y 
 
 a 1 ance only for in 1737, Bubb went over to the adverse par^ 
 
 of L icester House, and espoused the cause of Frederick, P in e 
 
 of \\ ales, againsthisroy.il father. H,. ■ 
 
 from the Treasury. When Sir 
 
 e \\i 
 
 the 
 
 erelore (i 
 
 Robert fell, Bubb 
 
 i.imis.M.'i 
 
 exjiected to 
 
i 
 
 
 
 502 T/ic Best Commentary on a Man's Life. 
 
 rise, but his c.\])(jctations of preferment were not realized. Tie 
 attacked the new Administration forthwith, and succeeded so 
 flir in becoming important that he was made 'I'reasurer of tile 
 Navy; a i)0st which he resigned in 1749, and which he held 
 again in 1755, but which he lost the next year. On the acces- 
 sion of George III., he was not ashamed to apjjcar altogether 
 in a new character, as the friend of Lord liute ; lie was, there- 
 fore, advanced to the peerage by the title of P.aron of Mel- 
 combe Regis, in 1761. The honour was enjoyed for one short 
 year only; and on the 2Sth of July, 1762, 15ubb Doclington 
 exj^ired. Horace Wal])ole. in his ' Royal and Nol)le Authors,' 
 complains that ' Dodington's "Diary" was mangled, in com- 
 liliment, before it was imparted to tlie publi< .' We cannot 
 therefore judge of what the ' Diary' was before, as the editor 
 avows th.at every anecdote was cut out, and all the little gossip 
 so illustrative of chara<ter and manners which would have 
 brightened its dull pages, fell beneath the power of a merciless 
 ])air of scissors. .Mr. Penruddocke W'yndham conceives, how- 
 ever, that he was only doing justice to sue iety in these sup- 
 l)ressions. 'It would,' he says, ' be w entertainment to the 
 reader to be informed who daily dined with his lordshij), or 
 whom he daily met at the table of other people.' 
 
 Posterity thinks differently : a knowledge of a man's asso- 
 ciates forms the best commentary on his life ; and there is much 
 reason to rejoice that all biographers are not like Mr. Penrud- 
 docke \\'yndham. Pubb Dodington, more especially, was a 
 man of society : inferior as a literary man, contemjjtible as a 
 politician, it was only at the head of his table that he was 
 agreeable and brilliant. He was, in fact, a man who had no 
 domestic life : a courtier, like Lord Her\ey, but without Lord 
 Hervey's consistency. He was, in truth., a type of that era in 
 I'.ngland : vulgar in aims ; dissolute in conduct ; ostentatious, 
 vain-glorious— of a low, ephemeral ambition : but at the same 
 time talented, acute, and lavi.sh to the lettered. The public is 
 now the i)atron of the gifted. What writer cares for individual 
 opinion, except as it tends to sweep up thegro.ss amount of jiub- 
 lic blame or censure? What luiblisher will consent to under- 
 take a work because some lord or lady recoinmended it to his 
 
sLifc. 
 
 ot realized. Tie 
 nd succeeded so 
 Treasurer of the 
 1 whirli he held 
 On the acces- 
 .pi)ear altogether 
 ; ; lie was, there- 
 of r.aron of Mel- 
 y"ed for one short 
 lUibb Dodinifton 
 
 Noble Authors,' 
 nangled, in com- 
 ic' We cannot 
 re, as the editor 
 I the little gossip 
 ich would have 
 er of a merciless 
 
 conceives, how- 
 jty in these sup- 
 rtainment to the 
 
 his lordship, or 
 c. 
 
 )f a man's nsso- 
 .\m\ there is much 
 ike Ml'. IVnrud- 
 L\si)ecially, was a 
 •ntemptible as a 
 ble that he was 
 lan who had no 
 lit without Lord 
 )e of that era in 
 ct ; ostentatious, 
 but at the same 
 The public is 
 cs for individual 
 s amount of pul)- 
 nsent to under- 
 ended it to his 
 
 Leicester House 
 
 503 
 
 notire ? The revieu-er is greater i., the coaunuir.veallh of letters 
 than the man of rank. 
 
 But in these days it was otherwise; nnd thcv who in the 
 
 necessu.c. of the tMnes, did what they <ould to advan^ e 
 interest of the /.//. /./,..,, Reserve not\o be forgotten. 
 
 It .s w.th a feehng of sickness that we open the pa^es of 
 
 dus^eat Wu's ' Diary,' and attempt to perui the senLm^ u 
 
 V Inch the most graspmg sehlshness is .lisplaved. ^Ve follow 
 
 Hun to Lccester House, that ancient taK-ment-Cwhe^. > 
 
 pulled down, except to erect on its forn.er site the narrowest f 
 
 t ets does not appear) : that fonner hon.e of the Sydnevs 
 
 ad not always been polluted by d,e di.olute, heartless" .^ 
 
 ^ bo composed the court of Frederick, Prince of Wales It 
 
 chambers had once been traversed by Henry Sydney by l 
 
 gcrnon, h.s brother. ,t was their A... the^ I'the^'R^:^. 
 
 Sydney, La, of Leuester, having hv.l there. Th lov^^ 
 
 Dorothy Sydney, A\'aller's Sac.harissa, once, in all purity ad 
 
 M ddl,.,x and her comphant lord, afterwards flattered the 
 
 kest of prmces, Frederick. In ol.l tin.es Leicester House 
 
 1-1 stood on Lammas land-hmd in the spirit of the old 
 
 H.mnes, open to the poor after Lammas-tide : and even 'the 
 
 - u ; d!;;;: T-^-f f ^'^^-^^-'— - ^Id docun.ent hath U 
 ---uasobhge.1, If//,' chose to turn out his cows or horses on 
 U,at appropriated lam^ 
 
 bt Martm s parish, then really ' in the hchls.' And here this 
 nob eman not only .Uvelt in all state himself, but let, or lent his 
 house to persons whose memory seems to hallow even Leicester 
 
 life s fitful fever,' died at Leu eMer House. It became then 
 t^^jpon^ily the abode of ambassador. Colbert, i^ I time 
 
 fLharles IL, occupied the place; Prince Lugene, in ,7.., 
 held his residence here; and the rough .oldiu-. famous for a! 
 absence of tact^brave, loyal-hearted, and coarse-lingered at 
 .eices^er House in hopes of obstructing the peace between 
 
 England and i- ranee. 
 
 All that was good and ijreat fled for .n-r fr^^. j ,.; .., 
 
 House at -- ■ ■ -^ "- ' ""■■' ^-^-"^^r 
 
 mstant that George IL, wheii ] 
 
 rmce of Wal 
 
 cs. 
 

 
 5^4 Grace Boyle. 
 
 was driven by his royal futlicr from St. James's, and took up 
 his abode in it until the death of Oeorge I. The once 
 honoured home of tlie Syihieys henceforth becomes loathsome 
 m a moral sense. Here William, Duke of Cutnberland— the 
 hero, as court tlatterers called him-- the butcher, as the poor 
 Jacobite designated him — of Culloden, first saw the light. 
 Peace and resi)ectability then dignified the old house for 
 ever. i'rince Frederick was its next inmate: here the 
 Princess of Wales, the mother of Ceorge III., had her lyings- 
 in, and her royal husband held his public tables; and "at 
 these and in every assembly, as well as in ja-ivate, one figure 
 is conspicuous. 
 
 Grace Boyle— for she unwortliily bore that great name- 
 was the daughter and heiress of Richard, Viscount Shannon. 
 She married Lord Middlesex, bringing him a fortune of thirty 
 thousand pounds. Short, plain, 'very yellow,' as her contempo- 
 raries aftirm, with a head fiill of (ireek and Latin, and devoted 
 to music and painting; it seems strange that hVederick should 
 have been attracted to one far inferior to his own princess both 
 in mind and jterson. But so it was, for in those days every 
 man liked his neighbour's wife better than his own. Imitating 
 the forbearance of her ro\al motlier-in-law, the jirincess 
 tolerated such of her husband's mistresses as did not interfere in 
 politJ.*-«: Lady Middlesex was the 'my good Mrs. Howard,' 
 of Leicester House. She was made Mistress of the Robes: 
 her favour soon 'grew,' as the shrewd Horace remarks, 'to 
 be rather more than Platonic.' She lived with the royal pair 
 constantly, and sat up till five o'clock in the morning at 
 their sui)i)ers ; and Lord Middlesex saw and .submitted to all 
 that was going on with the loyalty and patience of a Giv/xia/i 
 c.(j»iwtier. Lady Middlesex was a docile ])olitician, and on that 
 .*r-,rount, retained her position probaljly long after she had lost 
 ^>er mlluence. 
 
 Wer name appears constantly in the ' Diar>',' out of which 
 
 amusing has been carefully expunged. 
 
 ly -diddlesex. Lord Bathurst, Mr. Breton, and I, waited 
 
 c. v.vir Royal Highnesses to Spitalfields, to see the manii- 
 
 lattare of silk.' In tb.e afternoon oil" went the same party to 
 
es's, and took up 
 ;e I. The once 
 iccomcs loathsome 
 Cu!n])erlan(l— the 
 U<h(jr, as the poor 
 rst saw the light, 
 he old house for 
 iiiKite : here the 
 1., had her lyings- 
 ic tables ; and at 
 ])rivate, one figure 
 
 hat great name — 
 discount Shannon. 
 
 fortune of thirty 
 
 as her contempo- 
 .atin, and devoted 
 
 I'Vcdcrick should 
 own princess both 
 
 those days every 
 i own. Imitating 
 aw, the princess 
 lid not interfere in 
 >d Mrs. Howard,' 
 >s of the Robes : 
 race remarks, 'to 
 ilh the royal pair 
 1 the morning at 
 [ submitted to all 
 nee of a Gco/xiau 
 ician, and on that 
 after she had lost 
 
 ry,' out of which 
 
 ;ed. 
 
 on, and I, waited 
 
 lo see the manu- 
 
 he same party to 
 
 E/ri^mu/ Jfodi-s of Passing- L ifc q q - 
 
 .^r"' Titrvr "'"''' '^"'■""- '°'''^' •■' '-■'"--■■" "'■ 
 
 . . 'or • '7""°' "■'•■"' '° •■""' ■"" lfc'>-»onh, ,l,e 
 
 iror 1„„ no ,l,«:„vcT,„g l,i,n, ,,,,„ ,„ ,^.,,„,,, „,.• , 
 
 relates liu ,lj l)o,hngion. ' tlic |,c-a,li:,riiics of li,,, ,1 iv bv 
 -■I'p.ns wuh Mrs. Cannon, the „nn,xss'.s ,„i.lu.ife: " ' 
 
 lor the sake of U,\y M.cl.llesex, b„l, it was sai.l. of iu-r f,icn,l 
 f I ore,";' :■ ,"'"■ °',""-' """'' "' "°--. ''-8^'«' of . 'c 
 ' ' ,^' ""rccly i.retty : a far, reil-liairul giri. 
 
 .Lc "I ' 1,!''^,';"'"'?' f "T '"■'""'■■' «'"'""y "■»' •■>i'™i"i' 
 
 M^rch iL J ' '"'"' '''^ ''•■■•"'■■ """"K the '..onti of 
 raid V y , ™' """''^"' "'"' "'"••■^»> i«ving cangl.t 
 <-oId. \ery |,t,le apprehension was expresse,! ,it ftrst itit 
 a-ne even, lays after his first a.taek, h'e expire,! '.If „ 
 
 otr efore Ins ,lea.h, he had aske,, to see s.lme frien' a^c 
 l.ad calle,! for <ollee ami l,rea,l .and baiter ; a fit of con, lin^ 
 
 : "'I ""■;"'' ''v«"' "'*•"">• f™"' -"fo'-fon. IT 
 
 ..c. had been for,„ing in his si,le, ha.l bnrs. ; neve he e' 
 s two l.hy..e.ans, ^^,h„o. a„,l ,,ee, -knew , othi, , of I ,^ 
 
 e lender; T""^'°,'-";' "''*°'"""' ""•' "- -f- » 
 r blun, ers, ll,ey declare,!, half an hour l,efore his ,leath 
 
 Hat ,s pulse was like a man's in perfect I.ealth. They tier 
 
 ™.W no see or did no. know the <onse,p,ences of ,i ck 
 
 nis . « ,,ch appe.ared i„ his „K,„th, ani ,,„i.e down i i^ 
 
 rsiistance.' '■■'''' "'"™"'''' '" ""' -""'»' "> ""-e; 
 
 The consternation in the pnnce's i„„„e.oM w.as great not 
 
 o IHS l,fe^ but for the ,:on„,sion into whtch politic'were 
 
 o„, by h,s death. After hk rela,,se, and unuU„s, lefoe 
 
 l"s <leatl, the |,nncess „e.er suffere.l any Engi.sh nv.n or 
 
 wonran, above the ,legree of valet-de-chatnL to'see h, n 
 
 ce r t,rr',T'' r,"""" """=='">" ""-'absolutely 
 necessary. After the ,leath of hns eldest born. Geor^^e II 
 
 vented h,s diabolical jealousy un„„ ,!,„ ,.„i,, .„,,T. ',_"• 
 tl.u.s cut OH ,„ the prune of hfe. ' ' rheluner;^ >;;r;;dere,;';: 
 
5o^ A SafDay. 
 
 1)0 on the model of that of Charles II., In.t private counter- 
 orders were .sued to reduce the c cren.onial o the sn L t 
 decree of rcsjK.t tl.at couhl be paid. 
 
 f'n tlv ,,^th of April, 1751, the body of the prince was 
 entombed ,n Ilcnry VII.'s chapel. Kvccpt the I< ds n 
 l;o.nt.l to hold the pan, and atti, the chiif :l^^ 
 
 ior I /; r' ' :'' "°' "" "^'^''"l^' '-^"'^ "'^'y one Irish 
 
 loHl (Lord l..menck), and three sons of peers-. Sir lohn 
 Ku^c.tandl,.lin,. ,,,,,^^,^^^^^^ 
 
 foHo^c.I. It rauK-d heav.ly, but no covering was provided 
 
 ^ d,r^<Tr- .'"r"""^^^ -sper..rn.ed w.thout organ 
 or^^mthcm. Ihus, observes liubb Dodington, 'ended !1hs 
 
 Somen 7'\"T ''"T I''' ' ''''''''' "^'^ -^ters, the Duke of 
 
 t^lK pnnces death as a rehef whuh was to render happy 
 ^Hs rcuKun.ng days ; and Dubb Dodington hastened, in a few 
 
 m..thMo oHertothe Pelluuns Mns iViendsi.ip andatiachme^ 
 H.,s attendance at court was resumed, although (ieor^.c II 
 
 - -ten<Iurehim;andtheo,dWalpoliaL,nick«^ 
 tiic i,la( k-tan, were also averse to Inm 
 
 Such were lU.bb Dodington's actu>.s. His expressions, on 
 occa.on of t e prmce's death, were in a very .lirteJent tone! 
 
 Ue have lost, he wrote to Sir Horace Mann, 'the deh^ht 
 and ornanK-nt of the age he lived in,-the expecLuions of t 
 pubic: „, th,s hght I have lost more than any subject in 
 
 Kngl^d;,HU this is light, --public advantagesULl ;« 
 >..! do not, ought not, to weigh with me. P>ut we have lost 
 
 1 e sh r °M""''^' 'l;-^;'-ess-^the balm of the af.licted heart 
 
 lelterof the n.serable against the fury of private adversity; 
 
 Hearts, the graces, the anguish, the nusfortunes of society 
 
 have lost their jjatron and their remedy. ^' 
 
 'I have lost my comj.anion-my protector-the frieml that 
 
 oved m. ^.at condescend.l to hear, to communicate, to sh ^ 
 
 •" al the pleasures and pams of the luunan heart : where the 
 
 soaal altecfons and cMnotions of the mind only presided with- 
 
 out regard to the infinite disnr ' - 
 
 ^prop-ortion of my rank m 
 
 lu con- 
 
Hit privnte counter- 
 i;il "to the smallest 
 
 of the prinre was 
 '(-'I't the lords ;ip- 
 liicf iiKMirner, when 
 inks, there was not 
 I'l only one Irish 
 •f peers. Sir Jolin 
 y counsellors who 
 •ring was provided 
 ^led without organ 
 igton. ' ended this 
 
 iisters, the Duke of 
 ,' hailed the event 
 ■i to render ha])py 
 Listened, in a few 
 ]> ;uid attachment.' 
 lough (ieorge II. 
 )lians, nick-named 
 
 is expressions, on 
 
 tlifferent tone, 
 lann, ' the delight 
 'vpectations of the 
 II any subject in 
 ages confuied to 
 
 But we have lost 
 he afllicted heart 
 l>rivate adversity; 
 tunes of society, 
 
 —the friend that 
 lunicate, to share 
 leart : where the 
 ly presided with- 
 y rank and con- 
 
 T/w Vctrnvi II It, Beau, and Politiciau. 507 
 
 'lition. This is a wound that cannot, ought not to heal. If 
 f pretended to fortitude here, I should be infamous-a monster 
 of n.gran ude-and unworthy of all consolation, if I .-as o 
 mconsolable.' 
 
 Sir' h'""'' ^'T;' '"■'''' "'" ^^'""'''^ "'^^^'^^ ^^''-^'P^'^-' addressing 
 
 •S Horace Mann, 'for the transcript ^.on^ jU.c TnsUlnl 
 
 .11 keep your secret, though I am persuaded that a n.an who 
 
 had composed such a funeral oration on his master had himself 
 
 oblcJnly" '"' "' ''""^ ^'""" ""^ •^'^""^ ^^-' -'"-'' 
 \V;cll might George II., seeing him go to court say; ' I see 
 1 )odmgton here sometimes, what does he come for ?' 
 
 It was, however, clearly seen what he went for, wh-n in 
 '753, two years after the death of his 'benefactor,' Dodin. 'ton 
 iuunbly offered H.s Majesty his services in the hcse, and C 
 nembers, for the rest of his life, if His Majesty would gi e Mr 
 Pelham cave to employ him for His\Majesty's 'e^.fcj" 
 N c ertheless he co.Uuuied to advise with the Princess of Wales 
 an<l to drop mto her house as if it had been a sister's house- 
 
 In the midst c'" ^.he.se intrigues for fovour on the part of 
 od.ngton, Mn Pelhamdied, and was succeeded by his 1 r^.^ 
 he I uke of Newcastle, the issue of whose administration i 
 wclJ known. 
 
 In r 760 deucK a,a:n befriended the now veteran wit, beau and 
 K hucu n George II. died ; and the intimacy which Doding- 
 on had always taken care to prcserv. between himself and IL 
 Inncess of Wales, ended advantageous^ for him; and he 
 J'^^tantly, m spite of all hi., fo.^cr professions to Pelham 
 lomed hand an.l heart with tl .t minister, fron. .whc. he 
 -tamed a peerage. Thi.s, as we have seen, was not long en- 
 
 Mi, bed on the 38th of Julj- ,76.; and with him term- 
 natc.l the short-hved distinction for which he had sacrificed 
 fvcn a decent pretext of principle and consistency 
 
 So general has been the the contcn.pt t^U U.r his character, 
 tlut It seems almost needless to assert that liubb Dodin^^ton 
 

 
 508 Defend US from our Executors and Editors. 
 
 was eminently lo he (lespised. Noihinj; niiif h more severe rnn 
 be said of him than the remarks of Horace Walpole— upon his 
 'Diary;' in which he observes that Dodington records Httle 
 but what is to his own disgrace; as if he tliought that the world 
 would forgive his inconsistencies as readily as he forgave him- 
 self ' Had he adopted,' Horace well observes, 'the Frenc h 
 title " Confessions,'' it would have seemed to imply some kind 
 of penitence.' 
 
 IJut vain-glory engrossed him : ' He was determined to raise 
 an altar to himself, and for want of burnt offerings, lighted the 
 pyre, like a great author (Rousseau), with his own character.' 
 
 It was saitl by the same acute observer, both of Lord Her- 
 vey and of Bubb Dodington, that they were the only two 
 persons he ever knew that were always aiming at wit and never 
 finding it.' And here, it seems, most that can be testified in 
 l)raise of a heartless, clever man, must be summed up. 
 
 Lord IMelcombe's jjropcrty, with the exception of a few lega- 
 cies, devolved upon his cousin 'Hiomns Wyndham, of Ham- 
 mersmith, by whom his Lordship's jjapers, letters, and poems, 
 were bequeathetl to Henry Penrudilocke \\'yndham, with an 
 injunction, that only such as ' might do honour to his memory 
 should be made jniblic' 
 
 After this, in addition to the true sa}'ing, <lefend us from our 
 friends, one may exclaim, • defend us from our e.vecutors and 
 editors.' 
 
 bll.I.ING, I'KINTEK, GUILDFORD. 
 
lul Editors. 
 
 null more severe rnii 
 .' \V;iIj)ole — upon his 
 lington records little 
 loiight that the world 
 y as he forgave hini- 
 hserves, 'the KreiK h 
 to imply some kind 
 
 ; determined to raise 
 offerings, lighted the 
 his own character.' 
 ', both of Lord Her- 
 
 were the only two 
 ing at wit and never 
 
 can be testified in 
 jmnied up. 
 option of a few lega- 
 Wyndham, of I iam- 
 
 letters, and ])oenis, 
 
 ^\'yndham, with an 
 lour to his memory 
 
 defend us from our 
 I our executors and 
 
 nv Ti,r. sAMr. authors.- 
 
 (L'nifomi uith th.j Present Work.) 
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 1' M K O U K I£ N S O l^^ S O C I \i T Y 
 
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 I-ADV CaKdI.ini.; LaMB. 
 
 A\.\r, Skymoi'k D.v.mkr, 
 
 I. A MaRQI-Isk i,u Dki-KANd. 
 
 Mrs. Ei.izAiii.rii Momagu. 
 Mary Cuuntkvs of I'i.mhkokk. 
 La Marquisi, ue Makntknon. 
 
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