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 GRACE AND PHILIP WHARTON, cp^cucd.a 
 
 AUTHORS OF " THK OIIEENS OF SOCIIiTY. 
 
 H^l TH IL L US TRA TIONS. 
 
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 V. 1 
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 a 
 
 Ui 
 
 In revising this publication, it has scarcely been 
 found necessary to recall a single opinion relative to 
 the subject of the Work. The general impressions of 
 X characters adopted by the Authors have received little 
 modification from any remarks elicited by the appear- 
 ance of "The Wits and Beaux of Society." 
 
 It is scarcely to be expected that even our descend- 
 ants -will know much more of the Wits and Beaux of 
 former days than v,c now do. The chests at Straw- 
 berry Hill are cleared of their contents ; Horace Wal- 
 pole's latest letters are before us ; Pepys and Evelyn 
 have thoroughly dramatized the days of Charles II. ; 
 Lord Ilervey'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 published ; still it is possible that 
 some long-disregarded treasury of old letters, like that 
 in the Gallery 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 antiquated writing on them, to 
 
 473791
 
 4 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 light her fires with, when the late William Upcott came 
 to the rescue, and saved Evelyn's " Diary " for a grate- 
 ful world. It is just possible that such a discovery may 
 again be made, and that the doings of George Villiers, 
 or the exile life of Wharton, or the inmost thoughts of 
 other Wits and Beaux may be made to appear in clearer 
 lights than heretofore ; but it is much more likely that 
 the popular opinions about these witty, Avorthless 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 been 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, ad- 
 vantage will be gladly taken to improve, correct, and 
 complete the lives. 
 
 One thing must, in justice, be said : if they have 
 been Avritten freely, fearlessly, they have been written 
 without passion or prejudice. The writers, though not 
 quite of the stamp of persons who would never have 
 "dared to address" any of the subjects of their 
 biography, " save with courtesy and obeisance," have 
 no wish to " trample on the graves " of such very amus- 
 ing personages as the "Wits and Beaux of Society." 
 They have even l)een lenient to their memory'-, h;iil- 
 ing every good trait gladly, ami pointing out with 
 no unsparing hand redeeming virtues; and it cannot 
 certainly be said, in this instance, that tlie good has
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 5 
 
 been "interred Avitli the bones" of tlie 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 
 remember that biography is a trust, and that it should 
 not be an culogium. 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 " AVits and 
 Beaux" are, it is admitted, just: vice is censured; 
 folly rebuked ; ungentlemanly conduct, even in a beau 
 of the highest polish, exposed ; irreligion finds no toler- 
 ation 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 world, 
 and for those who live out of it. The task of portray- 
 ing such characters as the " Wits and Beaux of Society " 
 is a responsible one, and does not involve the mere at- 
 tempt to amuse, or the mere desire to abuse, but requires 
 truth and discrimination; as embracing just or unjust 
 views of such characters, it may do much 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 offence at 
 the revival of old stories anent their defunct grand- 
 fathers, though those very stories were circulated liy 
 accredited writers employed by the families themselves. 
 Some individuals are scandalized when a man who was 
 habitually drunk, is called a drunkard ; and ears polite
 
 6 PKEFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 cannot bear the application of plain names to ^vell- 
 known delinquencies. 
 
 There is something foolish, but respectably foolish, 
 in this wish to shut out light -which has been streaming 
 for years over these old tombs and memories. The 
 flowers that are cast on such graves cannot, however, 
 cause us to forget the corruption within and under- 
 neath. In consideration, nevertheless, of a pardon- 
 able weakness, all expressions that can give pain, or 
 which have been said to give pain, have been, in this 
 Second Edition, omitted ; and whenever a mis-state- 
 ment has crept in, care has been taken to amend the 
 error.
 
 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 The success of the " Queens of Society " will have 
 pioneered the way for the " Wits and Beaux : " with 
 whom, during tlie lioliday time of their lives, these 
 fair ladies were so greatly associated. The "Queens," 
 whether all wits or not, must have been the cause of 
 wit in others ; their influence over dandyism is noto- 
 rious : their power to make or mar a man of fashion, 
 almost historical. So far, a chronicle of the sayings 
 and doings of tlic "Wits" is worthy to serve as a 
 pendant to that of the "Queens:" happy would it 
 be for society if tlie annals of the former could more 
 closely resemble the biography 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" — Avere men who often took an active part 
 in the stirring events of their day : they assumed to be 
 statesmen, though, too fre(][uently, they were only ]>uli- 
 
 7
 
 8 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 ticians. They were brave and loyal : indeed, in the 
 time of the Stuarts, all the Wits were Cavaliers, as 
 well as the Beaux. One hears of no repartee among 
 Cromwell's followers ; no dash, no merriment, in Fair- 
 fax's staff; eloquence, indeed, but no wit in the Par- 
 liamentarians ; and, in truth, in the second Charles's 
 time, the kino; mio;ht have headed the lists of the Wits 
 himself — such a capital man as his Majesty is known 
 to have been for a wet evening or a dull Sunday ; such 
 a famous teller of a story — such a perfect diner-out : no 
 wonder that in his reign we had George Villiers, second 
 Duke of Buckingham of that family, " mankind's epit- 
 ome," who had every pretension to every accomplish- 
 ment combined in himself. No wonder we could 
 attract De Grammont and Saint Evremond to our 
 court ; and own, somewhat to our discredit be it 
 allowed, Rochester and Beau Fielding. Every reign 
 has had its wits, but those in Charles's time were so 
 numerous as to distinguish the era by an especial 
 brilliancy. Nor let it be supposed that these annals 
 do not contain a moral application. They show how 
 little the sparkling attributes herein portrayed con- 
 ferred happiness ; how far more the rare, though cer- 
 tainly real touches of genuine feeling and strong affec- 
 tion, which appear here and there even in the lives of 
 the most thoughtless "Wits and Beaux," elevate tlie 
 character in youth, or console the spirit in age. They 
 prove how wise has been tliat change in society which 
 now repudiates the "Wit" as a distinct class; and re-
 
 rHEPWCE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 9 
 
 quires general intelligence as a compensation for lost 
 repartees, or long obsolete practical jokes. 
 
 "Men are not ail evil:" so in the life of Georrre 
 Villiers, Ave find liiin kind-hearted, and free from 
 hypocrisy. His old servants — and the fact speaks 
 in extenuation of one of our wildest Wits and Beaux 
 — loved hiia faithfully. De Grammont, we all own, 
 has little to redeem him except his good nature : 
 Rochester's latest days were almost hallowed by his 
 penitence. Chesterfield is saved by his kindness to 
 the Irish, and his affection for his son. Horace "Wal- 
 pole had human affections, though a most inhuman 
 pen : and Wharton was famous for his good-humor. 
 
 The periods most abounding in the Wit and the Beau 
 have, of course, been those most exempt from wars, 
 and rumors of wars. The Restoration ; tlie early 
 period of the Augustan age ; the commencement of 
 the Hanoverian dynasty, — have all been enlivened by 
 Wits and Beaux, who came to light like mushrooms 
 after a storm of rain, as soon as the jjolitical horizon 
 was clear. We have Congreve, who affected to be 
 the Beau as well as the Wit ; Lord Hervev, more 
 of the courtier than the Beau — a Wit by inheritance 
 — a peer, assisted into a pre-eminent position by royal 
 preference, and consequent prestige ; and all these men 
 ■were the offspring of the particular state of the times 
 ill which they figured : at earlier periods, they would 
 have been deemed effeminate ; in later ones, absurd. 
 
 Then the scene shifts : intellect had marched forward
 
 10 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 gigantically : the "world is growing exacting, disputa- 
 tious, critical, and such men as Horace Walpole and 
 Brinsley Sheridan appear ; the characteristics of "svit 
 which adorned that age being well diluted by the 
 feebler talents of Selwyn and Hook. 
 
 Of these, and others, '•'table traits,'' and other traits, 
 are here given : brief chronicles of tJteir life's stage, 
 over which a curtain 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 tlie portraitures life- 
 like, and to bring forward old memories, which, Avith- 
 out the stamp of antiquity, might be suffered to pass 
 into obscurity. 
 
 Your Wit and your Beau, be he French or English, 
 is no medieval personage : the aristocracy of the pres- 
 ent day rank among his immediate descendants : he is 
 a creature of a modern and an artificial age; and with 
 his career are mingled many features of civilized life, 
 manners, habits, and traces of family history Avhich are 
 still, it is believed, interesting to the xnajority of Eng- 
 lish readers, as they have long been to 
 
 Grace and Piiilip Wharton. 
 
 October, 1S60.
 
 CONTEiSTTS. 
 
 GEORGE VILLIERS, SECOND DUKE OF BUCK- 
 INGHAM. 
 
 Signs of the Eestoration. — Samuel Pepys in his Glory. — Who wa.s 
 Samuel TVpys?— A Koyal Company.— Pepys " ready to Weep." 
 — Tlie I'laymate of Cliarlcs II. — George \illiers.— George Vil- 
 liei-s's Inheritance. — Two Gallant Young Noblemen. — Murder 
 of Francis ^'iUiers.— After (he Battle of Worcester.— Boscohel. 
 — At the White-Ladies.— Disguising the King. — Villiers in 
 Hiding. — He appeal's as a Mountebank. — Buckingham's Hab- 
 its. — He .sees his Sister.— Cromwell's Saintly Daughter. — In 
 love with a Mountebank. — Villiers and the Babbi. — The Buck- 
 ingham Pictures and Estates. — York House. — Villiers returns 
 to England. — Poor Mary Fairfax. — York House Sold.— Vil- 
 liers in tiic Tower. — Aljraham Cowley, the Poet. — Cowley and 
 \'illiers.— The (Jreatest Ornament of Whitehall. — Bucking- 
 ham's Wit and Beauty. — Flecknoe's Opinion. — The Countess 
 of Shrew.sbury. — Duel with the Earl of Shrew.sbury. — Villiers 
 as a Poet. — Asa Dramatist. — A Fearful Censure! — Villiers's 
 Inlhience in Parliament. — A Scene in the Lords. — The Cabal. 
 —The Duke of Orn)ond in Danger. — Rochester's Epigram. — 
 Wallingford House.— Ham House. — "Madame Ellen." — The 
 ('al)al. — N'illiers again in the Tower. — A Change. — Nearing the 
 End.— The Duke of York's Theatre.— The Duchess of Buck- 
 ingham Leaves. — Villiers and the Princes,s of Orange. — Vil- 
 liens's Last llour.s. — Death of Villiers. — Ducliess of Bucking- 
 ham Page 19 
 
 COUNT DE GRAMMONT, ST. EVREMOND, AND 
 LORD ROCHESTER. 
 
 The Church or the Army? — De finimmont's Choice. — His Influence 
 with Turcnne. — An Adventure at Lyons. — A lirilliant Idea. — 
 Gambling upon Credit. — De ( i ranmiont's (lenerosity. — A Hoi-se 
 
 11
 
 12 CONTENTS. 
 
 "for the Cards." — Knight-Cicisbeism. — De Grammont's First 
 Love. — His Witty Attacks on Mazarin. — De Grammont's In- 
 dependence. — Anne Lucie de la Motlie Houdancourt. — Beset 
 with Snares. — X)e Grammont's Visits to Enghind. — Charles II. 
 — Life at Whitehall. — Court of Charles II. — Introduction of 
 Country Dances. — Norman Peculiarities. — St. Evremond, the 
 Handsome Norman. — The Most Beautiful Woman in Europe. 
 — The Child-Wife. — Hortense Mancini's Adventures. — Life at 
 Chelsea. — Anecdote of Lord Dorset. — Lord Dorset as a Poet. 
 Lord Kochester in his Zenith. — His Courage and Wit. — As a 
 Writer and a Man. — Banished from Court. — Credulity, Past 
 and Present. — " Dr. Bendo " and La Belle Jennings. — Bishop 
 Burnet's Description. — La Triste Ileritiere. — Elizabeth, Coun- 
 tess of Eochester. — Retribution and Eeformation. — Conversion. 
 — Exhortation to Mr. Fanshawe. — Beaux without Wit. — Little 
 Jermyn. — An Incomparable Beauty. — Anthony Hamilton. — ■ 
 De Grammont's Biographer. — The Three Courts. — " La Belle 
 Hamilton." — An Intellectual Beauty. — Sir Peter Lely's Por- 
 trait. — Infatuation. — The Household Deity of Whitehall. — 
 AVho shall have the Caleche ? — A Chai)lain in Livery. — At 
 the French Court. — De Grammont's Last Hours. . . Page 78 
 
 BEAU FIELDING. 
 
 On Wits and Beaux. — Fielding's Ancestry. — Scotland Yard. — Or- 
 lando of "The Tatler."— " A Coraplet'e Gentleman."— In Debt. 
 — Adonis in Search of a Wife. — The Sham Widow. — Ways 
 and Means. — A Fatal Intimacy. — Barbara Yilliers, Lady Cas- 
 tlemaine. — Quarrels with the King. — The Duchess of Cleve- 
 hunl in Love. — The Beau's Second Marriage. — The Last Days 
 of Fops and Beaux Paye 13(5 
 
 OF CERTAIN CLUBS AND CLUB-WITS UNDER 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 The Raison d'etre of Club-Life.— The Origin of Qubs.— The Estab- 
 lishment of Cofree-houses. — The October Ciub. — Tlie Beef-steak 
 Club. — Its Modern Representative. — Estcourt, the Actor. — The 
 Kit-kat Club. — The Romance of tlie Bowl. — The Toasts of the 
 Kit-kat. — Portraits of Ladies of the Kit-kat. — The ^lembers 
 of the Kit-kat.— A Good Wit, and a Bad Architect.—" Well- 
 natured Garth."—" A better Wit than Poet."— The Poets of
 
 CONTENTS. 13 
 
 the Kit-kat. — Poets and tluir Patrons.— Lord Halifax a.s a 
 Poet. — (.'liancellor .Somers. — Charles Sackville, Lonl I)oi>et. — 
 Less Celebrated Wits. i'«<?e 152 
 
 WILIJAM CONGREVE. 
 
 When and Where was he P.orn? — Conflicting Dates.— The Middle 
 Temple. — Congreve finds his Voeation. — Verses to (^iieen Mary. 
 —Old Retterton. — The Tennis Court Theatre. — Congreve aban- 
 dons the Drama. — Jeremy Collier. — The Tmnu)rality of the 
 Stage. — Iloni soit qui mal y pense. — Very Inijiroper Things. — 
 Congreve's ^Vritings. — Promiscuous Attacks.— Jeremy's " Short 
 Views." — Dryden's Death.— Dryden's Funeral. — What came 
 of a "Drunken Frolic."— A Tub-Preacher.— A ISIoh in the 
 Al)hey.— Dryden's Solicitude for his Son. — Congreve's Ambi- 
 tion. — Anecdote of Voltaire and Congreve. — Authoi-ship as a 
 Profession. — The Profession of Maecenas. — Advantages of a 
 Patron. — Congreve's Private Life. — "Malbrook's" Daugh- 
 ter. — Legacies to Titled Friends.— Congreve's Death and 
 Burial P«i/e 175 
 
 BEAU NASH. 
 
 Nash's Birthplace and Father. — Old Nash.— Nash at Oxford.— 
 Shifting for Himself.— Ofl'er of Knighthood.— Nash's Gener- 
 osity.— Doing Penance at York.— Days of Folly.— A very Ro- 
 mantic Story.— Bath. — Sickness and Civilization.— Nash De- 
 scends upon Bath.— King of Bath.— Nash's Chef-d'a'uvre.— 
 The Ball. — Improvements in the Pump-room. — A Public 
 Benefactor.— Canes ?s. Swonls. — Life at Bath in Nash's Time. — 
 Compact with the Duke of licaufort. — Gaming at Bath.— The 
 Fop's Vanity.— Anecdotes of Na.sh.— " Miss Sylvia."— A Gen- 
 erous Act. — The Setting Sun.— A Panegyric. — Na.sh'sOld Age. 
 — Ilis Funeral.— His Characteristics.— Beau Nash and his Flat- 
 terers i'«i/e 20G 
 
 rniLTP, DUKE OF WHARTON. 
 
 Pope's Lines on Wharton.— The Duke's.S.ix^'stors.—IIis Early Years. 
 —Marriage at Sixteen. — Wharton takes Leave of his Tutor. — 
 Espouses tiie Chevalier's Cause. — Frolics at Paris. — Seeks a 
 Seat in Parliament.— " Pawning his Principles."— Zeal for the
 
 14 CONTENTS. 
 
 Orange Cause. — A Jacolj'ite Hero. — The Trial of Atterbury. — 
 Wharton's Defence of the Bisliop. — A Partisan of the Cheva- 
 lier. — Hypocritical Signs of Penitence. — Sir Robert Walpole 
 Duped. — A New Love. — ^Very Trying. — The Duke of Whar- 
 ton's "Whens." — Military Glory at Gibraltar. — A "Colonel 
 Aggregate." — "Uncle Horace." — Wharton to "Uncle Hor- 
 ace." — Tlie Duke's Impudence. — Living beyond his Means. 
 — High Treason. — Wharton's Eeady Wit. — Last Extremities. 
 — Sad Days in Paris. — His Last Journey to Spain. — His Activ- 
 ity of Mind. — His Death in a Convent Faye 238 
 
 LORD HERVEY. 
 
 George H. Arriving from Hanover. — His INIeeting with the Queen. 
 — Mrs. Clayton. — Lady Suffolk. — Queen Caroline. — Sir Rob- 
 ert Walpole. — A Statesman's La.st Days. — Lord Hervey. — The 
 Macaroni. — Lord Hervey's Ancestry. — An Eccentric Race. — 
 Carr, Lord Hervey. — A Fragile Boy.— A Butterfly Existence. 
 — George II.'s Family. — Anne Brett. — A Bitter Cup. — The 
 Darling of the Family. — The Younger Royal Princesses.— 
 Evenings at St. James's. — Frederick, Prince of Wales. — Ame- 
 lia Sophia Walraoden. — Kingly Insults. — Poor Queen Caroline ! 
 — Miss Yane. — Nocturnal Diversions. — " Neighbor George's 
 Orange-clicst." — Mary Lepel, Lady Hervey. — Rivalry. — Lady 
 Mary Wort ley IMontagu. — Hervey's Intimacy with I..ady Mary. 
 — Visits to Twickenham. — Bacon's Opinion of Twickenham. — 
 A Visit to Pope's Villa. — Pope as a Host.— The Little Night- 
 ingale. — The Essence of Small-talk. — Hervey's Aflectation. — 
 Pope's Quarrels. — Pope's Lines on Lord Hervey. — Hervey's 
 Duel with Pulteney. — "Death of Lord Hervey: a Drama." — 
 Card-table Conversation. — Queen Caroline's Last Drawing- 
 room. — Her Illness and Agony. — The (^ueen Keei>s her Secret. 
 — A Painful vScene. — The Truth Discovered. — The Hated 
 "Griff." — The (Queen's Dying Bequests. — Her Scm's lj<n'ing At- 
 tentions. — Archbishop Totter is Sent for. — The Duty of Recon- 
 ciliation. — The Dying Queen. — The Death of Queen Caroline. 
 — A Change in IIerve3''s Life. — Ix)ss of Court Influence. — 
 Lord Hers'cy's I>eath. — Platonic Love. — Memoirs of his Own 
 Tiuie, ..." Page 211
 
 CONTENTS. 15 
 
 PITTLTP DOR]iIEIl STANHOPE, FOURTH EARL OF 
 CHI'>5TEKFIELD. 
 
 Early Years. — His Aim in Life. — Hcrvey's Description of Ches- 
 terliold. — Study of Oratory. — Duty of an Amljassador. — "His- 
 tory of the liei^n of <ieor<,'e H." — Oeorge H.'b Opinion of his 
 Chronielers. — J Jfe in tlie Country. — ^lelnsina, Countess of Wal- 
 singhani. — Chestertield and Lady SuflJilk. — (ieor^e H. and iiis 
 Fatiicr's Will. — Dissolving N'iews. — Madame de lloucliet. — 
 Court Ladies. — Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. — A ^Vise and Just 
 Administration. — Reformation of the Calendar. — In Middle 
 Life. — Chesterfield I louse. — Ex'elnsivenes.s. — Chesterfield's 
 Neglect of Johnson. — Recommending " John.son's Dictionary." 
 —"Old Samuel" to Chesterfield.— " Defensive Pride."— Ches- 
 terfield's Rejoinder. — The Gla.ss of Fashion. — Lord Scarhor- 
 ough's Friendshiji. — Death of Chesterfield's Son. — Chesterfield 
 growing Old. — His Interest in his Grandson. — " I must Go and 
 Rehearse my Fimenil."— Chesterfield's Will.— "A Man who 
 had no Friends." — His " Letters to his Son." — Les Manieres 
 Nobles Paye 332 
 
 THE ABBE SCARRON. 
 
 An Ea.stcrn Allegon,'. — Who Comes Here? — A Mad Freak and its 
 Consequences. — Scarron's Tiirly Years. — Making an Abbe of 
 him. — The Mayfair of Paris. — A Helpless Cripple. — Scarron's 
 Lament to Pelli.ss(^)n. — Presented at Court. — The Olfice of the 
 Queen's Patient. — Sain-on's Writings. — Scarron's Description 
 of Himself. — Improvidence and Servility. — The Society at 
 Scarron's. — Scarron's Lady Friends. — The Witty Conversation. 
 — Franyoise d'.Vubign^'s debut. — The Sad Story of La Relle 
 Indienne. — Scarron in Love. — Matrimonial Consideration. — 
 "An Ofler of Marriage."— "Scarron's Wife will Live forever." 
 — I'etits Soui)ers. — The Laugher's Death-bed. — Scarron's Last 
 Moments. — A Lesson for Gay and Grave Page 3G9
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Pliotogravurcs by tlie GEBBiii & llcaaon Co. 
 
 PACiE 
 
 George Vii.ijers, Second Dtke of Bvckihguam . Frontispiece. 
 
 Pn I LI BERT, Count de (Jkammont 78 
 
 Charles de St. Evremond, Seioneiu de St. Denis le 
 
 GUAST 100 
 
 John ^VlLMOT, JOaul of Kociilstkr . ,• 110 
 
 COLONEJ- KoliKRT (BkAU) FiKLDINU I'M 
 
 WlLLL\M CONGUEVE 175 
 
 KiciiAKD (Beau) Xasii 20(3 
 
 Philip, Dckk of Wharton- 2.38 
 
 John, Lord IIervey 271 
 
 Philip Dormer Stanhope, Fourth Karl of Chicster- 
 
 FIELD 332 
 
 Tin; Amu': ScARRON 3(;',) 
 
 2 1.7
 
 TlIK 
 
 WIT^ AND BExVUX OF SOCIETY. 
 
 GEORGE VILLIERS, SECOND DUKE OF 
 BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 Samuel Pepys, the Aveathcr-glass of his time, hails 
 the first glimpse of the Restoration of Charles II. in 
 his usual quaint terms and vulgar sycophancy. 
 
 ''To Westminster ILill,"' says lie; "where I heard 
 how tlie I'arliament had this day dissolved themselves, 
 and did pass very cheerfully through the Hall, and the 
 Speaker without his mace. The whole Ilall was joyful 
 thereat, as well as themselves ; and now they begin to 
 talk loud of tlic kino;." And the evenino; was closed, 
 he further tells us, with a larfje bonfire in the Exchange, 
 and people called out, " God bless King Charles !" 
 
 This was in March, 1600 ; and during that spring 
 Pepys was noting down how he did not think it pos- 
 silile tliat my " Lord Protector," Richard Cromwell, 
 should come into ])ower again ; liow tlicrc were great 
 hopes of the king's aiiiv;il: how jNlonk, tli<' Restorer, 
 was feasted at Mercers' Hall (Pepys's own especial); 
 liDW it was resolved that a treaty l)e oftered to the 
 king, privately; how he resolved to go to sea with 
 
 19
 
 20 SIGNS OF THE KESTORATION. 
 
 "my lord:" and how, while they lay at Gravesend, 
 the great aftair which brought back Charles Stuart 
 Avas virtually accomplished. Then, with various paren- 
 theses, inimitable in their Avay, Pepys carries on his 
 narrative. He has left his father's "cutting-room" 
 to take care of itself; and finds his cabin little, though 
 his bed is convenient, but is certain, as he rides at 
 anchor Avith "my lord," in the ship, that the king 
 "must of necessity come in," and the vessel sails 
 round and anchors in Lee Koads. " To the castles 
 about Deal, where our fleet" (our Jieet, the saucy son 
 of a tailor I) " lay and anchored ; great was the shoot 
 of guns from the castles, and ships, and our answers." 
 Glorious Samuel ! in his element, to be sure. 
 
 Then the wind grew high: he began to be "dizzy, 
 and squeamish ;" nevertheless employed " Lord's Day " 
 in lookinir throu<i;h the lieutenant's class at two tiood 
 merchantmen, and the Avomen in them ; " being pretty 
 handsome;" then in the afternoon he first saw Calais, 
 and Avas pleased, though it Avas at a great distance. 
 All eves Avere lookino- across the Channel just then — 
 for the kin."- Avas at Flushino; ; and, though the " Fa- 
 nati(|ucs " still held their heads uj) high, and the 
 Cavaliers also talked high on the other side, tlie cause 
 iliat Pepys was bound to, still gained ground. 
 
 Tlicu " tliey liegin to speak freely of King Charles;" 
 ('Imrcbrs in the City, Samuel declares, were setting up 
 his arms; merchant-slii})s — more important in tliose 
 days — Avere hanging out his colors. Tie hears, too,
 
 SA.Ml 1:L TKl'Y.S l.N HIS GLORY. 21 
 
 how the Mercers' CompaiiY were inukiiig a statue 
 of his gracious Majesty to set up in the Excliangc. 
 Ah I IVpys's heart is merry: he lias forty sliillings 
 (some sliiihhy pcr([uisite) given liiin hy Captain Cowes 
 of tlie "Paragon:" and "my loid" in the evening 
 "falls to sinfjinii " a song upon the liiuni) to the 
 tune of tlie " lilacksniith." 
 
 The hopes of the Cavalier party are hourly increas- 
 ing, and those of Pepys we may be sure also ; for Piui, 
 the tailor, spends a morning in his cabin " putting a 
 great niiinv rihl)ons to a sail." And the king is to 
 be Ijrought over suddenly, "my lord" tells hiui : and 
 indeed it looks like it, for the sailors are drinking 
 Charles's health in the streets of Deal, on their knees; 
 " which, methinks," says Pepys, " is a little too imich ;" 
 and ••methinks" so, worthy Master Pepys, also. 
 
 Then how the news of the Parliamentary vote of 
 tlie king's declaration was received! Pepys becomes 
 eloi[uent. 
 
 " lie that can fancy a fleet (like ours) in her pride, 
 witli pendants loose, guns roaring, caps flying, and the 
 loud ' Vive le RoH' echoed from one ship's company to 
 another ; he, and he only, can apprehend the joy this 
 enclosed vote was received with, or the blessing he 
 thoiiglit himself possessed of that bore it." 
 
 Next, orders come for "my lord" to sail forthwith 
 to the king; and the painters and tailors set to work, 
 Pepys supenntending, " cutting out some pieces of 
 yellow cloth in the fashion of a crown and C. R. ;
 
 22 WHO WAS SAMUEL PEPYS? 
 
 and putting it upon a fine sheet" — and that is to 
 supersede the States' arras, and is finished and set 
 up. And the next day, on May 14, the Hague is 
 seen phiinly by us, " my lord going up in his night- 
 gown into the cuddy." 
 
 And then they hind at the Hague ; some " nasty 
 Dutchmen" come on board to offer their boats, and 
 get money, which Pepys does not like ; and in time 
 they find themselves in the Hague, " a most neat place 
 in all respects:" salute the Queen of Bohemia and the 
 Prince of Orange — afterwards William III. — and find 
 at their place of supper nothing but a " sallet " and 
 two or three bones of mutton provided for ten of us, 
 " which was very strange." Nevertheless, on they sail, 
 having returned to the fleet, to Schevelling : and, on 
 the 23d of the month, go to meet the king ; who, " on 
 getting into the boat, did kiss my lord with much af- 
 fection." An "extraordinary press of good company," 
 and great mirth all day, announced the Restoration. 
 Nevertheless Charles's clothes had not been, till this 
 time, Master Pepys is assured, worth forty shillings — 
 and he, as a connoisseur, Avas scandalized at the fact. 
 
 And now, before we proceed, let us ask who worthy 
 Samuel Pepys was, that he should pass such stringent 
 comments on men and manners ? His origin was lowly, 
 although his family ancient; his father having followed, 
 until the Restoration, the calling of a tailor. Pepys, 
 vulgar as he was, had nevertheless received an uni- 
 versity education ; first entering Trinity College, Cam-
 
 A ROYAL (OMPAXY. 23 
 
 hrido'C, as a sizar. To <tiir wonder wc find liini marry- 
 in" furtively and independently; and his wife, at fifteen, 
 was ulad with her husl);iiiil to take uii :in alxxlc in the 
 house of a relative, Sir Edward Montagu, afterwards 
 Earl of Sandwicli, the " my lord " under Avhose shadow 
 Samuel TV'pys dwelt in reverence. By this nohleman's 
 inlluenee Pepys for ever left the " cutting-room ;" he 
 acted first as secretary (always as toad-eater, one would 
 fancy), then became a cleik in tlu- Admiralty ; and as 
 such Avent, after the Restoration, to live in Seething 
 Lane, in tlie parish of St. Olave, Hart Street — and 
 in St. Olave his mortal part was ultimately deposited. 
 So much fir Pepys. Sec him now, in his full- 
 bottomed wig, and best cambric neckerchief, looking 
 out for the kin" and his suit, wlio are coming on board 
 
 ~ ' CD 
 
 the "Nazeby." 
 
 " Up, and made myself as fine as I could, with tlie 
 linnin" stockin<i;s on, and wide canons that I bouirht 
 the other day at the Hague." So began he the day. 
 " All day nothing but lords and persons of honor on 
 board, that we were exceeding full. Dined in great 
 deal of state, the royalle company by themselves in the 
 coache, Avhich was a blessed sight to see." This royal 
 company consisted of Charles, the Dukes of York and 
 Gloucester, his brothers, the Queen of Bohemia, the 
 Princess Royal, the Prince of Orange, afterwards AVil- 
 liam III. — all of whose hands Pepys kissed, after din- 
 ner. The Kin" and Duke of York chan"ed the names 
 of the ships. The " Rumpers," as Pepys calls the Par-
 
 24 PEPYS "READY TO WEEP." 
 
 liamentarians, had given one the name of the " Nazeby ;" 
 and that was now christened the " Charles :" " Richard " 
 was changed into "James," the "Speaker" into 
 "Mary," the "Lambert," was "Henrietta," and so 
 on. How merry the king must have been Avhilst he 
 thus turned the Roundheads, as it w'ere, off the ocean ; 
 and how he walked here and there, up and down (quite 
 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 dirt, 
 with " nothing but a green coat and a pair of breeches 
 on " (worse and worse, thought Pepys), and a pair of 
 country shoes that made his feet sore ; and liow, at one 
 I^lace he was made to drink l)y the servants, to show he 
 was not a Roundhead ; and how, at another place — and 
 Charles, the best teller of a story in his own dominions, 
 may here have softened his tone — the master of the 
 house, an innkeeper, as the king was standing by the 
 fire, with his hands on the back of a chair, kneeled 
 down and kissed his hand "privately," saying he 
 could not ask him Avho he was, but l)id " God bless 
 him, where he was going !" 
 
 Then, rallying after this touch of pathos, Charles 
 took his hearers over to Fecamp, in France — thence 
 to Rouen, where, he said, in his easy, irresistible way, 
 " I looked so poor that the peoidc went into the rooms 
 before I went away, to see if I had not stolen something 
 or other."
 
 THE I'LAY.MATJ-: OF CllAlMJlS If. 2-") 
 
 AVitli wliat roverenco :iii(l sympatliy did our J'epys 
 listen; imt Ik- was forccil to liiirrv oR' to £ret Lord 
 Berkeley ;• Ih'iI ; .-iii'l wiili "• iiiiicli ;i<lo"' (as one may 
 believe) he did get '• liim to \trd with My Lord Middle- 
 sex ;" so, after seeing these two peers of the realm in 
 that dignified predieament — two in a bed — ''to my 
 ca])in agjiiii,"" where the eoinpaiiy were still talking 
 of" tlie king's diflieulties, and liow his Majesty wsis 
 fain to eat a piece of bread ;iiid cheese out of a poor 
 body's pocket ; and, at a Catliolic liouse, how Ik; lay 
 a good while ''in the Priest's Hole, for privacy." 
 
 Li all tliese hairbreadth escapes — of which the king 
 spoke with infinite humor and good feeling — one name 
 •was perpetually introduced : — George — George Villiers, 
 Villers, as the i-oyal narrator called liim ; for the name 
 was so pronounced formerly. And well he might; for 
 George Villiers had been his playmate, classfellow, nay, 
 bedfellow sometimes, in priests' lioles ; tlieir names, 
 tlieir haunts, their hearts, were all assimilated; and 
 misfortune had bound them closely to each otlier. To 
 George Villiers let us now return ; he is waitin*' for his 
 royal master on the other side of the Channel — in Eng- 
 land. A nd a strange character have we to deal with : — 
 
 "A mail so various, tliat he seemed to be 
 Not one, hut all mankind's epitome: 
 Siifi" in opinions, always in tlu' wrong, 
 Was everything by starts, and nothing long; 
 But, in the course of one revolving moon, 
 Was chemist, tiddler, statesman, and buUbon." * 
 ' Drvden.
 
 26 GEORGE VILLIERS. 
 
 Such was Georffe Villiers : tLo Alcibiades of that ao;e. 
 Let us trace one of the most romantic, and brilliant, 
 and unsatisfactory lives that has ever been written. 
 
 George Villiers was born at Wallino;ford House, in 
 the parish of St.-jNIartin-in-the-Fields, on the 30th 
 January, 1G27. The Admiralty now stands on the 
 site of the mansion in which he first saw the light. 
 His fiither was George Villiers, the favorite of James 
 I. and of Charles I. ; his mother, the Lady Katherine 
 Manners, daughter and heiress of Francis, Earl of 
 Rutland. Scarcely was he a year old, when the 
 assassination of his father, by Felton, threw the affairs 
 of his family into confusion. Ilis mother, after the 
 Duke of Buckingham's death, gave birth to a son, 
 Francis ; Avho was subsequently, savagely killed by 
 the Roundheads, near Kingston. Then the Duchess 
 of Buckingham very shortly married again, and unit- 
 ing herself to Randolph Macdonald, Earl of Antrim, 
 became a rigid Catholic. She was therefore lost to 
 her children, or rather, they were lost to her ; for 
 King Charles I., Avho had promised to be a " husband 
 to her, and a father to her children," removed them 
 froln her charge, and educated them with the royal 
 princes. 
 
 The youthful peer soon gave indications of genius ; 
 and all that a careful education could do was directed 
 to improve his natural capacity under private tutors. 
 lie Avent to Caml)ridgc ; and thence, under the care 
 of a preceptor named Aylesbury, travelled into France.
 
 GEOiail': VI 1.1,1 KKSS INIIKUITANCK. 27 
 
 lie was accompanied by liis yo'm^i liandsome, fine- 
 si)iriteil l»rotlier, Francis; and tliis was tlio sunshine 
 of his life. His father had indeed h'ft him, as his 
 biograplier Brian Fairfax expresses it, '^ the greatest 
 name in Enghmd ; his mother, the greatest estate of 
 any sul)ject." With tliis iidieritancc there hail also 
 descended to him the wonderful beauty, the match- 
 less trrace, of his ill-fated fatlier. Great abilities, 
 couraijre, fascination of manners, were also his ; but 
 he had not been endowed with firmness of character, 
 and was at once energetic and versatile. Even at 
 this age, the qualities which became his ruin were 
 clearly discoverable. 
 
 George Villiers was recalled to England by the 
 troubles which drove the king to Oxford, and whicli 
 converted that academical city into a garrison, its 
 under-graduates 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 of 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 Round- 
 head. The hai^h and Presbyterian-minded Bishop 
 Burnet, has told us that " he was a man of noble 
 presence ; had a great liveliness of wit, and a peculiar 
 faculty of turning everything into ridicule, with bold
 
 28 TWO GALLANT YOUNG NOBLEMEN. 
 
 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 oft" his clerky costume 
 for a buff" jacket, and could not manage his drill! 
 Irresistible as his exterior is declared to have been, 
 the original mind of Villiers was even far more in- 
 fluential. De Grammont tells us, " he was extremely 
 handsome, but still thought himself much more so 
 than he really was ; although he had a great deal 
 of discernment, vet his vanities made him mistake 
 some civilities as intended for his person which were 
 only bestowed on his wit and drollery." 
 
 But this very vanity, so unpleasant in 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 witty. Juve- 
 nile as he was, with a brother still younger, they fought 
 on the royalist side at Lichfield, in the storming of the 
 Cathedral Close. For thus allowing their lives to be 
 endangered, their mother blamed Lord Gerard, one of 
 the Duke's guardians ; whilst the Parliament seized the 
 pretext of confiscating their estates, which were after- 
 wards returned to them, on account of their being 
 under ago at the time of confiscation. Tlie youths 
 were then placed under the care of the Earl of 
 Northumberland, by whose permission they travelled 
 in France and Italy, where they appeared — their 
 estates having been restored — with princely magnifi-
 
 Ml'llDKU OF 1I:AN( IS VIl.LIERS. 20 
 
 cence. Nevertheless, on hearing of die imprisonment 
 of Charles I. in the Isle of Wight, the gallant youths 
 retunuMl to England and }n\\\rd the army under the 
 Earl of Holland, who was defeated near Nonsuch, in 
 Surrey. 
 
 A sad episode in the annals of these eventful times 
 is presented in the late of the handsome, brave Francis 
 Villiers. His nnirder, for one can call it by no other 
 name, shows how keenly the personal feelings of the 
 Roundheads were engaged in this national (juarrel. 
 Under most circumstances. Englishmen would have 
 spared the youth, and respected the gallantry of tlie 
 free young soldier, wlio, planting himself against an 
 oak-tree which grew in the road, refused to ask ior 
 (jnarter, l)Ut di'rendrd hiuistdf against several assail- 
 ants. r>iit the name of Villiers w;us hateful in Puritan 
 cars. ''■Hew them down, root and branch I" was the 
 sentiment that actuated the soldiery. His very loveli- 
 ness exasperated their vengeance. At last, " with nine 
 wounds on his beautiful face and body," says Fairfax, 
 "he was slain." "The oak-tree," writes the devoted 
 servant, " is his monument," and the letters of F. V. 
 were cut in it in his day. His body was conveyed l)y 
 Avater to York House, and was entombed with that of 
 his father, in the ('hapel of Henry MI. 
 
 His brotiier lied towards St. Neot's, where he 
 encountered a strange kind of pcrih Tobias Rustat 
 attended him : and was with him in the rising in Kent 
 for King Charles I., wherein the Duke was engaged ;
 
 30 AFTER THE BATTEE OF WORCESTER. 
 
 and tliey, being put to the flight, the Duke's helmet, 
 by a brush under a tree, Avas turned upon his back, 
 and tied so fast with a string under his throat, " that 
 Avithout the present help of T. E..," writes Fairfax, 
 "• it had undoubtedly choked him, as I have credibly 
 heard." ' 
 
 Whilst at St. Neot's, the house in which Villiers had 
 taken refuge was surrounded with soldiers. He had a 
 stout heart, and a dexterous hand ; he took his resolu- 
 tion ; rushed out ujjon his foes, killed the officer in com- 
 mand, galloped off and joined the Prince in the Downs. 
 
 The' sad story of Charles I. was played out ; but 
 Villiers remained stanch, and was permitted to return 
 and to accompany Prince Charles into Scotland. Then 
 came the battle of Worcester in 1651 : there Charles II. 
 showed himself a worthy descendant of James IV, of 
 Scotland. He resolved to conquer or die : with des- 
 perate gallantry the English Cavaliers and the Scotch 
 Highlanders seconded the monarch's valiant onslauo-ht 
 on Crorawell's horse, and the invincible Life Guards 
 were almost driven back by the shock. But they were 
 not seconded; Charles II. liad his horse twice shot 
 
 ' Tlie liny nfter tlie b;itllc at Kini^^ton, the Dnke's estates were 
 confi.sc-atwi (8th July, IG-IS). — Nk-liols's History of Leiwstersliiiv, 
 iii. 213; who also says that the Duke oflfered marriage to oiu' of 
 tin' (bnisjihters of t'l-onnvcll, hiil was ri'fiisccl. llv wnU aUnv.Ml in 
 164S, hut returned wilii Cliarles IT. to S<-otlan(l in KioU, and 
 acain escaped to l-'rance after the hatlle of AVoreester, 1()')1. The 
 .sale of the pictures would seem to have coninK'Ut.-ed durin^ji; his lirst 
 exile.
 
 BOSCOIJEL. 31 
 
 Tindrr liiiii, but, notliiiig (l:iinite<l, lie was the last to 
 tear liiniself away from the field, and then only iijton 
 the solicitations of his friends. 
 
 Charles retired to Kidderminster that evening. The 
 Duke of Buckingham, the gallant Lord Derby, AVilmot, 
 afterwards Earl of Rochester, and some others, rode 
 near him. They were followed by a small body of 
 horse. Disconsolately they rode on northwards, a faith- 
 ful band of sixty being resolved to escort his Majesty 
 to Scotland. At length they halted on Kinver Heath, 
 near Kidderminster : their guide having lost the way. 
 In this extremity Lord Derby said tliat lie had been 
 received kindly at an old house in a secluded woody 
 country, between Tong Castle and Brewood, on the 
 borders of Staffordshire. It was named " Boscobel," 
 he said ; and that word has henceforth conjured up to 
 the mind's eye the remembrance 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. 
 
 But not so rapidly did they in reality proceed. A 
 Catholic family, named Giffard, were living at White- 
 Ladies, about twenty-six miles from Worcester. This 
 Avas onlv about half a mile from Boscobel: it had been 
 a convent of Cistercian nuns, whose long white cloaks 
 (if (iM had once l)een seen, ghost-lik(\ amiil forest 
 glades or on hillock green. The White-Ladies had 
 other memories to grace it besides those of holy 
 vestai-i, or of unholy Cavaliers. From the time of
 
 32 AT THE WHITE-LADIES. 
 
 the Tudors, a respectable ftimily named Somers liad 
 owned the White-Ladies, and inhabited it since its 
 white-garbed tenants had been turned out, and the 
 phice secuhirized. " Somers's House," as it was 
 called (though more happily, the old name has been 
 restored), had received Queen Elizabeth on her prog- 
 ress. The richly cultivated old conventual gardens 
 had supplied the Queen with some famous pears, and, 
 in the fulness of her approval of the fruit, she had 
 added them to the City arms. At that time one of 
 these vaunted pear-trees stood securely in the market- 
 place of Worcester. 
 
 At the White-Ladies, Charles rested for half an 
 hour ; and here he left his garters, waistcoat, and 
 other garments, to avoid discovery, ere he proceeded. 
 They were long kept as relics. 
 
 The mother of Lord Somers had ])een placed in this 
 old house for security, for she was on the eve of giviniT 
 birth to the future statesman, who was born in that 
 sanctuary just at this time. His father at that very 
 moment commanded a troop of horse in Cromwell's 
 army, so that the risk the Cavaliers ran was imminent. 
 Tlie King's horse was led into the liall. Day was 
 dawning ; and the Cavaliers, as they entered the 
 old conventual tenement, and saw th(> sunbeams on 
 its walls, perceived tlieir peril. A t'aiiiily of servants 
 named Pcnderell held various offices there, and at 
 Boscobel. William took care of P>oseobel, (leorge 
 was a servant at White-Ladies; Humphrey was the
 
 DISGUISING TIIK KING. 33 
 
 miller to that house; Richard lived close by, at 
 Ilebbal Grange. He and William were called into 
 the royal presence. Lord Derby then said to them, 
 " This is the King ; have a care of him, and preserve 
 him as thou didst me." 
 
 Then the attendant courtiers be^an undressinir the 
 King. They took off his buff-coat, and j>ut on him a 
 "noggon coarse shirt," and a green suit and aiiotlier 
 doublet — Richard renderell's woodman's dress. Lord 
 Wilmot cut his sovereign's hair with a knife, but 
 Richard Penderell took up his shears and finished 
 the work. "Burn it," said the king; but Richard 
 kept the sacred locks. Then Charles covered his 
 dark face Avith soot. Could anvthino; have taken 
 away the expression of his half-sleepy, half-merry 
 eyes ? 
 
 They departed, and half an hour afterwards Colonel 
 
 Ashenhurst, with a troop of Roundhead horse, rode up 
 
 to the White-Ladies. The King, meantime, had been 
 
 conducted by Richard Pendcrell into a coppice-wood, 
 
 with a liill-lidok in his hands for defence and disjjuise. 
 
 Rut his followers were overtaken near Newport; and 
 
 here Ruckingham, with Lords Talbot and Leviston, 
 
 escaped; and henceforth, until Charles's wanderings 
 
 were transferred from Enn-land to France, George 
 
 Villiers was separated from the Prince. Accompanied 
 
 by the Earls of Derby and Lauderdale, and by Lord 
 
 Talbot, he proceeded northwards, in hopes of joining 
 
 General Leslie and the Scotch horse. Rut their hopes 
 Vol,. I.— ;i
 
 34 VILLIEES IN IIIDIKG. 
 
 Avere soon dashed : attacked by a body of Roundheads, 
 Buckingham and Lord Leviston were compelled to 
 leave the high road, to alight from their horses, and 
 to make their way to Bloore Park, near Newport, 
 where Villiers found a shelter. lie Avas soon, hoAV- 
 CA^er, necessitated to depart : he put on a laborer's 
 dress ; he deposited his George, a gift from Henrietta 
 Maria, Avith a companion, and set off for Billstrop, in 
 Nottinghamshire, one iMatthews, a carpenter, acting as 
 his guide ; at Billstrop he Avas Avelcomed by Mr. HaAvley, 
 a Cavalier ; and from that place he Avent to Brookesby, 
 in Leicestershire, the original seat of the Villiers family, 
 and the birthplace of his father. Here he Avas received 
 by Lady Villiers — the AvidoAv, probably, of his father's 
 brother, Sir William Villiers, one of those contented 
 country squires Avho not only sought no distinction, but 
 scarcely thanked James I. when he made him a baronet. 
 Here might the hunted refugee see, on the open battle- 
 ments of the church, the shields on Avhicli Avere exhibited 
 united quarterings of his father's family Avith those of 
 his mother ; here, listen to old tales about his grand- 
 fother, good Sir George, Avho married a serving-Avoman 
 in his deceased wife's kitchen ;^ and that serving-Avoman 
 became the leader of fiishions in the court of James. 
 
 ' Sir CJeor^e Villiers's Kccond wife was Mary, (laughter of Antony 
 Beaumont, Esq., of (ilenfield (Nichols's Leieestersliirc, iii. 193), 
 who was son of Win. Beaumont, Esq., of Cole Orton. Slie after- 
 wards was nianied suecessiA'ely to Sir \Vm. Baynerand Sir Thomas 
 Compton, and was created Countess of r.ucUin.nlKmi in IGl.S.
 
 IIIO APPEAKS AS A MOUNTEBANK. 35 
 
 Here lie miglit ponder on the vicissitudes Avhicli marked 
 tlie destiny of the house of Villiers, and wonder what 
 shouhl come next. 
 
 That the spirit of adventure was strong witliin liim, 
 is sliown by his (hiring to go up to London, and disguis- 
 iiig hiiiisclf as a mountebank. He had a coat made, 
 called a " Jack I'nddiiig Coat : " a little hat was stuck 
 on his head, with a fox's tail in it, and cocks' feathers 
 here and there. A wizards mask one day, a daubing 
 of flour another, completed the disgui.se it w'as then so 
 usual to assume : witness the long traffic held at Exeter 
 Change by the Duchess of Tyrconnel, Frances Jennings, 
 in a white mask, selling laces, and French gew-gaws, a 
 trader to all appearance, but really carrying on political 
 intrigues; every one went to chat with the "White 
 Milliner," as slie was called, durinoi; the reign of Wil- 
 liam and Mary. The Duke next erected a stage at 
 Ciiaring Cross — in the very face of the stern Rumpers, 
 who, with long faces, rode past the sinful man each day 
 as they came ambling up from the Parliament House. 
 A baii<l of puppet-j)layers and violins set up their 
 shows; and music covers a multitude of inconjxruities. 
 The ballad was then tlic great vehicle of personal 
 attack, and Villiers's dawning taste for poetry was 
 shown in the ditties which he now composed, and in 
 which he sometimes assisted vocally. Whilst all the 
 other Cavaliers were forced to fly, he thus bearded his 
 enemies in tlieir very homes : sometimes he talked to 
 them face to face, ami kept the sanctimonious citizens
 
 3G BUCKINGHAM'S HABITS. 
 
 in talk, till tliey found themselves sinfully disposed to 
 lausrh. But this vao;rant life had serious evils : it 
 broke down all the restraints which civilized society 
 naturally, and beneficially, imposes. The Duke of 
 Buckingham, Butler, the author of Hudibras, Avrites, 
 " rises, eats, goes to bed 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 observer of the Tartar customs, and never 
 eats till the great cham, having dined, makes proclama- 
 tion that all the world may go to dinner. He does not 
 dwell in his house, but haunts it like an evil spirit, that 
 walks all night, to disturb the family, and never appears 
 by day. 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 pleasures. He is as inconstant as the moon which 
 he lives under; and althou2;h he does nothino; but 
 advise with his pillow all day, he is as great a stranger 
 to himself as he is to the rest of the world. His mind 
 entertains all things that come and go ; but like guests 
 and strangers, they are not welcome if they stay long. 
 This lays him open to all cheats, quacks, and impostors, 
 who ap])ly to every particular humor while it lasts, and 
 afterwards vanish. He deforms nature, while he in- 
 tends to adorn her, like Indians that hang jewels in 
 their lij)s and noses. His ears arc perpetually drilling
 
 HE SEES Ills SISTER. 37 
 
 ■\vitli a fiddlestick, and endures jilcasures with less 
 patience than other men do their pains." 
 
 Tlie more eflfectually to support his character as a 
 iii<iiiiitebank,Villiers sohl mithridate and galbanum plas- 
 ters : thousands of spectators and customers thronifed 
 every day to see :nid hear liini. Possibly many guessed 
 tliut beneath all this fantastic exterior some ulterior 
 project was concealed; yet he remained untouched by 
 the City Guards. Well did Drydcn describe him : — 
 
 "Then all f(H- \v()mcn, paint iii.y, rliymln£r, drinking, 
 Beside ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 
 Blest madman, who could every hour employ 
 With something new to wish or to enjoy." 
 
 ITis elder sister, Lady jNIary A^illiers, had married 
 the Duke of Richmond, one of tlie loyal adherents of 
 Charles I. The duke was, therefore, in durance at 
 Windsor, whilst the duchess was to be placed under 
 strict surveillance at Whitehall. 
 
 Villiers resolved to see her. Ilearinfr that she was 
 to pass into Whitehall on a certain day, he set up his 
 stage Avherc she could not fail to perceive him. lie 
 had something important to say to h(;r. As she drew 
 near, he cried out to the mob that he would give them 
 a song on the Duchess of Richmond and tlie Duke of 
 Buckingham : nothing could be more acceptable. " The 
 mob," it is related, " stopped the coach and the duchess 
 . . . Nay, so outrageous were the mob, that they forced 
 the duchess, who was then the handsomest woman in
 
 38 CROMWELL'S SAINTLY DAUGHTER. 
 
 England, to sit in the boot of the coach, and to hear 
 him sing all his impertinent songs. Having left off 
 singini];, he told them it was no more than reason that 
 he should present the duchess with some of the songs. 
 So he alighted from the stage, covered all over with 
 papers and ridiculous little pictures. Having come to 
 the coach, he took off a black piece of tafleta, which 
 he always wore over one of his eyes, when his sister 
 discovered immediately who he was, yet had so much 
 presence of mind as not to give the least sign of mis- 
 trust ; nay, she gave him some very opprobrious lan- 
 guage, but was very eager at snatching the papers he 
 threw into her coach. Among them was a packet of 
 letters, which she had no sooner got but she went for- 
 ward, the duke, at the head of the mob, attending and 
 hallooing her a good way out of the town." 
 
 A still more daring adventure was contemplated also 
 by this young, irresistible duke. Bridget Cromwell, 
 the eldest daughter of Oliver, was, at that time, a bride 
 of twenty-six years of age; having nuirried, in 1647, 
 the saintly Henry Ireton, Lord Deputy of Ireland. 
 Bridget was the pattern heroine of the '■'■ unco (juid," 
 the (i[uintessence of all propriety ; the impersonation 
 of sanctity ; an ultra republican, who scarcely accorded 
 to her father the modest title of Protector. She was 
 esteemed by her party a " personage of sublime growth :" 
 " humbled, not exalted," according to Mrs. Hutchinson, 
 ])y her elevation: "nevertheless," says tlmt excellent 
 lady, "as my Lady Ireton was Avalkiiig in (he St.
 
 IX LOVE WITH A MOUNTEBANK. 39 
 
 James's Park, the Lady Lambert, as proud as her hus- 
 band, came by Avhcre she was, and as the present prin- 
 cess always hath precedency of the relict of the dead, so 
 
 she put l)v luv Lndv Irctoii, Avlio, notwithstandinfj her 
 
 ill. ^ ' o 
 
 piety and Innnility, was a little grieved at the affront." 
 After this anecdote one cannot give much credence 
 to this lady's humility : IJridget Avas, however, a woman 
 of poAvcrful intellect, weakened by her extreme, and, to 
 use a now common term, crotchety opinions. Like most 
 esprits forts, she Avas easily imposed upon. One day 
 this paraLjon saAv a mountebank dancino; on a staije in 
 the most excjuisite style. His fine shape, too, cauglit 
 the attention of one Avho assumed to be above all folly. 
 It is sometimes fatal to one's peace to look out of a 
 AvindoAV ; no one knoAvs Aviiat siglits may rivet or dis- 
 please. Mistress L-eton Avas sitting at hor Avindow un- 
 conscious that any one Avith the hated and malignant 
 name of " Villiers " Avas before her. After some unholy 
 admiration, she sent to speak to the mummer. The 
 duke scarcely kncAv Avhcthcr to trust himself in the 
 poAver of the bloodthirsty Ireton's bride or not — yet his 
 courage — his love of sport — prevailed. lie visited her 
 that evening : no longer, hoAvever, in his jack-pudding 
 coat, but in a rich suit, disguised Avith a cloak over it. 
 He Avore still a plaster over one eye, and Avas much dis- 
 posed to take it off, but prudence forbade ; and thus he 
 stood in the presence of the prim and saintly Bridget 
 Ireton. The particulars of the intervicAV rest on his 
 statement, and they must not, therefore, be accepted
 
 40 VILLIERS AND THE EABBI. 
 
 implicitly. Mistress Ireton is said to liavo made ad- 
 vances to the handsome incognito. What a triumph 
 to a man like Villiers, to have intrigued with my Lord 
 Protector's sanctified daughter ! But she inspired him 
 with disgust. He saw in her the presumption and hy- 
 pocrisy of her father ; he hated her as CromAvell's daugh- 
 ter and Ireton's wife. He told her, therefore, that he 
 was a Jew, and could not by his laws become the para- 
 mour of a Christian woman. The saintly Bridget stood 
 amazed ; she had imprudently let him into some of the 
 most important secrets of her party. A Jew ! It Avas 
 dreadful ! But how could a person of that persuasion 
 be so strict, so strait-laced ? She probably entertained 
 all the horror of Jews which the Puritanical party 
 cherished as a virtue ; forgetting the lessons of toler- 
 ation and liberality inculcated by Holy Writ. She 
 sent, however, for a certain Jewish Rabbi to converse 
 with the strano-er. What was the Duke of Buckino;- 
 ham's surprise, on visiting her one evening, to see the 
 learned doctor armed at all points with the Talmud, 
 and thirsting for dispute, by the side of the saintly 
 Bridget. He could noways meet such a body of con- 
 troversy ; but thought it best forthwith to set oif for the 
 Downs. Before he departed he wrote, however, to INIjs- 
 tress Ireton, on the plea that she might wish to know 
 to what tribe of Jews he belonged. So he sent her a 
 note written with all his native wit and point. ^ 
 
 * This incident is taken from Mailanie Diinois' Memoirs, part i. 
 p. 8G.
 
 THE BUCKINtillAM I'U TURKS AND ESTATE. 41 
 
 Buckinglmin now experienced all the miseries that a 
 man of expensive pleasures with a sequestrated estate is 
 likely to endure. One friend remained to watch over 
 his interests in Eni^dand. This was John Traylman, a 
 servant of liis late father's, who was left to guard the 
 collection of pictures nuide by the late duke, and de- 
 posited in York House. That collection was, in the 
 opinion of competent judges, the third in point of value 
 in England, being only inferior to those of Charles I. 
 and the Earl of Arundel. 
 
 It had been bought, with immense expense, partly 
 by the duke's agents in Italy, the IMantua Gallery sup- 
 plying a great portion — partly in France — partly in 
 Flanders ; and to Flanders a great portion Avas destined 
 now to return. Secretly and laboriously did old Trayl- 
 man pack up and send off these treasures to Antwerp, 
 where now the gay youth whom the aged domestic had 
 known from a child was in want and exile. The pic- 
 tures were eagerly bought by a foreign collector named 
 Duart. The proceeds gave poor Villiers bread ; l)ut 
 the noble works of Titian and Leonardo da Vinci, and 
 others, were lost for ever to England. 
 
 It must have been very irritating to Villiers to know 
 that whilst he just existed abroad, the great estates en- 
 joyed by his fatlier Avere being subjected to pillage by 
 Cromwell's soldiers, or sold for pitiful sums by the 
 Commissioners appointed by the Parliament to break 
 up and annihilate many of tlie old properties in Eng- 
 land. Burleigh-on-thc-llill, the stately scat on which
 
 42 YORK HOUSE. 
 
 tliG first duke had lavished thousands, had hcen taken 
 by the Roundheads. It was so hirge, and presented 
 so long a line of buildings, that the Parliamentarians 
 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 House was doubt- 
 less marked out for the next destructive decree. There 
 Avas something in the very history of this house which 
 might be supposed to excite the wrath of the Round- 
 heads. Queen Mary (whom we must not, after Miss 
 Strickland's admirable life of her, call Bloody Queen 
 Mary, but who Avill always be best known by that un- 
 pleasant title) had bestowed York House on the See of 
 York, as a compensation for York House, at Whitehall, 
 Avhich Henry VIII. had taken from Wolsey. It had 
 afterwards come into possession of the Keepers of the 
 Great Seal. Lord Bacon was born in York House, his 
 father having lived there ; and the 
 
 "Greatest, wisest, meanest of mankind" 
 
 built here an aviary which cost X300. When the 
 Duke of Lennox wished to buy York House, Bacon 
 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 ])lease God and the King." It did 
 not, however, please the King that he should; the 
 house was borrowed only by the first Duke of Buck-
 
 YORK HOUSE. 43 
 
 iii^liam from the ^Vrchhislioj) of" York, and iIk-ii cx- 
 cliani:^('(l for anotlicr seat, on the plea that the duke 
 \\duld want it lor tlie reception of foreign potentates, 
 and for entertainments jiiven to royalty. 
 
 The duke pulled it down : and the house, which was 
 erected as a temporary structure, was so superb that 
 even Pepys, tAventy years after it had been left to bats 
 and (•o1iwel>s, speaks of it in raptures, as of a place in 
 whieii the iirreat duke's soul was seen in every chandjcr. 
 On the walls were shields on which the arms of ^fanners 
 and of Villiers — peacocks and lions — were (juartered. 
 York House Avas never, however, finished; but as the 
 lover of old haunts enters Buekinghara Street in the 
 Strand, he will perceive an ancient Avater-gate, beau- 
 tifully proportioned, built by Inigo Jones — smoky, 
 isolated, impaired — but still speaking volumes of re- 
 membrance of the glories of the assassinated duke, 
 Avho had purposed to build the Avhole house in that 
 style. 
 
 '•'• Yor'scJiaux," as he called it — Y'ork House — the 
 French ambassador had Avritten Avord to his friends 
 at home, " is the most richly fitted up of any that I 
 saAv." The galleries and state rooms Avere graced by 
 tlie display of the Roman marbles, both busts and 
 statues, Avhich the first duke had bought from Rubens; 
 Avhilst in the gardens the Cain and Abel of John of 
 Bologna, given by Philip IV. of Spain to King Charles, 
 and by him bestowed on the elder (ieorge Yilliers, made 
 that i\i\v j>l('<(iiaiince famous. It Avas doomed — as Avere
 
 44 VILLIERS RETURNS TO ENGLAND. 
 
 what Avere called the " su^Dcrstitious " pictures in tlio 
 house — to destruction : henceforth all Avas in decay 
 and neglect. " I -went to see York House and 
 gardens," Evelyn writes in 1655, "belonging to the 
 former greate Buckingham, but now much ruined 
 throu2;h nc2;lect." 
 
 Traylman, doubtless, kept George Villiers the 
 younger in full possession of all that was to happen 
 to that deserted tenement 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 Fairfax was a man of generous temper ; 
 and that he had an only daughter, Mary Fairfiix, 
 young, and an heiress. Though the daughter of a 
 Puritan, a sort of interest was attached, even by Cav- 
 aliers, to Mary Fairftix, from her having, at five years 
 of age, followed her father through the civil wars on 
 horseback, seated before a maid-servant ; and having, 
 on her journey, frequently fainted, she was so ill as to 
 have been left in a house by the roadside, her father 
 never expecting to see her again. 
 
 In reference to this young girl, then about eighteen 
 years of age, Buckingham now formed a plan. lie 
 resolved to return to England disguised, to offer his 
 hand to Mary Fairfax, and so recover his property 
 through the influence of Fairfax. He was confident
 
 POOR MAliY FAIRFAX! 45 
 
 of liis own attractions; and indeed, from every account, 
 he appears to have been one of those reckless, liand- 
 some, specuhitive characters that often take the fancy 
 of better men than themselves. " He had," says 
 Burnet, " no sort of literature, only he -was dra^vn 
 into chymistry ; and for some years he thought lie 
 was very near the finding of tlic ])hilosopher's stone, 
 which had the effect that attends on all such men as he 
 was, when they are drawn in, to lay out for it. lie liad 
 no princij)les of religion, virtue, or friendship ; pleasure, 
 frolic, or extravagant diversion, 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, 
 tliough then the greatest in England. He was bred 
 about the king, and for many years he had a great 
 ascendant over him ; but he spoke of liim to all persons 
 with tluit contempt, that at last lie drew a lasting dis- 
 grace upon himself. And he at length ruined both 
 body and mind, fortune and rei)utation, equally." 
 
 This was a sad prospect for poor Mary Fairfax, but 
 certainlv if" in their choice 
 
 " ^Veak women go astray, 
 
 Their stai-s are more in fault than they," 
 
 and she Avas less to blame in lier choice than her 
 father, who ought to have advised her against the 
 marriage. "Where and how they met is not known.
 
 46 YOEK HOUSE SOLD. 
 
 Mary was not attractive in person : she was in her 
 youth little, brown, and thin, but became a " short 
 fat body," as De Grammont tells us, in her early 
 married life; in the later period of her existence she 
 was described by the Vicomtesse de Longueville as a 
 "little round crumpled woman, very fond of finery;" 
 and she adds that, on visiting the duchess one day, she 
 found her, though in mourning, in a kind of loose robe 
 over her, all edged and laced with gold. So much for 
 a Puritan's daughter ! 
 
 To this insipid personage the duke presented himself. 
 She soon liked him, and in spite of his outrageous in- 
 fidelities, continued to like him after their marriaire. 
 
 He carried his point : Mary Fairfax became his wife 
 on the 6th of September, 1675, and, by the influence 
 of Fairfax, his estate, or, at all events, a portion of 
 the revenues, about X4000 a year, it is said, Avcre 
 restored to him. Nevertheless, it is mortifying to find 
 that in 1072, he sold York House, in which his father 
 had taken such pride, for X30,000, The house Avas 
 pulled down ; streets Avere erected on tlie gardens : 
 George Street, Villiers Street, Duke Street, Buck- 
 ingham street, Off" Alley, recall tlie name of the ill- 
 starred George, first duke, and of his needy, profligate 
 son ; but the only trace of the real greatness of tlie 
 family importance tluis swept away is in the motto in- 
 scribed on tlic point of old Inigo's water-gate tOAvards 
 the street: '"''Fidei eoiicida crux.'' It is sad for all 
 good royalists to refloc't that it Avas not the rabid
 
 VILLIEKS IN THE TOWKIl. 47 
 
 lloundhcad, but a degenerate Cavalier, -who sold and 
 thus destroyed York House. 
 
 The marriage with Mary Fairfax, though one of in- 
 terest solely, was not a mesalliance : tier father was con- 
 nected by the female side with the Earls of Rutland ; 
 he was also a man of a generous spirit, as he had shown, 
 in handing over to the Countess of Derby the ivnts 
 of the Isle of Man, wliich had been granted to him 
 by the Parliament. In a similar spirit he was not 
 sorry to restore York House to the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham. 
 
 Cromwell, however, was highly exasperated by the 
 nuptials between Mary Fairfax and Villiers, which 
 took place at Nun-Appleton, near Y'^ork, one of Fair- 
 fax's estates. The Protector had, it is said, intended 
 Villiers for one of his own daughters. Upon what 
 plea lie acted it is not stated : he committed Villiers 
 to the Tower, where ho remained until the death of 
 Oliver, and the accession of Richard Cromwell. 
 
 In vain did Fairfax solicit his release: Cromwell 
 refused it, and A'illiers remained in durance until 
 the alxlication of Richard Cromwell, wlien he was 
 set at liberty, l)ut not without the following con- 
 ditions, date<l February 21st, 1G58— 9 : — 
 
 "The lnim1)lc petition of George Duke of Bucking- 
 ham was this (lav read. Resolved that George Duke 
 of Buckingham, now prisoner at Windsor Castle, upon 
 his engagement upon his honor at the bar of this 
 House, and upon the engagement of TiOrd Fairfrtx
 
 48 ABRAHAM COWLEY, THE POET, 
 
 in £20,000 that the said duke shall peaceably deinain 
 himself for the future, and shall not join Avith, or abet, 
 or have any correspondence with, any of the enemies of 
 the Lord Protector, and of this Gommonwealth, in any 
 of the parts beyond the sea, or within this Common- 
 wealth, shall be discharged of his imprisonment and 
 restraint ; and that the Governor of Windsor Castle 
 be required to bring the Duke of Buckingham to the 
 bar of this House on Wednesday next, to engage his 
 honor accordingly. Ordered, that the security of 
 X20,000 to be given by the Lord 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, Buckingham 
 had a companion, of whom many a better man might 
 have been envious : this w;is 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 
 havino; been a King's Scholar at Westminster. One 
 day he happened to take up from his mother's parlor 
 window a copy of Spenser's " Faerie Queene." He 
 eagerly perused the delightful volume, though he Avas 
 then only twelve years old : and this im})ulsc being 
 given to his mind, became at fifteen a reciter of verses. 
 His "Poetical Blossoms," published whilst he was still 
 at school, gave, however, no foretaste of his future em- 
 inence. He proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge, 
 where his friendship witli Villiers was formed; and 
 where, perhaps, from that circumstance, Cowley's pre-
 
 COWLKV AND \lLLli:ii.S. 4'J 
 
 <liIo(-*tii)iis fur ilic cause oi' the Stuarts was ripciRMl into 
 loyalty. 
 
 No two fliaracters coulil lie more dissiiuilar tlian those 
 of Ahraliaiu Cowley and George Villiers. Cowley was 
 (luiet, modest, sol)er, oi" a tliou<flitful, pliilosopliical 
 turn, and ol' an afiretionate nature; neither boasting 
 of his oAvn merits n<>r lU'preciating others. lie was the 
 friend of Lucius Carv, Lord Falkland ; and vet he 
 loved, though lie must have condemned, George Vil- 
 liers. It is not unlikely that, whilst Cowley imparted 
 his love of poetry to Villiers, Villiers may have in- 
 spired the ])ensive and IdamelesS poet Avith a love of 
 that display of wit then in vogue, and heiglitencd that 
 sense of humor which speaks forth in some of Cow- 
 ley's productions. Few authors suggest so many new 
 thoughts, really his own, as Cowley. " His works," 
 it has been said, " are a flower-garden run to wee<ls, 
 l)iit the flowers are numerous and brilliant, and a search 
 after them will repay the pains of a collector who is not 
 too indolent or fastidious." 
 
 As Cowley and his friend passed the weary hours in 
 durance, many an old tale could the poet tell the peer 
 of stirring times; for Cowley luid accompanied Charles 
 I. in many a perilous journey, and had protected Queen 
 Henrietta Maria in her escape to France : through Cow'- 
 ley had tlic correspondence of the royal pair, when 
 separated, been carried on. The poet had before suf- 
 fered imprisonment for his loyalty ; and, to disguise his 
 actual occupation, liad obtained the degree of Doctor 
 
 Vol. I.— 4
 
 50 THE GREATEST ORNAMENT OF WHITEHALL. 
 
 of Medicine, and assumed the character of a physician, 
 on the strength of knowing the virtues of a few phmts. 
 
 Many a hiugh, doubtless, had Buckingham at the 
 expense of Dr. Cowley : however, in later days, the 
 duke proved a true friend to the poet, in helping to 
 procure for him the lease of a fiirm at Chertsey from 
 the queen, 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-Appleton, with General 
 Fairfax and the vapid Mary. But the Restoration — 
 the first dawnings of which have been referred to in 
 the commencement of tliis biography — ruined him, 
 body and mind. 
 
 lie was made a Lord of the Bedchamber, a Member 
 of the Privy Council, and afterwards Master of the 
 Ilorse,^ and Lord Lieutenant of Yorkshire. He lived 
 in great magnificence at Wallingford House, a tene- 
 ment next to York House, intended to be the habitable 
 and useful appendage to that palace. 
 
 He Avas henceforth, until he proved treacherous to 
 his sovereign, the brightest ornament of Whitehall. 
 Beauty of person was hereditary : his fiither was styled 
 the " handsomest-bodied man in England," and George 
 Villiers the younger e(i[ualled George Villiers the elder 
 in all personal accomplishments. When he entered the 
 Presence-Chamber all eyes followed him ; every move- 
 
 ' The duke became Master of the Horse in 1G88 : he paid £20,000 
 to the Duke of Albemarle for the post.
 
 LL( KLM.il I A.MS WIT AM) IIKAITV. 51 
 
 niont was "j^raccfiil and stately. Sir John Rercsby pro- 
 nounco<l Jiim ''to lit- iIk- lincst f^cntleniaii lie oversaw." 
 "lie was born," Madaiiio Dnnoi.s dt'clared, "for fral- 
 lantry and ina<.5nificence." His wit was faultk-ss, but 
 liis iiiaiiiicrs enj^agin^ ; yet li is sallies often dcsccndrd 
 into bufl"oonery, and he sj)ai-eil no om- in his merry 
 moods. One evenini^ a ])lay of Dryden"s Avas re])re- 
 sented. An actress had to spout forth this line — 
 
 " ^ly wound is pjrcat because it is so small !" 
 
 Slie gave it out with pathos, paused, and was theatri- 
 cally distressed. Buckingham was seated in one of the 
 boxes. lie rose, all eyes were fixed upon a face well 
 known in all gay assemblies, in a tone of burlestjue he 
 ansAvered — 
 
 "Then 'twould be greater were it none at all." 
 
 Instantly the audience laughed at the Duke's tone of 
 ridicule, and the poor Avoman Avas hissed off the stage. 
 The king him.self did not escape Buckingham's 
 shafts; Avhilst Lord Chancellor Clarendon fell a vietim 
 to his ridicule: nothing could Avithstand it. There, 
 not in that iniquitous gallery at Whitehall, Imt in the 
 king's i)rivy chambers, A^illiers might be seen, in all 
 the radiance of his matured beauty. Ilis face Avas long 
 and oval, Avith sleepy, yet glistening eyes, over Avhieh 
 large arched eyebroAvs seemed to contract a broAv on 
 Avhich the curls of a massive Avig (which fell almost 
 to his shoulders) hung Ioav. Ills nose Avas long, avcII
 
 52 FLEC'KNOE'S OPINION. 
 
 formed, and flexible ; liis lips tliin and compressed, and 
 defined, as the custom Avas, by two very sliort, fine, 
 black patches of hair, looking more like strips of stick- 
 ing-plaster than a moustache. As he made his rover- 
 ence, his rich robes fell over a faultless form. He was 
 a beau to the very fold of the cambric band round his 
 throat ; with long ends of the richest, closest point that 
 was ever rummaged out from a foreign nunnery to be 
 placed on the person of this sacrilegious sinner. 
 
 Behold, now, how he changes. Villiers is Villiers 
 no longer. He is Clarendon, w^alking solemnly to the 
 Court of the Star Chamber : a pair of bellows is hang- 
 ing l)efore him for the purse ; Colonel Titus is walking 
 with a fire shovel on his shoulder, to represent a mace ; 
 the king himself a capital mimic, is splitting his sides 
 with laughter; the courtiers are fairly in a roar. Tlien 
 how he was wont to divert the king with his' descrij)- 
 tions ! "■ Ipswich, for instance," he said, '■'• was a town 
 Avithout inhabitants — a river it had w^ithout water — 
 streets without names ; and it was a place where asses 
 wore boots:" alluding to the asses, wlion employed in 
 rolling Lord Hereford's bowlinn; green, liaving boots on 
 their feet to prevent their injuring the turf. 
 
 Flecknoe, the poet, describes the duke at this period, 
 in "Euterpe Revived" — 
 
 "The p;all!int'st person, miuI tlie nolilest inindo, 
 In all the world his |ninyo could ever ("mde, 
 Or to jtarticipate his private cares, 
 Or hear (he i)uhlic weight of liis aOiiirs,
 
 Till-; ( OUNTESS OF SIIUKWSnUKY. 5,'] 
 
 Like w(.'ll-l)nilt anlit's, stronger witli tluir wcij^lit, 
 And WL'Il-lmill minds, the steadier witii llieir iieigiit ; 
 Siieli was liie cDiiiiHisition and frame 
 O' liie nol^le and tiie gallant lUiekingham." 
 
 The praise, Imwcvor, oven in tla- duke's best days, 
 was (i\crcli:iri:('(l. A'illiers was no "' well-built tirch," 
 iinr coulil Chark'S trust to tlie fidelity of one so versa- 
 tile tui- an liuuf. Jjesides, the moral eliaracter of Vil- 
 liers must have prevented him, even in those days, 
 from bearing " the ])ublie weight of affairs." 
 
 A scandtilous intrigue soon proved the unsoundness 
 of Fleeknoe's tribute. Amongst the most licentious 
 beauties of the court was Anna Maria, Countess of 
 Shrewsbury, tlie daughter of rvol)ert Brudenel, Earl 
 of Cardiiran, and the wife of Francis, Earl of Shrews- 
 burv : amonsist niaiiv shameless women she was the 
 most shameless, and her face seems to have well ex- 
 pressed her mind. In the round, ftiir visage, with its 
 languishing eyes, and rnll. pouting mouth, there is 
 something voluptuous and l)old. The forehead is 
 broad, Imt low; and the wavy hair, with its tendril 
 curls, comes down almost to the fine arched eyebrows, 
 and then, falling into masses, sets off" Avhitc shoulders 
 which seem to designate an elegant amount of cmhon- 
 jii'iiif. There is nothing elevated in the whole coun- 
 tenance, as Lely has painted her, and her history is a 
 disgrace to her age ;iiiil time. 
 
 She'lnid iiiiineious lovers (not in the refined sense of 
 the word), and. at last, took up witli Thomas Killigrew.
 
 54 DUEL WITH THE EAKL OF SHKEWSBURY. 
 
 He luid been, like Villiers, a royalist : first a page to 
 Charles I., next a companion of Charles II., in exile. 
 He married the fair Cecilia Croft ; yet his morals were 
 so vicious that even in the Court of Venice to which he 
 was accredited, in order to borrow money from the mer- 
 chants of that city, he was too profligate to remain. 
 He came back with Charles II., and was Master of 
 the Revels, or King's Jester, as the court considered 
 him, though without any regular appointment, dur- 
 ing his life : the butt, at once, and the satirist of 
 Whitehall. 
 
 It Avas Killigrew's wit and descriptive powers which, 
 when heightened by wine, were in^conceivably great, 
 that induced Villiers to select Lady Shrewsbury for the 
 object of his admiration. When Killigrew perceived 
 that he was supplanted by Villiers, he become frantic 
 with rage, and poured out the bitterest invectives 
 against the countess. The result Avas 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 chair, and one of them pierced his arm. 
 This, and other occurrences, at last aroused the at- 
 tention of Lord Shrewsbury, who had hitherto never 
 doubted his wife : he challenged the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham ; and his infamous wife, it is said, held her para- 
 mour's horse, disguised as a page. Lord Shrcwsljury 
 was killed,^ and tlie scandahtus intimacy went (tn as 
 
 ' T\\r duel will) till.' Ivirl of SIiicwsIimit tooli jilai'C ITlli .Jiimiarv, 
 1667-8.
 
 VILLIEKS AS A I'()I:T. 5o 
 
 before. No one but tbe (lueen, no one but tbe Duclicss 
 of l>uckin;j;b;un, ai>peare(l shocked at this tragedy, and 
 no one minded their reuinrks, or joined in their indig- 
 nation : all moral sense was suspended, or wliolly stifled ; 
 and Villiers gloried in his depravity, more witty, more 
 amusing, more fashionable than ever ; and yet he seems, 
 by the best-known and most extolled of his poems, to 
 have had some conception of what a real and worthy 
 attachment might be. 
 
 The following verses are to his "Mistress": — 
 
 " Wliat :i dull fool was I 
 
 To tiiink so gross a lie, 
 As that I ever was in love before! 
 I have, perhaps, known one or two, 
 
 AVith whom I was content to he 
 
 At that whicii they call keeping company. 
 But after all that they could do, 
 
 I still c<mld he with more. 
 
 Their absence never made me slied a tear ; 
 
 And I can truly swear. 
 That, till my eyes first gazed on yon, 
 
 I ne'er beheld the thing I could adore. 
 
 "A world of things must curiously be sought: 
 A world of things must l)e togeciier brought 
 
 To make up charms which have the power to move, 
 
 Through a discerning eye, true love; 
 
 That is a master-piece above 
 
 What only looks and shape can do; 
 There must be wit and juiigmcut too, 
 
 dreatness of thought, and wortii, wliidi draw, 
 
 l''r<iiii iIk' whole world, respect and awe.
 
 56 VILLIEES AS A POET. 
 
 " She that would raise a noble love nuist find 
 Ways to bcf,'et a passion for her mind ; 
 She mnst be that which she to be would seem, 
 For all true love is grounded on esteem: 
 Plainness and truth gain more a generous heart 
 Than all the crooked subtleties of art. 
 Slie must be — what said I? — she mast be you: 
 None but yourself that miracle can do. 
 At least, I'm sure, thus nuich I plainly see, 
 Kone but yourself e'er did it upon nie. 
 'Tis you alone tliat can my heart subdue. 
 To you alone it always shall be true." 
 
 Tlie next lines arc also remarkable for the delicacy 
 and liappj turn of the expressions : — 
 
 "Though Phillis, from prevailing charms, 
 Have forc'd my Delia from my arms, 
 Think not your contpiest to maintain 
 By rigor or unjust disdain. 
 In vain, fair nymph, in vain you strive. 
 For Love doth seldom Hope survive. 
 My heart may languish for a time, 
 As all iK'autics in their prime 
 Have justilied such cruelly, 
 By the same fate tiiat coiKpiered me. 
 When age shall come, at whose conuiiaud 
 Those troops of beauty must (lisl)and — 
 A rival's strength once took awav. 
 What slave's so didl as to obey? 
 But if you'll learn a noble way 
 To kec)) his emjiirt- fVom decay, 
 And there for evi'r lix your thri»ne, 
 Be kind, but kind to uic alone." 
 
 Like his father, who niiiHMJ himself l)v hiiildinn;.
 
 VlLLIi:iiS AS A ItUAMATIST. -07 
 
 Villicrs liad a inonom.ania for bricks an<l mortar, yet 
 lie foiiii 1 time to .write "The Rehearsal," a play on 
 ^vliicli Mr. lu'cil ill liis "Dramatic Biography" makes 
 the following observation : '' It is so perfect a master- 
 piece in its way, and so truly original, that notwith- 
 standing its piMiligioiis success, even the task of imi- 
 tation, wliich most kiinls of excellence have invited 
 inferior geniuses to undertake, has appeared as too 
 ar(bious to be attempted with regard to this, which 
 througli a whole century stands alone, notwithstanding 
 that the very plays it was written expressly to ridicule 
 arc forgotten, and the taste it was meant to expose 
 totally exploded." 
 
 The reverses of fortune Avhicb brouglit George 
 Villicrs to abject misery were therefore, in a very 
 great measure, due to his own misconduct, his de- 
 pravity, his waste of life, liis perversion of no])lc 
 mental powers: yet in many respects lie was in ad- 
 vance of his age. He advocated, in the House of 
 Lords, toleration to Dissenters. lie wrote a " Short 
 Discourse on the Ileasonablene-ss of Glen's having a 
 Religion, or Worshi[) of God;" yet, such was liis 
 inconsistency, tliat in spite of these works, and of 
 one styled a " Demonstration of the Deity," written 
 a sliort time bcfoi-c Ids death, he assisted T>onl 
 Rochester in his atheistic ptx'ui upon "Nothing." 
 
 Ibitlcr, the author of lludil)ras, too truly said of 
 Xiliicrs '• tliat he had stiuli(.'(l tlte whole hodif of vice ;' 
 a most fearful censure — a most significant descriptioii
 
 58 A FEAEFUL CENSURE. 
 
 of a bad man. "His parts," he adds, "are dispro- 
 portionate to the whole, and like a monster, he has 
 more of some, and less of others, than he should have. 
 He has pulled down all that nature raised in him, and 
 built himself up again after a model of his own. He 
 has dammed up all those lights that nature made into the 
 noblest prospects of the world, and opened other little 
 blind loopholes backward by turning day into night, 
 and night into day." 
 
 The satiety and consequent misery produced by this 
 terrible life are ably described by Butler. And it was 
 perhaps partly this wearied, worn-out spirit that caused 
 Villiers to rush madly into politics for excitement. In 
 1666 he asked for the office of Lord President of the 
 North ; it was refused : ho became disaffected, raised 
 mutinies, and, at last, excited the indignation of his 
 too-indulgent sovereign. Charles dismissed him from 
 his office, after keeping him for some time in confine- 
 ment. After this epoch little is heard of Buckingham 
 but what is disgraceful. He was again restored to 
 Whitehall, and, according to Pepys, even closeted 
 with Charles, whilst the Duke of York was excluded. 
 A certain acquaintance of the duke's remonstrated 
 witli liim upon t]ie course which Charles now took 
 in Parliament. " How often have you said to me," 
 this person remarked, " that the king was a weak 
 man, unable to govern, but to bo governed, and that 
 you coidd conunainl liini as you liked? Wliy do you 
 suffer liim to do these thinirs?"'
 
 VILLIEKS'S INFLUENCE IN J'AKLIAMENT. 5'J 
 
 " Wliy," :iiis\V('rc(l tlic duke, "I do suHIt liiiii to 
 do tlicsc tliiiiiis, that I may lioreafter the better coin- 
 iiiaiid him."' A reply which betrays the most depraved 
 ](iiii(iph' (if action, wlicthcr towards a sovereign or a 
 IViciid, that can he expressed. Jlis influence was fur 
 some lime supreme, yet he Ijecame tlie leader of the 
 ()])p()siti(»ii, and inviteil to his table the discontented 
 peers, to whom lie satirized tlie court, and condemned 
 tlu- kin^^'s want of attention to business. Whilst the 
 theatre was ringing with laughter at the inimitable 
 character of Baycs in the "Rehearsal," the House 
 of Lords was listening with profound attention to 
 the clo({Ucncc that entranced tlieir faculties, making 
 wrong seem right, for Buckingham was ever heard 
 witli attention. 
 
 Taking into account his mode of existence, " which," 
 says Clarendon, " Avas a life by night more than by day, 
 in all the liberties that nature could desire and wit in- 
 vent," it was astonishing how extensive an influence 
 he had in both Houses of Parliament. '' His rank 
 and condescension, the pleasantness of his humors 
 and conversation, and tlie extravagance and keenness 
 of his wit, unrestrained by modesty or religion, caused 
 persons of all o])inions and dispositions to be fond of 
 his company, and to imagine tliat these levities and 
 vanities would wear oil' wilh age, and that there Avould 
 be enough of good left to make him useful to his coun- 
 try, for which he pretended a wondci lul affection."" 
 
 But this brilliant career was soon checkeil. The
 
 GO A SCENE IN THE LORDS. 
 
 varnish over the hollow character of this extraordinary 
 man was eventually rubbed off. We find the first hint 
 of that famous coalition styled the Cabal in Pepys's 
 Diary, and henceforth the duke must be regarded 
 as a ruined man. 
 
 "He" (Sir H. Cholmly) "tells me that the Duke 
 of Buckingham his crimes, as far as he knows, are 
 his being of a cabal with some discontented persons 
 of the late House of Commons, and opposing the 
 desires of the kin;i|; in all liis matters in that House ; 
 and endeavoring to become popular, and advising how 
 the Commons' House should proceed, and how he 
 would order the House of Lords, And he hath been 
 endeavoring to have the king's nativity calculated ; 
 which was done, and tlie fcHow now in the Tower 
 about it. . . . This silly lord hath provoked, by his 
 ill carriage, the Duke of York, my Lord Chancellor, 
 and all the great persons, and therefore most likely 
 will die." 
 
 One day, in the House of Lords, during a conference 
 between the two Houses, Buckingham leaned rudely 
 over the shoulder of Henry Pierrepont Marquis of 
 Dorchester. Lord Dorchester merely removed liis 
 elbow. Then the duke asked him if he was uneasy. 
 "Yes," the martjuis r('])li('d, adding, ''the duke dared 
 not do this if he Avere anywhere else." I'lickingham 
 retorted, ''Yes, he would: and he was a, better man 
 than HIV lord inav<|uis :"" on which l)orcliester told him 
 that he lied. On this Buckinjiliam struck off Dorches-
 
 Till': cai;al. G1 
 
 tcr's liat, seiz('(l liim ],y ihc |)( riwi;.', jmllcd it aside, 
 mill litld liiiii. 'I'lic lioid ('lianilicrlain and otlit-rs in- 
 terposed and sent tlieni lidtli to the Tdwer. Nevertlie- 
 less, not a month aficrwards, I'epys speaks of seeinj^ 
 the (hike's phiy of " The Chances " acted at Whiteliall. 
 "A i^ood phiy," he condescends to say, "I find it, and 
 the actors most good in it; and pretty to hear Knipp 
 sing in tlie phiy very properly 'All night I v/eepe,' 
 and sung it admiraljly. The \vliolc play pleases mc 
 wvW : and most of all, the sight of many fine ladies, 
 amongst others, my Lady Castlcmainc and Mrs. ]Mid- 
 dleton." 
 
 The whole management of puhlic nfTairs was, at this 
 period, intrusted to five persons, and hence the famous 
 coiiihination, the united letters of which formed the 
 word "Cahal:" — Cliflord, Arlington, Buckingham, 
 Ashley, and Lauderdale. Their reprehensihle schemes, 
 their desperate characters, rendered them the oj)pro- 
 hriiim of their age, and the ohjects of censure to all pos- 
 terity. Whilst matters were in this state a daring 
 outrage, which spoke fearfully of the lawless state of 
 the times, Avas ascribed, though wrongly, to Bucking- 
 ham. The Duke of Ormond, the object of his inveter- 
 ate hatred, was at that time Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. 
 Colonel r>lood, — a disaffected disbanded officer of the 
 Commonwealth, who had been attainted for a conspir- 
 acy in Ireland, but had escaped pnnisliment, — came to 
 England, and acted as a spy for the " Cabal," who did 
 not hesitate to countenance this darins; scoundrel.
 
 62 THE DUKE OF ORMOND IN DANGER. 
 
 His first exploit was to attack the Duke of Ormond's 
 coach one night in St. James's Street : to secure his 
 person, bind him, put him on liorseback after one of 
 his accomplices, and carry him to Tyburn, where he 
 meant to hang his grace. On their way, hoAvever, Or- 
 mond, by a violent eftort, threw himself on the ground; 
 a scuffle ensued : the duke's servants came up, and 
 after receiving the fire of Blood's pistols, the duke 
 escaped. Lord Ossory, the Duke of Ormond's son, on 
 going afterward to court, met Buckingham, and ad- 
 dressed him in these words : — 
 
 " My lord, I know well that you are at the bottom 
 of this late attempt on my father; but I give you 
 warning, if he by any means come to a violent end, I 
 shall not be at a loss to know the author. I shall con- 
 sider you as an assassin, and shall treat you as such ; 
 and wherever I meet you I shall pistol you, though 
 you stood behind the king's cliair; and I tell it you in 
 his Majesty's presence, that you may be sure I shall 
 not fail of performance." 
 
 Blood's next feat was to carry off from the Tower 
 the crown jewels. He was overtaken and arrested: 
 and was then asked to name his accomplices. "No," 
 he replied, " the fear of danger shall never tempt me 
 to deny guilt or to betray a friend." Charles II., with 
 undignified curiosity, wished to see the culprit. On 
 inquiring of Blood how he dared to make so bold an 
 attempt on the croAvn, tlic br;i vo nnswered, " My father 
 lost a good estate fighting for the crown, and I con-
 
 ROCIIKSTEK'S EPIGRAM. G3 
 
 sidorcd it no liaiiii to recover it liy the crown." lie 
 tlicii toM liis Majesty how lie luul resolved to assa.ssi- 
 nate liini : how he had stood among the reeds in Bat- 
 tersea-fichls with this design; how then, a su(hlen awe 
 lia<l come over him : and Charles was weak enough to 
 admire Blood's Iraiicss liraring and to pai'doii his 
 attempt. Well might the Earl of Rochester write of 
 Charles — 
 
 " Here lies my sovereijo^ lord the king, 
 ^Vllo.se word no man relies on; 
 Who never said a foolish thing, 
 And never did a wise one." 
 
 Notwithstanding Blood's outrages — the slightest pen- 
 alty for whicli ill our days would liave heen penal ser- 
 vitude for life — Evelyn met him, not long afterwards, 
 at Tjord Clifford's, at dinner, Avhen De Grammont and 
 other French nohlemen were entertained. " The man," 
 says Evelyn, " had not only a daring, but a villanous, 
 unmerciful look, a false countenance ; hut very well- 
 spoken, and dangerously insinuating." 
 
 Early in 1GG2, the Duke of Buckingham liad 1)een 
 eno-atred in practices against tlie court: he had ilis- 
 guised deep designs by affecting the mere man of pleas- 
 ure. Never Avas there such splendor as at Wallingford 
 House — such Avit and gallantry ; such perfect good 
 breeding ; such apparently openhanded hospitality. 
 At those splendid banquets, John Wilmot, Earl of 
 Rochester, " a man whom the Muses were fond to in-
 
 G4 WALLING FORD HOUSE AND IIAM HOUSE. 
 
 spire, but asliamed to avow," showed liis " beautiful 
 face," as it was called ; and chimed in with that wit for 
 which tiie age was famous. The frequenters at Wall- 
 ingford House gloried in their indelicacy. " One is 
 amazed," Horace Walpole observes, "at hearing the 
 age of Charles II. called polite. The Puritans have 
 affected to call everything by a Scripture' name ; the 
 new comers affected to call everything by its right 
 name ; 
 
 ' As if preposterously tliey would confess 
 A forced hypocrisy in wickedness.'" 
 
 Walpole compares the age of Charles II. to that of 
 Aristophanes — " Avhich called its own grossness polite." 
 How bitterly he decries the stale poems of the time as 
 "a heap of senseless ribaldry;" how truly he shows 
 that licentiousness weakens as well as depraves the 
 judgment. " AYhen Satyrs are brought to court," he 
 observes, " no wonder the Graces would not trust them- 
 selves there." 
 
 The Cabal is said, however, to have been concocted, 
 not at Wallingford House, but at Ham House, near 
 Kingston-on-Thames. 
 
 In this stately old manor-house, the aljode of the 
 Tollemache family, the memory of Charles II. and of 
 his court seems to linger still. Ham House was in- 
 tended for the residence of Henry, Prince of Wales, 
 and was built in IGIO. It stands near the river 
 ^riiames ; and is flanked by noble avenues of elm and 
 of chestnut trees, down which one may almost, as it
 
 IIAM HOUSE. G5 
 
 were, hear the king's talk with his courtiers; see 
 Arlington approach with the well-known patch across 
 his nose ; or spy out the lovely, childish Miss Stuart 
 and her future hushand, the Duke of llichraond, slip- 
 ping hehind into the garden, lest the jealous mortified 
 king should catch a sight of the "conscious lovers." 
 
 This stately structure was given by Charles II., in 
 1672, to the Duke and Duchess of Lauderdale : she, 
 the supposed mistress of Cromwell ; he, the cruel, hate- 
 ful Lauderdale of the Cabal. This detestable couple, 
 however, fmiiislK'd with massive grandeur the apart- 
 ments of Hani House. They had the ceilings painted 
 by Verrio ; the furniture was rich, and even now the 
 bellows and brushes in some of the rooms are of silver 
 fdigree. One room is furnished with yellow damask, 
 still rich, though faded ; the very seats on which 
 Charles, looking around him, saw Clifi'ord, Arlington, 
 Buckingham, Ashley (the infamous Shaftesbury), and 
 Lauderdale — and knew not, good easy man, that he 
 was looking on a band of traitors — are still there. 
 Nay, he even sat to Sir Peter Lely for a portrait for 
 this very place — in which, schemes for the ruin of the 
 kingdom were concocted. All, probably, was smooth 
 and pleasing to the monarcli as he ranged down the 
 fine gallery, ninety-two feet long; or sat at dinner 
 amid his foes in thut hall, surrounded with an open 
 balustrade; or disported himself on the river's green 
 brink. Nay, one may even fancy Nell Gwynn taking 
 
 a day's pleasure in tliis then lone and ever sweet local- 
 VoL. I.— 5
 
 66 "MADAME ELLEN." 
 
 ity. We hear her shearing, as she Avas 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, entirely, ceiling and all, with 
 looking-glass. How bold and pretty she looked in 
 her undress ! Even Pepys — no very sound moralist, 
 though a vast hypocrite — tells us : Nelly, " all un- 
 ready " was " very pretty, prettier far than he thought." 
 But to see how she was "painted," would, he thought, 
 " make a man mad." 
 
 "Madame Ellen," as after her elevation, as it was 
 termed, she was called, might, since she held long 
 a great sway over Charles's fancy, be suffered to 
 scamper about Ham House — where her merry laugh 
 perhaps scandalized the now saintly Duchess of Lau- 
 derdale, — just to impose on the world ; for Nell was 
 regarded as the Protestant champion of the court, in 
 opposition to her French rival, the Duchess of Ports- 
 mouth. 
 
 Let us suppose that she has been at Ham House, 
 and is gone off to Pall Mall again, where she can see 
 her painted foce in every turn. The king has departed, 
 and Killigrew, Avho, at all events, is loyal, and the true- 
 hearted Duke of Richmond, all are away to London. In 
 yon sanctimonious-looking closet, next to the duchess's 
 bed-chamber, with her psalter and her prayer-book on 
 her desk, which is fixed to her great chair, and tliat 
 very cane which still hangs there serving as her sup- 
 port when she comes forth from tlijit closet, uiuruiur
 
 THE CABAL. G7 
 
 aii<l wrangle the component parts of tliat which was 
 never mentioned without fear — the Cabal, The con- 
 spirators dare not trust themselves in the gallery : there 
 is tapestry there, and we all know what coverts there 
 are for eavesdroppers and spiders in tapestried walls : 
 then the great Cardinal s])iders do so click there, are 
 so like the death-watch, that Villiers, who is inveterately 
 superstitious, will nut ahide there. The hall, with its 
 enclosing galleries, and the buttery near, are manifestly 
 unsafe. So they herd, nay, crouch, mutter, and concoct 
 that fearful treachery which, as far as their country is 
 concerned, has l)een a thing apart in our annals, in 
 "my Lady's" closet. Englishmen are turbulent, am- 
 bitious, unscrupulous; but the craft of Maitland, Duke 
 of Lauderdale — the subtlety of Ashley, seem hardly 
 conceivable either in a Scot or Southron. 
 
 These meetings had their natural consequence. One 
 leaves Lauderdale, Arlington, Ashley, and Clifford, to 
 their fate, l^ut tlie career of Villiers inspires more 
 interest. lie seemed born for better thinjis. Like 
 many men of genius, he was so credulous that the faith 
 lie pinned (in one Heydon, an astrologer, at this time, 
 perhaps buoyed him up with false hopes. Be it as it 
 may, his ])lots now tended to open insurrection. In 
 16G6, a proclamation had been issued for his appre- 
 hension — he having then absconded. On tliis occasion 
 he was saveil by tlie act of one whom he had injured 
 grossly — liis wife. She managed to outride the ser- 
 jeant-at-arms, and to warn him of his dan^-er. She
 
 G8 VILLIEES AGAIN IN THE TOWEE. 
 
 had borne his infidelities, after the fashion of the day, 
 as a matter of course: jealousy was then an imperti- 
 nence — constancy, a chimera ; and her husband, what- 
 ever his conduct, had ever treated her with kindness 
 of manner ; he had that charm, that attribute of 
 his flimily, in perfection, and it had fascinated Mary 
 Fairfax. 
 
 He fled, and played for a year successfully the 
 pranks 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 knoAV him ; and when I come 
 home, by and by, Mr. Lowther tells me that the Duke 
 of Buckingham do dine publickly 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 
 liim as soon as he dined." So Pepys states. 
 
 Whilst in the Tower — to which he w^as again com- 
 mitted — Buckingham's pardon was solicited by Lady 
 Castlemaine ; on which account the king was very 
 angry with her; called her a meddling "jade;" she 
 calling him "f^ol," and saying if he was not a fool he 
 never would suffer his best subjects to be imprisoned — 
 referring to Buckingham. And not only did she ask 
 his liberty, but tlie restitution of his places. No wonder 
 there was discontent wlien such things were done, and 
 ))ublic affairs were in such a state. We must again 
 quote the graphic, terse language of rej)ys : — " It
 
 A CHANGE. fjO 
 
 was computed that the rarliaincut luul given the 
 kill" for this \\;\v only, besides all prizes, and besides 
 the £200,000 which he was to spend of his own 
 revenue, to <^uard the sea, above £5,000,000, and 
 odd £100,000; which is a most prodigious sum. Sir 
 II. Cholmly, as a true English gentleman, do decry the 
 king's expenses of his privy purse, which in King 
 James's time did not rise to above £5000 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 £100,000 of 
 it, and other limbs of the royal family." 
 
 In consequence of Lady Castlemaine's intervention, 
 Villiers was restored to liberty — a strange instance, as 
 Pepys remarks, of the " fool's play " of the age. Buck- 
 ingham was now as presuming as ever : he had a theatre 
 of his own, and he soon showed his usual arrogance by 
 beating Henry Killigrew on the stage, and taking aAvay 
 his coat and sword; all very "innocently" done, ac- 
 cording 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 released 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 Arlington. In 
 the year 1080. he Avas threatened with an impeachment, 
 in which, with his usual skill, he managed to exculpate
 
 70 NEARING THE END. 
 
 liimself by blaming Lord Arlington. The House of 
 Commons passed a vote for his removal ; and he entered 
 the ranks of the opposition. 
 
 But this career of public meanness and private prof- 
 ligacy was drawing to a close. Alcibiades no longer — 
 his frame wasted by vice — his spirits broken by pecu- 
 niary difficulties — Buckingham's importance visibly 
 sank away. "He remained, at last," to borroAV the 
 words of Hume, " as incapable of doing hurt as he had 
 ever been little desirous of doing good to mankind." 
 His fortune had now dwindled down to X300 a year 
 in land ; he sold Wallingford House, and removed 
 into the City. 
 
 And now the fruits of his adversity, not, we hope, 
 too late, began to appear. Like Lord Rochester, who 
 had ordered all his immoral works to be burnt, Buck- 
 ingham now wished to retrieve the past. In 1685 he 
 Avrote tlie religious works which form so striking a con- 
 trast with his other productions. 
 
 That he had been up to the very time of his ruin 
 perfectly impervious to remorse, dead also to sliame, is 
 amply manifested by his conduct soon after his duel 
 with the Earl of Shrewsbury. 
 
 Sir George Etherege had brought out a new play at 
 the Duke of York's Theatre. It was called, " She 
 Would if she Could." Plays in tliosc days began at 
 what we now consider our luncheon hour. Thougli 
 Pcpys arrived at the theatre on tliis occasion at two 
 o'clock — liis wife having gone before — about a thou-
 
 TIIK DL'Kl-: OF YORK'S THEATKE. 71 
 
 sand people had then been put ])ack from the pit. At 
 last, seeing his wife in the eightecn-ponny box, Samuel 
 " made shift " to get there and there saw, " but lord !" 
 (his own words are inimitable) " how dull, and how silly 
 the play, there being nothing in the Avorld good in it, 
 and few people pleased in it. The king was there ; but 
 I sat mightily behind, and could sec but little, and hear 
 not at all. The play being done, I went into the pit 
 to look for my wife, it being (hirk and raining, but 
 could not find her ; ami so staid, going between the two 
 doors and through the pit an hour ami a half, I think, 
 after the i)lay was done ; the people staying there till 
 the rain was over, and to talk to one another. And 
 among the rest, here wa^ the Duke of Buckingham 
 to-day openly in the pit ; and there I found him with 
 my Lord Buckhurst, and Sedley, and Etheridge the 
 poet, the last of whom I did hear mightily find fault 
 with the actors, that they were out of humor, and had 
 not their parts perfect, and tliat Harris did do nothing, 
 nor could so much as sing a ketch in it ; and so was 
 mightily concerned, while all the rest did, through the 
 whole pit, blame the play as a silly, dull thing, though 
 there was something very roguish and witty ; but the 
 design of the play, and end, mighty insipid." 
 
 Buckingham had held out to his Puritan friends 
 the lio])e of his conversion for some years ; and when 
 they attempted to convert him, he had appointed a 
 time for them to finish their work. They kept their 
 promise, and discovered him in the most i)rofligate
 
 72 THE DUCHESS OF BUCKINGHAM LEAVES. 
 
 society. It was indeed impossible to know in wliat 
 directions his fancies might take him, when Ave find 
 him believing in the predictions of a poor fellow in 
 a Avretched lodging near Tower Hill, who, having 
 cast his nativity, assured the duke he would be king. 
 
 He had continued for years to live with the Countess 
 of Shrewsbury, and two months after her husband's 
 death, had taken her to his home. Then, at last, the 
 Duchess of Buckingham indignantly observed, that 
 she and the countess could not possibly live together. 
 " So I thought, madam," was the reply. "■ I have 
 therefore ordered your coach to take you to your 
 fother's." It has been asserted that Dr. Sprat, the 
 duke's chaplain, actually married him to Lady Shrews- 
 bury, and that his legal wife was thenceforth styled 
 " The Duchess-dowager." 
 
 He retreated with his mistress to Claverdon, near 
 Windsor, situated on the summit of a hill which is 
 washed by the Thames. It is a noble building, with 
 a great terrace in front, under which are twenty-six 
 niches, in which Buckingham had intended to place 
 twenty-six statues as large as life ; and in the middle 
 is an alcove with stairs. Here he lived with the in- 
 famous countess, by whom he had a son, whom he 
 styled Earl of Coventry (his second title), and who 
 died an infant. 
 
 One lingers still over the social career of one whom 
 Louis XIV. called " the only English gentleman he 
 had ever seen." A capital retort was made to Buck-
 
 VILLIEKS AND TIIK rniXCESS OF OIlAXflE. 73 
 
 ingliani l»y tlic Princess of Orange, during an inter- 
 view, when he stopped at the Hague, between hir and 
 tlie Duke. lie was trying diph)niatically to convince 
 her of" tlic afl'ection of Enghind for the States. "We 
 do not," lie said, "• use IIoHand like a mistress, we love 
 her as a Avife." '■'' Vraimcnt je crois que vous nous 
 aimez comme vous aimez la voire,'' was the sharp and 
 clever answer. 
 
 On the death of Charles II., in KJS.'), Buckingham 
 retired to the small remnant of his Yorkshire estates. 
 Ilis debts Avere now set down at the sum of £140,000. 
 They were li(|uidated by the sale of his estates. He 
 took kindly to a countr}' life, to the surprise of his old 
 comrade in pleasure, Etherege. " 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 periAvig and had turned beau 
 in the seventy-fourth year of his age !" 
 
 Father Petre and Father Fitzgerald were sent by 
 James II. to convert the duke to Popery. The follow- 
 ing anecdote is told of their conference with the dying 
 sinner : — " We deny," said the Jesuit Petre, " that any 
 one can be saved out of our Church. Your grace 
 allows that our people may be saved." — "No," said 
 the duke, " I make no doubt you will all be damned to 
 a man!" — " Sir," said tlu^ father, "I cannot argue 
 with a person so void of all charity." — " I did not ex- 
 pect, my reverend father," said the duke, "such a 
 reproach from you, Avhose whole reasoning was founded
 
 74 VILLIERS'S LAST HOURS. 
 
 on the very same instance of want of charity to your- 
 self." 
 
 Buckingham's death took place at Helmsby, in York- 
 shire, and the immediate cause was an ague and fever, 
 owing to having sat down on the wet grass after fox- 
 hunting. Pope has given the following forcible, but 
 inaccurate account of his last hours, and the place in 
 which they were passed : — 
 
 " In the worst inn's worst I'oom, witli mat half hung, 
 The floors of ])laster and the walls of dung, 
 On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw, 
 With tape-tied curtains never meant to draw ; 
 The George and Garter dangling from that bed, 
 Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, 
 Great Villiers lies: — alas! how changed from him, 
 That life of pleasure and that soul of whim ! 
 Gallant and gay, in Claverdon's proud alcove, 
 The liower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ; 
 Or, just as gay, at council in a ring 
 Of mimic'd statesmen and their merry King. 
 No wit to flatter left of all his store. 
 No fool to laugh at, which he valued more, 
 Then victor of his health, of fortune, friends, 
 And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends." 
 
 Far from expiring in the "worst inn's worst room," 
 the duke breathed his last in Kirby Moorside, in a 
 house which had once been the best in the place. 
 Brian Fairfax, who loved this brilliant reprobate, has 
 left the only authentic account on record of his last 
 hours. 
 
 The niglit 2>revious to tire duke's death Fairfax had
 
 DEATH OK VILLIKKS. 75 
 
 received a niessajrc from liiiii <lesirin;^f liiiii to prepare a 
 bed for him in liis house, Bishop Hill, in York. The 
 next day, liowever, Fairfax was sent for to liis master, 
 whom he iuiiiid <lyin_<T. lie was speechless, but gave 
 the afiiicted servant an earnest look of recognition. 
 
 The Earl of A nan, son of the Duke of Hamilton, 
 and a gentleman of the neighborhood, stood by his 
 bedside. He had then received the Holy Commu- 
 nion from a neighl)oring clergyman of the Established 
 Church. When tlic minister came it is said that he 
 inquired of the duke wliat religion he professed. " It 
 is," replied tlie dying man, " an insignificant question, 
 for I have been a shame and a disgrace to all reliijrions: 
 if you can do me any good, i»ray do." When a popish 
 priest bad been mentioned to bim, be answered vehe- 
 mently, " No, no !" 
 
 He was in a very low state when Lord Arran had 
 found him. But tliougb that nobleman saw dcalli in 
 his looks, tlio duke said he "'felt so well al heart that 
 he kiK'w he could be in no danger." 
 
 He appeared to have bad inilammation in the bowels, 
 ■wliich ended in mortification. He betiged of Lord 
 Arran to stay with him. The bouse 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 l)leed to see the Duke of Buckingham in so 
 })itiful a })lace, aiul so bad a condition, and what made 
 it worse, be was not at all sensible of it, for he thought 
 in a day or two he ohould be well , and when we re-
 
 76 DEATH OF VILLIERS. 
 
 minded him of his condition, ho said it was not as we 
 apprehended. So I sent for a worthy gentleman, ]\Ir. 
 Gibson, to be assistant to me in this work ; so we joint- 
 ly represented his condition to him, who I saw was at 
 first very uneasy ; but I think we should not have dis- 
 charged the duties of honest men if we had suffered 
 him to go out of this world without desiring him to pre- 
 pare for death." The duke joined heartily in the beau- 
 tiful prayers for the dying, of our Church, and yet 
 there was a sort of selfishness and indiff'erence to others 
 manifest even at the last. 
 
 "Mr. Gibson," 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 first, he answered he had made 
 none ; and to the last, whoever was named he answered, 
 'No.' First, my lady duchess was named, and then I 
 think almost everybody that had any relation to him, 
 but his answer always was, 'No.' I did fully repre- 
 sent my lady duchess' condition to him, but nothing that 
 Avas said to him could make him come to any point." 
 
 In this "retired corner," as Lord Arran terms it, 
 did the former Avit and beau, the once brave and fine 
 cavalier, the reckless plotter in after-life, end his exist- 
 ence. His body was removed to Helmsby Castle, there 
 to wait the duchess' pleasure, being meantime embalmed. 
 Not one fartliing could his steward produce to defray 
 his burial. His George and blue ribbon were sent to 
 tiie King James, with an account of his death. 
 
 In Kirby Moorside the following entry in the regis-
 
 DUCHESS OF BUCKINGHAM. 77 
 
 tcr of burials records the event, which is so replete with 
 a singular retributive justice — so constituted to impress 
 and sadden the mind : — 
 
 "Georges \'ilhis Lord tlooke of Buckingham." 
 
 lie left scarcely a friend to mourn liis life ; for to no 
 mnn had lie licen true, lie died on liic lOth of A])ril 
 aecordiii"^ 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 family vault in Henry VII. 's chapel.^ He left 
 no ehildren, and his title was therefore extinct. The 
 Duchess of Buckingham, of Avhom Brian Fairfax re- 
 marks. " tliat if she had none of the vanities, she had 
 none of the vices of the court," survived him several 
 years. She died in 1705, at the age of sixty-six, and 
 was buried in the vault of the Yilliers' family, in the 
 chapel of llenry VII. 
 
 Such was the extinction of all the magnificence and 
 intellectual ascendency that at one time centred in the 
 great and gifted family of Villiers. 
 
 ' llrian Fairfax states, that at his drath (the Duke of Bueking- 
 Iiani'.s) lif (liaiiicd Ills dehts on ids estate, leaving nuidi more tlian 
 cnougli to cover tiieui. By tiie register of Westminster Al)l)ey it 
 ajipears that he was buried in Henry VH.'s Cliapel, 7tli June, 1087.
 
 COUNT DE GRAMMONT, ST. EVREMOND, 
 AND LORD ROCHESTER. 
 
 It lias been observed by a Freneli critic that the 
 Memoires tie Grammont afford the truest specimens 
 of French character in our hmguage. To this it may 
 be added, that the subject of that animated narrative 
 was most completely French in principle, in intelli- 
 gence, in wit that hesitated at nothing, in spirits that 
 were never daunted, and in that incessant activity 
 which is characteristic of his countrymen. Grammont, 
 it was said, " slept neither night nor day ;" his life was 
 one scene of incessant excitement. 
 
 His father, supposed to have been the natural son 
 of Henry the Great, of France, did not suppress that 
 fact, but desired to publish it : for the morals of his 
 time were so depraved, that it was thought to be more 
 honorable to be the illegitimate son of a king than the 
 lawful child of lowlier parents. Born in the Castle 
 of Semeae, on the banks of the Garonne, the fame 
 of two fair ancestresses, Corisande and Menadame, 
 had entitled the family of De Grammont to ex})ect in 
 each successive member an inheritance of beauty. 
 Wit, courage, good nature, a charming address, and 
 boundless assurance, were the heritage of Philibert
 
 iai)ililunt, itomxt tie O^vammout.
 
 jMHTWrnmiynwHii i im n ii i ii m i m iiiii nn iini 
 
 -'c". 4larechaL^ UrYxmiiit 
 
 ' ur dr J^rcuic-i:
 
 THE CIU'KCir OK TlIK AKMY. 79 
 
 dc (jniiuiuoiit. lieauty w;is not iu his possession; 
 good nature, a more popular (quality, ho had in abun- 
 dance : 
 
 "Ilis wit to scandal never stooping, 
 His mirth ne'er to buflbonery drooping." 
 
 As Pliilihert grew up, the two aristocratic professions 
 of France were presented for his choice : the army, or 
 the church. Neitlier (^f tliese vocations constitutes now 
 the ambition of the high-born in France : the church, 
 to a certain extent, retains its 2^r<isUge, but the army, 
 ever since officers have risen from the ranks, does not 
 comprise tlie same chiss of men as in Enghmd. In 
 the reign of Louis XIII., when De Grammont lived, it 
 Avas othei'wise. All political power was vested in the 
 church. Richelieu was, to all purposes, the ruler of 
 France, the dictator of Europe; and, with regard to 
 the church, great men, at the head of military affairs, 
 were daily proving to the world, how much intelligence 
 could eftect with a small numerical power. Young 
 men took one course or another : the sway of tlie 
 cabinet, on the one hand, tempted tlieni to the church ; 
 the brilliant exploits of Turenne, and of Conde, on 
 the other, led them to the camp. It was merely the 
 difference of dress between the tAvo that constituted 
 the distinction : the soldier might be as pious as the 
 priest, tlie priest was sure to be as woi-ldly as the sol- 
 dier ; the soldier might have ecclesiastical ])refernu'nt ; 
 the jii'icst sometimes turne<l out to fight.
 
 80 DE GRAMMONT'S CHOICE. 
 
 Pliilibert de Grammont chose to be a soldier. lie 
 was styled the Chevalier de Grammont, 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 Avhon the gay 
 youth from the banks of the Garonne joined it, to aid 
 it not so much by his valor as by the fun, the raillery, 
 the off-hand anecdote, the ready, hearty companionship 
 which lightened the soldier's life in the trenches : adieu 
 to impatience, to despair, even to gravity. The very 
 generals could not maintain their seriousness when the 
 light-hearted De Grammont uttered a repartee — 
 
 "Sworn enemy to all long speeches, 
 Lively and biilliant, frank and free, 
 Author of many a reiiartee : 
 Remember, over all, that he 
 Was not renowned for storming breaches." 
 
 Where he came, all was sunshine, yet there breathed 
 not a colder, graver man than the Calvinist Turenne : 
 modest, serious, somewhat hard, he gave the young no- 
 bility who served under him no quarter in their short- 
 comings ; but a word, a look, from De Grammont 
 could make him, malijre Iut\ unbend. The gay chev- 
 alier's Avhite charger's prancing, its gallant rider fore- 
 most in every peril, were not forgotten in after-times, 
 when Do Grammont, in extreme old age, chatted over 
 the acliievements ;ind ])leasures of his youth. 
 
 Amongst those Avho courted his society in Turenne's 
 army Avas Matta, a soldier of simj)le manners, hard
 
 Ills INTIAJENCK WITH TUKENNE. SI 
 
 li:il)its, Mild liMiidsoinc person, jointMl to a candid, lion- 
 cst nature. lie soon pcrsiiadeil De Granimont to sliare 
 liis ((iiartcrs, and there they gave splendhl entertain- 
 ments, whieli, Krciiclinian-like, De Graniniont jiaid l"i>r 
 out of" tlie successes of tlie ''aminij-tal)les. IJut chances 
 AV('i-(' airainst them ; the two officers were at tlie mercy 
 ol" their iiKiitrc d'/iofr/, wlio asked for money. One 
 day, when De (irammont came liome sooner than 
 usual, he found Matta fast asleep. Whilst De Gram- 
 inont stood looking at him, he awoke, and burst into a 
 violent fit of laughter. 
 
 " What is the matter?" cried tlie chevalier. 
 
 " Faith, chevalier," answered Matta, "• I was dream- 
 ing that we had sent away our viaitre d' hotel, and Avere 
 resolveil to live like our neighbors for the rest of the 
 camj)aign." 
 
 " Poor fellow !" cried De Grammont. " So you are 
 knocked down at once: what would have become of 
 you if you had been reduced to the situation I was in 
 at Lyons, four days before I came here ? Come, I will 
 tell you all about it." 
 
 "Begin a little fiirther back," cried Matta, "and 
 tell me about tlie inaiiiier in which you first paid your 
 respects to Cardinal Richelieu. Lay aside your pranks 
 as a child, your genealogy, and all your ancestors 
 together; you cannot know anything about them." 
 
 "Well," replied De Grammont, "it was my father's 
 
 own fault that he was not Henry IV. 's son: see what 
 
 the Graramonts have lost by this cross-grained fellow I 
 Vol. I.— 6
 
 82 THE CHURCH OR THE ARMY. 
 
 Faith, we misrlit have Avalked JK'fore the Counts de 
 Vendonie at this very moment." 
 
 Then lie went on to rehite liow he had been sent to 
 Pau, to the college, to he ])roiight up to the church, 
 with an old servant to act both as his 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 quality, when he did not deserve it ; 
 how he travelled up to Paris to his brother to be pol- 
 ished, and went to court in the character of an abbe. 
 " Ah, Matta, you know the kind of dress then in 
 vogue. No, I would not change my dress, but I con- 
 sented to draw over it a cassock. I had the finest 
 head of hair in the world, well curled and powdered 
 above my cassock, and below were my white buskins 
 and spurs." 
 
 Even Richelieu, that hypocrite, he went on to relate, 
 could not help laughing at the parti-colored costume, 
 sacerdotal above, soldier-like below ; but the cardinal 
 was greatly oflFended — not with the absence of decorum, 
 but with the dangerous wit, that could laugh in public 
 at the cowl and shaven crown, points which constituted 
 the greatest portion of Richelieu's sanctity. 
 
 De Grammont's brother, however, thus addressed 
 the Chevalier: — "Well, my little parson," said he, as 
 they went home, "you have acted your part to perfec- 
 tion ; l)ut now you must choose 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
 
 f) 
 
 AN ADVENTIIIIK AT lAONS. 83 
 
 (lie :inn_v, ymi will risk y<»Hr ;n-iii or your Ici:, lnit in 
 time vuii iiiMv Ix' :i iii:ijor-gcner:il with n avikkIcii log 
 iiiid M i:;lass eye, tlic spectacle of nu indiflV'rciit, uii- 
 irrntofiil court. Make voiir clioicc." 
 
 TliG choice, I'hilihert went on to ivlate, -was made. 
 l'^)r the _!^oo;l of his soul, he rciioiinccit the cliurch, hut 
 tor his own advantarrc, he kept his abhacv. This was 
 not dillicult in days wlicn secular al)l)es Avere common ; 
 nothing would induce him to change his resolution of 
 being a soldier. Meantime he was perfecting his ac- 
 complishments as a fine gentleman, one of the requi- 
 sites for which was a knowledge of all sorts of games. 
 No matter tliat liis mother was miserable at his decis- 
 ion. Had licr son been an al)be, she thought he would 
 have become a saint : nevertheless, wlicn he returned 
 liome, with the air of a courtier and a man of the 
 world, l)oy as he was, and tlie very impersonation of 
 what might then be termed la jeune France., she Avas so 
 enchanted Avith him that she consented to his goina; to 
 the Avars, attended again by Brinon, his valet, equerry, 
 and Mentor in one. Next in Do Grammont's narra- 
 tive came his adventure at Lyons, Avhere he spent the 
 200 louis his mother had given Brinon for him, in 
 play, and very nearly broke the poor old servant's 
 hcai't ; Avlicre ho liad du[)ed a horse-dealer; and he 
 ended by jiroposing plans, similarly honorable, to be 
 adopted fcM" their present emergencies. 
 
 The first step Avas to go to head-quarters, to dine Avith 
 a certain Count de Cameran, a Savoyard, and invite
 
 84 A BRILLIANT IDEA. 
 
 liim to supper. Here Matta interposed. "Arc you 
 mad?" he exclaimed. "Invito liim to supper! we 
 liave neither money nor credit; we are ruined; and 
 to save us you intend to give a supper!" 
 
 " Stupid feUow !" cried De Granniiont. " Cameran 
 plays at quinze : so do I : we want money. lie has 
 more than ho knows what to do with; we give a sup- 
 per, he pays for it. However," he added, " it is neces- 
 sary to take certain precautions. You command the 
 Guards: when night comes on, order your Sergent- 
 de-plaee to have fifteen or twenty men under arms, and 
 let them lay themselves flat on the ground between this 
 and head-quarters. Most likely we shall win this stupid 
 fellow's money. Now the Piedmontese are suspicious, 
 and he commands the Horse. Now, you know, Matta, 
 you cannot hold 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 cheated ? He has 
 always eight or ten horsemen : we must be prepared." 
 
 "Embrace me!" cried Matta, "embrace me! for 
 thou art unparalleled. 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 Piedmontese was asked to supper. 
 He came. Nevertheless, in the midst of the affair,
 
 GA.MIM.l.Nc; LTUN (KKldT. 85 
 
 Avlicn De C;iinci:in was losinfi; as fast as lie coiiM, 
 Matta's conscience touched him : he awoke froiii a 
 deep sleep, heanl the dice shaking, saw the i)i)or 
 Savoyard losing, and adviseil hiiu to play no more. 
 
 '• Don't voii know, (Jount, you cannot Avin?" 
 
 " Why ?" asked the Count. 
 
 " Why, faith, because we are cheating you," was the 
 reply. 
 
 The Chevalier turned round impatiently, " Sicur 
 Matta," he ciied, "do 3'ou suppose it can be any 
 amusement to Monsieur le Corate to be plagued with 
 your ill-timed jests? For my part, I am so weary of 
 the gauK', tliat r swear by Jupiter I can scarcely jilay 
 any more." Nothing is more distasteful to a losing 
 gamester than a hint of leaving off; so the Count 
 entreated the Chevalier to continue, and assured him 
 that " Monsieur Matta might say what he pleased, for 
 it did not give him the least uneasiness to continue." 
 
 The Chevalier allowed the Count to play upon credit, 
 and that act of courtesy was taken very kindly : the 
 dupe lost 1500 pistoles, which he paid the next morn- 
 ing, when Matta was sharply reprimanded for his 
 interference. 
 
 "Faith," he ansAvered, "it was a point of conscience 
 with me ; l)esides, it woidd have given me pleasure to 
 have seen his Horse engaged with my Infantry, if he 
 had taken anything amiss." 
 
 The sum tlius gained set the spendthrifts up : and 
 De CJraiiiuionl satisfied his conscience by giving it
 
 86 DE GRAMMONT'S GENEROSITY. 
 
 away, to a certain extent, in charity. It is singular 
 to perceive in the history of this celebrated man tliat 
 moral taint of character which the French have never 
 lost : this total absence of right reasoning on all points 
 of conduct, is coupled in our Gallic neighbors with the 
 greatest natural benevolence, Avith a generosity only 
 kept back by poverty, with impulsive, impressionable 
 dispositions, that require the guidance of a sound Prot- 
 estant faith to elevate and correct them. 
 
 The Chevalier hastened, it is related, to find out dis- 
 tressed comrades, officers Avho had lost their baggage, or 
 who had been ruined by gaming ; or soldiers Avho had 
 been disabled in the trenches ; and his manner of re- 
 lievin<T them was as (!;raceful and as delicate as the 
 bounty he distributed Avas Avelcome. He was the 
 darling of the army. The poor soldier knew him 
 personally, and adored him ; the general Avas sure to 
 meet him in the scenes of action, and to seek his 
 company in those of security. 
 
 And, having thus retrieved his finances, the gay- 
 hearted Chevalier used, henceforth, to make De Cam- 
 eran go halves Avitli him in all games in Avhich the 
 odds Avere in his own favor. Even the staid Calvinist, 
 Turenne, who had not then renounced, as he did in 
 after-life, the Protestant faith, deliglited in the off-hand 
 nu^rriniciit of tlie Clicvalief. It was towa.rds the end of 
 the siege (tf Trino, that De Graniuiont went to visit that 
 irencral in some new (luarters, where Tnrenne I'eceivetl 
 him, surro'.iiKh'd by fifleeii or twentv itllieers. Accord-
 
 A I1(JK.SE -'FOK TlIK ( AKDS." 87 
 
 iii^ to the custom of the day, cards were introduced, 
 and the general asked the Chevalier to iday. 
 
 " Sir," returned the young soldier, "my tutor taught 
 me that wlien a iimn goes to see his friends it is neither 
 prudent to leave his own money behind him nor civil to 
 take theirs." 
 
 "Well, " answered Tintiine, "I can tell you you 
 will liiid neither much money nor deep })lay among 
 us; hilt that it cannot be said that we allowed you to 
 go off without playing, suppose we each of us stake a 
 horse." 
 
 De Grammont agreed, and, lucky as ever, Avon from 
 the officers some iifteen or sixteen horses, by way of a 
 joke; but seeing several faces pale, he said, " Gentle- 
 men, I should be sorry to see you go away from your 
 general's quarters 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 valet-de-chambre thought he was jesting. "I 
 am serious," cried the Chevalier. ''Parole d'honneur 
 I give a horse for the cards ; and what's more, take 
 which you please, only don't take mine." 
 
 "Faith," said Turenne, pleased with the novelty of 
 the iifVaiv, " 1 don't believe a horse was ever before 
 iXiviMi tor tlic cards." 
 
 Young p('()|ih', :ind indcc*! old people, c;in perhaps 
 hardlv rriiunibcr tlic time when, even in I^ngland, 
 money used to be put under the candlesticks "for the 
 cards." as it was said, luii in fact for the servants, who
 
 88 KNIGHT-CICISEEISM. 
 
 waited. Winner or loser, the tax Avas to l)e paid, and 
 this custom of vails was also prevalent in France. 
 
 Trino at last surrendered, and the two friends rushed 
 from their campaigning life to enjoy the gayeties of 
 Turin, at that time the centre of pleasure ; and resolved 
 to perfect their characters as military heroes — by foiling 
 in love, if respectably, well ; if disreputably, well too, 
 perhaps all the more agreeable, and venturesome, as 
 they thought. 
 
 The court of Turin was then presided over by the 
 Duchess of Savoy, Madame Royale, as she was called 
 in France, the daughter of Henry IV. of France, the 
 sister of Henrietta Maria of England. She was a 
 woman of talent and spirit, Avorthy of her descent, 
 and had certain other qualities Avhich constituted a 
 point of resemblance betAvecn her and her father ; she 
 was, like him, more fascinating than respectable. 
 
 The customs of Turin Avere rather Italian than 
 French. At that time every lady had her {)rofessed 
 lover, Avho wore the liveries of his mistress, bore her 
 arms, and sometimes assumed her very name. The 
 office of the lover Avas, never to (juit liis lady in puldic, 
 and never to approach her in private: to be on all 
 occasions lier esquire. In tlie tournament her chosen 
 knight-cicisbeo came fortli witli liis coat, his housino^s, 
 liis very lance distinguished Avith tbe cypliei'S and 
 colors of ber wlio bad condescended to invest bim 
 Avith her preference. It was tbe remnant of chivah-v 
 tliat authorized ibis custdiii ; but of cbivab'v dciiinral-
 
 1)K (JKA.M.MoNTS FlIiST I.oVE. 89 
 
 izcd — {liivalry dcnudcil of her purity, her rcsj)C'ct, the 
 cliiv;ilry of corrupted Italy, not of that which, perhaps, 
 faUaciously, \ve assiixn to tlie I'arlier a<^es. 
 
 Granunont and Matta enlisted themselves at once in 
 the service of two hcaiities. Graininont chose for tlie 
 ([iiccii (if licaiity, ^vho was to "rain inlhience " ujion 
 him, Mademoiselle de St. Germain, Avho was in the 
 very Idooni of youth. Siie was French, and, probably, 
 an ancestress of that all-accomplished Comtc de St. 
 Germain, wliose exjiloits so dazzled successive Euro- 
 ])ean courts, and the fullest account of whom, in all its 
 brilliant colors, yet tinged w ith mystery, is given in the 
 Memoirs of Maria Antoinette, by the Marquise d'Ad- 
 hemar, her ladv of the l)ed-chand)cr. 
 
 The lovely object of De Gramniont's "first love" 
 was a radiant brunette belle, Avho took no pains to set 
 oft' by art the charms of nature. She had some 
 defects: her black and s|)arkling eyes were small; 
 her ibrehead, l)y no means "as pure as mooidi^ht 
 slee]iing upon snow," was not fair, neither were her 
 hands; neither had she small fiH-t — but her ibrm 
 generally was jierfect ; her elbows had a peculiar 
 elegance in them ; and in old times to iiold the elbow 
 out well, and yet not to slick it out, was a point of 
 earlv ilisciplinc. Then her glossy black hair set off 
 a sii|icrb neck and shoulders; and, nu)reover, she was 
 gay, lull of mirth, life, complaisance, ]>erfect in all the 
 acts of politeness, aiul invariable in ]\cy gracious and 
 ijracelul bearin<i;.
 
 90 KNIGIIT-CICISBEISM. 
 
 Matta admired her ; but De Gramraont ordered him 
 to attach himself to the Marquise de Senantes, a mar- 
 ried beauty of the court ; and Matta, in full faith that 
 all Grammont said and did was sure to succeed, obeyed 
 his friend. The Chevalier had fallen in love with 
 Mademoiselle de St. Germain at first sight, and 
 instantly arrayed himself in her color, which was 
 green, whilst Matta wore l)lue, in compliment to the 
 marquise ; and they entered the next day upon duty, 
 at La Venerie, where the Duchess of Savoy gave a 
 grand entertainment. De Grammont, with his native 
 tact and unscrupulous mendacity, played his part to 
 perfection ; but his comrade, Matta, committed a hun- 
 dred solecisms. The very second time he honored the 
 marquise with his attentions, he treated her as if she 
 Avcre his humble servant : when he pressed her hand, 
 it was a pressure that almost made her scream. When 
 he ought to have ridden by the side of her coach, he 
 set off, on seeing a hare start from her form ; then he 
 talked to her of partridges when he should have been 
 laving himself at her feet. Both these affairs ended 
 as might have been expected. Mademoiselle de St. 
 Germain was diverted by Grammont, yet he could not 
 touch her heart. Her aim was to marry ; his was 
 merely to attach himself to a reigning lieauty. 'fhey 
 parted without regret; and be left the tbeii ivmote 
 court (»f Turin for tlie gayer sceru's of Paris and 
 Versailles. Here be became as celeb ra led for bis 
 alertness in })la.y as fur liis readiness in lepartee; a.s
 
 Ills WiriV ATTACKS ON MAZAKIN. Ul 
 
 iiotcil lor his intrigues, as he afterwards was for his 
 hr.n crv. 
 
 Those were stirriii"- ihivs in Franec. Aiiiie of Austria, 
 tlu II ill hi'i- maturity, was governed by Mazarin, the 
 most aitfiil of ministers, an Italian to tlie very lieart's 
 core, with a h)ve of amassing wealth engrafted in his 
 siipjiU' nature tliat amounted to a monomania. The 
 whole aim of his life was gain. Though gaming was 
 at its height, INIazarin never jilayed for amusement; 
 he [ilayed to enrich himself; and when he played, he 
 cheated. 
 
 The Chevalier dc Grammont was now rich, and 
 Mazarin worshipped the rich. He was witty ; and 
 his wit soon procured him admission into the cli(iuc 
 wliom the wily Mazarin collected around him in Paris. 
 Whatever Avere Dc Grammont's faults, he soon per- 
 ceived those of Mazarin ; he detected, and he detested, 
 the Avily, grasping, serpent-like attributes of the Italian ; 
 he attacked him on every occasion on which a " wit 
 combat " was possible : he gracefully showed Mazarin 
 olV in his true colors. "With ease he annihilated him, 
 metaphorically, at his own table. Yet De Grammont 
 had something to atone for: he had been the adherent 
 and nniipaiiion in arms of Conde ; he iiad followed 
 that hero to Sens, to Nordlin^en, to Fribouro;, and 
 li;id rriiini('(l to his alh'giance to the young king, 
 Louis XIV., onlv because he wislied to visit the court 
 al Paris. Mazarin's polit-y, however, was tiiat of |iar- 
 don and peace — of duplicity and treachery — and the
 
 92 DE GRAMMO^'T'S INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 Chevalier seemed to be forgiven on his return to Paris, 
 even by Anne of Austria. Nevertheless, De Gram- 
 mont 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 
 abbacy ; but he could not refuse it to one of De 
 Grammont's rank. From Mazarin he had ij-ained 
 nothing except what he had Avon at play. 
 
 After jNIazarin's death the Chevalier intended to 
 secure the favor of the king, Louis XIV., to wliom, as 
 he rejoiced to find, court alone was now to be paid, 
 lie had now somewhat rectified his distinctions be- 
 tween rio-ht and wrono;, and was resolved to have no 
 regard for favor unless supported by merit ; he deter- 
 mined to make himself beloved by the courtiers of 
 Louis, and feared by the ministers ; to dare to under- 
 take anything to do good, ami to engage in nothing 
 at the expense of innocence. He still continued to 
 be eminently successful in play, of which he did not 
 perceive the evil, nor allow the wickedness; but 
 he was unfortunate in love, in which he was equally 
 unscrupulous and more rash than at the gaming- 
 table. 
 
 Among tlie in;iids of honor of Anne of Austria was 
 a young huly nimuMl Anne Lucie de la Mothc IToudan- 
 court. Louis, though not long man'ied, slutwed some 
 symptoms of iidmiration for this (Ubutantc in the 
 wicked w;ivs of the court.
 
 ANNK LUCII': DE I. A MoTlIi; IKJL'DANCOUKT. JKJ 
 
 G:iy, r:i(li;iiit in flic liluoin <t{' vuiiili ;iih1 iiinoconce, 
 tlic story of lliis voiiiiir <^'\v\ presents an iii.-t;incc oC tlic 
 unliappiness uliicli, Avitliout i^nilt, the sins oC others 
 brini^ n|)on even the vii'tuoiis. T\\v ((iieen-dowanrer, 
 Anne of" Austria, Avas livin;^ at St. Gcrmains Avhen 
 Madcmnisene de hi Mothc Iloiulancourt ■was received 
 into licr househohl. Tlie Diiehess de Noailles, at that 
 time Grande Maitressc, exercised a vigilant and 
 kindly rule over the maids of honor; nevertheless, she 
 could not prevent their being liable to the attentions 
 of Louis: she forbade liim however to loiter, or indeed 
 even to be seen in the room appropriated to the young 
 damsels under her charge; and when attracted by the 
 beauty of Anne Lucie de la Mothe, Louis was obliged 
 to speak to her through a hole behind a clock Avhieh 
 stood in a corridor. 
 
 Anne Lucie, notwithstanding this apparent encour- 
 agement of the king's addresses, was perfectly indilTer- 
 ent to his admiration. She was secretly attached to 
 the Mar(juis de liichelieu, who had, or pretended to 
 have, honorable intentions towards her. Everything 
 was tried, but tried in vain, to induce the poor girl to 
 give up all her predilections for the sake of a guilty 
 distinction — that of being the king's mistress : even 
 her mother reproached her with her coldness, A 
 family council was held, in hopes of convincing her of 
 her wilfulness, and Anne Tjucie was bitterly reproached 
 by liei- female relatives ; but her heart still clung to the 
 faithless Marquis do Richelieu, Avho, however, when
 
 94 BESET WITH SNARES. 
 
 he saw that a royal lover was his rival, meanly with- 
 drew. 
 
 Her fall seemed inevital)le; ))ut tlie firmness of 
 Anne of Austria saved her from her ruin. That 
 (jueen insisted on lier lieini; sent away; and she re- 
 sisted even the entreaties of the queen, her daughter- 
 in-law, and tlie wife of Louis XIV. ; who, for some 
 reasons not explained, entreated that the young lady 
 miglit remain at the court. Anne was sent away in a 
 sort of disgrace to the convent of Cha'illot, which Avas 
 then considered to l)e (juite out of Paiis, and suf- 
 ficiently secluded to protect her from visitors. Ac- 
 cording to another account, a letter full of reproaches, 
 whicli slie wrote to the Marquis de Richelieu upbraid- 
 ing him for his desertion, had been intercepted. 
 
 It was to this young lady that De Grammont, who 
 was then, in the very centre of the court, " the type of 
 fashion and the mould of form," attached himself to 
 her as an admirer who could condescend to honor with 
 his attentions those Avhom the king pursued. The 
 once gay girl was thus beset witli snares: on one side 
 was the kinir, whose (liso;ustin<]i; preference was shown 
 Avhen in her presence by sighs and sentiment ; on the 
 other, De Grammont, whose attentions to her were 
 importunate, but failed to convince her that he was in 
 love ; on the otlier was the time-serving, heartless De 
 Richelieu, whom her reason condemned, but whom her 
 heart cherished. Slie soon sIiowcmI lier distrust and 
 dislike of De Gi'ammont: she treated him witli con-
 
 DK CUAMMONTS VISITS To KX(iLAND. 95 
 
 tempt; slic tlifcntciicil liim with exposure, yet he would 
 Hot desist: tlicn she eoinplaiiicil nC liini to tlic Kiuij;. 
 It Wiis tlicii tliiif lie iicrccivcil tlint tlioULdi lovccoiild 
 e(|uali'/e coiiditjons, it eould not act in the same way 
 between ii\;ds. lie was commanded to leave tlio 
 court. I'.iris. tlici'ct'ore, Versailles, Foiitaincltlcaiu and 
 St. (Icrniains wri'c i-IosimI au'ainst this j^ay ChcNalicr; 
 and liow coidil he live elsewhere? AVhither could he 
 go? Strange to say, he had a vast fancy to behold 
 the man who, stained with the crime of regicide, and 
 sprung from the people, was receiving magniiicent 
 embassies from continental nations, whilst Charles II. 
 was seeking security in his exile from the power of 
 Si)aiii in the Tiow Countries. He was eager to see 
 the Protector, Cromwell. But Cromwell, tliou'ili in 
 the heifflit of his fame when beheld bv De Grainmont 
 — though feared at home and abroad — was little calcu- 
 lated to win suffrage from a mere man of pleasure like 
 De Grammont. The court, the city, the countiy, were 
 in his days gloomy, discontented, joyless: a proscribed 
 nol)iritv was the sure cause of the thin thou2:li few 
 festivities of the now lugubrious gallery of Whitehall. 
 Puritanism drove the old jovial churchmen into retreat, 
 and disi)elleil every lingering vestige of ancient hosjii- 
 tality : long graces and long sermons, sanctimonious 
 manners, and grim, sad faces, and sad-colored dresses 
 were not much to De Grammont's taste ; he returned 
 to France, and declared that he had gained no advan- 
 tage from his travels. Nevertheless, either from choice
 
 9G CHARLES II. 
 
 or necessity, lie made anotlier trial of the damps and 
 foo-s of Enojland.* 
 
 When he again visited our country, Charles II. had 
 been two years seated on the throne of his fother. 
 Everything was changed, and the British court Avas in 
 its fullest splendor ; whilst the rejoicings of the people 
 of England at the Restoration were still resounding 
 throui»;h the land. 
 
 If one could include royal personages in the rather 
 gay than worthy category of the " wits and beaux of 
 society," Charles II. should figure at their head. He 
 was the most agreeable companion, and the worst king 
 imaginable. In the first place, he was, as it were, a 
 citizen of the world : tossed about by fortune from his 
 early boyhood ; a witness at the tender age of twelve 
 of the battle of Edge Hill, where the celebrated Har- 
 vey had charge of him and of his brother. That in- 
 auspicious commencement of a wandering life had per- 
 haps been amongst the least of his early trials. The 
 fiercest was his long residence as a sort of royal prisoner 
 in Scotland. A travelled, humbled man, he came back 
 to England with a full knowledge of men and manners, 
 in the prime of his life, with spirits unbroken by ad- 
 versity, with a heart unsoured by that " stern nurse," 
 Avith a gayety that was always kindly, never uncourt- 
 eous, ever more French than English ; far more natural 
 
 ' M. »lo (irainmdiit visited En.i^land duritit;; tlie Protectorate. 
 His second visit, after being forbidden the coinl by Louis XIV., 
 was in 10(52.
 
 LIFE AT WHITEHALL. 1)7 
 
 (lid he appear as the son of Henrietta Maria than as 
 the offsprin<^ of the thoughtful Cliarlcs. 
 
 In person, too, the king was then agreeable, though 
 rather -what the French Avould call distingue than dig- 
 nified ; he was, however, tall, and somewhat elegant, 
 with a long French face, which in his boyhood was 
 jdunip and full about the lower part of the cheeks, but 
 now began to sink into that well-known, lean, dark, 
 flexible countenance, in which we do not, however, 
 recognize the gayety of the man whose very name 
 brings with it associations of gayety, politeness, good 
 company, and all the attributes of a first-rate wit, ex- 
 cept the almost inevitable ill-nature. There is in the 
 physiognomy of Charles II. that melancholy which is 
 often observable in the faces of those who are mere men 
 of jdeasure. 
 
 De Grammont found himself completely in his own 
 sphere at Whitehall, where the habits were far more 
 French than English. Along that stately iNIall, over- 
 shadowed with mubrageous trees, which retains — and 
 it is to be hoped ever will retain — the old name of the 
 " Birdcage Walk," one can picture to one's self the king 
 walking so fast that no one can keep up with him ; yet 
 stopping from time to time to chat with some acquaint- 
 ances. He is walking to Duck Island, which is full of 
 his favorite water-fowl, and of which he has given St. 
 Evremond the government. How pleasant is his talk 
 to those who attend him as he walks alonji : how well 
 the quality of good-nature is shown in his love of dumb 
 Vol.. I.— 7
 
 98 COURT OF CHAELES II. 
 
 animals ; how completely lie is a boy still, even in that 
 brown wig of many curls, and with the George and 
 Garter on his breast ! Boy, indeed, for he is followed 
 by a litter of young spaniels : a little brindled grey- 
 hound frisks beside him ; it is for that he is ridiculed 
 by the '■^psahn " sung at the Calves' Head Club : these 
 favorites were cherished to his death. 
 
 "His dogs would sit in council boards 
 Like judges in their seats: 
 We question much which liad most sense, 
 The master or the curs." 
 
 Then what capital stories Charles would tell, as he 
 unbent at night amid the faithful, tliough profligate, 
 companions of his exile ! lie told his anecdotes, it is 
 true, over and over again, yet they were always embel- 
 lished with some fresh touch — like the repetition of a 
 song which has been encored (in (lie staf>;e. Whether 
 from his inimitable art, or from his royalty, wo leave 
 others to guess, but his stories bore repetition again 
 and again : they were amusing, and even novel to the 
 very last. 
 
 To this seducing court did De Grammont now come. 
 Tt was a, deliiihtful exchange from the endk'ss cere- 
 monies and punctilios of the region over which Louis 
 XIV. presided. Wherever (Hiarles was, his palace 
 appeared to resemble a large hospitable ]u)usc — some- 
 times town, sometimes country — in whicli every one 
 did as he liked ; and wliciv distinctions of rank wei'e
 
 INTRODUCTION OF COUNTRY DANCES. 99 
 
 kept up as a matter of convenience, but were only 
 valued on that score. 
 
 In other respects, Charles had modelle<l his court 
 very much on the i)lan of that of Louis XIV., which 
 lie liail admired for its gayety and spirit. Corneillc, 
 Racine, Moliere, Boileau, were encouraged by le Grand 
 Monarque. "Wycherley and Di-yden were attracted by 
 Charles to celebrate the festivities, and to amuse the 
 great and the gay. In various points De Grammont 
 found a resemblance. The queen-consort, Catherine 
 of Braganza, was as complacent to her husband's vices 
 as the queen of Louis. These royal ladies were merely 
 first sultanas, and had no right, it was thought, to feel 
 jealousy, or to resent neglect. Each returning Sab- 
 bath saw Whitehall lighted up, and heard the tabors 
 sdiiiid for a ^>ranZ« (Anglicized " brawl "). This was 
 a dance which mixed up evervbodv, and called a 
 brawl, from the foot being shaken to a quick time. 
 Gayly did his Majesty perform it, leading to the hot 
 exercise Anne Hyde, Duchess of York, stout and 
 homely, and leaving Lady Castlemaine to his son, 
 tlie Duke of Monmouth. Then Charles, with ready 
 grace, would bc^iii tlic coranto, taking a single lady 
 in this dance along the gallery. Lords and ladies one 
 after another folloAved, and '' very noble," writes Pepys, 
 "and great pleasure it was to see." Next came the 
 country dances, introduced by Mary, Countess of 
 Buckingham, the grandmother of the graceful duke 
 who is moving along the gallery ; — and she invented
 
 100 NOKMAN PECULIARITIES. 
 
 those once popular dances in order to introduce, Avith 
 less chance of failure, her rustic country cousins, ■who 
 could not easily be taught to carry themselves Avell in 
 the brawl, or to step out gracefully in the coranto, both 
 of which dances required practice and time. In all 
 these dances the king shines the most, and dances 
 much better than his brother the Duke of York. 
 
 In these gay scenes De Grammont met with the 
 most fashionable belles of the court : fortunately for 
 him they all spoke French tolerably ; and he quickly 
 made himself welcome amon<>-st even the few — and 
 few indeed there wxn'e — who plumed themselves upon 
 untainted reputations. Hitherto those French noble- 
 men who had presented themselves in England had 
 been poor and al^surd. The court had been thronged 
 with a troop of impertinent Parisian coxcombs, wdio 
 had pretended to despise everything English, and who 
 treated the natives as if they were foreigners in their 
 own country. De Grammont, on the contrary, was 
 f^imiliar with every one : he ate, he drank, he lived, in 
 short, according to tlie custom of the country that hos- 
 pitably received him, and accorded him the more respect 
 because they had been insulted by others. 
 
 He now introduced the petits soujjers, wdiich have 
 never been understood anywhere so well as in France, 
 and whicli are even there dying out to make way for 
 the less social and more expensive dinner; l)ut, per- 
 haps, he would even here liavc been unsuccessful, had 
 it not been f(»r tlie society and ;idvice of the famous St.
 
 (f i)arlr« tir 5t. i5lnTmontr. 
 ^figucuv tic 5t. IBcim k (CJuast
 
 ST. EVREMOND. KH 
 
 Evrcinond, avIio at tliis time was exiled in France, mid 
 took refuse in England. 
 
 This celebrated and accoinplislied man liail some 
 points of resemblance with De Grammont. Like liim, 
 he had been originally intended for the church ; like 
 him, he had turned to the military profession ; he was 
 an cnsicrn before he was full sixteen ; and had a com- 
 pany of foot given him after serving two or three cam- 
 paigns. Like Dc Grammont, he owed the facilities of 
 his early career to his being the descendant of an ancient 
 and honorable family. St. Evremondwas the Seigneur 
 of St. Denis le Guast, in Normandy, where he was born. 
 
 Both these sparkling wits of society had at one 
 time, and, in fact, at the same period, served under 
 the great Conde ; both Avere pre-eminent, not only in 
 literature, but in games of cliance. St. Evremond 
 was famous at the L'niversity of Caen, in whieli he 
 studied, for his fencing; and "St. Evremond's pass" 
 was well known to swordsmen of his time; — both 
 Avere gay and satirical ; neither (jf them pretended 
 to rigid morals ; 1)ut both were accounted men of 
 honor among their fellow-men of jjleasure. They 
 were graceful, kind, generous. 
 
 In person St. Evremond liad the advantage, being 
 a Nonnan — a race which combines the handsomest 
 traits of an English countenance with its blond hair, 
 blue eyes, and fair skin. Neither does the slight 
 tinge of the Gallic race detract from the attractions 
 of a true-, well-born Norman, bred up in that province
 
 102 ST. EVEEMOND, THE HANDSOME NORMAN. 
 
 which is called the Court-end of France, and polished 
 in the ca])ital. Your Norman is hardy, and fond of 
 field-sports : like tlic Englishman, he is usually fear- 
 less ; generous, but, unlike the English, somewhat 
 crafty. You may know him by the fresh color, the 
 peculiar blue eye, long and large; by his joyousness 
 and look of health, gathered up in his own marshy 
 country, for tlie Norman is well fed, and lives on the 
 produce of rich pasture-land, with cheapness and plenty 
 around him. And St. Evremond was one of the hand- 
 somest specimens of this fine locality (so mixed up as 
 it is with 7ts) ; and his blue eyes sparkled with humor ; 
 his beautifully-turned mouth was all sweetness ; and 
 his nol)le forehead, the whiteness of which Avas set off 
 by thick dark eyebrows, was expressive of his great 
 intelligence, until a wen grew between his eyebrows, 
 and so changed all the expression of his fiico that the 
 Duchess of Mazarin used to call him the " Old Satyr." 
 St. Evremond was also Norman in other respects: he 
 called himself a thorough Roman Catholic, yet he 
 despised the superstitions of his church, and prepared 
 himself for death without them. When asked by an 
 ecclesiastic sent expressly from the court of Florence 
 to attend his death-bed, if he "would be reconciled," 
 he answered, "With all my heart; I would fain ])e 
 reconciled to my stomacli, which no longer performs 
 its usual functions." And his talk, we are told, dur- 
 ing the fortnight that preceded his death, was not 
 regret for a life we should, in seriousness, call mis-
 
 THE MOST BKAUTIFUL WOMAN IN EUROPE. 103 
 
 spent, but because })artri(l<:5es and pheasants no longer 
 suited his condition, and lie was obliged to be reduced 
 to l)oiled meats. No one, however, could tell Avhat 
 might also be passing in bis heart. We cannot always 
 judge of a life, any more than of a drama, by its last 
 scene; but this is certain, that in an ago of blasphemy 
 St. Evremond could not endure to hear religion insulted 
 by ridicule. " Common decency," said this man of 
 the world, " and a due regard to our fellow-creatures, 
 would not permit it." He diil not, it seems, refer his 
 displeasure to a higher source — to the presence of the 
 Omniscient, — ^Yho claims from us all not alone the 
 tribute of uiii- ])oi)r fi-ail hearts in serious moments, 
 but the deej) reverence of every thought in the hours 
 of careless pleasure. 
 
 It was now St. Evremond who taught Do Grammont 
 to collect around him the wits of that court, so rich in 
 attractions, so poor in honor and morality. The object 
 of St. Evremond's devotion, though he had, at the 
 era of the Restoration, passed his fiftieth year, Avas 
 Ilortense Mancini, once the richest heiress, and still 
 the most beautiful woman in Europe, and a niece, on 
 her mother's side, of Cardinal Mazarin. TTortense 
 had been educated, after the age of six, in France. 
 She was Italian in her accomplishments, in her reck- 
 less, wild disposition, opposed to that of the French, 
 who are generally calculating and wary, even in their 
 vices : she was Italian in the style of her surj)assing 
 beauty, and French to the core in her principles.
 
 104 THE CHILD-WIFE. 
 
 Ilortense, at the age of thirteen, had been married to 
 Armand Due de Meilleraye and jNIayenne, who had 
 fallen so desperately in love with this beautiful child, 
 that he declared " if he did not marry her he should 
 die in three months." Cardinal Mazarin, although 
 he had destined his niece Mary to this alliance, gave 
 his consent on condition that the duke should take the 
 name of Mazarin. The cardinal died a year after 
 this marriao;e, leavino; his niece Ilortense the enor- 
 mous fortune of X1,G25,000 ; yet she died in tlie 
 greatest difficulties, and her corpse was seized by 
 her creditors. 
 
 The Due de INIayennc proved to be a fanatic, who 
 used to waken his wife in the dead of the night to hear 
 his visions ; who forbade his child to be nursed on fast- 
 days ; and who believed himself to be inspired. After 
 six years of wretchedness poor Hortense petitioned for 
 a separation and a division of property. She quitted 
 her husband's home and took refuge first in a nunnery, 
 where she showed her unbelief, or her irreverence, by 
 mixing ink with holy-water, that the poor nuns might 
 black their faces when they crossed themselves ; or, in 
 concert with Madame de Courcellcs, another handsome 
 married woman, she used to walk through the dormi- 
 tories in the dead of night, with a number of little dogs 
 barking at their heels ; then she filled two great chests 
 that were over the dormitories with water, which ran 
 over, and, penetrating through the chinks of the floor, 
 wet the holy sisters in their beds. At length all this
 
 IIOKTENSE MANCINI'S ADVENTL'KES. IUj 
 
 sorry gayety was stopped Ijy a decree that Ilortense 
 was to return to the PaUiis Mazarin, ami to remain 
 there until the suit' for a separation should he decided. 
 That tlie result should be flivorable was doulitful : tliere- 
 forc, one fine niglit in June, 16G7, Hortense escaped. 
 She dressed herself in male attire, and, attended by a 
 female servant, managed to get througli the gate at 
 Paris, and to enter a carriage. Tlien she fled to Swit- 
 zerland ; and, had not her flight been shared by the 
 Chevalier de Kohan, one of the handsomest men in 
 France, one could hardly have blamed an escape from 
 a half-lunatic husband. She was only twenty-eight 
 when, after various adventures, she came in all her 
 unimpaired beauty to England. Charles was captivated 
 by her charms, and, touched by her misfortunes, he set- 
 tled on her a pension of =£4000 a year, and gave her 
 rooms in St. James's. Waller sang her praise : 
 
 "When through the world fair Mazarine had run, 
 Bright a.s her fellow-traveller, the sun: 
 Hither at length the Roman eagle flies, 
 As the last triumph of her conquering eyes." 
 
 If Ilortense failed to carry off from the Duchess of 
 Portsmouth — then the star of Whitehall — the heart of 
 Charles, she found, at all events, in St. Evremond one 
 of those French, platonic, life-long friends, who, as 
 Chateaubriand worshipped Madame Recaraier, adored 
 to the last the exiled niece of Mazarin. Every day, 
 when in her old age and his, the warmth of love had
 
 106 LIFE AT CHELSEA. 
 
 subsided into the serener affection of pitying, and yet 
 admiring friendship, St. Evremond was seen, a little 
 old man in a black coif, carried along Pall Mall in a 
 sedan chair, to the apartment of Madame Mazarin, in 
 St. James's. He always took with him a pound of 
 butter, made in his own little dairy, for her breakfast. 
 When De Graramont was installed at the court of 
 Charles, Hortense was, however, in her prime. Her 
 house at Chelsea, then a country village, was famed 
 for its society and its varied pleasures. St. Evremond 
 has so well described its attractions that his words 
 should be literally given. " Freedom and discretion 
 are equally to be found there. Every one is made 
 more at home than in his own house, and treated with 
 more respect than at court. It is true that there are 
 frequent disputes there, but they are those of know- 
 ledge and not of anger. There is play there, but it is 
 inconsiderable, and only practised for its amusement. 
 You discover in no countenance the fear of losing, nor 
 concern for what is lost. Some are so disinterested that 
 they are reproached for expressing joy when they lose, 
 and regret Avhen they win. Thiy is followed by the 
 most excellent repasts in the world. There you will 
 find whatever delicacy is brought from France, and 
 whatever is curious from the Indies. Even the com- 
 monest meats have the rarest relish imparted to them. 
 There is neither a plenty which gives a notion of ex- 
 travagance, nor a frugality that discovers penury or 
 meanness."
 
 ANlu.'DOTE OF LORD DoKSKT. 1U7 
 
 Wliat an assemblage it must have been I Here lolls 
 Cliarlcs, Lord IJuekliurst, afterwards Lord Dorset, tlie 
 laziest, in matters of business or court advancement — 
 the boldest, in jjoiiit of frolic and pleasure, of all the 
 wits and beaux of his time. His youth had been full 
 of adventure and of dissipation. "I know not how it 
 is," said AVilmot, Lord Rochester, '" but my Lord Dor- 
 set can do anvthin;:, and is never to blame." He had, 
 in trutli, a heart ; he could bear to hear others praised; 
 he despised the arts of courtiers ; he befriended the un- 
 happy ; he was the most engaging of men in manners, 
 tlie most loval)le and accomplished of human beings ; 
 at once poet, philanthro})ist, and wit; he was also 
 possessed of chivalric notions, and of daring courage. 
 
 Like his royal master, Lord Dorset had travelled; 
 and when made a gentleman of the bedchamber to 
 Charles IL, he was not unlike his sovereign in other 
 traits ; so full of gayety, so high-bred, so lax, so court- 
 eous, so convivial, that no supper was complete without 
 him: no circle " the right thing," unless Buckhurst, 
 as he was long called, was there to pass the bottle 
 round, and to keep every one in good-humor. Yet, 
 he had misspent a youth in reckless immorality, and 
 had e\cii lieeu in Newgate on a charge, a doubtful 
 charge it is true, of highway robl)ery and murder, but 
 had been foun<l guilty of manslaughter oidy. lie was 
 again mixed up in a disgraceful affair with Sir Charles 
 Scdley. AVhen ])r()ught before Sir Robert Hyde, then 
 Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, his name having
 
 108 LORD DORSET AS A ROET. 
 
 been mentioned, the jiulge inc^uirecl Avhether that was 
 the Bucklmrst hitely tried for robbery ? and when told 
 it was, he asked him whether he had so soon forgotten 
 his deliverance at that time : and whether it would not 
 better become him to have been at his prayers beg- 
 ging God's forgiveness than to come into such courses 
 again ? 
 
 The reproof took eifect, and Buckhurst became what 
 was then esteemed a steady man ; he volunteered and 
 fought gallantly in the fleet under James Duke of 
 York : and he completed his reform, to all outward 
 shoAV, by marrying Lady Falmouth.^ Buckhurst, in 
 society the most good-tempered of men, was thus re- 
 ferred to by Prior, in his poetical epistle to Fleetwood 
 Sheppard : 
 
 " When crowding folks, with strange ill faces, 
 Were making legs, anil begging places: 
 And some with patents, some with merit, 
 Tired out my good Lord Dorset's sjjirit." 
 
 Yet his pen was full of malice, whilst his heart was 
 tender to all. Wilmot, Lord Rochester, cleverly said 
 of him : — 
 
 "For pointed satire I would Buckhurst chuse, 
 The best good man with the worst-natured muse." 
 
 ' The Earl of Dorset married Elizabeth, widow of Charles Berk- 
 eley, Earl of Falmouth, and daughter of Ilervey IJagot, Es(]., of 
 Ripe Hall, Warwickshire, who died williout issue. lie married, 
 Till March, KIHl-S, Lady Mary ('om[)ton, daughter o{ James Earl 
 of IS'oi1liainptt)U.
 
 LORD ROCHESTER l.\ 11 IS ZE.MTII. 109 
 
 Still more celebrated as a beau and wit of his time 
 ^va.s John Wilniot, Lord Kochester. He was the son 
 of Lord Wilmot, the cavalier who so loyally attended 
 Charles II. after the battle of Worcester; and, as the 
 oHsprin^ of that royalist, was greeted by Lord Claren- 
 don, iluii Chancellor of the University of Oxford, 
 when he took his deij-ree as Master of Arts, with a 
 kiss.' The young nobleman then travelled, according 
 to custom ; ami tlien, most uidiaj)pily for himself and 
 for others, whom he corrupted by his example, he pre- 
 sented himself at the court of Charles II. He was at 
 this time a youth of eighteen, and one of tlie hand- 
 somest persons of his age. The flice of Buck hurst 
 was hard ami plain ; tliat of De Grammont had little 
 to redeem it but its varying intelligence; but the 
 countenance of the young Earl of Rochester was per- 
 fectly synnnetrical : it was of a long oval, with large, 
 thoughtful, sleepy eyes ; the eyebrows arched and high 
 above them ; the brow, tliough concealed by the curls 
 of the now modest wig, was high and smooth ; the nose, 
 delicately shaped, somewhat aquiline; the mouth fidl, 
 but perfectly beautiful, was set off by a rouml and 
 weli-f'oruH'd cliiii. Such was Lord Rochestei' in his 
 zenith : and as be came forwar<l on state occasions, liis 
 false light curls lianging down on his shoulders — a 
 cambric kerchief loosely tied, so as to let the ends, 
 worked in point, fall gracefully down : his scarlet 
 
 M^ord Rochester succeeded to tlie Earldom in 1G59. It was 
 created by Charles If. in 1(352, at Paris.
 
 110 HIS COUEAGE AND WIT. 
 
 gown in folds over a suit of light steel .armor — for 
 men had become carpet knights then, and the coat of 
 mail worn by the brave cavaliers was now less warlike, 
 and was mixed up with robes, ruffles, and rich hose — 
 and when in this guise he appeared at Whitehall, all 
 admired ; and Charles was enchanted Avith the sim- 
 plicity, the intelligence, and modesty of one who was 
 then an ingenuous youth, with good aspirations, and 
 a staid and decorous demeanor. 
 
 Woe to Lady Rochester — woe to the mother who 
 trusted her son's innocence in that vitiated court ! 
 Lord Rochester forms one of the many instances we 
 daily behold, that it is those most tenderly cared for, 
 who often fall most deeply, as well as most early, into 
 temptation. He soon lost every trace of virtue — of 
 principle, even of deference to received notions of 
 propriety. For a while there seemed hopes that he 
 would not wholly fall: courage was his inheritance, 
 and he distinguished himself in 16G5, when as a 
 volunteer he went in (juest of the Dutch East India 
 fleet, and served Avith heroic gallantry under Lord 
 Sandwich. And when he returned to court, there 
 was a ])artial improvement in his conduct. He even 
 looked biU'k upon his former indiscretions with liorror: 
 he had now shared in the realities of life : he had 
 grasped a higli ;iiid honorabU' ambition ; but he soon 
 fell away — soon became almost a castaway. "For 
 five years," he told Rislio}) Burnet, wlicn on bis death- 
 bed, "I was never sober." His I'eputation as a wit
 
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 AS A WRITER AND A MAX. Ill 
 
 must rest, in the present day, cliiedy upon productions 
 wliicli liave long since been condemned us unreadable. 
 Strange to say, when not under the influence of wine, 
 lie was a constant student of classical authors, perhaps 
 the worst reading for a man of his tendency : all tliat 
 was satirical and im})urc attracting him most. Boileau, 
 among French writers, and Cowley among the English, 
 Avere his favorite authors. He also read many books of 
 physic ; for long before thirty his constitution was so 
 broken by his life, that he turned his attention to 
 remedies, and to medical treatment ; and it is remark- 
 able how many men of dissolute lives take up the same 
 sort of reading, in the vain hope of repairing a course 
 of dissolute living. As a writer, his style was at once 
 forcible and lively ; as a companion, he was wildly 
 vivacious : madly, perilously, did he outrage decency, 
 insult virtue, profane religion. Charles II. liked him 
 on fu'st ae([uaintance, for Rochester was a man of the 
 most finished and fascinatinfj; manners ; but at len<i;th 
 there came a coolness, and the witty courtier was 
 banished from Whitehall. Unhappily for himself, he 
 was recalled, and commanded to wait in Loudon until 
 his Majesty should choose to readmit him into his 
 presence. 
 
 Disgiiises and practical jokes were the fashion of the 
 (lav. The use of the mask, wliieh was put down by 
 proelamation soon niter the accession of Queen Anne, 
 favored a series of praidvs with which liord Rochester, 
 during the period of his living concealed in Lombui,
 
 112 BANISHED FROM COURT. 
 
 diverted himself. The success of his scheme was per- 
 feet. He established himself, since he could not go to 
 Whitehall, in the City. " His first design," De Gram- 
 mont relates, " was only to be initiated into the mys- 
 teries of those fortunate and happy inhabitants ; that is 
 to say, by changing his name and dress, to gain admit- 
 tance to their feasts and entertainments. ... As he 
 was able to adapt himself to all capacities and humors, 
 he soon deeply insinuated himself into the esteem of 
 the substantial wealthy aldermen, and into the affec- 
 tions of their more delicate, magnificent, and tender 
 ladies ; he made one in all their feasts and at all their 
 assemblies ; and whilst in the company of the husbands, 
 he declaimed against the faults and mistakes of govern- 
 ment, he joined their wives in railing against the prof- 
 ligacy of the court ladies, and in inveighing against the 
 king's mistresses : he agreed with them, that the in- 
 dustrious poor were to pay for these cursed extrava- 
 gances ; that the City beauties were not inferior to 
 those at the other end of the town, . . . after which, 
 to outdo their murmurings, he said that he Avondered 
 Whitehall was not yet consumed by fire from heaven, 
 since such rakes as Rochester, Killigrew, and Sidney 
 were suffered there." 
 
 This conduct endeared him so much to the City, and 
 made him so welcome at their clubs, tliat at last he grew 
 sick of their cramming, and endless invitations. 
 
 He now tried a now s])liere of action ; and instead of 
 returning, as he might have done, to the court, retreated
 
 CRKDl'LITY, I'AST AND TMiESKNT. ll;"l 
 
 into tlic most ()l)S('urc corners of tlio inctropolis; mikI 
 ii<raiii <li:m;'inj' his naiiic mikI (Ircss, gave himself out 
 as a (iennan doctor iimiikmI Bondo, who professed to 
 find out inscrutaljle secrets, and to apply infallilde 
 remedies; to know, l)y astrology, all the past, and to 
 foretell the future. 
 
 If the reign of Charles was justly deemed an age 
 of hi<i;h civilization, it was also one of extreme credulity. 
 Unbelief in reliarion went hand in hand with hlind faith 
 in astrology and witchcraft ; in omens, divinations, and 
 prophecies : neither let us too strongly despise, in these 
 their foibles, our ancestors. They had many excuses 
 for their superstitions ; and for their fears, false as their 
 hopes, and equally groundless. The circulation of 
 knowledge was limited: the jiu])lic journals, that part 
 of the press to which we now owe inexpressible grati- 
 tude for its general accuracy, its enlarged vicAvs, its 
 purity, its information, Avas then a meagre statement 
 of dry facts : an announcement, not a commentary. 
 "The Flying Post," the " Daily Courant," the names 
 of which may be supposed to imply speed, never 
 reached lone country places till weeks after they had 
 been printed on their one duodecimo sheet of tliin coarse 
 paper. Religion, too, just emerging into glorious light 
 from the darkness of popery, had still her superstitions ; 
 and the mantle that priestcraft had contrived to throAv 
 over her exquisite, radiant, and simple form, was not 
 then wholly and finally withdrawn. Romanism still 
 hovered in the form of credulity. 
 
 Vol. I.— S
 
 114 "DR. BEXDO" AND LA BELLE JENNINGS. 
 
 But now, with shame be it spoken, in the full noon- 
 day genial splendor of our Reformed Church, with 
 neAvspapers, the leading articles of which rise to a 
 level with our greatest didactic Avriters, and are com- 
 petent even to form the mind as well as to amuse the 
 leisure hours of the young readers : with every species 
 of direct communication, we yet hold to fxllacies from 
 which the credulous in Charles's time would have 
 shrunk in dismay and disgust. Table-turning, spirit- 
 rapping, clairvoyance^ Swedenborgianism, and all that 
 family of follies, Avould have been far too strong for 
 the faith of those who counted upon dreams as their 
 guide, or looked up to the heavenly planets with a 
 belief, partly superstitious, partly reverential, for their 
 guidance ; and in a dim and flickering faith trusted to 
 their stara. 
 
 " Dr. Bendo," therefore, as Rochester was called — 
 handsome, Avitty, unscrupulous, and perfectly ac- 
 quainted with the then small circle of the court — 
 was soon noted for his wonderful revelations. Cham- 
 ber-women, waiting-maids, and shop-girls were his first 
 customers : l)ut, very soon, gay spinsters from the court 
 came in their hoods and masks to ascertain, with anx- 
 ious faces, their fortunes ; whilst the cunning, sar- 
 castic " Dr. Bendo," noted in his diary all the in- 
 trigues which were confided to him by these lovely 
 clients. La Belle Jennings, the sister of Sarah 
 Duchess of Marlborough, was among his disciples ; 
 she took with her the betiutiful Miss Price, and, dis-
 
 IllSIInl- I'.URXET'S DESCRIPTIOX. 115 
 
 guisinuj tliciiiselves as oranfi^o ^ivls, these youn;:; ladies 
 set oil" ill a liaekncy-coacli to visit Dr. I'xnilo: Imt 
 •\vlieTi \vitliiii Iiair a, street of tlie supposed fortiiiic- 
 tcllcr's, ^vere prevented l>,v tlic interruption of a dis- 
 solute court icr iiaiiicd IJroiinkcr. 
 
 " Evcrvtliiii'j: liv turns and notliiiiLi; long." When 
 Lord lloeliestcr was tired of being an astrologer, ho 
 used to roam ahout the streets as a beggar; tlien he 
 kept a footman who knew the Court well, and used to 
 dress him up in a red coat, supply him with a ninsket, 
 like a sentinel, and send him to watch at the doors of 
 all tlic fine ladies, to find out their goings on : after- 
 wards, Lord lloeliestcr would retire to the country, 
 and writ(^ li1)els on these fair victims, and, one day, 
 offered to present tlie king with one of liis lnin])oons; 
 hut being tipsy, gave Charles, instead, one written 
 upon himself. 
 
 At this juncture we read with sorrow Bishop Bur- 
 net's forcible description of his career: — 
 
 " lie seems to have freed himself from all impres- 
 sions of virtue or reli<fion, of honor or ijood nature. 
 . . . lie had but one maxim, to which he ailliered 
 firmly, that he has to do everything, and deny him- 
 self in notliing that might maintain his greatness, 
 lie was unhappily made for drunkenness, 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 Avas disordered after the 
 greatest drinking: an hour or two of sleep carried all
 
 IIG LA TRTSTE IIEETTIERE. 
 
 off so entirely, that no sign of them remained. . . . 
 This had a terrible conclusion." 
 
 Like many other men, Rochester might have been 
 saved by being kept far from the scene of temptation. 
 Whilst he remained in the country he was tolerably 
 sober, perhaps steady. AVlien he approached Brent- 
 ford on his route to London, his old propensities came 
 upon him. 
 
 Wlien scarcely out of his boyhoo<l he carried off a 
 young heiress, Elizabeth Mallett, whom De Gram- 
 mnnt calls La trlstc heritiere : and triste, indeed, she 
 naturally was. Possessed of a fortune of X2500 a 
 year, this young lady was marked out by Charles II. 
 as a victim for the profligate Rochester. But the 
 reckless young wit chose to take his own Avay of 
 managing the matter. One night, after supping at 
 Whitehall with Miss Stuart, the young Elizabeth was 
 returning home with her grandfather. Lord Ilaly, when 
 tlieir coach was suddenly stopped near Charing Cross 
 by a number of bravos, l)oth on horseback and on foot 
 — the "Roaring Boys and ^lohawks," who were not 
 extinct even in Addison's time. They lifted the 
 affrighted girl out of tlie carriage, and placed her in 
 one which had six horses; they then set off f)r LTx- 
 bridge, and were overtaken ; but the outrage ended in 
 marriage, and Elizabeth became the unhappy, neglected 
 Countess of Rocliester. Yet she loved him — perhaps 
 in ignorance of all that was going on whilst alie stayed 
 -with her foiir cliildren iit home.
 
 ELIZABETH, LUL'.NTESS OF KOClIESTEi:. 117 
 
 " ir," she writes to liim, " I could have been troubleil 
 at anytbin<^, when I had the haj)i>ines.s of receiving a 
 letlci- I'll (111 voii, I should he so, l)ecause you did not 
 name a time when I mi^^ht hoj)e to see you, the uncer- 
 tainty of which very much alllicts me. . . . Lay your 
 commands upon me what I am to do, and though it be 
 to forget my children, and the long hope I have lived 
 in of seeing you, yet w ill I endeavor to obey you ; or 
 in the memory only torment myself, without giving 
 you the trouble of putting you in mind that there 
 lives a creature as 
 
 "Your faithful, humble servant." 
 
 And he, in reply : " I Avent aAvay (to Rochester) 
 like a rascal, Avithout taking leave, dear Avife. It is 
 an unpolished Avay of proceeding, Avhich a modest man 
 ought to be ashamed of. I have left you a prey to 
 your own imaginations amongst my relations, the Avorst 
 of damnations. But there will come an hour of deliver- 
 ance, till Avhen, may my mother be merciful unto you I 
 So I commit you to Avliat 1 shall ensue, Avoman to 
 Avoman, Avife to mother, in hopes of a future appear- 
 ance in glory. . . . 
 
 " Pray Avrite as often as you have leisure, to your 
 
 " Rochester." 
 
 To his son he writes: "You are noAV groAvn big 
 cnou'di to be a man, if vou can be wise enougli ; and 
 the way to be truly wise is to serve God, learn your
 
 lis KETKIBUTION AND REFORMATION. 
 
 book, and observe the instructions of your parents 
 first, and next your tutor, to whom I luive entirely 
 resigned you for this seven years ; and according as 
 you employ that time, you are to be happy or un- 
 happy for ever. I have so good an opinion of you, 
 that I am glad to think you will never deceive me. 
 Dear child, learn your book and be obedient, and you 
 Avill see what a father I shall be to you. You shall 
 want no pleasure while you are good, and that you may 
 be good are my constant prayers." 
 
 Lord Rochester had not attained the age of thirty, 
 when he was mercifully awakened to a sense of his 
 guilt here, his peril hereafter. It seemed to many 
 that his very nature was so warped that penitence in 
 its true sense could never come to him ; but the mercy 
 of God is unfathomable ; lie judges not as man judges ; 
 lie forgives, as man knows not how to forgive. 
 
 "(kjd, our kind Master, merciful as just, 
 KuDwini;- our frame, remembers man is dust: 
 lie marks the dawn of every virtuous aim, 
 And fans the smoking flax into a liame; 
 lie hears the language of a silent tear, 
 And sighs are incense from a heart sincere." 
 
 And the reformation of Rochester is a confirmation 
 of the doctrine of a s])eci;d Prcivideiice, ;is well as of 
 that of ;i. retribution, even in t!iis life. 
 
 Tlie r('tril)ii(ioii cumo in the loiiii ol' an carlv but 
 certain decay ; of a siiOci-iii^- so stern, so coinpose(| (»f 
 mental and bodilv tiiiirnisli, that nevcf \v;is man called
 
 CON VERSION. Ill) 
 
 to repentance by a voice so distinct as Rochester. The 
 reformation was sent llnoiiLili tlir instrumentality of 
 one who had hci-n a sinner like himself, \\\\<> had 
 sinned ivith him; an unl'ortiuiate lady, who, in her 
 last hours, had been visited, reclaimed, consoled by 
 ]>ishop Burnet. Of this. Lord llochcstcr had heard, 
 llr was then, to all appearances, recovering from his 
 last sickness. lie sent for Burnet, who devoted to him 
 one evening every week of that solemn winter w hen the 
 soul of the penitent sought reconciliation and peace. 
 
 The conversion Avas not instantaneous ; it was gradual, 
 penetrating, effective, sincere. Those wdio wish to 
 gratify curiosity concerning the death-bed of one who 
 had so notoriously sinned, will read Burnet's account 
 of Rochester's illness and death with deep interest ; 
 and nothing is so interesting as a death-bed. Those 
 who delight in works of nervous thought, and elevated 
 sentiments, will read it too, and arise from the perusal 
 gratified. Those, however, who are true, contrite 
 Christians will go still farther; they will own that 
 few works so intensely touch the holiest and highest 
 feelings ; few so absorb the heart ; few so greatly 
 show the vanity of life; the unspeakable value of 
 })urifying faith. "It is a book whieh the critic," 
 says Dr. .bilmsoii, "may read foi' its elegance, the 
 pliilosojilu'r for its arguments, the saint for its piety." 
 
 Whilst deeplv lamenting his own sins. Lord IJoclies- 
 tcr Iiccanie anxious to redeem his ioinier associates 
 lidiii ihi'irs.
 
 120 EXHORTATION TO MR. FANSIIAWE. 
 
 "When Wilmot, Earl of Rochester," ' Avrites Wil- 
 liam Thomas, in a manuscript preserved in the Brit- 
 ish INIuseum, "• lay on his tleath-bed, Mr. Fanshawe 
 came to visit him, with an intention to stay about a 
 week with him. Mr. Fanshawe, sitting by the bed- 
 side, perceived his lordship praying to God, through 
 Jesus Christ, and ac(|uainted Dr. RadclifFe, Avho at- 
 tended my Lord Rochester in this illness and was 
 then in the house, Avith Avhat he had heard, and told 
 him that my lord Avas certainly delirious, for to his 
 knowledge, he said, he believed neither in God nor in 
 Jesus Christ. The doctor, who had often heard him 
 pray in the same manner, proposed to Mr. Fanshawe 
 to go up to his lordship to be further satisfied touching 
 this affair. When they came to liis room the doctor 
 told my lord what jNIr. Fanshawe said, upon which his 
 lordship addressed himself to j\Ir. Fanshawe to this 
 effect : ' Sir, it is true, you and I have been very 
 bad and ]»r()fane together, and then I was of the 
 opinion you mention. But now I am quite of another 
 mind, and happy am I that I am so. I am very sen- 
 sible how miserable I was whilst of another opinion. 
 Sir, you may assure yourself that tliere is a Judge and 
 a future state;' and so entered into a very handsome 
 discourse concerning the hist judgment, future state, 
 &c., and C()iirlude(l willi a serious and ])athetic exlior- 
 
 ' Mr. William Tluniias, tlio writer of lliis slatcniciit, luard it 
 from Dr. RadcliHe at tlic talilc (.f Sjicakcr llarii-y (aftcrwanL^^ 
 Earl of Oxford), ](itli .Jiiiic, 17U2.
 
 LEAL X WlTllolT WIT. J 21 
 
 tation tt) Mr. Faiisliawe to enter into another cour.se 
 (»f life; addini^ that ho (Mr. F.) knew liim to l)e hi.s 
 friend; that he neveiwas more so than at thi.stinie; 
 and ' Sir,' said he, ' to use a Scripture expression, I 
 am not mad, hut sj)eak the words of truth and soher- 
 ne.ss.' Upon this Mr. Fansliawe trend)led, and went 
 inniiediately albot to Woodstock, and tlierc' hired a 
 horse to Cxford, and thence took coac h to London." 
 
 There were otlier butterflies in that gay court ; 
 beaux witliout wit ; remorseless rakes, incapable of 
 one noble thought or high j)ursuit ; and amongst the 
 most foolish and fashionable of these was Henry 
 Jermyn, Lord Dover. As the nephew of Ilem-y 
 Jermyn, Lord St. Albans, this young simpleton was 
 ushered into a court Hie with the most favorable 
 auspices. Jermyn street (built in 1007) recalls to us 
 the residence of Lord St. Albans, the supposed hus- 
 band of Henrietta Maria. It was also the centre of 
 fashion when Henry Jermyn the younger was launched 
 into its unholy sphere. Near Eagle Passage lived at 
 that time La Lelle Stuart, Duchess of Richmond ; 
 next door to her Henry Savile, Rochester's friend. 
 'J'he locality has since been purified hj worthier asso- 
 ciations : Sir Isaac Newt(tn lived for a time in Jer- 
 myn street, and (irny h)dged there. 
 
 It was, however, in De Granniioiit's time, the scene 
 of all tlie various gallantries which were going on. 
 Henrv Jermvn was supported by the wealth of liis 
 uncle, that unrle who, whilst Charles 11. was starv-
 
 122 LITTLE JERMYN. 
 
 ing at Brussels, liad kept a lavish table in Paris : 
 little Jermyn, as the younger Jermyn was called, 
 owed much indeed to his fortune, which had pro- 
 cured him great eclat at the Dutch court, llis head 
 was large ; his features small ; his legs short ; his 
 physiognomy was not positively disagreeable, but he 
 was affected and trifling, and his Avit consisted in ex- 
 pressions 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 daufrhter of Charles I. Then the Countess of 
 Castlemaine — afterwards Duchess of Cleveland — be- 
 came infatuated with him ; he captivated also the 
 lovely Mrs. Hyde, a languishing beauty, whom Sir 
 Peter Lely has depicted in all her sleepy attractions, 
 witli lier ringlets filling; liiihtlv over her snowy fore- 
 head and down to her slioulders. This lady was, at 
 the time when Jermyn came to England, recently 
 married to the son of the great Clarendon. She fell 
 desperately in love with this unworthy being ; but, 
 happily for her peace, he preferr<'d the honor (or dis- 
 honor) of being the favorite of Lady Castlemaine, and 
 Mrs. Hyde escaped tlie disgrace she, perhaps, merited. 
 
 De Grammont appears absolutely to liave bated Jei-- 
 myu : not because be was iuim<»r;ib iiiipcrtiiieiit, iiiid 
 conteinptibb'. but bccaiis<' it \v;is .Icniiyii s l)();ist lli;it 
 no woman, g(»o(l oi' b.-ub (-(luld resist liiiii. \('l, in re- 
 sjiect to tlieif iiii})riiici]tk'd life, Jermyn ;md Dc (nam-
 
 AN 1N(()MI'AKAI;LK ni'.MTV. \2'P, 
 
 iiioiil liail iniicli ill cniiiinuii. The Clicvalicr was at this 
 tiiiu" an jnliiiircr of the Inolish hcauty, Jane Middh-tun ; 
 one of the h)vclic.st women of a eouvt \vliere it was im- 
 possible to turn without seeing loveliness. 
 
 ^Irs. Middleton was the daughter of Sir Roger Need- 
 ham ; and she has been described, even by the grave 
 Evelyn, as a "famous, and, indeed, incompara])le beau- 
 ty." A co([uette, slie was, however, tlie frieml of 
 intellectual men ; and it \vas i)robably at the house of 
 St. Evremond that the Count first saw her. Her figure 
 was good, she was fair and delicate ; and she had so 
 great a desire, Count Hamilton relates, to "appear 
 magnificently, that she was ambitious to vie with those 
 of the greatest fortunes, though unable to support the 
 expense." 
 
 Letters and presents now flcAV about. Perfumed 
 gloves, pocket looking-glasses, elegant boxes, apricot 
 paste, essences, and other small Avares arrived Aveekly 
 from Paris; English jewelry still had the preference, 
 and was liberally bestowed ; yet Mrs. Middleton, af- 
 fected and somewhat precise, accepted the gifts, but did 
 not seem to encourage the giver. 
 
 The Count do Grammont, pi(iued, was beginning to 
 turn his attention to ^Nliss Warmestrc, one of the (queen's 
 maids of honor, a lively brunette, and a contrast to the 
 languid Mrs. Middleton; when, hap[)ily for him, a. 
 beauty appeared on the scene, and attracted him. l)y 
 hiirher ipialities than mere hioks, to a real, fervent, 
 and honorable attachment.
 
 124 ANTHONY HAMILTON. 
 
 Amongst the few respected families of that period 
 ■was that of Sir George Hamilton, the fourth son of 
 James, Earl of Ahercorn, and of Mary, granddaughter 
 of Walter, eleventh Earl of Ormond. Sir George had 
 distino-uished himself during the Civil Wars: on the 
 death of Charles I. he had retired to France, but re- 
 turned, after the Restoration, to London, with a large 
 family, all intelligent and beautiful. 
 
 From their relationship to the Ormond family, the 
 Ilamiltons were soon installed in the first circles of 
 fisliion. The Duke of Ormond's sons had been in ex- 
 ile Avith the king ; they now added to the lustre of the 
 court after his return. The Earl of Arran, the second, 
 was a beau of the true Cavalier order ; clever at games, 
 more especially at tennis, the king's favorite diversion; 
 he touched the oiuitar well ; and made love ad UbitiDn. 
 Lord Ossory, his elder brother, had less vivacity but 
 more intellect, and possessed a liberal, honest nature, 
 and an heroic character. 
 
 All the good qualities of these two young noblemen 
 seem to have been united in Anthony Hamilton, of 
 whom De Grammont gives the following character: — 
 " The elder of the Ilamiltons, their cousin, was the 
 man who, of all the court, dressed best ; he was well 
 made in his person, and possessed those happy talents 
 whicli lead l(t fi)rtiine, and procure success in love: he 
 was a most assiduous courtier, ]iad tlie most lively Avit, 
 the most polished manners, and tbe most punctual 
 attention to his master imaginable : no piTsuii dancetl
 
 DK r;RAM:\[oxT's i'.io(;i;ArFip:R. 125 
 
 bettor, nor \v:is :iiiv one n iiinro fjOTicnil lover — :i morit 
 of some :icc()init in ;i cniirt ciilirclv devoted to love and 
 •gallantry. It is not at all siii-])rising that, witli tlicse 
 (jiialities, he succeeded iny Lord Falmouth in the king's 
 i'avor." 
 
 The fascinating person thus described was born in 
 Irchuid : he had already experienced some vicissitudes, 
 Avhieh were renewed at the Revolution of 1688, when 
 he tied to France — the country in wliieli ho had spent 
 his youth — and died at St. Germains, in 1720, aged 
 seventy-four. His poetry and his fairy tales are for- 
 gotten ; but his " Memoirs of the Count de Grammont" 
 is a work which combines the vivacity of a French 
 writer with the truth of an English historian. 
 
 Ormond Yard, St. James's Square, was the Lomlon 
 residence of the Duke of Ormond : the garden wall of 
 Ormond House took up the greater [)art of York Street: 
 the Hamilton family liad a commodious house in the 
 same courtly neighborhood ; and the cousins mingled 
 continually. Here persons of the greatest distinction 
 constantly met; and here the "Chevalier de Gram- 
 mont," as he was still called, was received in a manner 
 suitable to his rank and style ; and soon regretted that 
 he had passed so much time in other places; for, after 
 he once knew the charming Ilamiltons, he wished for 
 no other friends. 
 
 There were three courts at that time in the capital ; 
 that at Whitehall, in the king's apartments ; that in 
 the (jueen's, in tlio same palace; and that of Henrietta
 
 126 THE THREE COURTS. 
 
 Maria, tlic Queen-Mother, as she was styled, at Somer- 
 set House. Cliarles's wos pre-eminent in immorality, 
 jind in the daily outrage of all decency ; that of tlie 
 unworthy widow of Charles I. was just bordering on 
 impropriety ; that of Katherine of Braganza was still 
 decorous, though not irreproachable. Pepj^s, in his 
 Diary, has this passage : — " Visited Mrs. Ferrers, and 
 stayed talking with her a good while, there being a 
 little, proud, ugly, talking lady there, that Avas much 
 crying up the queene-mother's court at Somerset House, 
 above our queen's ; there being before her no allowance 
 of laughing and mirth that is at the other's ; and, in- 
 deed, it is ol)ser\'ed that the greatest court now-a-days 
 is there. Thence to Whitehall, where I carried my 
 wife to see the queene in her presence-chamber ; and 
 the maydes of honor nnd the young Duke of Mon- 
 mouth, playing at cards." 
 
 Queen Katherine, notwithstanding that the first 
 words she Avas ever known to say in English were 
 "I'o?^ 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 Pepys, an anecdote of whose is cha- 
 racteristic of poor Katherine's submissive, uncomplain- 
 ing nature : — 
 
 " With Creed, to the King's Head ordimiry ; . . . 
 and a pretty gentleman in our company, Avho confirms 
 my Tiady Castlemaine's being gone from coui't, but 
 knows not the reason ; ho told us of one wijie the
 
 "LA r.KLLi: HAMILTON." 127 
 
 quocno, a Til tic wliilc :\'^<k ilnl give her when slie (■■.\mv. 
 in and fniiiHl the (luecne under the dresser's hands, :ind 
 liad Iteen so h)ng. ' I wonder jour Majesty,' says she, 
 ' eaii have tlic patience to sit so hjng a-dressing ?' — ' I 
 have so nnich reason to use patience,' says the ([ueene, 
 'that I can verv well bear with it.' " 
 
 It was in the court of" this injured queen that De 
 Craiiiniont went one evening to Mrs. jNIiihlleton's 
 house: tliere was a ball that night, and amongst the 
 dancers was the loveliest creature that De Grammont 
 had ever seen. Ilis eyes were riveted on this fiiir 
 form ; he had heard, but never till then seen her, 
 whom all the world consented to call " La Belle Hamil- 
 ton," and his heart instantly echoed the expressitm. 
 Fi'oui this time he forgot Mrs. Middleton, and despised 
 Miss Warmestre : "he found," lie said, that he ''hail 
 seen nothing at court till this instant." 
 
 "Miss Hamilton," lie himself tells us, "was at the 
 happy age when the charms of the fair sex begin to 
 bloom ; she had the finest shape, the loveliest neck, 
 and most beautiful arms in the world ; she was majestic 
 and gi'accfiil in all her movements; and she Avas the 
 original after which all tlic ladies copied in their taste 
 and air of dress. Her forehead was open, white, and 
 smooth ; her hair was Avell set, and fell with ease into 
 that natural order which it is so difficult to imitate. 
 Her complexion was possessed of a certain freshness, 
 not to be equalled by borrowed colors ; her e3^es Avere 
 not lai-ge, but they were lively, and cajiable of express-
 
 128 AN INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 ing whatever slie pleased." ' So far for her person ; hut 
 De Grammont was, it seems, weary of external charms : 
 it was the intellectual superiority that riveted his feel- 
 ings, whilst his connoisseurship in beauty was satisfied 
 that he had never yet seen any one so perfect. 
 
 " Iler mind," he says, " was a proper companion for 
 such a form : she did not endeavor to shine in conversa- 
 tion by those sprightly sallies which only puzzle, and 
 Avith still greater care she avoided that affected solemnity 
 in her discourses which produces stupidity ; but, without 
 any eagerness to talk, she just said what she ought, and 
 no more. She had an admirable discernment in dis- 
 tinguishing between solid and fiilse wit ; and far 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 
 highest extent, wlien there was occasion ; nevertheless, 
 she was less prepossessed with her own merit than is 
 usually the case with those who have so much. Formed 
 as we have described, she could not fliil of commanding 
 love ; but so fiir was she from courting it, that she was 
 scrupulously nice with respect to those whose merit 
 might entitle them to form any pretensions to her." 
 
 Born in 1641, Elizabeth — for such was the Chris- 
 tian name of this lovely and admirable woman — was 
 scarcely in her twentieth year when she first appeared 
 at Whitehall. Sir Peter Lely was at that time paint- 
 ing the Beauties of the Court, and had done full justice 
 * See De (iraniinont's Memoirs.
 
 sill riTKK j.Ki.vs i'oi;'n:\iT. i-2!» 
 
 to the iiitcllcctii.il ami y<'t innocont face tliat rivotccl 
 Dc Grainnioiit. He liad dciiictcd her with her \iich 
 dark hair, of wliich a tcmhil oi- two fell on her ivory 
 foreliead, aihirned at tlio back with lart^e pearls, under 
 Avhich a i^auze-like texture was gathered up, falling 
 over the fair shoulders like a veil : a full corsage, hound 
 by a light hand either of rihlton or of gold lace, con- 
 fining, with a large jewel or button, the sleeve on the 
 shoulder, disguised somewhat the exquisite shape. A 
 frill of fine canil)ric setoff, whilst in whiteness it scarce 
 rivalled, the shoulder and neck. 
 
 The features of this exquisite face are accurately 
 described by De Grammont, 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 innocent in that ftice so 
 beautiful and so beloved." 
 
 While the colors were fresh on Lely's palettes, James 
 Duke of York, that profligate who aped the saint, saw 
 it, and henceforth paid his court to the original, but 
 was repelled .with fearless hauteur. The dissolute 
 nobles of the court followed his example, even to the 
 " lady-killer " Jermyn, l)ut in vain. Unhappily for 
 La Belle Hamilton, she became sensible to the attrac- 
 tions of De Grammont, whom she eventually married. 
 
 Miss Hamilton, intelligent as she was, lent herself 
 
 to the fashion of the day, and delighted in practical 
 
 jokes and tricks. At the splendid masquerade given 
 
 by the (jueen she continued to plague her cousin, Lady 
 
 Vol. I.— 'J
 
 130 INFATUATION. 
 
 Muskerry ; to confuse and expose a stupid court beau- 
 ty, a Miss Blaque ; and at the same time to produce 
 on the Count de Grammont a still more powerful effect 
 than even her charms had done. Her success in hoax- 
 ing — which we should noAv think both perilous and 
 indelicate — seems to have only riveted the chain, which 
 was drawn around him more strongly. 
 
 His friend, or rather his foe, St. Evremond, tried in 
 vain to discourage the Chevalier from his new passion. 
 The former tutor was, it appeared, jealous of its influ- 
 ence, and hurt that De Grammont was now seldom at 
 his house. 
 
 De Grammont's answer to his remonstrances was 
 very characteristic. " My poor philosopher," he cried, 
 "you understand Latin well — you can make good 
 verses — you are acquainted with the nature of the 
 stars in the firmament — but you are wholly ignorant 
 of the luminaries in the terrestrial globe." 
 
 He then announced his intention to persevere, not- 
 Avithstanding all the obstacles which attached to the 
 suit of a man without either fortune or character, who 
 had been exiled from his own country, and whose 
 chief mode of livelihood was dependent on the gaming- 
 table. 
 
 One can scarcely read of the infatuation of La Belle 
 Hamilton without a sigh. During a period of six 
 years their marriage wais in contemplation only ; and 
 Do Grammont seems to have trifled inexcusably with 
 the feelings of this once gay and ever-lovely girl. It
 
 TiiK iioiisKiioLi) i)i:rrv oi' wiirii;iiAi,[>. i;;i 
 
 was not for want (ifinc-ins llmt De ( Jraniniont tlius de- 
 layed tlio f'liHilliiicnt ol" liis cii^iii^cineiit. ('liarles II., 
 iiic.xciisnlilv l:i\i,~li. 'SAVf liiiii a pension of 1 . ")()() Jaco- 
 buses: it was to be paid t<» liim until he should l)e re- 
 stored to tlie favor of bis own kinj^. The fact was that 
 Dc <Jraniinont contributed to the pleasure of the couit, 
 ami pleasure was the household deity of WliitcJiall. 
 Sometimes, in those days of careless gayety, there were 
 promenades in Spring Gardens, or tlie Mall ; sometimes 
 the court beauties sallied forth on liorseback ; at other 
 times there were shows on the i-iver, which then washed 
 the very foundations of Whitehall. There in the sum- 
 mer evenings, Avhen it was too hot and dusty to walk, 
 old Tlianies might be seen covered with little boats, 
 tilled with court and city beauties, attending the I'oyal 
 barges ; collations, music, and fireworks completed 
 the scene, an<l De Grannnont always contrived some 
 surprise — some gallant show : once a concert of voctil 
 and instrumental music, which be had privately brought 
 from Paris, struck up unexpectedly : another time a 
 collation brought from the gay capital surpassed that 
 supplied by the king. Then the Chevalier, finding 
 that coaches with glass windows, lately introduced, dis- 
 pleased the ladies, because their charms Avere only 
 partially seen in them, sent for the most elegant and 
 superb calecJie overseen : it came after a month's jour- 
 ney, and was presented by De Grammont to the king. 
 It was a royal present in price, for it had cost two thou- 
 sand livres. The famous dispute between Lady Cas-
 
 132 WHO SHALL HAVE THE CALECHE? 
 
 tlcraaine and Miss Stuart, afterwards Dueliess of 
 Richmond, arose about this caleche. Tlie Queen and 
 the Duchess of York appeared hrst in it in Hyde Park, 
 Avhich had then recently been fenced in with brick. 
 Lady Castlemaine thought that the caleche showed off 
 a fine fiirure better than the coach ; Miss Stuart was of 
 the same opinion. Both these grown-up bal)ies wished 
 to have the coach on the same day, but Miss Stuart 
 prevailed. 
 
 The Queen condescended to hiugh at the quarrels 
 of these two foolisli Avomen, nnd complimented the 
 Chevalier do Grammont on his present. " But how 
 is it," she asked, "that you do not even keep a foot- 
 man, and that one of the common runners in the street 
 lights you home with a link ?" 
 
 "Madame," he answered, "the Chevalier de Gram- 
 mont hates pomp: my link-boy is faithful and brave." 
 Then he told the (^ueen that he saAV she was unac- 
 quainted with the nation of link-boys, and related 
 how that he had, at one time, had one hundred and 
 sixty around liis chair at night, and people had asked 
 " whose funeral it was ? As for the parade of coaches 
 and footmen," he added, "I despise it. I have some- 
 times had five or six valets-de-chambre, without a sin- 
 gle footman in livery except my chaplain." 
 
 " How !" cried tlie Queen, laughing, "a chaplain in 
 livery? surely he Avas not a priest." 
 
 " Pardon, Madame, a priest, and the best dancer in 
 the world of the Biscayan gig."
 
 A ciiAri.Aix IN i.i\i;kv. i:;:; 
 
 "Clun-nlicv," said the kiii;,^, '' UW us the liistoi'v of 
 your chaplain Poussatiii. " 
 
 Then \)(' (iraiiiiiiont ivlatc-il how, when he was with 
 the ^reat Coiitle, alter the eaiiipai^ni of Catah)iiia, he 
 hail seen anionic; a company ot" Catalans, a priest in a 
 little black jacket, skipi)ini,f and frisking: how Conde 
 ■was charmed, and how they recognized in him a 
 Frenchman, and how he offered himself to De Uraui- 
 mont for his chaplain. De Grammont had not nuich 
 need, he said, for a chaplain in his house, but he took 
 the priest, who had afterwards the honor of dancing 
 before Anne of Austria, in Paris. 
 
 Suitor after suitor interfered Avith De Grannnijnt's 
 at last honorable address to La Belle Hamilton. At 
 leniith an incident occurred wliich had very nearly 
 scparatcil them for ever, riiililjert de Grammont was 
 recalleil to Paris bv Louis XIV. He forgot, French- 
 m;iii-likc, nil liis engagements to Miss Hamilton, an<l 
 hmried oil". He had reached Dover, -when her two 
 brothers I'oile up after him. "Chevalier de Gram- 
 mont," they said, "have you forgotten nothing in 
 London ?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he answered, "I forgot to 
 marry your sister." It is said that this story sug- 
 gested to ]\Ioliere the idea of La MaruKje force. 
 Thev Avere. however, m;irricd. 
 
 In lUtlH, La Ih'Hc il.iiniiton, after giving birth to 
 a <'hild. went to rcsiilc in l''r;ince. Chai'les 11., who 
 thoMii'ht she would p;i-s lor ;i hamlsome womiin in
 
 134 AT THE FRENCH COURT. 
 
 France, recommended lier to his sister, Henrietta, 
 Duchess of Orleans, and begged her to be kind to lier. 
 
 Henceforth the Chevalier de Grammont and his 
 wife figured at Versailles, where the Countess de 
 Grammont was appointed Dame da Palais. Her 
 career was less brilliant than in England. The 
 French ladies deemed her haughty and old, and even 
 termed her une Anglaise insupportable. 
 
 She had certainly too much virtue, and perhaps too 
 mucli beauty still, for the Parisian ladies of fashion at 
 that period to admire her. 
 
 She endeavored, in vain, to reclaim her libertine 
 husband, and to call him to a sense of his situation 
 when he was on his death-bed. Louis XIV. sent the 
 Marquis de Dangeau to convert him, and to talk to 
 him on a subject little thought of by De Grammont 
 — tlie world to come. After the jNIarquis had been 
 talking for some time, De Grannnoiit turned to his 
 wife and said, '' Countess, if you don't look to it, 
 Dangeau will juggle you out of my conversion." St. 
 Evremond said he would gladly die to go off with so 
 successful a Imn-mot, 
 
 He became, however, in time, serious, if not devout 
 or penitent. Ninon de I'Enclos having written to St. 
 Evremond that the Count de Grammont li;id not only- 
 recovered, but had ])ecome devout, St. Evrciuoinl an- 
 swered lier in these words : — 
 
 "T bnvc Ic.inu'd with ;i great deal of jilcasurc that 
 the ('ouiil de (iraminoiil has rccovcrcMl bis io)'iiici'
 
 DE GliAMMOXT'S LAST HOURS. IM;" 
 
 lie 
 
 allli, and ac((uirc'<l a new (k'votion. llilliiTUj I 
 have bc't'ii c-()iitentc(l with being a j)laiii, honest nuin ; 
 liiit I must do soniethinir more: and I onlv -wait lor 
 your example to become a devotee. You live in a 
 country uliere people have wonderful advantages of 
 saving their souls: there, vice is almost as opposite to 
 the mode as virtue ; sinning passes for ill-breeding, 
 and shocks decencv and good-manners, as much as re- 
 ligion. Formerly it was enough to be wicked, now one 
 must be a scoundrel withal to be damned in France." 
 
 A report having been circulated that De Grammont 
 was dead, St. Evremond expressed deep regret. The 
 report was contradicted by Ninon de I'Enclos. The 
 Chevalier was then eighty-six years of age ; " never- 
 theless, he was," Ninon says, "so young, that I think 
 him as lively as when he hated sick people, and loved 
 them after they had recovered their health ;" a trait very 
 descriptive of a man Avhose good-nature was always on 
 the surface, but whose selfishness was deep as that of 
 most wits and beaux, who are spoiled by the world, 
 and who, in return, distrust and deceive the spoilers. 
 With this long life of eighty -six years, endowed as De 
 Grammont was with elasticity of spirits, good fortune, 
 considerable talent, an excellent position, a wit that 
 never ceased to flow in a clear current ; — with all these 
 advantages, what might he not have hvvn to society, 
 had his energy been well applied, his wit innocent, 
 iiis talents em])l()yed worthily, and his heart as sure 
 to staiiil iiiusti'r as his manners '!"
 
 BEAU FIELDING. 
 
 "Let us be wise, boys, berc's a foul coming," said 
 a sensible man, when he saw Beau Nash's splendid car- 
 riage draw up to the door. Is a beau a fool ? Is a 
 sharper a fool ? Was Bonaparte a fool ? If you rc[)ly 
 "no" to the last two (juestions, you must give the 
 same answer to the first A beau is a fox, but not a 
 fool — a very clever fellow, who, knowing the Aveakness 
 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-merchant — Brummell, the hopeful of a 
 small shoj)keeper — became the intimates of princes, 
 dukes, and fashionables ; were petty kings of Vanity 
 Fair, and were honored by their subjects. In tlie 
 kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king ; in 
 the realm of folly, the sharper is a monarch. The 
 only proviso is, that the cheat come not within the 
 jurisdiction of the law. Such a cheat is the beau or 
 dandy, or fine gentleman, who imposes on his public by 
 his clothes and appearance. Bond-fide monarchs have 
 done as much : lioiiis XIV. avom hims(df tlu; titk' of Ijo 
 (irand Mona>r((uc by ids nijinncrs, bis dress, :iiid bis 
 vanity. Fielding, Nasli, and I5nimiiicll did iiolliiiig 
 more. It is not a questi(»ii wIiciIkt siu-li roads to 
 
 136
 
 tf-olam-1 Uoftm (Braiii ^inaiug.
 
 ^«25:=— «aK "•^r ''^_^— ^ — jT^ffjij,*.*— - •
 
 ON WITS AND BEAUX. 1:57 
 
 eminence l)c contemptible ov not, ])iit wiictluT tlieir 
 adoption in one station of lilr he more so than in 
 anotlici-. Was Brunnnell a wliit more contemptible 
 than '•Wales"? Or is John Thomas, the joride and 
 glory of the " Domestics' Frcc-and-Easy," wliose 
 whiskers, figure, lace, and manner are all superb, one 
 atom more ridiculous than your recognized beau ? T 
 trow not. What right, then, has your beau to a j)lace 
 among wits ? I fancy Chesterfield would be much dis- 
 gusted at seeing his name side by side with that of 
 Nash in tliis vobmie; yet Chesterndd had no objection, 
 when at Hath, to do homage to the king of that city, 
 and may have prided himself on exchanging pinches 
 from diamond-set /snuff-boxes with that superb gold- 
 laced dignity in tlie I'umji-room. Certainly, people 
 who thought little of IMiilip Dormer Stanhope, thought 
 a great deal of the glass-merchant's re})robatc son when 
 he was in power, and s)i1)mitted without a murmur to 
 his imprrtinences. The fact is, that the beaux and the 
 wits are more intinuitely connected than the latter 
 would care to own : the wits have all been, or aspired 
 to be, beaux, and beaux have had tlieir fiiir share of 
 wit; both lived for the same purpose — to shine in soci- 
 ety ; both used the same means — coats and bon-mots. 
 The only distinction is, that the garments of the licaux 
 were better, and their sayings not so good as those of 
 the wits; whih' the conversation of the wits was better, 
 ;iiid iheir apparel not so sti'iking a> ihat of the beaux. 
 So, my Lord ( 'hesterlield. who prided voiir.-elf .jiiite as
 
 138 FIELDING'S ANCE8TRY. 
 
 much on being a fine gentleman as on being a fine wit, 
 you cannot complain at your proximity to Mr. Nash 
 and others who were fine gentlemen, and would have 
 been fine wits if they could. 
 
 Robert Fielding was, perhaps, the least of the beaux, 
 but then, to make up for this, he belonged to a noble 
 family : he married a duchess, and, what is more, he 
 beat her. Surely in the kingdom of fools such a man 
 is not to be despised. You may be sure he did not 
 think he was, for was he not made the subject of two 
 papers in "The Tatler"? and what more could such 
 a man desire ? 
 
 His father was a Suffolk squire, claiming relation- 
 ship with the Earls of Denbigh, and therefore with the 
 Ilapsburgs, from whom the Beau and the Emperors of 
 Austria had the common honor of being descended. 
 Perhaps neither of them had sufficient sense to be proud 
 of the greatest intellectual ornament of their race, the 
 author of " Tom Jones ;" but as our hero was dead be- 
 fore the humorist was born, it is not fair to conjecture 
 Avhat he might have thought on the subject. 
 
 It does not appear that very much is known of this 
 great gem of the race of Hapsburg. lie had the mis- 
 fortune to be very handsome, and the folly to tliink 
 that his face Avould be his fi)rtune : it certainly stood 
 him in good stead at times, but it .'dso brought him into 
 a larnenta])le dih'iiiina. 
 
 Tlis fiitlicr was not ric]i, and sent liis son to tlic Tem- 
 ple to study laws wliich he was only fitlrd to break.
 
 SCOTLAND YAKI). IM) 
 
 The young Adonis luid sense enougli to see tliut destiny 
 did not beekon liiui to fUnie in the ijloom of" ti niustv 
 law-court, and removed a little further up to the Thames, 
 and tlic more fashionable region of Scotland Yard. 
 Here, where now Z -JOO repairs to rejiort his investiga- 
 tions to a Commissioner, the young dandies of Charles 
 11. 's day strutted in gay doublets, swore hasty oaths 
 of choice invention, smoked the true Tobago from 
 huge pipebowls, and ogled the fair but not too ba:^hful 
 dames who passed to and fro in their chariots. The 
 court took its name from the royalties of Scotland, who, 
 when they visited the South, were there lodged, as be- 
 ing conveniently near to AVhitehall Palace. It is odd 
 enough that the three architects, Inigo Jones, Vanbrugh, 
 and Wren, all lived in tliis yard. 
 
 It was not to be supposed that a man who could so 
 Avell appreciate a handsome face and well-cut doublet 
 as Charles II. should long overlook his neighbor, ]Mr. 
 Ilobert Fielding, and in due course the Beau, Avho had 
 no other diploma, found himself in the honorable posi- 
 tion of a justice of the peace. 
 
 The emoluments of this office enabled Orlando, as 
 " TIio Tatler " calls him, to shine forth in :ill his glory. 
 AVilh an envial)le indifference to the future, he launched 
 out into an expenditure which alone would have ncule 
 him ])opular in ;i countiy where the heaviest purse 
 makes the greatest gentleman. llis lactjueys were 
 arrayed in tlie briLilitcsl ydlow coats with black sashes 
 — the llapsburg colors. lie had a carriage, of course,
 
 140 ORLANDO OF "THE TATLER." 
 
 but, like Sheridan's, it was hired, though dr:l^vn l)y his 
 own horses. This curriao-e was deserihed as beinir 
 shaped like a sea-shell ; and " The Tatler " ealls it *•' an 
 open tumbril of less size than ordinary, to show the 
 largeness of his limbs and the grandeur of his person - 
 ao-e to the best adv'anta2;e." The said limbs were 
 Fielding's especial pride : he gloried in the strength 
 of his leg and arm ; and when he walked down the 
 street, he was followed l>y an admiring crowd, whom 
 he treated with as nuich haughtiness as if he had been 
 the eui])eror himself, instead of his cousin five hundred 
 times removed. He used his strength to iiood or bad 
 
 CD ~ 
 
 purposes, and Avas a redoubted fighter and bully, though 
 good-natured withal. In the Mall, as he strutted, he 
 Avas the cynosure of all female eyes. His dress had all 
 the elegance of which the graceful costume of that 
 period was capal)le, though Fielding did not, like 
 IJrummell, understand the delicacy of a (juiet but 
 studied style. Those were simpler, somewhat more 
 honest days. It was not necessary for a man to cloak 
 his vices, nor be ashamed of his cloak. The beau 
 then-a-day openly and arrogantly gloried in the grand- 
 cui' of his attire, and l)ragging was a part of his cha- 
 racter. Fielding Avas made by his tailor; lli-unuuell 
 made his tailor: the only point in couiukui to both was 
 that neither of them paid the tailor's Itiil. 
 
 '^riie fine gentleman, under tlu; StuaiMs, was fine only 
 in his lace and his velvet doubh-l : his language was 
 coarse, his manners coarser, his vices the coarsest of
 
 "A (OM['LETE GENTLEMAN." 141 
 
 :ill. No wotidci- wlicii tlic kiiiLT liiniself cnuM fret so 
 (Iniiik witli Scillcy ;iiiil Iliickliiirst as to lie iin:il)lG to 
 give an aiiiliciicc a]»|»()iii(('(l Cor; ami ulicn the cliicf 
 run of }iis two conn)anioiis was to divest tliomselvos of 
 all llic lialiiliinonts wliieli civilization lias had tlic ill 
 taste to make necessary, and in that state run about 
 the streets. 
 
 " Orlando " wore the finest ruffles and the heaviest 
 sword; his wig was combed to perfection; and in his 
 pocket he carried a little comb Avitli Avhich to arrange it 
 from time to time, even as the dandy of to-day pulls out 
 his whiskers or curls his moustache. Such a man could 
 not be passed over; and accordingly he numbered half 
 the officers and orallants of the town among his intimates. 
 Tic drank, swore, and swagfjered, and the snobs of the 
 day proclaimed him a " complete gentleman." 
 
 His impudence, ho-wever, was not always tolerated. 
 Tn the playhouses of the day, it was the fashion for 
 some of the spectators to stand upon the stage, and 
 the places in that position were chiefly occupied by 
 young gallants. The ladies came most in masques: 
 but this did not prevent Master Fielding from making 
 his remarks very freely, and in no very refined strain 
 to them. The modest damsels, whom Pope has de- 
 scribed, 
 
 "The fair sat pnutinc; at tlic eourtior's play, 
 And not a mask went unimproved away : 
 Tlie modest fan was lifttd up no more, 
 And viri:;ins smiled at wiiat lluy IiIiisIumI liofore,"
 
 142 IN DEBT. 
 
 were not too coy to ])e pleased witli the fops' attentions, 
 and replied in like strain. Tlio players were unheeded ; 
 the audience laughed at the improvised and natural Avit, 
 when carefully prepared dialogues fiiled to fix their 
 attention. The actors "were disgusted, and, in spite 
 of Master Fielding's herculean strength, kicked him 
 oif the stage, with a warning not to come again. 
 
 The rule of a beau is expensive to keep up ; and 
 our justice of the peace could not, like Nash, double 
 his income by gaming. He soon got deeply into debt, 
 as every celebrated dresser has done. The old story, 
 not new c\'en in those days, was enacted, and the bril- 
 liant Adonis had to keep Avatch and ward against 
 tailors and bailiffs. On one occasion they had nearly 
 caught him ; but his legs being lengthy, he gave them 
 fair sport 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. 
 
 But debts do not pay themselves, nor die, and 
 Orlando with all his strength and prowess could not 
 long keep off the constable. Evil days gloomed at 
 no very great distance before him, and the fear of a 
 sponging-house and debtors' prison compelled him to 
 turn his handsome person to account. Had he not 
 broken a hundred hearts already ? had he not charmed 
 a thousand pairs of beaming eyes? Avas there not one 
 owner of one pair who was also possessed of a pretty 
 fortune? Who should have the honor of bein" the 
 wife of such an Adonis? who, indeed, but she who
 
 ADONIS I\ Slv\i;( ir ol' A WIFE. 1 l.', 
 
 coiilil ji;iy Iiii:Ii«'sf for it; and wlut could p;iy \\\\]i 
 a Iiandsoine incline Imt a wcll-ddwcrcd widow? A 
 Aviilow it must Im' — a widow it sluudd lie Noltle iii- 
 dc'C'd was the sciitiiuciit wliicli inspired this ixreat man 
 to sacrifice liimsclf on tlic altar of" Ilynien for tlic gf)od 
 of liis creditors. Ye young men in llie (luards, ulio 
 do tliis kind of tliinif every day — that is, every (hiv 
 that you can meet witli a wi(h)W with the ])roper ([uali- 
 ficati(ms — take wanting by the lanientahlc history 
 of Mr. Robert Fiehling, and never trust to "third 
 parties." 
 
 A Avi(h)W was found, fit, fair, and f )rt_y — and oh ! — 
 charm greatei' far than all the rest — W'ith a fortune of 
 sixty thousand j^nmds ; this was a ^Mrs. Deleau, who 
 liv<Ml at Whaddoii in Surrey, and at Copthall-court in 
 London. Notiiing could l)e more charming ; and the 
 only obstacle was the absence of all ac({uaintancc be- 
 tween the ])arties — for, of course, it was impossible for 
 any wi<low, whatever her attractions, to be insensible 
 to those of Rol)ert Fielding. Under these circum- 
 stances, the Beau looked about for an agent, and 
 found one in the person of a ^Nlrs. A^illars, hairdresser 
 to the widow. He offered this person a handsome 
 douceur in case of success, and she Avas to undertake 
 that the lady should meet the gentleman in the most 
 unpremeditated manner, ^'^arious schemes were re- 
 sorted to : with the alias, for he was not above an 
 alias, of Major-Gencral Villars, the Beau called at 
 the widow's country house, and was permitted to see
 
 144 THE SHAM WIDOW. 
 
 the gardens. At a window lie espied a lady, wbom he 
 took to be the object of his pursuit — bowed to her 
 majestically, and went away, persuaded he must have 
 made an impression. But, whether the Avidow was 
 wiser than the wearers of weeds have the reputation 
 of being, or whether the agent had really no power 
 in the matter, the meeting never came on. 
 
 The hairdresser naturally grew anxious, the douceur 
 wns too good to be lost, and as the widow could not be 
 had, some one must bo supplied in her place. 
 
 One day while the Beau was sitting in his splendid 
 "night-gown," as the morning-dress of gentlemen was 
 then called, two ladies were ushered into his august 
 presence. He had been Avarned of this visit, and was 
 prepared to receive the yielding widow. The one, of 
 course, was the hairdresser, the other a young, pretty, 
 and api^arcnthj modest creature, who blushed much — 
 though with some difficulty — at the trying position in 
 which she found herself. The Beau, delighted, did his 
 best to reassure her. He flung himself at her feet, 
 swore, with oaths more fashionable than delicate, that 
 she was the only woman he ever loved, and prevailed 
 on the widow so far as to induce her to " call again to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Of course she came, and Adonis was in heaven. 
 lie 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
 
 WAYS AM) MEANS. Mo 
 
 the purveyor's account, and to which, coy as she was, 
 she consented to come, and clenched the enirajjement 
 •with a ring, on which was the motto, " Tibi Soli." 
 Nay, the lieau 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 Creek. The widow ou^ht to 
 have been pleased, and was. One thing only she 
 stipulated, namely, that the marriage should be pri- 
 vate, lest her relations should forbid the banns. 
 
 Having brought her so far, it was not likely that 
 the fortune-hunter would stick at such a mere trifle, 
 and accordingly an entertainment was got up at the 
 Beau's own rooms, a supper suital)lc to the rank and 
 wealth of tlie Avidow, provided by some obligingly 
 credulous tradesman ; a priest found — for, be it pre- 
 mised, our hero had changed so much of his religion 
 as he had to change in the reign of James II., when 
 Romanism was not only fashionable, but a sure road 
 to fortune — and the mutually satisfied couple swore to 
 love, honor, and obey one another till death them 
 should part. 
 
 The next morning, however, the widow left the gen- 
 tleman's lodgings, on the pretext that it was injudi- 
 cious for her friends to know of tlieir union at present, 
 and continued to visit her s])oso and sup somewhat 
 amply at his chambers from time to time. We can 
 imagine the anxiety Orlando now felt for a cheque- 
 book at tlic heiress's bankers, and the many insinua- 
 
 VOL. I. — 10
 
 146 A FATAL INTIMACY. 
 
 tions 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. But 
 the dupe was still in happy ignorance of the trick 
 played on him, and for a time such ignorance was 
 bliss. It must have been trying to him to be called 
 on by Mrs. Villars for the promised douceur, but he 
 consoled himself with the pleasures of hope. 
 
 Unfortunately, however, he had formed the acquaint- 
 ance of a woman of a very different reputation to the 
 real Mrs. Deleau, and the intimacy which ensued was 
 fatal to him. 
 
 When Charles II. was wandering abroad, he was 
 joined, among others, by a Mr. and INIrs. Palmer. 
 The husband was a staunch old Romanist, Avith the 
 qualities which usually accompanied that faith in those 
 days — little respect for morality, and a good deal of 
 bigotry. In later days he was one of the victims sus- 
 pected of the Titus Gates plot, but escaped, and event- 
 ually 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 Whitehall — to his Majesty 
 King Charles II., for the sum of one peerage — an Irish 
 one, taken on consideration : by otliers, is ;dleged to 
 have l)een so indignant with the king as to liave re- 
 mained far some time far from court ; and so disgusted 
 Avith his elevation to the peerage as scarcely to assume
 
 BAU1]AK.\ VILLIEKS, LADY CASTLEMAINE. 147 
 
 his titlr : :iiid tliis last is tlie most authenticated version 
 of the matter. 
 
 Mrs. Pahner behjnged to one of the oldest families 
 in En<ilan(l, and traced her descent to rajran de Vil- 
 liers, in the days of William Rufus, and a good deal 
 fa It her among the nobles of Normandy. She was the 
 daughter of" William, second Viscount Grandison, and 
 rejoiced in the appropriate name of Barbara, for she 
 could be savage occasionally. She was very beautiful, 
 and very wicked, and soon became Charles's mistress. 
 On the Restoration she joined the king in England, 
 and Avlien the jtoor neglected queen came over was 
 foisted upon her as a bedchamber-Avoman, in spite of 
 all the objections of that ill-used wife. It was neces- 
 sary to this end that she should 1>e the wife of a peer ; and 
 her husband accepted the title of Earl of Castlemaine, 
 well knowing to what he owed it. Pepys, who admired 
 Lady Castlenuiine more than any woman in England, 
 describes the husband and wife meeting at Whitehall 
 with a cold ceremonial Ijow : yet the husliand tvas 
 there. A quarrel between the two, strangely enough 
 on the score of religion, her ladyship insisting that her 
 child should be christened by a Protestant clergyman, 
 while his lordship insisted on the ceremony being per- 
 formed by a Romish priest, brought about a separation, 
 and from that time Lady Castlemaine, lodged in White- 
 hall, began her euq)ire over the king of England. That 
 man, "who never saiil a foolish thing, and never did 
 a wise one," was the slave of this imperious and most
 
 148 QUARRELS WITH THE KING. 
 
 impudent of women. She forced him to settle on her 
 an immense fortune, much of which she squandered at 
 the basset-table, often staking a thousand pounds at 
 a time, and sometimes losing fifteen thousand pounds 
 a-night. 
 
 Nor did her wickedness end here. We have some 
 pity for one, who, like La Valliere, could be attracted 
 by the attentions of a handsome, fascinating prince : 
 we pity though we bhune. But Lady Castlemaine was 
 vicious to the very marrow : not content with a king's 
 favor, she courted herself the young gallants of the 
 town. Quarrels ensued between Charles and his mis- 
 tress, in which the latter invariably came off victorious, 
 owing to her indomitable temper ; and the scenes re- 
 corded by De Grammont — when she threatened to burn 
 down Whitehall, and tear her children in pieces — are 
 too disgraceful for insertion. She forced the reprobate 
 monarch to consent to all her extortionate demands : 
 rifled the nation's pockets as well as his own ; and at 
 every fresh difference, forced' Charles to give her some 
 new pension. An intrigue with Jermyn, discovered 
 and objected to by the king, brought on a fresh and 
 more serious difference, which was only patched up by 
 a patent of the Duchy of Cleveland. The Duchess of 
 Cleveland was even worse than the Countess of Castle- 
 maine. Abandoned in time by Charles, and detested 
 by all peoi)le of any decent feeling, she consoled her- 
 self for the loss of a re;d king by taking up with a 
 stage one. Hart and Goodinnn. flie actors, were sue-
 
 THE DUCIIE.SS OF CLEVELAND IN LOVE. 149 
 
 ccssivcly her cavaliori ; the former had been a captain 
 in the army ; the latter a student at Cambridge. Loth 
 were men of the coarsest minds and most depraved 
 lives. Goodman in after years was so reduced that 
 finding, as Sheridan advised his son to do, a pair of 
 pistols handy, a horse saddled, and Ilounslow Heath 
 not a hundred miles distant, he took to the pleasant 
 and profitable pastime of which Dick Turpin is the 
 patron saint. lie was all but hanged for his daring 
 robberies, but unfortunately not quite so. He lived 
 to suffer such indigence, that he and another rascal had 
 but one under-garment between them, and entered into 
 a compact that one should lie in bed while the other 
 Avore the article in question. Naturally enough, the two 
 fell out in time, and tlio end of Goodman — sad mis- 
 nomer — was worse than his be2:;inninor : such was the 
 gallant wliom the imperious Duchess of Cleveland 
 vouchsafed to honor. 
 
 The life of the once beautiful Barbara Villiers grew 
 daily more and more depraved : at the age of thirty 
 she retired to Paris, shunned and (ysgrace<l. After 
 numerous intrigues abroad and at home, she put the 
 crowning point to her follies by fiilling in love with 
 the handsome Fielding, when she hei'self numbered 
 sixty-five summers. 
 
 Whether the Beau still thought of fortune, or whether, 
 havinir once tried matrimonv, he was so enchanted with 
 it as to make it his cacoethes, does not appear: the 
 legend explains not for what reason he married the
 
 150 THE BEAU'S SECOND MARRIAGE. 
 
 antiquated beauty only three weeks after he had been 
 united to the supposed widow. For a time he wavered 
 between the tAvo, but that time was short : the widow 
 discovei'ed his second marrriage, chiimed him, and in 
 so doing revealed the well-kept secret that she was not 
 a widow ; indeed, not even the relict of John Delcau, 
 Esq., of Whaddon, but a wretched adventurer of the 
 name of Mary Wadsworth, who had shared with Mrs. 
 Villars the plunder of the trick. The Beau tried to 
 preserve his dignity, and throw over his duper, but in 
 vain. The first wife reported the state of aflairs to the 
 second ; and the duchess, who had been shamefully 
 treated by Master Fielding, was only too glad of an 
 opportunity to get rid of him. She offered Mary 
 Wadsworth a pension of XlOO a year, and a sum of 
 £200 in ready money, to prove the previous marriage. 
 The case came on, and Beau Fielding had the honor of 
 playing a part in a fomous 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 plea fell to 
 the ground, and the fine gentleman was sentenced to be 
 burned in the hand. His interest in certain (piarters 
 saved him this ignominious punishment, which would, 
 doubtless, have spoiled a limb of Avhich he was par- 
 ticularly proud. lie was pardoned : the real widow 
 jnarried a far more lionoral)le gentleman, in spite of 
 the unenviable notoriety slie had acquired; the sham
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF FOPS AND BKAFX. lol 
 
 Olio Avas somehow (|uiL'tc(l, and the duchess died .some 
 four years later, the mure peacefully for being rid of 
 her tyrannical mate. 
 
 Tlius ended a petty scandal of the day, in Avhich all 
 the parties were so disreputal)le that no one could feel 
 any sympathy for a single one of them. How the 
 dupe himself ended is not known. The last days of 
 fops and beaux are never glorious. Brummell died in 
 slovenly penury ; Na.sh in contempt. Fielding lapsed 
 into the dimmest obscurity ; and as far as evidence goes, 
 there is as little certainty about his death as of that of 
 the Wandering Jew. Let us hope that he is not still 
 alive: though his friends seemed to have cared little 
 whether he Avere so or not, to judge from a couple of 
 verses WTitten by one of them: 
 
 " If Fieldini? is dead, 
 
 And rests under tliis stone, 
 Then he is not alive, 
 
 You may bet two to one. 
 
 " But if he's alive. 
 
 And does not lie there — 
 Let him live till he's hanged, 
 For which no man will care."
 
 OF CERTAIN CLUBS AND CLUB-WITS 
 UNDER ANNE. 
 
 I SUPPOSE that, long before the biiihiing of Babel, 
 man discovered that he was an associative animal, 
 with the universal motto, ^'^ L' union c est la force ;" 
 and that association, to be of any use, requires talk. 
 A history of celebrated associations from the building- 
 society just mentioned down to the thousands which 
 are represented by an office, a secretary, and a brass 
 plate, in the present day, would give a curious scheme 
 of the natural tendencies of man ; while the story of 
 their failures — and how many have not failed, sooner 
 or later ! — would be a pretty moral lesson to your 
 anthropolaters who Babelize now-a-days, and believe 
 there is nothing which a company with capital cannot 
 achieve. I wonder what object there is, that two men 
 can possibly agree in desiring, and which it takes more 
 than one to attain, for which an association of some 
 kind has not been formed at some time or other, since 
 first the swarthy savage learned that it Avas necessary 
 to unite to kill the lion Avhich infested the neighbor- 
 hood ? Alack 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 
 162
 
 THE RAISON D'ftTIlK OF CLUr.-LIFE. 153 
 
 of them mit'lit be ranged under two heads, accordiiii; 
 as the passions of hate or desire found a common object 
 in several hearts. Gain on the one hand — destruction 
 on the other — have been the chief motives of clubbing 
 in all time. 
 
 A dcliglitful exception is to be found, though — to 
 wit, in associations for the purpose of talking, I do 
 not refer to parliaments and philosophical academies, 
 but to those companies which have been formed for 
 the sole purpose of mutual entertainment by inter- 
 chano;e of thought. 
 
 Now, will any kind reader oblige me wath a deriva- 
 tion of the word " Club " ? I doubt if it is easy to 
 discover. But one thing is certain, whatever its 
 origin, it is, in its present sense, purely English in 
 idea and in existence. Dean Trench points this out, 
 and, noting the fact that no other nation (he might 
 have excepted the Chinese) has any word to express 
 this kind of association, he has, with very pardonable 
 natural pride, but unpardonably bad logic, inferred 
 that the English are the most sociable people in the 
 world. The contrary is true; nay, ivas true, even in 
 the days of Addison, Swift, Steele — even in the days 
 of Johnson, Walpole, Selwyn ; ay, at all time since 
 we have been a nation. The fact is, we are not the 
 most sociable, but the most associative race ; and the 
 establishment of clubs is a proof of it. We cannot, 
 and never could, talk freely, comfortably, and gener- 
 ally, without a company for talking. Conversation
 
 154 THE ORIGIN OF CLUBS. 
 
 has always been with us as much a business as rail- 
 road-making, or what not. It has always demanded 
 certain accessories, certain condiments, certain stimu- 
 lants to work it up to the proper pitch. " We all 
 know " we are the cleverest and Avittiest people under 
 the sun ; but then our wit has been stereotyped. 
 France has no "Joe Miller;" for a bon-mot there, 
 hoAvever good, is only appreciated historically. Our 
 wit is printed, not spoken ; our best wits behind an 
 inkhorn have sometimes been the veriest logs in 
 society. On the Continent clubs Avere not called 
 for, because society itself Avas the arena of conver- 
 sation. In this country, on the other hand, a man 
 could only chat wdicn at his ease ; could only be at 
 his ease among those Avho agreed Avith him on the 
 main points of religion and politics, and even then 
 Avanted the aid of a bottle to make him comfortable. 
 Our Avant of sociability was the cause of our clubbing, 
 and therefore the AA'ord "club " is purely English. 
 
 This Avas never so much the case as after the Restora- 
 tion. Religion and politics never ran higher than when 
 a monarch, who is said to have died a papist because he 
 had no religion at all during his life, was brought back 
 to supplant a furious puritanical Protectorate. Then, 
 indeed, it Avas difficult for men of opposite parties to 
 meet without bickering ; and society demanded separate 
 meeting-places for those avIio differed. The origin of 
 clubs in this country is to be traced to tAvo causes — 
 the vehemence of religious and political partianship,
 
 THE ESTABLISHMENT OF COFFEE-HOUSES. lo5 
 
 and the cstablisliincnt of coffee-bouses. These cer- 
 tainly ^avc the first idea of clubberj. The taverns 
 which had preceded them liad given the English a 
 zest for ))ii1)lic life in a small way. "The Mermaid" 
 ■was, virtually, a club of wits long before the first real 
 clul) was opened, and, like the clubs of the eighteenth 
 century, it li;id its presiding geniuses in Shakespeare 
 and Rare J>en. 
 
 The coffee-houses introduced somewhat more refine- 
 ment and less exclusiveness. The oldest of these was 
 the " Grecian." "One Constantine, a Grecian," ad- 
 vertised in "The Intelligencer" of January 23d, 
 WCA-h, that "the right coffee bery or chocolate," 
 might be had of him "as cheap and as good as is 
 anywhere to be had for money," and soon after be- 
 gan to sell the said "coffee bery" in small cups at 
 his own establishment in Devereux Court, Strand. 
 Some tAvo years later we have news of "Will's," the 
 most famous, perhaps, of the coffee-houses. Here 
 Dryden held forth with pedantic vanity : an<l here was 
 laid the first germ of that critical acumen which has 
 since become a distinsuishinQ; feature in Enfrlish litera- 
 ture. Then, in the City, one GarraAvay, of Exchange 
 Alley, first sold " tea in leaf and drink, made according 
 to the directions of the most knowing;, and travellers 
 into those eastern countries;" and thus established the 
 well-known " Garraway's," whither, in Defoe's day, 
 "foreign banquiers " and even ministers resorted, to 
 drink the said beverage. " Ivobin's," "Jonathan's,"
 
 156 THE OCTOBER CLUB. 
 
 and many another, were all opened about tliis time, 
 and the rage for coffee-house life became general 
 throughout the country. 
 
 In these places the company was of course of all 
 classes and colors ; but, as the conversation was general, 
 there was naturally at first a good deal of squabbling, 
 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. James's Street, was reserved for Jacobites, 
 while none but Whigs frequented " The St. James's." 
 Still, there Avas not sufficient 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 
 members. Hence the origin of clubs. 
 
 The October Club was one of the earliest, being 
 composed of some hundred and fifty rank Tories, 
 chiefly country members of Parliament. They met 
 at the "Bell," in King Street, Westminster, that 
 street in Avhich Spenser starved, and Drydcn's brother 
 kept a grocer's shop. A portrait of Queen Anne, by 
 Dahl, hung in the club-room. This and the Kit-kat, 
 the great Whig club, Avere chiefly reserved for politics ; 
 but the fiishion of clubbing having once come in, it was 
 soon followed by people of all fancies. No reader of 
 "The Spectator" can fail to remember the ridicule to 
 which this was turned by descriptions of imaginary
 
 THE liEEF-STEAK CLUB. l.")7 
 
 clubs for which the (qualifications were absurd, ami 
 of which the business, on meeting, was preposterous 
 nonsense of some kind. 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 Club, and others, could only have been 
 suggested by real clubs almost as ridiculous. The 
 names, too, were almost as fantastical as those of the 
 taverns in the previous century, which counted " The 
 Devil," and '' The Heaven and Hell," among their 
 numbers. Many derived their titles from the standing 
 dishes preferred at supper, the Beef-steak and the Kit- 
 kat (a sort of mutton-pie), for instance. 
 
 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 character. 
 Nothing but tliat excellent British fare, from which it 
 took its name, was, at first, served at the supper-table. 
 It was an assemblage of wits of every station, and 
 very jovial were they supposed to be when the juicy 
 dish had been discussed. Early in the century, Est- 
 court, the actor, was made provider to this club, and 
 wore a golden gridiron as a badge of office, and is 
 thus alluded to in Dr. King's "Art of Cookery" 
 (1709):— 
 
 "He tliat of lionor, wit, ;inil mirth iiartakes, 
 May he a (it companion o'er hecf-stakes ; 
 I lis name may he to fiitnre times enrolled 
 In Estconrt's hook, wliose gridiron's framed of gold."
 
 158 ESTCOURT, THE ACTOR. 
 
 Estcoiirt was one of the best mimics of the day, and 
 a keen satirist to boot ; in fact he seems to have owed 
 much of his success on the stage to his power of imita- 
 tion, for while his own manner was inferior, he could 
 at pleasure copy exactly that of any celebrated actor. 
 He ivould be a player. At fifteen he ran away from 
 home, and, joining a strolling company, acted Roxana 
 in woman's clothes : his friends pursued him, and, 
 chanu-iuif his dress for that of a o;irl of the time, he 
 tried to escape them, but in vain. The histrionic 
 youth was captured, and bound apprentice in London 
 town; the "seven long years" of Avhicli did not cure 
 him of the itch for acting. But he was too good a 
 wit for the stage, and amused himself, though not 
 always his audience, by interspersing his part with his 
 own remarks. The great took him by the hand, and 
 old Marlborough especially patronized him : he wrote 
 a burles([ue of the Italian 0})eras then beginning to be 
 in vogue ; and died in 1712-13. Estcourt was nut 
 the only actor belonging to the Beef-steak, nor even 
 tlie only one who had concealed his sex under emer- 
 gency ; Peg WoiUngton, who had made as good a, boy 
 as lie had done a girl, was afterwards a member of 
 this chil). 
 
 In later years the beef-steak was cdoked in a room 
 at the top of Covent Garden 'J'heatre, and counted 
 many a celebrated wit among tliose who sat around its 
 cheery dish. Wilkes the blasphemer, Churchill, and
 
 ITS MODERN REPRESENTATTVE. 159 
 
 Lord Sandwich, were all members of it at the .same 
 time. Of tlie hist, "\Valj)ole gives us information in 
 17G3 at the time of Wilkes's duel with Martin in 
 Hyde Park. He ti-11- us that at the Beef-steak Club 
 Lord Sandwich talked so profusely, "that he drove 
 harle([uins out of the com})any." To the honor of the 
 club be it added, that his hjrdship was driven out after 
 the harleijuins, and finally e.xpelled : it is sincerely 
 to be hoped that Wilkes was sent after his lordship. 
 This club is now represented by one held behind the 
 Lyceum, with the thoroughly British motto, "Beef 
 and Liberty:"" the name was happily chosen and 
 therefore imitated. Li the reign of George 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 cliil)S there were under Anne, — political, crit- 
 ical, and hilarious — but the palm is undoubtedly car- 
 ried olf by the glorious Kit-kat. 
 
 It is not every eating-house that is immortalized by 
 a ro{)e, though Tennyson has sung " The Cock " with 
 its ''plump head-waiter," who. l)y the way, was might- 
 ily offended by the Laureate's verses — or pretended to 
 
 be so — and thought it "a great liberty of Mr. , 
 
 ]Mr. , what is his name? to put respectable pri- 
 vate characters into his ])ooks." Pope, or some say 
 Ai-buthnot, explained the etymology of this club's 
 extraordinary title : —
 
 160 THE KIT-KAT CLUB. 
 
 "Whence deatliless Kit-kat took its name, 
 Few critics can unriddle : 
 Some say from pastrycook it came, 
 And some from Cat and Fiddle. 
 
 "From no trim beaux its name it boasts, 
 Grey statesmen or green wits; 
 But from the pell-mell pack of toasts 
 Of old cats and young kits." 
 
 Probably enough the title was hit on at hap-hazard, 
 and retained because it was singular, but as it has 
 given a poet a theme, and a painter a name for pic- 
 tures of a peculiar size, its etymology has become 
 important. Some say that the pastrycook in Shire 
 Lane, at whose house it was held, was named Christo- 
 pher Katt. Some one or other was certainly cele- 
 brated for the manufacture of that forgotten delicacy, 
 a mutton-pie, which acquired the name of a Kit-kat. 
 
 " A Kit-kat is a supper for a lord," 
 
 says a comedy of 1700, and certes it afforded at this 
 club evening nourishment for many a celebrated noble 
 profligate of the day. The supposed sign of the Cat 
 and Fiddle (Kitt), gave another solution, but after all. 
 Pope's may be satisfactorily received. 
 
 The Kit-kat was, par excelkfice, the Whig Club of 
 Queen Anne's time : it was established at the begin- 
 ning of the eighteenth century, and was tlien composed 
 of thirty-nine members, among wboin were the Dukes 
 of Marll)orougl), Dcvonsbire, (Iraltoii, Kiclmumd, and
 
 THE ROMAN'CE OF THE BOWL. 101 
 
 Somerset. In later days it numbered the greatest Avits 
 of the age, of whom anon. 
 
 This club was celebrated more tlian any for its 
 toasts. 
 
 Now, if men must drink — and sure the vine was 
 given us for use, I do not say for abuse — they had better 
 make it an occasion of friendly intercourse; nothing 
 can be more degraded than tlie solitary sanctimonious 
 toping in which certain of our northern brethren are 
 known to indulge. Tliey had better give to tlie 
 quaffing of that rich gift, sent to be a medicine for tlie 
 mind, to raise us above the perpetual contemplation of 
 worldly ills, as much of romance and elegance as possi- 
 ble. It is the opener of the heart, the awakener of 
 nobler feelings of generosity and love, the banisher of 
 all that is narrow, and sordid, and selfish ; the herald 
 of all that is exalted in man. No wonder that the 
 Greeks made a god of Bacchus, that the Hindu wor- 
 shipped the mellow Soma, and that there has been 
 scarce a poet who has not sung its praise. There was 
 some beauty in the feasts of the Greeks, when the gob- 
 let was really wreathed with flowers ; and even the 
 German student, dirty and drunken as he may be, re- 
 moves half the stain from his orgies with the rich har- 
 mony of his songs and the hearty good-fellowship of 
 his toasts. We drink still, perhaps we shall always 
 drink till the end of time, l)ut all the romance of the 
 bowl is gone ; the last trace of its beauty went a\ ith the 
 frigid abandonment of the toast. 
 
 Vol. I.— 1 1
 
 162 THE TOASTS OF THE KIT-KAT. 
 
 There was some excuse for wine when it brouglit out 
 that now forgotten expression of good-will. INIany a 
 feud was reconciled in the clinking of glasses ; just as 
 many another was begun Avhen the cup was drained too 
 deeply. The first quarter of the last century saw the 
 end of all the social glories of the wassail in this coun- 
 try, and though men drank as much fifty years later, 
 all its poetry and romance had then disappeared. 
 
 It Avas still, however, the 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 point of 
 honor for all the company to join the health. Some 
 beauties became celebrated for the number of their 
 toasts ; some even standino; toasts among certain sets. 
 In the Kit-kat Club the custom was carried out by 
 rule, and every member was compelled to name a beau- 
 ty, whose claims to the honor were then discussed, and 
 if her name was a})proved, a separate bowl was conse- 
 crated to her, and verses to lier honor engraved on it. 
 Some of the most celebrated toasts had even their por- 
 traits liuns; in the club-room, and it Avas no slijiht dis- 
 tinction to be the favorite of the Kit-kat. When only 
 eight years old, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu enjoyed 
 this privilege. Her father, the Lord Dorchester, after- 
 Avards Evelyn, Duke of Kingston, in a fit of caprice, 
 proposed "the pretty little child" as ids toast. The 
 other members, Avho had never seen her, objected; tlic 
 Peer sent for her, and there could no longer be any 
 question. The forAvard little girl was handed from
 
 rOKTKAITS OF LADIES OF THE KIT-KAT. 163 
 
 knee to knee, petted, pro])al)ly, by Addison, Congrcvc, 
 Vanbrugh, Garth, and many another famous wit. An- 
 otlicr celebrated toast of" tlie Kit-kat, mentioned by 
 AVMlpole, Avas Lady jNIolyneux, Avho, he says, died smok- 
 ing a ])ij)e. 
 
 This cliil) was no less celebrated for its portraits tli;in 
 for tlic hid'cs it Inn'onMl. They, tlie portraits, were all 
 ])aiiitf(l by Kneller, and all of one size, ■which thence 
 got the name of Kit-kat; they were hung round the 
 club-room. Jacob Tonson, the publisher, was secretary 
 to the club. 
 
 Defoe tells us the Kit-kat held the first rank anions' 
 the clubs of the early part of the last century, and cer- 
 tainly tlie names of its members comprise as many wits 
 as we could expect to find collected in one society. 
 
 Addison must have liccii past forty when he became 
 a member of the Kit-kat. His '* Cato " had won him 
 the general applause of tlie Whig party, who could not 
 allow so fine a writer to slip from among them. lie 
 h:id long, too, played the courtier, and was "quite a 
 gentleman." A place among the exclusives of the 
 Kit-kat was only the just reward of such attainments, 
 and he had it. I shall not be asked to give a notice 
 of a man so universally known, and one who ranks 
 rather with the humorists than the wits. It Avill suf- 
 fice to say, that it was not till after the publication of 
 "The Spectator," and some time after, that he joined 
 our society. 
 
 Congreve T have chosen out of this set for a sep-
 
 164 THE MEMBERS OF THE KIT-KAT. 
 
 arate life, for this man happens to present a very 
 average sample of all their peculiarities. Congreve 
 was a literary man, a poet, a wit, a beau, and — what 
 unhappily is quite as much to the purpose — a prof- 
 ligate. The only point he, therefore, wanted in 
 common with most 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 
 Congreve. 
 
 Another dramatist, whose name seems to be insep- 
 arable from Congreve's, was that mixture of bad and 
 good taste — Yanbrugh. The author of " The Re- 
 lapse," the most licentious play ever acted; — the 
 builder of Blenheim, the ugliest house ever erected, 
 was a man of good family, and Walpole counts him 
 among those who " wrote genteel comedy, because 
 they lived in the best company." We doubt the 
 loti-ic of this; but if it hold, how is it that Van 
 wrote plays which the l)cst company, even at that 
 age, condemned, and neither good nor l)ad company 
 can read in the present day without being shocked? 
 If the conversation of the Kit-kat Avas anything like 
 that in this member's comedies, it must have been 
 highly edifying. However, I have no doubt Van- 
 brugh passed for a gentleman, whatever his conver- 
 sation, and he was certainly a wit, and apparently 
 somewhat less licentious in his morals than the rest. 
 Yet what Pope said of his literature may be said, too, 
 of some acts of his life: —
 
 A GOOD WIT AND A I^AD ARCHITECT. 1G5 
 "How \':in wants f(racc, who never wanted wit." 
 
 And his quarrel witli " Queen Surah " of Marlborough, 
 though the (.luches.s was by no means the most agree- 
 alile woman in the world to deal with, is not much to 
 A'mu's honor. ^Vh('Il tlic nation voted half a million 
 to build that hideous mass of stone, the irregular and 
 unsightly piling of which caused Walpole to say that 
 the architect " had emptied quarries, rather than built 
 houses," and Dr. Evans to write this epitaph for the 
 builder — 
 
 "Lie lieavv on liini, Eartli, for lie 
 Laid many a heavy load on thee," 
 
 Sarah haggled over " seven-pence halfpenny a bushel ;" 
 Van retorted by calling her "stupid and troublesome," 
 and " that wicked woman of jNIarlborough," and after 
 the Duke's death, wrote that the Duke had left her 
 "twelve thousand pounds a-year to keep lierself clean 
 and go to law." Whether she employed any portion 
 of it on the former object we do not pretend to say, 
 but she certainly spent as much as a miser could on 
 litiiration. A'^an himself being one of the unfortunates 
 she attacked in this way. 
 
 The events of Vanbnigh's life were varied. He be- 
 gan life in the army, but in 1G97 gave the stage " The 
 Relapse." It was sufficiently successful to induce him 
 to follow it up with the " Provoked Wife," one of the 
 wittiest pieces produced in those days. Charles, Earl 
 of Carlisle, Deputy Earl Marshal, for whom he built
 
 166 "WELL-NATURED GARTH." 
 
 Castle Howard, made him Clarcncicux King-at-arms 
 in 1704, and lie was knighted by George I., 9tli of 
 September, 1714. In 1705 he joined Congreve in 
 the management of the Haymarket, Avhich he himself 
 built. George I. made him Comptroller-general of 
 the royal works. He had even an experience of the 
 Bastille, where he was confined for sketching fortifica- 
 tions in France. He died in 1726, with the reputa- 
 tion of a good wit, and a bad architect. His conver- 
 sation was, certainly, as light as his buildings were 
 heavy. 
 
 Another memljer, almost as well known in his day, 
 was Sir Samuel Garth, the physician, " well-natured 
 Garth," as Pope called him. He won his fame by his 
 satire on the apothecaries in the shape of a poem called 
 "The Dispensary." When delivering the funeral 
 oration over Dryden's body, which had been so 
 long unburied that its odor beo;an to be disas^reeable, 
 he mounted a tub, the top of wliich fell through and 
 left the doctor in rather an awkward position. He 
 gained admission to the Kit-kat in consequence of a 
 vehement eidogy on King William which he had in- 
 troduced into his Harveian oration in 1G*J7.^ It was 
 Garth, too, who extemporized most of the verses wliich 
 w^re inscribed on the toasting-glasses of their club, so 
 that he may, par excellence, be considered the Kit-kat 
 poet. He was the physician and friend of Marlborough, 
 ■with whose sword he was knighted by George I., who 
 ' Tlie Kit-knt club w:is not foiindeil till 1703.
 
 "A liKTTKU WIT THAN I'OET." 107 
 
 made liiin his ]>liy8ici;iii in ordinary. Garth -was a 
 very jovial man, and, some say, not a very religious 
 one. Pope said he was as good a Christian as ever 
 lived, 'Mvithout knowing it." lie certainly had no 
 affectation of piety, and if cliaritable and good- 
 natnred acts could take a man to heaven, he de- 
 served to go there. lie had his doubts about faith, 
 and is said to have died a Romanist. This he did in 
 1710, and the poor and the Kit-kat must both have 
 felt his loss. lie was perhaps more of a wit than a 
 poet, although ho has been classed at times with Gray 
 and Prior ; he can scarcely take the same rank as 
 other verse-making doctore, such as Akenside, 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 match in the Mall with the 
 Duke of Grafton, and beat him. He was fond, too, of 
 a hard frost, and had a regular speech to introduce on 
 that subject: "Yes, sir, 'fore Gad, very fine weather, 
 sir — very wholesome weather, sir — kills trees, sir — 
 verv good for man. sir." 
 
 Old INIarlboroush had anotlicr intimate friend at 
 the club, Avho was probably one of its earliest mem- 
 bers. Tliis was Arthur Maynwaring, a poet, too, in a 
 way, but more celebrated at this time for his liaison 
 witli ^Irs. Oldfield, tlie famous but disreputable 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 liim in private.
 
 168 THE POETS OF THE KIT-KAT. 
 
 Maynwaring was born in 16G8, educated at Oxford, 
 and destined for the bar, for which he studied. lie 
 began life as a vehement Jacobite, and even sup- 
 ported that party in sundry pieces ; but like some 
 others, he was easily converted, when, on coming to 
 town, he found it more fashionable to bo a Whig. He 
 held two or three posts under the Government, whose 
 cause he now espoused : had the honor of the dedica- 
 tion of " The Tatler " to him by Steele, and died sud- 
 denly in 1712, He divided his fortune between his 
 sister and his mistress, Mrs. Oldfield, and his son by 
 the latter. Mrs. Oldfield must have grown rich in her 
 sinful career, for she could afford, when ill, to refuse to 
 take her salary from the theatre, though entitled to it. 
 She acted best in Vanbrugh's " Provoked Husband," 
 so well, in fact, that the manager gave her an extra 
 fifty pounds by Avay of acknowledgment. 
 
 Poetizing seems to have been as much a polite 
 accomplishment of that age as letter-writing was of 
 a later, and a smattering of science is of the present 
 day. Gentlemen tried to be poets, and poets gentle- 
 men. The consequence was, that both made fools of 
 themselves. Among the poetasters who belonged to 
 the Kit-kat, we must mention Walsh, a country gen- 
 tleman, member of Parliament, and very tolerable 
 scholar. He dabbled in odes, elegies, epitaphs, and 
 all that small fry of the muse which was then so 
 plentiful. He wrote critical essays on Virgil, in which 
 he tried to make out that the shepherds in the days of
 
 POETS AND Til KIR TATROXS. 1G9 
 
 tlic Roman poet were very well-bred gentlemen of good 
 education ! lie was a devoted admirer and friend of 
 Dryden, and lie encouraged Pope in his earlier career 
 so kintlly tliat the little viper actually praised him! 
 \Val.sh died somewhere about 1700 in middle life. 
 
 A\ e have not nearly done witli the poets of the Kit- 
 kat. A still snmlhM- one (lian \Valsh was Stepney, 
 who, like Garth, liad Ix'LTun life as a violent Tory, 
 and turned coat when he lound his interest lay the 
 otiier way. lie was Avell repaid, for from 1(5! >2 to 
 170B he was sent on no less than eiuht diplomatic 
 missions, chiefly to German courts, lie owed this pref- 
 erment to the good luck of having been a schoolfellow 
 of Charles Montagu, afterwards Earl of Halifax. He 
 died about 1707, and had as grand a monument and 
 epitaph in Westminster Abbey as if he had been a 
 Milton or Dryden. 
 
 AVhen you meet a dog trotting along the road, you 
 naturally expect that his master is not far off. In the 
 same way, where you find a poet, still more a poetaster, 
 there you may feel certain you will light upon a patron. 
 The Kit-kat was made up of INIiCcenases and tlu'ir 
 humble servants; and in the same club Avith Addison, 
 Congreve, Vanbrugh, and the minor poets, Ave are not 
 at all surprised to find Sir Robert AValpole, the Duke 
 of Somerset, Halifax, and Somers. 
 
 Halifax was, imr excellence, the Maecenas of his 
 day, and Pope described him admirably in the charac- 
 ter of Bufo : —
 
 170 LORD HALIFAX AS A POET. 
 
 "Proud as Apollo, on his forked liill, 
 Sat full-blown Bufo, pufl''d by every quill ; 
 Fed with soft dedication all day long, 
 Horace and lie went hand in hand in song." 
 
 The dedications poured in thickly. Steele, Tickell, 
 Philips, Smith, and a crowd of lesser lights, raised my 
 lord each one on a higher pinnacle ; and in return the 
 poAverful minister Avas not forgetful of the douceur 
 which well-tuned verses were accustomed to receive. 
 He himself had tried to be a poet, and in 1703 wrote 
 verses for the toasting-cups of the Kit-kat. His lines 
 to a Dowager Countess of * * * * are good enough to 
 make us surprised that he never wrote any better. 
 Take a specimen : — 
 
 "Fair Queen of Fop-land in her royal style; 
 Fo})-land the greatest part of this great isle ! 
 Nature did ne'er so equally divide 
 A female heart 'twixt piety and pride : 
 Her waiting-maids prevent the peep of day, 
 And all in order at her toilet lay 
 Prayer-books, patch-boxes, sermon-notes, and paint, 
 At once t' improve the sinner and the saint." 
 
 A Maecenas who paid for his dedications was sure to 
 be Avell spoken of, and Halifax has been made out a 
 wit and a poet, as Avell as a clever statesman. Halifax 
 got his earldom and the Garter from George I., and 
 died, after enjoying them less than a year, in 1715. 
 
 Chancellor Somers, with wlioni TlMlifux was associ- 
 ated ill tlu' iinj)eaclimeiit case in 1701, was a far 1)e(ter
 
 CHANCELLOR SOMEIIS. 171 
 
 iiinii ill every respeet. His was probaljly the purest cha- 
 racter ainonji: tliosc of all the members of the Kit-kat. 
 lie was the son of a Worcester attorney, and horn in 
 1G52. He was ediicatcil nt Trinity, Oxford, and rose 
 purely by merit, distinguishing himself at the bar and 
 on the bench, unwearied in his application to business, 
 and an exact and ujjright judge. At schodl he was a 
 terribly good boy, keeping to his book in play-hours. 
 Tliroiighout life his habits were simple and regular, 
 and his character unblemished. He sle]>t Imt little, 
 and in later j^ears had a reader to attend him at wak- 
 ing. Willi such habits he can scarcely have been a 
 constant attender at the club ; and as he died a bach- 
 elor, it would be curious to learn wliat ladies he 
 selected for his toasts. In his latter years his mind 
 was weakened, and he died in 1710 of apoplexy. 
 AValpole calls him "one of those divine men who, like 
 a chapel in a palace, remained unprofaned, while all 
 the rest is tvrannv, corruption, and follv." 
 
 A huse stout figure rolls in now to join the toasters 
 in Shire Lane. In the ]>uffy, once handsome face, 
 there are signs of age, for its owner is past sixty ; yet 
 he is dressed in superl) fashion ; and in an liour or so, 
 when the bottle has been diligently circulated, his Avit 
 will be brighter and keener than that of any young 
 ma II present. I do not say it will lie repeatable, for 
 the talker belongs to a past age, even coarser than that 
 of the Kit-knt. He is Charles Sackville,^ famous as 
 ' For some notice of Lcnl Dorset, see p. 107.
 
 172 CHAELES SACKVII>LE, LORD DORSET. 
 
 a companion of the merriest and most disreputable of 
 the Stuarts, famous — or, rather, infamous — for his 
 mistress, Nell Gwynn, famous for his verses, for his 
 patronage of poets, and for his wild frolics in early 
 life, when Lord Buckhurst. Rochester called him 
 
 "The best good man with the worst-natured muse;" 
 
 and Pope says he was 
 
 "The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, 
 Of fops in learning and of knaves in state." 
 
 Our sailors still sinir the ballad which he is said to 
 have Avritten on the eve of the naval engagement 
 between the Duke of York and Admiral Opdam, 
 which bccrins — 
 
 -&' 
 
 "To all you ladies now on land, 
 We men at sea indite." 
 
 With a fine classical taste and a courageous spirit, 
 he had in early days been guilty of as much iniquity 
 as any of Charles's profligate court. lie was one of a 
 band of young libertines who robbed and murdered a 
 poor tanner on the high-road, and were acquitted, less 
 on account of the poor excuse they dished up for this 
 act than of their rank and fashion. Such fine gentle- 
 men could not be hanged for the sake of a mere work- 
 man in those days — no ! no I Yet he does not seem to 
 have repented of this transaction, for soon after he was 
 engaged with Sedley and Ogle in a series of most in-
 
 LESS CELEBRATED WITS, 173 
 
 decent acts at the Cock Tavern in Bow-street, where 
 Sedley, in "liirtluhiy attire," made a bhisphemous 
 oration from tlie balcony of the house. In later years 
 he was the pride of tlie poets : Dryden and Prior, 
 Wyclierley, Iludibras, and llymer, were all encour- 
 aged by him, and repaid liini with ])raises. Pope and 
 Dr. KiiiLf were no less bounlilul in their euhigies of 
 this Miecenas. His conversation was so much appre- 
 ciated that gloomy William HI. chose him as his com- 
 panion, as merry Charles had done before. The 
 famous Irish 1)allad, whicli my Uncle Toby was alwaj'S 
 hunnuing, '• Lillibullero bullen-a-lah," but which Percy 
 attrilnites to the Marquis of Wharton, another mem- 
 ber of the Kit-kat, was said to have been written by 
 Buckhurst. lie retained his wit to the last; and 
 Congreve, who visited him wiien he was dying, said, 
 " Faith, he stutters more wit than other people have in 
 their best health." He died at P>atli in 1706. 
 
 Buckhurst does not complete the list of conspicuous 
 niendjers of this club, but the remainder were less 
 celebrated for their wit. There was the Duke of 
 Kingston, the father of Lady Mary AVortley Mon- 
 tagu ; Granville, who imitated Waller, and attempted 
 to make his " Myra " as celebrated as the court-poet's 
 Saccharissa, who, by the way, was the mother of the 
 Earl of Sunderland: the Duke of Devonshire, whom 
 Walpole calls "a patriot among the men, a gallant 
 among the ladies," ami wlio founded Chatsworth ; and 
 other noblemen, chieily iielonging to the latter part of
 
 174 THE MEMBERS OF THE KIT-KAT. 
 
 the seventeenth century, and all devoted to William 
 III., though they had been bred at the courts of 
 Charles and James. 
 
 With such an array of wits, poets, statesmen, and 
 gallants, it can easily be believed that to be the toast of 
 the Kit-kat was no slight honor ; to be a member of it 
 a still greater one ; and to be one of its most distin- 
 guished, as Congreve was, the greatest. Let us now 
 see what title this conceited beau and poet had to that 
 position.
 
 ^iJUUiam <fougvi'lie.
 
 W1LLIA^[ C'ONOREVR 
 
 When "Queen Sanili " of Murlboroiifrli vciul the 
 silly cpita})li uhicli Henrietta, Duchess of Mai-ll)on)u;^fli, 
 had written and had engraved on tlic iiioniiinent she set 
 uj> to Congreve, she said, with one of the true Blenheim 
 sneers, "I know not what liappiness she might have 
 in liis company, but I am sure it was no honor,'' allud- 
 ing to her daughter's eulogistic phrases. 
 
 Queen Sarah was right, as she often was Avhen con- 
 demnation was called for: and however amusing a 
 companion the dramatist may have been, he was not a 
 man to respect, for he had not only the common vices 
 of his age, but added to them a foppish vanity, toady- 
 ism, and fine gentlemanism (to coin a most necessary 
 word), Avliich 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, Congrevc ought 
 to have l)een a great man, for the place and time of 
 his l)ii-th are l)oth subjects of dispute. Oh I ha])py 
 Giflford ! or ha[)py Croker ! why did you not — perhaps 
 you did — go to work to set the world right on this 
 matter — you, to whom a date discoverctl is the highest 
 
 175
 
 176 WHEN AND WIIEEE WAS HE BORN? 
 
 palm (no pun intended, I assure you) of glory, and who 
 Avould rather Shakespeare had never written " Hamlet," 
 or Homer the " Iliad," than that some miserable little 
 forgotten scrap which decided a year or a place should 
 have been consigned to flames before it fell into your 
 hands ? Why did you not bring the thunder of your 
 abuse and the pop-gunnery of your satire to bear upon 
 the question, " How, when, and 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 this time a series 
 of philosophical, geographical, and ethnological pam- 
 plilets to prove that she was English or Irish, according 
 to the fancies or prejudices of the writers. It was cer- 
 tainly a very Irish thing to do, which is one argument 
 for the Milesians, and again it was done in the Irish 
 Channel, which is another and a stronger one ; and 
 altogether we are not inclined to go into forty-five 
 pages of recondite facts and fine-drawn arguments, 
 mingled Avith the most vehement abuse of anybody 
 who ever before wrote on the subject, to prove that 
 this country had the honor of producing her ladyship 
 — the Wild Irish Girl. We freely give her up to the 
 sister island. But not so William Congreve, though 
 we are ecjually indifferent to the honor in his case. 
 
 The one party, then, assert that he was born in this 
 country, the other that he breathed liis first air in the
 
 conflicting; dates. 177 
 
 Emcrjild fslc. WliiclicviT he the true state of the 
 case, we, as Eiij^lishnicu. jirt'frr to a^rec in tlic com- 
 nionlv reeeiveil <)])iiii(>ii thai he caine into tliis wicked 
 worhl at the viUa^e of IJardsea, or Baidscy, not I'ar 
 from Leeds in tlie eounty of York. Let the Baid- 
 seyans iimncdiately erect a statue to liis honor, if 
 they have heen remiss enough to neglect him here- 
 tofore. 
 
 But our difficulties are not ended, for there is a sim- 
 ilar doubt about the year of his birth. Ilis earliest 
 biographer assures us he Avas born in 1072, and others 
 that he was baptized three years before, in KJOit. 
 Such a proceeding might well be taken as a proof of 
 his Hibernian extraction, and accordingly we find ■Ma- 
 lone supporting the earlier date, producing, of course, 
 a certificate of baptism to support himself; and as we 
 liave a very great respect for his authority, we beg also 
 to support Mr. Malone. 
 
 This being settled, we have to examine who were his 
 parents ; and this is satisfactorily answered by his earl- 
 iest biographer, Avho informs us that he was of a very 
 ancient family, being '' the only surviving son of Wil- 
 liam Congreve, Esq. (who was second son to Richard 
 Congreve, Esq., of Congreve and Stretton in tliat 
 county)," to wit, Yorkshire. Congreve jw^rc held a 
 military command, which took him to Ireland soon 
 after the dramatist's birth, and thus young AVilliam 
 had the incomparable advantaiijc of beinff educated at 
 
 Kilkenny, and afterwards at Trinity, Dublin, the 
 Vol. I.— 12
 
 178 THE MIDDLE TEMPLE. 
 
 " silent sister," as it is commonly called at our uni- 
 versities. 
 
 At the age of nineteen, this youth sought the classic 
 shades of the Middle Temple, of which he was entered 
 a student, but by the honorable society of which he 
 n'as never called to the bar ; but whether this was from 
 a disinclination to study " Coke upon Lyttleton," or 
 from an incapacity to digest the requisite number of 
 dinners, the devouring of which qualify a young gen- 
 tleman to address an enlightened British jury, we have 
 no authority for deciding. lie was certainly not the 
 first, nor the last, young Templar who has quitted 
 special pleading on a crusade to the heights of Parnas- 
 sus, and he began early to try the nib of his pen and 
 the color of liis ink in a novel. Elieu ! how many a 
 novel has issued from the dull, dirty chambers of that 
 same Temple ! The waters of the Tliames just there 
 seem to have been augmented by a mingled flow of 
 sewage and Helicon, though the former is undoubtedly 
 in the greater proportion. This novel, called " Incog- 
 nita ; or. Love and Duty Reconciled," seems to have 
 been — for I confess that I have not read more than a 
 chapter of it, and hope I never may be forced to do so 
 — great rubbish, with good store of villains and ruffians, 
 love-sick maidens who tune their lutes — always conve- 
 niently at hand — and love-sick gallants who run their 
 foes through the l)ody with the greatest imaginable 
 ease. It was, in fact, such a tuivel as James might 
 have written, had he lived a century and a half ago.
 
 CONOREVE FINDS HIS NOCATIOX. 17I> 
 
 It lii'diiirlit its Miillidr lull little f;iino, ;ui<l accordingly 
 lie tiiriu'(l his attention to another Itraneh oi" literature, 
 and ill 1<»1>-J prodiiceil '' Tlic Old iiachelor,"' a jilay of 
 Avliich Dryden, his IViciid. iiad so hiirh an opinion tli:it 
 he ("iIUmI it the " hest iir.st ])lay he had ever read." 
 However, before lieinii; put on the stage it was sub- 
 mitted to Dryden, and by him and others prepared for 
 representation, so tliat it Avas well fathered. It was 
 successful enough, and Congrevc thus found his voca- 
 tion. In his dedication — a regular piece of flunnnery 
 of those days, for which authors were often well paid, 
 either in cash or interest — he acknowledges a debt of 
 gratitude to Lord Halifax, who appears to have taken 
 the young man )>y the hand. 
 
 The young Temjjlar coiihl do nothing better noAV 
 than write another play. I'lay-making was as fiishion- 
 able an amusement in those days of ( )ld Drury, the only 
 patented theatre then, as novel-writing is in 18(10; and 
 when the young ensign, Vanbrugh, could write comedies 
 and take the direction of a theatre, it was no derogation 
 to the dignity of the Staffordshire squire's grandson to 
 do as much. Accordinjily, in the followino; vear he 
 brought out a better comedy, '' The Double Dealer," 
 with a prologue which was spoken by the famous Anne 
 Bracegirdle. She must have been eighty years old when 
 Horace Walpole wrote of her to that other Horace — 
 Mann: "Tell Mv. Chute that his friend Bracegirdle 
 breakfasted with me this morning. As she went out 
 and wanted her clogs, she turned to me and said : ' I
 
 180 VEESES TO QUEEN MARY. 
 
 remember at tlie playhouse they used to call, Mrs. 
 Ohlfiekl's chair ! Mrs. Barry's ch)gs I and Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle's pattens !' " These three ladies were all buried 
 in Westminster Abbey, and, except Mrs. Gibber, the 
 most beautiful and most sinful of them all — though 
 they were none of them s[)Otless — are the only actresses 
 whose ashes and memories are hallowed by the place, 
 for we can scarcely say that they do it much honor. 
 
 The success of "The Double Dealer" was at first 
 moderate, although that highly respectable woman, 
 Queen jNIary, honored it with her august presence, 
 which forthwith calletl up verses of the old adulatory 
 style, though witli less point and neatness than those 
 addressed to the Viru'in Queen : 
 
 o 
 
 "Wit is again (he tare of majesty," 
 
 said the poet, and 
 
 "Thus flourished wit in our forcfatliers' age, 
 And thus tlie lionian and Athenian stage. 
 Wlioso wit is liest, we'll not presume to tell, 
 r>ut this we know, our audience will excel; 
 VoY never was in liome nor Athens seen 
 So lair a circle, and so lu'ight a {jueen." 
 
 But tliis was not enough, for when Her Majesty de- 
 parted for another realm in tlie same year, Congreve 
 ])ut her into a higldy eulogistic pastoral, under the 
 name of Pastora, and nitide some com))liments on 
 her, whicli Avere considered t]u> finest strokes of poetry
 
 OIJ) r.KTTKUToX. l.Sl 
 
 :iih1 lliittci'v coiiiImiiciI, lliul an age of" aiMrcssc'S and 
 culoirifs fould j)i-()(liic-c. 
 
 "As loflv i)iiK'S o'citop tlic Iiiwly sttvil, 
 So (lid luT grac-LTiil lieiglil ;ill ii,viiij)!is exceed, 
 To wliirli excellin;? heij,'lit isliu Ijore a luiml 
 lliiiiiblu as osiers, bending to the wind. 
 ****** 
 
 I mourn I*:istora dead; kt Alliion nioiuii, 
 And sable clouds her ehalkie elills adorn." 
 
 This play uas (Icdicatcd to Lonl Halifax, of whom 
 Avc have .^^pokcn, and ^vho continued to be Congreve's 
 j)atron. 
 
 The fame of the vniiiig man \vas now made ; hut 
 in the following vear it was destined to shine out 
 more brilliantly still. Old Bcttcrton — one of the 
 best JIandets that over trod the stage, and of whom 
 Booth declared that Avlien he Avas phiving the Ghost 
 to Ins TIamlct, his look of surprise and horror was so 
 natural, that Booth could not for some minutes recover 
 liimself — was now a \-efcran in his sixtieth year. Yoy 
 forty years he had walkc(l the b(»ards, and made a for- 
 tune for the patentees of Diiiry. It was very shabby 
 of them, therefore, to give .some of his best parts to 
 younger actors. Betterton was disirusted, and deter- 
 mined to set uji for himself, to which end he managed 
 to ]»rocui-e another patent, turned the (,»ueen's Court in 
 JVrtugal How, liiiicolns Inn, into a theatre, and opened 
 it on the :!lUli id' A|.ril, iii'.T). The liuilding had been 
 before u.-ed as a tln'alri' in the days of the Merry
 
 182 THE TENNIS COURT THEATRE. 
 
 Monarch, and Tom Killigrew had acted here some 
 twenty years before ; but it had again become a 
 " tennis-quatre of the lesser sort," says Gibber, and 
 the new theatre was not very grand in fabric. But 
 Betterton drew to it all the best actors and actresses of 
 his former company ; and Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle remained true to the old man. Congreve, to his 
 honor, espoused the same cause, and the theatre opened 
 Avith his play of " Love for Love," which was more suc- 
 cessful than either of the former. The veteran him- 
 self spoke the prologue, and fair Bracegirdle the epi- 
 logue, in which the poet thus alluded to their change 
 of sta<2;e : 
 
 "And thus our audience, which did once resort 
 To shining theatres to see our sport, 
 Now find us tost into a tennis-court. 
 Thus from the past, we liojte for future grace : 
 
 I beg it 
 
 And some here know I liave a begging face." 
 
 The king himself completed the success of the opening 
 by attending it, and the theatre in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields might have ruined the older house, if it had 
 not been for the rapidity with which Vanbrugh and 
 Gibber, who wrote for Old Drurv, manasied to concoct 
 their pieces; while Gongrevc was a slower, though 
 perhaps better, writer. "Love for Love" was here- 
 after a favorite of Betterton's, and when in 1 TOO, a year 
 before his death, the coni])any gave t!ie <)I«1 mini — tlien 
 ill ill health, poor cii'euiiistances, and bad spirits — a
 
 CONGKEVE ABANDONS THE DRAMA. 1.S;J 
 
 hoTicfit, he chose tliis ])hiy, and himself, though more 
 tliaii seventy, acted the part of Valentine, supported 
 by Mrs. Bracegirdle as Angelina, and Mrs. Uarry as 
 Frail. 
 
 The young dramatist, with all his success, was not 
 satisfied with his fame, and resolved to show the world 
 that he had as much poetry as wit in him. This he 
 failed to do; and, like better writers, injured his own 
 fame, by not being contented with what he had, Con- 
 grcve — the wit, the dandy, the man about town — took 
 it into his head to write a tragedy. In KJlt" '• The 
 Mourning Bride" was acted at the Tennis Court 
 Theatre. The author was wise enough to return to his 
 former muse, and some time after produced his best 
 piece, so some think, " The Way of the Worhl," which 
 Avas also performed by Betterton's company ; but, alas I 
 for overwriting — that cacoethes of imprudent men — it 
 Avas almost hissed off the stage. Whether this Avas 
 owing to a weariness of Congreve's style, or whether 
 at the tin)e of its first appearance Collier's attacks, of 
 which anon, had ah-eady disgusted the public Avith the 
 obscenity and immorality of this Avriter, I do not knoAv: 
 but, Avhatever the cause, the consequence Avas that Mr. 
 William Congreve, in a fit of pique, made up his mind 
 never to Avrite another ])iece for the stage — a Avise reso- 
 lution, perhaps — and to turn fine gentleman instead. 
 With l)ie exception of conqxising a masque caUed the 
 " .jiidij,uient of Paris,"" and an o]i(ra, '"(lemele,"" which 
 was ne\er iM'iTnrincd. lie ki'pt I his resolution very lion-
 
 184 JEREMY COLLIER. 
 
 estly ; and so Mr. William Congreve's career as a 
 play^vright ends at the early age of thirty. 
 
 But though he abandoned the drama, he was not 
 allowed to retire in peace. There Avas a certain worthy, 
 but peppery little man, who, though a Jacobite and a 
 clergyman, w"as staunch and true, and as superior in 
 character — even, indeed, in vigor of Avriting — to Con- 
 greve, as Somers was to every man of his age. This 
 very Jeremy Collier, to whom we owe it that there is 
 any English drama fit to be acted before our sisters and 
 wives in the present day, Jeremy, the peppery, purged 
 the stafre in a succession of Jeremiads. 
 
 Born in 1650, educated at Cambridge as a poor 
 scholar, ordained at the age of twenty-six, presented 
 throe years later with the living of Ampton, near Bury 
 St. Edmunds, Jeremy had two ({ualities to recommend 
 him to Englishmen — respectability and pluck. In an 
 age when the clergy were as bad as the l)lackest sheep 
 in their flocks, Jeremy was distinguished by purity oi 
 life ; in an age when the only safety lay in adopting 
 the j)rinciple3 of the Vicar of Bray, Jeremy was a 
 Nonjuror, and of this nothing could cure him. 'J'he 
 Revolution of 1088 w'as scarcely etleeted, when tlie 
 fiery little partisan published a ])amphlet, which was 
 rewarded by a residence of some months in NcAvgate, 
 not in capacity of chaplain. l>ut he was scarcely let 
 out, wlien again went his furious pen, and loi- four 
 years he continued to assail the new governnu-nt, till 
 his hands were shackled and his mouth closed in the
 
 TiiK imm(m;ality of the stage. l.so 
 
 prison of '' The Gate-house." Now, see the character 
 of the man. He was liberated upon giving hail, 
 l»ut liai] no sooner reflected on this liberation than 
 he cauie to the conclusion that it was wrong, by ofller- 
 ing security, to recognize tlie authority (d" uuigistrates 
 appointed by a usurper, as he held William to ])e, and 
 vohiiit;ii-ily surrendered hiuiselt" to his judges. Of 
 course he was again coinmittcd, but this time to the 
 Kinir's Bench, and would doubtless in a few vi-ars 
 have made the tour of the London prisons, if his 
 enemies had not been tired of trying him. Once 
 nujre at liberty, he passed the next three years in 
 retirement. 
 
 After 161)3, Jeremy Collier's name was not brought 
 before the pultlic till 1006, when ho publicly absolved 
 Sir John Friend and Sir William Perkins, at their 
 execution foi- being concerned in a ])lot to assassiiuite 
 King Williaui. His "Essays on Moral Subjects" 
 Avere published in ll>i>7: 2d vol., 1705; od vol., 
 1T0!». r)iit the oidy way to ))ut out a firebrand like 
 this is to let it alon(\ and Jeremy, l)eing no longer 
 persecuted, ))egan, at last, to think the game was 
 grown stupid, and gave it u[>. He was a Avell-nu'an- 
 inir man, however, and as long as he had the luxury 
 of a grievance W(»uld injure no one. 
 
 He ("oiirtd one now in the immorality of his age, and 
 if he had left politics to themselves from the first, he 
 might have done miieh more good than he ilid. Against 
 the vices of a eoint and courtly circles it was useless to
 
 186 nONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE. 
 
 start a crusade single-handed ; but his quaint clever 
 pen might yet dress out a powerful Jeremiad against 
 those who encouraged the licentiousness of the people. 
 Jeremy was no Puritan, for he was a Nonjuror and a 
 Jacobite, and we may therefore believe that the cause 
 was a good one, when we find him adopting precisely 
 the same line as the Puritans had done before him. 
 In 1(308 he published, to the disgust of all Drury and 
 Lincoln's Inn, his " Short View of the Immorality and 
 Profaneness of the English Stage, together with the 
 Sense of Antiquity upon this Argument." 
 
 While the King of Naples is supplying his ancient 
 Venuses with gowns, and putting his Marses and Her- 
 culeses into pantaloons, there are — such arc the varie- 
 ties of opinion — respectable men in this country who 
 call Paul de Kock the greatest moral writer of his 
 age, and who would yet like to see " The Relapse," 
 "Love for Love," and the choice specimens of 
 Wycherley, Farquhar, and even of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, acted at the Princess's and the Haymarket 
 in the year of grace 18(30. I am not writing " A 
 Short View" of this or any other moral subject; but 
 this I must say — the effect of a sight or sound on a 
 human being'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 tlie 
 publications of Holywell Street, without more tlian 
 disirust at tlieir ()l)sc('uitv niid admiration for their 
 beauties. Put could we be i)ardoncd fur putting these
 
 VERY imi'iiopp:k things. 187 
 
 works into the IkukIs of "sweet seventeen," ov mak- 
 ing Cliristnius presents of tlieni to our boys? Ignor- 
 ance of evil is, to a certain extent, virtue: let l>ovs Ite 
 boys in purity of mind as long as they can : let the 
 iinrefincMl '' great unwashc<| " be treated also much in 
 tho' same way as young peoj)le. I inaintain that to a 
 coarse mind all im|)roper ideas, however beautifully 
 clothed, suggest only sensual thoughts — nay, the very 
 modesty of the garments makes them the more insid- 
 ious — the more dangerous. I would rather give my 
 boy John, Massinger, or Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 whose very improper things " are called by their prop- 
 er names," than let him dive in the prurient innuendo 
 of these later writers. 
 
 But there is no need to argue the question — the 
 public has decided it long since, and, except in indel- 
 icate ballets, and occasional rather French passages in 
 farce, our modern stage is free from immorality. Even 
 in Garrick's days, when men were not much more re- 
 fined than in those of Queen Anne, it was found im- 
 possible to put the old drama on the stage without con- 
 siderable weeding. Indeed I doubt if even the liberal 
 upholder of Paul do Kock would call Congrevc a moral 
 writer ; but I confess I am not a competent judge, for 
 risiim tcmcatis, my critics, I have not read his works 
 since I was a boy, and Avhat is more, I have no inten- 
 tion of readinii them. I well remember jiettina: into 
 my hands a large thiek volume, adorned with miser- 
 able woodcuts, ami bearino; on its back the title
 
 188 CONGREVE'S WRITINGS. 
 
 " Wychcrley, Congrcve, Vanbrugh, and Farquliar." 
 I devoured it at first Avith the same avidity Avith 
 Avliich one might welcome a bottle-imp, Avho at the 
 hour of one's dulness turned up out of the carpet and 
 offered you delights ueAV and old for nothing but a 
 tether on your soul : and with a like horror, boy 
 though I was, I recoiled from it when any better 
 moment came. It seemed to me, when I read this 
 book, as if life Averc too rotten for any belief, a nest 
 of sharpers, adulterers, cut-throats, and prostitutes. 
 There Avas none — as far as I remeud>er — of that 
 amiable Aveakness, of that better sentiment, Avhich 
 in Ben Jonson or Massingcr reconcile us to human 
 nature. If truth lie a test of genius, it must be a 
 proof of true })oetry that man is not made uglier 
 than ho is. Nay, his very ugliness loses its inten- 
 sity and falls u})on our diseiised tastes, for Avant of 
 some goodness, some purity and honesty to relieve it. 
 I Avill not say that there is none of this in Congrcve. 
 I oidy knoAv, that my recollecti(Ui of his plays is like 
 that of a vile nightmare, Avliich I Avould not for any- 
 thinrr have return to me. I have read, since, books as 
 b:id, perhaps Avorse in some respects, but I haye found 
 the redemption here niul there. I Avould no more 
 place Shandy in any boy's hands than Congrevc 
 ;ind Fanpihar; and yet f cmu iv:m1 Tristram again 
 and again Avith delight; for ;niii<l nil that is l)nd there 
 stand out Trim and T<»by, pure speciiiiois of tlir best 
 side ol' human nature, coming home to us and telling
 
 T't;o?*itscuous attacks. ihu 
 
 lis tliiit tlu' worM is nut all Iiail. Tlicrc may l»(j such 
 ttna-lics ill '' Lovr fur lidvc," or '■ The Way of the 
 World" — -1 know not and rari' not. To my rcmciii- 
 hrancc Coii^-ri've is l)iit a iionihk' nii^htmaiv. ami may 
 the fates forhid I shuuhl he forced to go through his 
 phiys again. 
 
 Perhaps, then, Jeremy ^vas not far wrong, Avhen he 
 attacked these specimens of the drama Avith an unre- 
 lenting Nemesis; but he was not before his age. It 
 Avas less the obvious coarseness of these productions 
 with which he found fault than their demoralizing ten- 
 dency in a direction which we should now, perha])s, 
 consider innocuous. Certainl}' the Jeremiad overdid 
 it, and like a, swift, but not straiglit bowler at cricket, 
 he sent balls which no wi(d<et-keeper could stop, and 
 which, therefore, were harmless to the batter. lie did 
 not want boldness. lie attacked Drvden, now close 
 upon his grave ; Congrcvc, a 3'oung man; Yanl)rugh, 
 Gibber, Farquhar, and the rest, all alive, all in the 
 zenith of their fxme, and all as popular as writers could 
 ])e. It was as much as if a man should stand up to- 
 day and denounce Dickens and Thackeray, with the 
 exception that well-meaning peoj^e went along with 
 Jeremy, whereas very few would do more than smile at 
 the zeal of any one who tilted against our modern pets. 
 Jeremy, no doubt, was hold, but he wanted tact, and 
 so gave his enemy occasion to blaspheme, lie made 
 out cases Avhere there were none, and let alone what Ave 
 moderns should <lenounce. So Congrevc took uj* the
 
 100 JEREMY'S "SHORT VIEWS." 
 
 cudgels against liim with much wit and much coarse- 
 ness, and the two fought out the battle in many a 
 pamphlet and many a letter. But Jeremy Avas not to 
 be beaten. His " Short View" was followed by "A 
 Defence of the Short View," a " Second Defence of the 
 Short View," " A Farther Short View," and, in short, 
 a number of " Short Views," which had been better 
 merged into one "Long Sight." Jeremy grew coarse 
 and bitter ; Congreve coarser and bitterer ; and the 
 whole controversy made a pretty chapter for the " Quar- 
 rels of Authors." But the Jeremiad triumphed in the 
 long run, because, if its method was bad, its cause w^as 
 good, and a succeeding generation voted Congreve im- 
 moral. Enough of Jeremy. We owe him a tribute 
 for his pluck, and though no one reads hini in the 
 present day, we may be thankful to him for having led 
 the Avay to a better state of things.^ 
 
 Congreve defended himself in eight letters addressed 
 to Mr. IVIoyle, and avc can only say of them, that, if 
 anything, they are yet coarser than the plays he would 
 excuse. 
 
 The Avorks of the young Tcmphir, and his connection 
 Avith Betterton, introduced him to all the Avriters and 
 Avits of his day. He and Vanbrugh, though rivals, 
 Avere felloAv-Avorkers, and our glorious Haymarket 
 Theatre, which has gone on at times Avlien Drury and 
 Covent Garden have been in despair, OAves its origin 
 
 ' Drytlen, In the Preface to liis Fables, acknowledged that Collier 
 "had, in many jioints, taxed him justly."
 
 I)1;YT)EN'S DKATir. 101 
 
 to (l:eir coiilcilcnicv. Uiit \';iiil)i-u;rli".s theatre was 
 oil tlie site of the present Opcia House, and tlw Hay- 
 niaiket was set up as a rival eoucern. Vanbru<^irs 
 Avas built in 1705, ami met the usual fate of theatres, 
 being burnt down some eighty-four years after. It is 
 curious enough that this house, destined for the " legit- 
 imate drama " — often a very illegitimate performance 
 — was opened by an opera set to Italian music, so that 
 " Ilcr Majesty's " has not much departed from the 
 original cast of the place. 
 
 Perhaps Congreve's best friend was Drydcn. Tliis 
 man's life and death are pretty -well known, and even 
 his funeral has been described time and again, liut 
 Corinna — as she was styled — gave of the hitter an ac- 
 count whieli has been called romantic, and much dis- 
 credited. Tlierc is a deal of characteristic luunor in 
 her story of the funeral, and as it has long been lost 
 sight of, it may not be unpalatable here : Dryden died 
 on May-day, 1701, and Lord Halifax ' undertook to 
 give his body a private funeral in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 "On the Saturday following," writes Corinna, "the 
 Company came. The Corps was put into a Velvet 
 Hearse, and eighteen ^Mourning Coaches filled with 
 Company attending. When, just before they began 
 to move, Lord Jeffreys,^ with some of his rakish Com- 
 
 * Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax. T>onl Halifax was born in 
 IGHl, and diid in 1715. He was railed " Mouse Montagu." 
 
 'Son of .Judge Jeilries: .satirized by Pope under the name 
 '•■ Bufo."
 
 192 DKYDEN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 panions, comino- bv, in Wine, ask'd whose Funeral? 
 And being tobl ; ' What !' cries he, ' shall Dry den, the 
 greatest Honor and Ornament of the Nation, be buried 
 after this private Manner? No, Gentlemen! let all 
 that lov'd i\Ir. Dryden, and honor his Memory, alight, 
 and join Avith me in gaining my Lady's Consent, to 
 let me have the Honor of his Interment, which shall 
 be after another manner than this, and I will bestow 
 XIOOO on a Monument in the Abbey for him,' The 
 Gentlemen in the Coaches, not knowing of the Bishop 
 of Rochester's Favor, nor of Lord Halifax's generous 
 Design (these two noble Spirits having, out of Respect 
 to the Family, enjoin'd Lady Elsabcth and her Son to 
 Jccep their Favor concealed to the World, and let it 
 pass for her own Expense), readily came out of the 
 Coaches, and attended Lord Jeffreys up to the Lady's 
 Bedside, who was then sick. He repeated the purport 
 of what he had l)cfore said, but she absolutely refusing, 
 he fell on his knees, vowing never to rise till his request 
 was granted. The rest of the Company, by his Desire, 
 kneeled also ; she being naturally of a timorous Dis- 
 position, and then under a sudden surprise, fainted 
 away. As soon as she recovcr'd her Speech, she 
 cry'd, ' No, no !' ' Enough, gentlemen,' rcply'd he 
 (rising bi'iskly), ' My Lady is very good, she says, 
 Go, go !' She repeated lier former Words with all 
 her Strength, but alas in vnin ! lier feeble voice was 
 iost in tlieir Acclamations of Joy ! and Lord Jeffreys 
 ordered the Hearseman to carry the Corps to Russell's,
 
 WHAT CAME OF A "DRUNKEN FROLIC." 193 
 
 nil undertaker in Cheapsidc, and leave it there, till lie 
 sent orders for the Embalment, -which, be added, should 
 be after the Royal Manner. His Directions were 
 obey'd, the Company dispersed, and Lady Elsabetli 
 and Mr. Charles remained Inconsolable. Next ]\Iorn- 
 ing Mr. Charles waiteil on Lord Halifax, etc., to ex- 
 cuse his Mother and self, bv relatin"; the real Truth, 
 But neither his Lordship nor the Bishop would admit 
 of any Plea ; especially the latter, who had the Abbey 
 lighted, the ground open'd, \\w (.'Iioir attending, an 
 Anthem ready set, and himself waiting for some Hours, 
 without any Corps to bury. Russell, after three days' 
 Expectance of Orders for Embalment, without receiv- 
 ing any, Avaits on Lord Jeffreys, who, pretending Ig- 
 norance of the Matter, tiirn'd it off with an ill-natured 
 Jest, saying, ' Those who observed the orders of a 
 drunken Frolick, deserved no better ; that he re- 
 membered nothin<T at all of it, and he mij^ht do what 
 he pleased with the Corps.' On this Mr. Russell waits 
 on Lady Elsabetli and ^\\\ Dryden ; but alas, it was 
 not in their power to answer. The season was very 
 hot, the Deceas'd had liv'd high and fast; and being 
 corpulent, and abounding with gross Humors, grew 
 very offensive. The Undertaker, in short, threat- 
 en'd to bring home the Corps, and set it before the 
 Door. It cannot be easily imagin'd what grief, shame, 
 and confusion seized this unhappy Family. They 
 begged a Day's Respite, which Avas granted. Mr. 
 Charles wrote a very handsome Letter to Lord Jef- 
 VoL. I.— la
 
 194 A TUB-PREACHER. 
 
 freys, who returned it with this cool Answer, ' He 
 knew nothing of the Matter, and wouhl be troubled 
 no more about it.' He then addressed the Lord Hali- 
 fax and Bishop of Rochester, who were both too justly 
 tho' unhappily incensed, to do anything in it. In this 
 extream distress. Dr. Garth, a man who entirely lov'd 
 INIr. Dryden, and Avas withal a Man of Generosity and 
 great Humanity, sends for the Corps to the College of 
 Physicians in Warwick Lane, and proposed a Funeral 
 by Subscription, to Avhich himself set a most noble 
 example. IMr. Wycherley, and several others, among 
 whom must not be forgotten Henry Cromwell, Esq., 
 Captain Gibbons, and Mr. Christopher Metcalfe, Mr. 
 Dryden's Apothecary and intimate Friend (since a Col- 
 legiate Physician), who with many others contributed 
 most largely to the Subscription ; and at last a Day, 
 about three weeks after his Decease, was appointed for 
 the Interment at the Abbey. Dr. Garth pronounced a 
 fine Latin Oration over the Corps at the College ; but 
 the Audience beino; numerous, and the Room laro;e, it 
 was requisite the Orator should be elevated, that he 
 might be heard. But as it unluckily happen'd there was 
 notliing at hand but an old Beer-Barrel, which the Doc- 
 toi' \vith much good-nature mounted ; and in the midst of 
 his Oration, beating Time to the Accent witli his Foot, 
 tho Head broke in, and bis Feet sunk to the Bottom, 
 which occasioned tbo malicious Report of his Enemies, 
 'That lie was turned a Tub- Preacher.' However, he 
 finished llie Oration with a superior grace and genius,
 
 A MOB IX TIIK A DREY. 105 
 
 to tlie loud Acelaniations of Mirtli. wliicli inspir'd llic 
 iiiixM or latlu'i- ]\I<il)-Au(litors. Tiie Procession Ijoiriin 
 to inuvo, ;i luuuerous Train of Coaches attended the 
 Hearse: But, good God I in what Disorder can only 
 he express'd hy a Six|)enny I'amphlet, soon after {lul^- 
 lislidl, ciitithMl ' Dryden's Funcrah" At last the Corps 
 arrived at the Alihcy, whicli was all iiidiirhted. No 
 Ur";an plaved, no Anthciu suul^ : onlv two of the Sinjj- 
 ing hoys preceded the Corps, who sung an Ode of Hor- 
 ace, with each a small candle in their Hand. 1'he 
 Butchers and other Moh hroke in like a Delu<re, so 
 that only ahout eiirht or ten Gentlemen could gain 
 Admission, and those forced to cut the Way w ith their 
 drawn Swords. The CofTiii in tliis Disorder was let 
 down into Chancers (Jrave, with as much confusion, 
 and as little Ceremony, as w'as possible; every one 
 glad to save themselves from the Gentlemen's Swords, 
 or the Clubs of the Mob. When the Funeral was 
 over, Mr. Charles sent a Challenge to Lord Jeffreys, 
 who refusing to answer it, he sent several others, and 
 went often himself, hut could neither get a Letter de- 
 livei-'d, nor Admittance to speak to him, that he re- 
 solved, since his Lordship refused to answer him like 
 a Gentleman, he woidd watch an Opportunity to meet 
 him, and (ight ofr-hand, tlio" with all the Rules of 
 Honor; which his Lordship hearing, left the Town, 
 and ^\y. Charles could never have the satisfaction to 
 meet him, tho' he sought it till his death with the 
 utmost Application."
 
 196 DRYDEN'S SOLICITUDE FOR HIS SON. 
 
 Diyden was, perhaps, the hist man of learning that 
 believed in astrology ; though an eminent English au- 
 thor, 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 Dry den and the author I have re- 
 ferred to were probably both captivated into belief by 
 some fatuitous realization of their horoscopic predictions. 
 Nor can we altogether blame their credulity, when we 
 see biology, table-turning, rapping, and all the family 
 of imposture, taken up seriously in our own time. 
 
 On the birth of his son Charles, Dryden immedi- 
 ately cast his horoscope. The following account of 
 Dryden's paternal solicitude for his son, and its result, 
 may be taken as embellished, if not apocryphal. Evil 
 hour, indeed — Jupiter, Venus, and the Sun Avere all 
 "under the earth;" Mars and Saturn were in s(|uare: 
 ciglit, or a multiple of it, would be fatal to the child — 
 the square foretold it. In his eighth, his tAventy-third, 
 or his thirty-second year, he was certain to die, thougli 
 he might possibly linger on to the age of thirty-four. 
 The stars did all they could to keep up their reputa- 
 tion. When the boy was eight years old he nearly 
 lost his life by being buried under a heap of stones out 
 of an ohl wall, knocked down by a stag and hounds in 
 a hunt. l>ut tlie stars were not to be beaten, and 
 though the child recovered, went in for the game a
 
 CONGREVKS AMIilTION. l!)? 
 
 second tiiiio in his twenty-third year, when he fell, in 
 a fit of giddiness, fi'om a tower, and, to use Lady Elsa- 
 beth's words, was " niash'd to a luiinnny." Still the 
 battle was not over, and the niiuumy returned in due 
 course to its human form, though considerably dis- 
 figured. Mars and Saturn were naturally disgusted 
 at liis recovery, and resolved to finisli tlie disobedient 
 youtli. As we have seen, he in vain sought his fate at 
 the hand of Jeffreys; but we must conclude that the 
 offen(k'd constellations took Neptune in partnership, 
 for in due course tlie youth met with a watery grave. 
 
 After abandoning the drama, Congreve appears to 
 have come out in the light of an independent gentle- 
 man, lie was ah'eady sufficiently introduced into liter- 
 ary society ; Pope, Steele, Swift, and Addison were not 
 onlv his friends but liis admirers, and we can well be- 
 lieve that their admiration was considerable, when we 
 find the one dedicating his " Miscellany," the other his 
 translation of the " Iliad," to a man who was qualified 
 neither by raidc nor fortune to play Msecenas. 
 
 At Avhat time he was admitted to the Kit-kat I am 
 not in a ])osition to state, but it must have l)een after 
 171"), and l»v that time he was a middle-ai^ed man; his 
 fame Avas long since achieved; and whatever might be 
 thought of his Avorks and his controversy with Collier, 
 he was recognized as one of the literary stars at a 
 peri(»(l wlicn the great courted tlie clever, and wit was 
 a passport to any society. Congreve had plenty of 
 that, ami jirobably at tlie Kit-kat was the life of the
 
 198 ANECDOTE OF VOLTAIRE AND CONGREVE. 
 
 party Avlien Vanbrugli Avas awaj or Addison in a 
 graver mood. Untroubled by conscience, he could 
 launch out on any subject whatever ; and his early life, 
 spent in that species of so-called gayety which was then 
 the routine of every young man of the world, gave him 
 ample experience to draw upon. But Congreve's am- 
 bition was greater than his talents. No man so little 
 knew his real value, or so grossly asserted one Avhich 
 he had not. Gay, handsome, and in good circum- 
 stances, he aspired to be, not Congreve the poet, not 
 Congreve the Avit, not Congreve the man of mind, but 
 simply Congreve the fine gentleman. Such humility 
 would be charming if it were not absurd. It is a vice 
 of scribes to seek a character for which they have little 
 claim. Moore loved to be tliought a diner-out rather 
 than a poet ; even Byron affected the fast man when 
 he might have been content with the name of " genius ;" 
 but Cono;reve went farther, and was ashamed of being 
 poet, dramatist, genius, or what you will. An anec- 
 dote of him, told by Voltaire, who may have been an 
 " awfu' liar," but had no temptation to invent in such 
 a case as this, is so consistent with what we gather of 
 the man's character, that one cannot but think it is 
 true. 
 
 The philosopher of Ferney was anxious to see and 
 converse with a brother dramatist of such celebrity as 
 the author of " The Way of the World." lie expected 
 to find a man of a keen satirical mind, Avho would join 
 liiin in a laugh against humanity. lie visited Con-
 
 AUTHOKSIIII' AS A PROFESSION. I'M) 
 
 grove, iiiid iiiitiirally l)t'gaii Id t:ilk ol' his uorks. 'I'lic 
 fine gontleinau spoke of them as trifles utterly beiieuth 
 his notice, and told him, with an affectation which per- 
 haps was sincere, that he wished to be visited as a gen- 
 tleman, not as an author. One can imagine the dis- 
 gust of his brother dramatist. Voltaire replied, that 
 had Mr. Congrevc been nothing more than a gentleman, 
 he sliould not have taken the trouble to call on him, 
 and therewith retired with an expression of merited 
 contempt. 
 
 It is only in the present day that autliorsiiip is 
 looked upon as a profession, though it has long been 
 one. It is amusing to listen to the sneers of men Avho 
 never wrote a book, or who, having written, have 
 gained thereby some more valuable advantage than 
 the publisher's cheque. The men who talk Avith hor- 
 ror of writing for money, are glad enough if their works 
 introduce them to the notice of the inlluential, and aid 
 them in procuring a place. In the same Avay, Congreve 
 was not at all ashamed of fulsome dedications, which 
 brought him the favor of the great. Yet we may ask, 
 if. the laborer being worthy of his hire, and the labor 
 of the brain being the highest, finest, and most ex- 
 hausting that can be, the man who straightforwardly 
 and without affectation takes guineas from his publisher, 
 is not lioncster than he who counts upon an indirect 
 reward for his toil ? Fortunately, the question is 
 almost settled l)y the example of the first writers of 
 the present day ; l)ut there are still people who think
 
 200 THE PK(;FESSI0X OF MiECEXAS. 
 
 that one should sit clown to a year's — av, ten years' — 
 hard mental Avork, and expect no return but fame. 
 Whether such objectors have always 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 upper classes to be utterly derogatory to 
 write for money. 
 
 AVhether this was the feeling in Congreve's day or 
 not is not now the question. Those were glorious days 
 for an author, who did not mind playing the sycophant 
 a little. Instead of havino; to trudije from door to 
 door in Paternoster Row, humbly requesting an inter- 
 view, which is not always granted — instead of sending 
 that heavy parcel of MS., which costs you a fortune 
 for postage, to publisher after publisher, 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 intro- 
 duction to an influential man in town, who again Avould 
 introduce you to a patron, was all that was necessary. 
 The profession of jMi\icenas was then as recognized and 
 established as that of doctor or lawyer. A man of 
 money could always buy brains; and most noblemen 
 considered an author to be as necessary a part of his 
 establishment as the footmen who ushered them into 
 my Lord's ])resence. A fulsome dedication in the 
 largest type Avas all tliat he asked: and if a writer
 
 ADVANTAGES OF A I'ATROX. 201 
 
 were .sullicicntly profuse in his tululution, lie ini^Hit 
 dine at Maecenas' table, (Irink his sack and canary 
 Avithotit stint, and ap})ly to him for cash Avhcncvor he 
 liniiid his pockets empty. xSor was this all: if a 
 Avriter were sufficiently successful in his works to re- 
 flect honor on his patron, he was eagerly courted by 
 others of the noble profession. He was offered, if not 
 hard cash, as good an equivalent, in the shape of a 
 comfortable government sinecure ; and if this was not 
 to be had, he was sometimes even lodged and boarded 
 by his obliged dedicatee. In this way he was intro- 
 duced into the highest society ; and if he had wit 
 enough to support the character, he soon found himself 
 facile prineeps in a circle of the highest nobility in 
 the land. Thus it is that in the clubs of the day we 
 find title and wcaltli niinirlinij with wit and cenius : 
 and the writer Avho had begun life by a cringing dedi- 
 cation, was now rewarded by the devotion and assiduity 
 of the men he had once flattered. When Steele, Swift, 
 Addison, Pope, and Congreve were the kings of their 
 sets, it Avas time for authors to look and talk bij:. 
 Eheu ! those happy days are gone ! 
 
 Our dramatist, therefore, soon discovered that a good 
 play was the key to a good place, and the Whigs took 
 care that he should have it. Oddly enough, when the 
 Tories came in they did not turn liim out. Perhaps 
 they wanted to gain him over to themselves; perhaps, 
 like the Vicar of Bray, he did not miiul turning his 
 coat once or twice in a lifetime. However this may
 
 202 CONGKEVE'S PEIVATE LIFE. 
 
 be, he managed to keep his appointment Avithout of- 
 fending his OAvn party ; and when the hitter returned 
 to power, he even induced them to give him a com- 
 fortable little sinecure, Avhich went by the name of 
 Secretary to the Island of Jamaica, and raised the 
 income from his appointments to £1200 a year. 
 
 From this period he was little before the public. 
 lie could afford now to indulge his natural indolence 
 and selfishness. His private life was perhaps not 
 worse than that of the majority of his contemporaries. 
 lie had his intrigues, his mistresses, the same love of 
 wine, and the same addiction to gluttony. He had the 
 reputation of a wit, and Avitli Avits he passed his time, 
 sufficiently easy in his circumstances to feel no damp- 
 ing to his spirits in the cares of this life. The Island 
 of Jamaica probaldy gave him no further trouble than 
 that of signing a few papers from time to time, and 
 giving a receipt for his salary. Ilis life, therefore, 
 presents no very remarkal)le feature, and he is hence- 
 forth 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- 
 pendent means, and it was to him that Congreve ad- 
 dressed tlie letters in whicli he attempted to defend 
 himself from the attacks of Collier. 
 
 It Avas not to be expected that a Avit and a ))()et 
 should go through life Avithout a platonic, and accord-
 
 "MALHllOOK'S" DAU(;HTKII. 203 
 
 ingly we find our man not only attacheil, Itiit devoted 
 to a ladv of {freat distinction. 'Pliis was no other tlian 
 Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, the daughter of 
 " Malbrook " himself, and of tlie famous "Queen 
 Sarah." Henrietta was the eldest daughter, and there 
 was no son to inherit the prowess of Churcliill and tlic 
 parsimony of his \vife. Tlic nation — to ^vhich, by the 
 way, the Marlboroughs were never grateful — would 
 not alh)\v the tith' of tlieir ))ct warrior to become ex- 
 tinct, and a special Act of Parliament gave to the 
 eldest daughter the honors of the duchy. ^ The two 
 Duchesses of Marlborougli liated each otlier cordially. 
 Sarahs temper was probably the main cause of their 
 bickering ; but there is never a feud l)etwecn pa- 
 rent and cliild in wliicli l)oih are not more or less 
 blameable. 
 
 The Duchess Henrietta conceived a violent fancy 
 for the wit and poet, ami whatever her liusbaiid. Lord 
 Godolpliin, may have thought of it, the connection 
 ripened into a most intimate frien<lship, so much so 
 that Congrcve made the duchess not only his execu- 
 trix, l)ut the sole residuary legatee of all his ]iroperty.^ 
 His will gives us some insight into the toadviniif cha- 
 ractcr of the man. Only four ncai- relations ai-e men- 
 tioned as legatees, and only £a40 is divided mnong 
 them ; whereas, after leaving £200 to Mrs. Brace- 
 
 » See Burke's " reoragc." 
 
 'Tlie Duchess of Marlborough received £10,000 hy Mr. C'un- 
 greve's will.
 
 204 LEGACIES TO TITLED FKIENDS. 
 
 gh-(lle, the actress ; .£100, " and all my apparel and 
 linnen of all sorts " to a Mrs. llooke, he divides the 
 rest between his friends of the nobility, Lords Cob- 
 ham and Shannon, the Duchess of Newcastle, Lady 
 Mary Godolphin, Colonel Churchill (who receives 
 " twenty pounds, together with my gold-headed 
 cane"), and, lastly, "to tlie poor of the parish" the 
 magnificent sum of ten poiuids. "Blessed are those 
 who give to the rich ;" these words must surely have 
 expressed the sentiment of the worldly Congreve. 
 
 However, Congreve got something in return from 
 the Duchess Henrietta, which he might not have re- 
 ceived from "the poor of the parish," to wit, a monu- 
 ment, and an inscrij)tion on it written by her own 
 hand. I have already said what "Queen Sarah" 
 thought of the latter, and, for the rest, those who 
 care to read the nonsense on the walls of Westmin- 
 ster Abbey can decide for themselves as to the honor 
 the poet received from his titled friend. 
 
 The latter days of William Congi'eve Avcre passed 
 in wit and gout : the Avine, which warmed the one, 
 probably 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 Batli, a very 
 fashionable place for departing life in, under easy and 
 elegant circumstances. r)ut he not only drank of the 
 springs beloved of King Bladud, of apocryphal mem- 
 ory, but even went so far as to im1)ibe the snail-Avater, 
 which was then the last species of ([uack cure in vogue.
 
 CONGREVFS DEATH AND BURIAL. 205 
 
 This, probably, despatched him. But it is only just 
 to that disagreeable little reptile that infests our gar- 
 dens, and Avho^c slime was supposed to possess pecu- 
 liarly strengtliening properties, to state tluit his death 
 ■was materially hastened by being overturned -wlicn 
 driving in his chariot. He was close upon sixty, had 
 long been blind from cataracts in his eyes, and as he 
 was no longer citiier useful or ornamental to the Avorld 
 in general, he could perhaps be spared. He died soon 
 after this accident in Januar}^ 1729. He had the 
 sense to die at a time when Westminster Abbey, 
 being regarded as a mausoleum, was open to receive 
 the corpse of any one wlio had a little distinguished 
 himself, and even of some who had no distinction 
 Avhatover. He was buried there with great pomj), 
 and Iiis dear duchess set up his monument. So murh 
 for his body. Wliat l)ecame of the soul of a disso- 
 lute, vain, witty, and unprincipled man, is no con- 
 cern of ours. Requiescat in pace, if there is any 
 peace for those who are buried in Westminster 
 Abbey.
 
 BEAU NASH. 
 
 There is notliing new under the sun, said Walpole, 
 by way of a very original remark. " No," whispered 
 George Selwyn, "nor under the grandson, either." 
 
 Mankind, as a body, has proved its silliness in a 
 tliousand ways, but in none, perhaps, so ludicrously as 
 in its respect for a man's coat. lie is not always a 
 fool that knows the value of dress ; and some of the 
 wisest and greatest of men have been dandies of the 
 first water. King Solomon was one, and Alexander 
 the Great was another ; but there never was a more 
 despotic monarch, nor one more humbly obeyed by 
 his sul)jects, than the King of Bath, and he won his 
 dominions by the cut of his coat. But as Hercules 
 was killed by a dress-shirt, so the beaux of the modern 
 Avorld have generally ruined themselves by their ward- 
 robes, and brought remorse to their hearts, or contempt 
 from the very people who once Avorshipped them. The 
 husband of Mrs. Damer, who appeared in a new suit 
 twice a-day, and whose wardrobe sold for c£15,000, 
 blew his brains out at a coffee-house. Beau Fielding, 
 Beau Nash, and Beau Brummell all expiated their con- 
 temptible vanity in ol)scure old age of Avant and 
 misery. As the world is full of folly, the history of a 
 
 206
 
 l^irljartJ (13cau) ilasi).
 
 NASirs inirnii'LACK and fatiiku. 207 
 
 fool is as i£oo(l a minor to lioM iii) to it as anotluT ; hut 
 ill tia- t-iso of Beau Nash the only (|iiestion is, Mhother 
 lie or his su])jccts Averc the greater fools. So now lor 
 a pictui-e of as iiiiicli folly as could avoU he crnnimcd 
 into that hot hasin in the Somersetshire hills, of whic-h 
 more anon. 
 
 It is a linnl thiii;r for a man not to have had a father 
 — harder still, like poor Savage, to liave one whom he 
 cannot get hold of; hut ])erha])s it is hardest of all, 
 ^vhen you have a father, and that parent a very re- 
 spectable man, t(j be told that you never had one. 
 This Avas Nash's case, and his father Avas so little 
 known, and so seldom mentioned, that the splendid 
 Beau was thoughi ahiiost to have dropped from the 
 clouds, ready dressed and powdered. He dro])j)ed in 
 reality from anything Itut a heavenly place — the ship- 
 ping town of Swansea: so that Wales can claim the 
 honor of having proilueed the finest beau of his age. 
 
 Ohl Nash was, ])erhaps, a better gentleman than his 
 son; but with I'ar less pretension. He was a jiartner 
 in a glass-manufactory. The ]>eau, in after years, 
 often got rallied on the inferiority of his origin, and 
 the least obnoxious answer he ever made was to Sarah 
 of Marlborough, as rude a creature as himself, who 
 told him he was ashamed of his parentage. "No, 
 madam," rejjlied the King of Bath, " I seldom men- 
 tion my father in company, not because I have any 
 reason to be ashamed of him, but liecause he has some 
 reason to be ashamed of me/' Nash, though a fop
 
 208 OLD NASH. 
 
 and a fool, Avas not a bad-hearted man, as we shall see. 
 And if there were no other redeeming point in his 
 character, it is a great deal to say for him, that in an 
 age of toadyism, he treated rank in the same manner 
 as he did the want of it, and did his best to remove 
 the odious distinctions which pride would have kept 
 up in his dominions. In fact, King Nash may be 
 thanked for having, by his energy in this respect, in- 
 troduced into society the first elements of that middle 
 class which is f)und alone in Eno-land. 
 
 Old Nash — whose wife, by the way, was niece to 
 that Colonel Poyer who defended Pembroke Castle in 
 the days of the first Revolution — was one of those silly 
 men who want to make gentlemen of their sons, rather 
 than good men. He had his Avish. His son Richard 
 Avas a very fine gentleman, no doubt; but, unfortu- 
 nately, the same circumstances that raised him to that 
 much coveted position, also made him a gambler and a 
 profligate. Oh ! foolish papas, Avhen Avill you learn 
 that a Christian snob is worth ten thousand irrelio-ious 
 gentlemen? When Avill you be content to bring up 
 your boys for heaven rather than for the brilliant 
 Avorld ? Nash, senior, sent his son first to school and 
 then to Oxford, to be made a gentleman of Richard 
 was entered at Jesus College, the haunt of the Welsh. 
 In my day, this quiet little place was celebrated for 
 little more than the humble poverty of its members, 
 one-third of Avhom rejoiced in the cognomen of Jones. 
 They Avere not renoAvned for cleanliness, and it Avas a
 
 NASI I AT OXFORD. 209 
 
 standiiiLT jnkc willi iis silly 1)oys, to ask :it tlic door for 
 'MliMt Mr. Jones \\li(» liinl ;: tooth-brush." If the cul- 
 lego liail tlir same character then, Nasli must have 
 Jistonislicil its (Ions, and avc are 7iot surpi-ised tliat in 
 his first year tliey thought it better to get rid of 
 him. 
 
 His fatlier couhl ill afTord to keep him at Oxford, 
 and i'ondly hoped he would distinguish himself. "My 
 boy Dick " did so at the very outset, by an offer of 
 marriage. to one of tho.se charming sylph.s of that aca- 
 demical city, -who are always on the look-out for cred- 
 ulous undergraduates. The affair was discovered, and 
 j\I aster llichard, Avho was not seventeen, was removed 
 from the l^niversitv.' Whether lie ever, in after-life, 
 made another offer, I know not, liut there is no doid)t 
 that he aiKjld to luive been married, and that the con- 
 nections he formed in later years were far more dis- 
 reputable than his first love-affairs. 
 
 The Avorthy glass manufacturer, having fjiiled to 
 make his son a gentleman in one way, took the best 
 step to make him a blackguard, and, in spite of the 
 wild inclinations he had already evinced, bought him 
 a commission in the army. Tn this new positi(m the 
 incipient Beau did everything but his duty ; dressed 
 superbly, but would not be in time for parade ; sj)ent 
 more money than he had, but did not ©bey orders ; 
 and finally, though not expelled from the army, he 
 
 ' \\':inu"r ("History of I5atli," p. 36G) says, "Nash was removed 
 from OxI'dnl liy liis friends." 
 Vol. 1.— 1 1
 
 210 SHIFTING FOR HIMSELF. 
 
 found it convenient to sell his commission, and return 
 home, after spending the proceeds. 
 
 Papa was now disgusted, and sent the young Hope- 
 less to shift for himself. What couhl a well-disposed, 
 handsome youth do to keep body and, not soul, but 
 clothes together? He had but one talent, and that 
 was for dress. Alas, for our degenerate days ! When 
 we are pitched upon our own bottoms, we must work ; 
 and that is a highly ungentlemanly thing to do. But 
 in the beginning of the last century, such a degrading 
 resource was quite unnecessary. There were always 
 at hand plenty of establishments where a youth could 
 obtain the necessary funds to pay his tailor, if fortune 
 favored him ; and if not, he could follow the fashion 
 of the day, and take to what the Japanese call " the 
 Happy Despatch." Nash probably suspected that he 
 had no brains to blow out, and he determined the more 
 resolutely to made fortune his mistress. He went to 
 the gaming-table, and turned his one guinea into ten, 
 and his ten into a hundred, and was soon blazing 
 about in gold lace and a new sword, the very delight 
 of dandies. 
 
 He had entered his name, by way of excuse, at the 
 Temple, and Ave can quite believe that he ate all the 
 requisite dinners, though it is not so certain that he 
 paid for them. He soon found that a fine coat is not 
 so very far beneath a goo<l brain in worldly estimation, 
 and when, on the accession of William the Third, the 
 Templars, according to the old custom, gave his Majes-
 
 OFFEIl OF KNIGHTIIOor). 211 
 
 ty a baiKiuot, Nash, as a proniisiii"^ lloaii, uas selected 
 to iiiaiiagc the establishiiieiit. It was liis first experi- 
 ence of* the duties of an M. (j., and he eondncted him- 
 self so al)ly on this occasion that the kin_ii even oft'ered 
 to make a kni^lit of him. Probably Master Richard 
 thoii;j;ht of iiis eni])ty i)urse. for he replied with some 
 of that assurance Avhich afterwards stood him in such 
 good stead, "Please your Majesty, if you intend to 
 make me a knight, I "wish I may be one of your poor 
 knights of Windsor, and then I shall have a fortune, 
 at least able to support my title/' William did not see 
 the force of this argument, and Mr. Nash remained 
 Mr. Nash till the day of his death. lie had another 
 chance of the title, however, in days when he could 
 have better maintained it, but again ho refused, (^ueen 
 Anne once asked him Avhv he declined knin;hthood. 
 He i-eplied : " There is Sir William Read, the mounte- 
 bank, who has just been knighted, and I should have 
 to call him ' ])rotlier.' " The honor was, in fact, rather 
 11 cheap one in those days, and who knows whether a 
 man who had done such signal service to his country 
 did not look forward to a peerage ? Worse men than 
 even Beau Nash have had it. 
 
 Well, Nash could afford to defy royalty, for he Avas 
 to be himself a numarch of all he surveyed, and a 
 good deal more; but before we follow him to Batl;, 
 let us give the devil his due — which, by the way, he 
 generally gets — and tell a pair of tales in the Beau's 
 favor.
 
 212 NASH'S GENEROSITY. 
 
 Imprimis, his accounts at the Temple -were £10 
 deficient. Now I don't mean tliat Nash Avas not as 
 gi'eat a liar as most of liis craft, l»ut the truth of this 
 tale rests on the authority of " The Spectator," though 
 Nash took delight in repeating it. 
 
 " Come hither, young man," said the Benchers, 
 coolly: " whereunto this deficit?" 
 
 " Pri'thee, good masters," quoth Nash, " that XIO 
 was spent on making a man happy." 
 
 " A man happy, young sir : pri'thee explain." 
 
 " Odds donners," quoth Nnsh, " the fellow said in 
 mv hearing that his wife and bairns Avere starvino-, 
 and £10 would make him tlie happiest man sub sole, 
 and on sucli an occasion as his Majesty's accession, 
 could I refuse it him ?" 
 
 Nash Avas, proverljially, more generous than just. 
 lie Avonld not pay a debt if he could lu'lp it, but 
 Avould give the very amount to the first friend tluit 
 begged it. Tliere was mucli ostentation in this, l)ut 
 then my friend Nash teas ostentatious. One friend 
 bothered him day and night for <£20 that was OAving 
 to liim, and he could not get it. KnoAving his debtor's 
 character, lie hit, at last, on a happy expedient, and 
 sent a friend to horro/v the money, " to reliev^c his 
 urgent necessities." Out came the bank-note, before 
 the story of distress Avas finished. The friend carried 
 it to the credit(n% and wlien tlie latter again met Nash 
 lu^ ought to liaA'e made liim a pretty conq)rniient on 
 his honesty.
 
 DUlN(i I'KNANC !■: AT V()KI<:. lilo 
 
 rt.'rii;i|)S tlio King of B;itli would not Ii;ive tolerated 
 in any one else the juvenile frolics he delighted in 
 ai'ler years to relate of his own early days. AVlicn 
 at a loss for cash, he woiilil do anything, but work, 
 for a fifty pound note, and having, in one of his trips, 
 lost all his money at York, the Beau undertook to 
 "do penance" at the minster door for that sum. lie 
 accordingly ai'rayed himself — not in sackcloth and 
 ashes — hut in an ahlc-lxxlicd Maiiket, and iiothiiig 
 else, and took his stand at the porch, just at the hour 
 ■when the dean would he jzoiii"; in to read service. 
 " lie, ho," cried that dignitary, who knew him, 
 " ]\Ir. Nash in masijuerade ?" — "Only a Yorkshire 
 penance, INIr. Dean," quoth the reprobate; "for 
 keeping l)ad company, too," pointing therewith to 
 the friends who had come to see the sport. 
 
 This might be tolerated, but when in the ei<xhtecnth 
 
 CD O 
 
 century a young man emulates the hardiness of Godiva, 
 without her merciful heart, we may not think (juitc so 
 well of liiui. Mr. Richard Nash, lieau Extraordinary 
 to the Kin<i;dom of Bath, once rode throuirh a villa<ic 
 ill that costuine (if wliich even our fii"st parent Avas 
 rather ashamed, an 1 that, too, on the back of a cow I 
 The wager was, I believe, considerable. A young Eng- 
 lishman did something more respectable, yet (j[uite 
 as extraordinary, at Paris, not a hundred years airo, 
 foi- a small lict. lie was one of the sloutcst, thickest- 
 built men possible, \ ct Iicing but eighteen, had iieilher 
 whisker nor mouslaelie to masciilale his clear En-dish
 
 214 DAYS OP^ FOLLY. 
 
 complexion. At the Maison Doree one night he of- 
 fered to ride in the Champs Elysees in a lady's habit, 
 and not be mistaken for a man. A friend undertook 
 to dress him, and went all over Paris to h're a habit 
 that would fit his round figure. It was hopeless for a 
 time, but at last a good-sized body Avas found, and 
 added thereto, an ample skirt. F^lix dressed his hair 
 with mainte plats and a net. He looked perfect, but 
 in coming out of tlie hairdresser's to get into his fly, 
 unconsciously pulled up his skirt and displayed a 
 sturdy pair of well-trousered legs. A crowd — there 
 is always a ready crowd in Paris — was Avaitinrr, and 
 the laugh was general. This hero reached the horse- 
 dealer's — "mounted," and rode down tlie Champs. 
 "A yery fine woman that," said a Frenchman in 
 tiic promenade, " ])ut what a back she has!" It 
 was in the I'cturn bet to this that a now well-known 
 diph)mat droye a goat-cliaise and six down the same 
 fashionable resort, witli a monkey, dressed as a foot- 
 man, in tlie ]>ack scat. The days of fully did not, 
 apparently, end with Beau Nash. 
 
 There is a long lacuna in the history of this wortliy's 
 life, whieli may have Itcon filled np by a residence in a 
 spunging-house, or by a tcm])(>rary appointment as 
 billiard-marker; but the heroic l)e;ui accounted for 
 his disappearance at this time in a iniicli more romantic 
 manner. lie used to relate (bat be was once asked to 
 dinner on board of" a man-ol-wai- iiitd<'r ordei's for the 
 Mediterraiicjiii, and tli.it siu-li was the alVcdioii tlic
 
 A VEKY KOM ANTIC STORY. 215 
 
 olliccr.s ciitortainod for liini, that, haviii;f made liiiii 
 ilniiik — IK) (liiHcult matter — they weighed anchor, set 
 sail, and carried the successor of Kin<^ Bhidiid aAvay 
 to the wars. Having gone so far, Nash was not tlic 
 man to neglect an o])j>ortiinity for imaginary vahjr. 
 lie therefore continued to relate, that, in the apocry- 
 phal vessel, he was once engaged in a yet more apocry- 
 phal encounter, and wounded in the leg. 1'his was a 
 little too much for the good Bathoniaus to helieve, hut 
 Nash silenced their douhts. On cne occasion, a lady 
 who was present Avhen he was telling this story, ex- 
 pressed her incredulity. 
 
 " I protest, madam," cried the Beau, lifting his leg 
 up, "• it is true, and if I cannot be believed, your lady- 
 ship ma}', if you please, receive further information and 
 feel the hall in mv leg." 
 
 Wherever Nash may have passed the intervening 
 years, may be an interesting speculation for a German 
 professor, but is of little moment to us. We find him 
 again, at the age of tliirty, taking first steps towards 
 the complete subjugation of the kingdom he afterwards 
 ruled. 
 
 There is, among the hills of Somersetshire, a hui;c 
 basin formed by thi' river Avon, and eonveiiiently 
 supplied with a natural gush of hot water, whieh can 
 be turned on at any time for the cleansing of diseased 
 bodies. This hollow presents many curious anomalies; 
 thoufT-h souo-ht for centuries for the sake of health, it 
 is one of the most unhealthily-situated [»laees in tiie
 
 216 BATH. 
 
 kingdom ; hero the body and the pocket are alike 
 cleaned out, but the spot itself has been noted for its 
 dirtiness since the days of King Bladud's wise pio-s ; 
 here, again, the diseased flesh used to be healed, but 
 the healthy soul within it speedily besickened ; you 
 came to cure gout and rheumatism, and caught in ex- 
 change dice-fever. 
 
 The mention of those pigs reminds me that it would 
 be a shameful omission to speak of this city without 
 giving the story of that apocryphal British monarch, 
 King Bladud. But let me be the one exception ; let 
 me respect the good sense of the reader, and not insult 
 him by supposing him capable of believing a mythic 
 jumble of kings and pigs and dirty marshes, which he 
 will, if he cares to, find at full length in any "Bath 
 Guide " — price sixpence. 
 
 But Avhatever be the case with respect to the Celtic 
 sovereign, there is, I presume, no doubt, that the 
 Romans were liere, and pro])ably the centurions and 
 tribunes cast the aJca in some pristine assemblv-ronm, 
 or wagged their plumes in some Avell-built Pump-room, 
 with as much spirit of fashion as the fu]l-))ottonied-wi<T 
 ex(iuisites in the reign of King Nash. At any rate 
 Bath has been in almost every age a common centre 
 for health-seekers and gamesters — two antipodal races 
 wlin always flock together — and if it has from time to 
 time (h'cliiied, it has only been for a ])eriod. Saxon 
 churls and Norman lords were too sturdv to catch 
 iiiiicli rlicnmatic gout ; ciiisadcrs had better tilings to
 
 SICKNESS AND < 1 \I1JZAT1(JN. 217 
 
 think of than their ima<rinjiry aihncnts ; good health 
 was in fUshidii lunler IMantagenets and Tudors ; doc- 
 tors were not believed in ; even empirics had to praise 
 their wares with much wit, and Morrison himself must 
 have mounted a hank and dressed in Astleyian cos- 
 tume in order to find a cusiouier ; sack and small-beer 
 "vverc hannless when homes were not comfortable enough 
 to keep earl or chui'l by the fireside, and " out-of- 
 doors " was the j)roj)er drawing-room for a man: in 
 short, sickness came in with civilization, indisposition 
 with inniioral habits, fevers with fine gentlemanliness, 
 gout with greediness, and valetudinarianism — there is 
 no Anglo-Saxon word lor that — with Avhat we falsely 
 call refinement. So, whatever Bath may have been to 
 ]i;niipered Romans, who over-ate themselves, it had 
 little importance to the stout, healthy middle ages, and 
 it was not till the reign of Charles II. that it began to 
 hxik up. Doctors and touters — the two were often one 
 in those days — thronged there, and fools were found in 
 l)lenty to follow them. At last the blest countenance 
 of i)ortlv Anne smiled on the piu stves of Kin"' 
 Bladud. In ITOo she went to liath, and from that 
 time ''people of distinction " flocked there. The as- 
 semblage was not perhaps very brilliant or very refined. 
 Tile visitors danced on the green, and played privately 
 at hazard. .\ few sh;irpers found their way down 
 from London; and at last the Duke of Beaufort in- 
 stiliiicd Mil M.C. in the person of Captain Webster — 
 Naslis predecessor — whose main act of glorv was in
 
 218 NASH DESCENDS UPON BATH. 
 
 setting up gambling as a public amusement. It re- 
 mained for Nash to make the place what it afterwards 
 was, when Chesterfield could lounge in the Pump-room 
 and take snuff with the Beau ; Avhen Sarah of Marl- 
 borough, Lord and Lady Ilervey, tlie Duke of Whar- 
 ton, Congrev'e, and all the little-great of the day 
 thronged thither rather to kill time with less ceremony 
 than in London, than to cure complaints more or less 
 imaginary. 
 
 The doctors were only less numerous than the 
 sharpers ; the place was still uncivilized ; the com- 
 pany smoked and lounged without etiquette, and 
 played Avithout honor : the place itself lacked all 
 comfort, all elegance, and all cleanliness. 
 
 Upon this delightful place the avatar of the God 
 of Etiquette, pcrsonifio<l in INIr. Richard Nash, de- 
 scended somewhere about the year 1705, for the pur- 
 pose of regenerating the barbarians. He alighted 
 just at the moment that one of tlie doctors we have 
 alluded to, in a fit of <lisgust at some slight on tlie 
 part of the town, was threatening to destroy its repu- 
 tation, (n-, as he politely expressed it, " to throw a toad 
 into the spring." Q^hc T>atlionians were alarmed and 
 in consternation, Avlien young Nash, who must have 
 already distinguished liiinsdf as a macaroni, -stepped 
 forward and offered to i-ender the aiigr}^ physician 
 impotent. " We'll cliarni Jiis toad out again with 
 music," (piotb he. He e\idciitly thought very little 
 of tlie watering-place, after liis town experiences, and
 
 KING OF BATH. 21!J 
 
 prepared to treat it accordingly. He got up a Imiid 
 ill ilic riiinp-rooiii. l»r(iii;j;lit tliiilier in tliis manner the 
 liealtliv as well as the siek, and soon raised the renown 
 of Bath as a resort for gaycty as well as for mineral 
 ^vaters. In a word, he displayed a surprising talent 
 for setting everything and everybody to rights, and 
 was, therefore, soon elected, by tacit voting, the King 
 of P.ntli. 
 
 He rapidly proveil his (jualifications for the position. 
 First he secuicd his Orphean harmony by collecting a 
 band-subscription, which gave two guineas a-piece to 
 six performers; then he engaged an official pumper 
 for the Pump-room : and lastly, finding that the bathers 
 still gathered iiiidci- a booth to drink their tea and talk 
 their scandal, lie induced one Harrison to build assem- 
 bly-rooms, guaranteeing him three guineas a week to be 
 raised by subscription. 
 
 All this demanded a vast amount of impudence on 
 Mr. Na.sh"s part, aiid this ho possessed to a liberal 
 extent. The sul)scriptions flowed in regularly, and 
 Nash felt his jiower increase with the responsibility. 
 So, then, our minor monarch resolved to be despotic, 
 and in a short time laid down laws for the guests, 
 which they obeyed most obse([uiously. Nash had 
 not much wit, though a great deal of assurance, but 
 these laws were his chef doeuvre. Witness some of 
 tlicm : — 
 
 1. "That a visit of ceremony at first coming and 
 another at going away, are all that are ex[)ected or
 
 220 NASH'S CHEF DCEUVRE. 
 
 desired l)y ladies of quality and fashion — except ini- 
 jiertinents. 
 
 4. " That no person takes it ill that any one goes to 
 another's play or breakfast, and not theirs — except 
 captious nature. 
 
 5. " That no gentleman give his ticket for the halls 
 to any but gentlewomen. N. B. — Unless he has none 
 of his ac(|uaintance. 
 
 G. " That gentlemen croAvding before the ladies at 
 the ball, show ill manners ; and that none do so for 
 the future — except such as respect nobody but them- 
 selves. 
 
 0. " That the younger ladies take notice hoAV many 
 eyes observe them. N. B. — This does not extend to 
 the Have-at-alh. 
 
 10. '' That all wliispcrers of lies and scandal bo 
 taken for their authors." 
 
 Really this law of Nash's must have been repealed 
 some time or other at Bath. Still more that wliich 
 follows : — 
 
 11. " That repeaters of such lies and scandal ])e 
 shunned by all company — except such as have been 
 guilty of the same crime." 
 
 There is a certain amount of satire in these Lycurgus 
 statutes tliat shows Nash in the light of an ol)server of 
 society; l)ut, (i[uerv, whether any frequenter of B;ith 
 would not have devised as good? 
 
 Tbe dances of tliose days must bave l)een sonu-wliat 
 tcilious. Tbcv ItcLjau witb a series <if minuets, in
 
 TIIK I'.AIJ.. 221 
 
 uliicli. of conrso, onlv unc cdiiiilc daiiroil ;if ;i time, 
 l\\v iiKtst (listiii'Mii^licil i>|iriiiiitr tlie l>all. Tlicsc 
 soliMiiii |»crf"()nn;nic('s la^tcil altoiit two lumrs, ami 
 \vc can cnsilv iiiiaLriiic that tlu' rest of the conijiaiiy 
 ■\V(M-(' (Icliiilitcd wlicii tlic coiiiitry (lances. Avliicli iii- 
 cliulcil cvcvvliinly, Itoj^an. The hall opened at six ; 
 the country dances be<:fan at eight : at nine there 
 was a hdl for the gentlemen to offer their ])artners 
 tea; in tluc course the dances were resumed, and at 
 eleven Nash held up his hand to the musicians, and 
 under no circumstances was the hall allowed to con- 
 tinue after that hour. Nash -well knew the value 
 of earlv hours to invalids, and he Avouhl not destroy 
 the healinui; reputation of Uatli for the sake of a little 
 nioi'e ])leasure. On one occasion tlie Princess Amelia 
 implored him to allow one dance more. The despot re- 
 ])li(Ml, that his laws wei-e those of Tjycurgus, and could 
 not l)e aliroixatcMl fir any one. liy this we see that 
 the M. C. was ali-eady an autocrat in his kinu-(loni. 
 
 Nor is it to he supposed tliat his Majesty's laws were 
 confined to such merely ])rofessional arrangements. 
 Not a ))it of it : in a \'ery short time his imjmdence 
 gave him umlenied riixht of interference with the 
 coats and gowns, the habits and manners, even the 
 (iaily actions of his subjects, for so the visitors at 
 l>ath were compelle(l to liecome. Si parvis compovcre 
 magna rccihif, Ave may admit tliat the rise of Nash and 
 that of Napoleon Avere owing to similar causes. The 
 French emperor found France in a state of disorder,
 
 222 IMPROVEMENTS IN THE PUMP-ROOM. 
 
 AvLtli which sensible people were growins; more and 
 more disgusted ; he offered to restore order and pro- 
 priety ; the French hailed him, and gladly submitted 
 to his early decrees; then, ^vhcn he had got them into 
 the habit of obedience, he could make "what laws he 
 liked, and use his power without fear of opposition. 
 The Bath emperor followed the same course, and it 
 mav be asked wdiether it does not demand as o;reat 
 an amount of courage, assurance, perseverance, and 
 administrative power to subdue several hundreds of 
 English ladies and gentlemen as to rise supreme above 
 some millions of French republicans. Yet Nash ex- 
 perienced less opposition than Napoleon ; Nash reigned 
 longer, and had no infernal machine prepared to bloAV 
 him up. 
 
 Everylmdy was delighted with tlie improvements in 
 the Pump-room, the balls, the promenades, the chair- 
 men — the Boufie ruffians of the mimic kingdom — 
 whom ho reduced to submission, and therefore nobody 
 complained when Emperor Nash WTut further, and 
 made war upon the ■white aprons of the ladies and 
 the boots of the gentlemen. The society was in fact 
 in a very barbarous condition at the time, and people 
 who came for pleasure liked to be at ease. Thus 
 ladies lounged into the balls in their riding-hoods 
 or morninir dresses, centlemon in boots, with their 
 pipes in their mouths. Such atrocities were intol- 
 erable to the late frequenter of London society, and 
 in his imperious arrogance, the new monarch used
 
 A PUELIC BENEFACTOR. 223 
 
 actually to imll oil' the ^vllit(' a|ii-(in.s of ladies ulio 
 eiiti'Vcd the assc'iiil)ly-r()oiiis Avitli that dc(j<«ii' article, 
 and tliiow tliciii ii])(iii tlic bac-k scats. Tiike tlic 
 Fvciicli ciM})cn)r, again, he treated high and Idw in 
 the same manner, ami when the Duchess of Queens- 
 berry appeared in an ajtrou, coolly pulled it off", and 
 told her it was <jnlv fit lor a maid-servant. Ilcr grace 
 made no resistance. 
 
 The men -were not so submissive ; but the M. C. 
 turned them into ridicule, and Avhenever a gentleman 
 appeared at the assembly-rooms in boots, -would walk 
 up to him, and in a loud voice remark, "Sir, 1 think 
 you have forgot your horse." To complete his 
 triumph, he ))ut the offenders into a song called 
 '' Trentinella's Invitation to the Assembly." 
 
 "Conic, one jind all, 
 To Hoyden Hall, 
 
 For there's the assembly this night: 
 None hut proud fools 
 Mind niannei"s and rules; 
 
 \Ve Hoydens do decency slight. 
 
 "Come trollops and slatterns, 
 Cockt hats and white aprons; 
 
 This best our modesty suits: 
 For why should not we 
 In a dress be as free 
 
 As Hogs-Norton squires in boots?" — 
 
 and as this was not enough, got up a puppet-show of a 
 sufficient coarseness to suit the taste of the time, in 
 Avhich the practice of wearing boots was satirized.
 
 224 CANES vs. SWORDS. 
 
 His next onslauiilit was iii^on that of carrvinfr 
 swords ; and in this respect Nash hecanie a public 
 benefiictor, for in those days, though Chesterfiekl was 
 the writer on etiquette, people were not well-bred 
 enough to keep their tempers, and rivals for a lady's 
 hand at a minuet, or gamblers who disputed over their 
 cards, invariably settled the matter by an option 
 between suicide or murder under the polite name 
 of duel. The INI. C. wisely saw that these affairs 
 would l)ving Bath in bad repute, and determined to 
 supplant the rapier by the less dangerous cane. In 
 this he was for a long time opposed, until a notorious 
 torchlight duel between two gamblers, of whom one 
 was run through the body, and the other, to show his 
 contrition, turned Quaker, brought his opponents to a 
 sense of the danger of a weapon always at hand ; and 
 henceforth the sword was abolished. 
 
 These points gained, the autocrat laid down rules for 
 the employment of the visitors' time, and these, from 
 setting the fashion to some, soon became a law to all. 
 The first thino; to be done was, sensibly enousjh, the 
 osfeusibic object of their residence in Bath, the use of 
 the batlis. At an early hour four lusty chairmen 
 waited on every lady to carry her, wrapped in flan- 
 nels, in 
 
 "A little Mack box, just tlie size of a coffin," 
 
 to one of the five baths. Here, on enterinur, sm attend- 
 ant placed beside her a floating tray, on whicli were
 
 LIFE AT DATll IN NASIIS TIME. 225 
 
 set lior handkercliief, bouquet, iiml snt(Jf'-box, fov our 
 grcat-great-grtiii(linotlicrs did takr siiuil'; ami here she 
 iound lu'i- friends in the same bath of" naturally hot 
 water. It was, of course, a reunion for society on the 
 ])lea of healtli ; l)ut the eaily hours and the exercise 
 secured the latter, whatever the baths may have done. 
 A walk in the Punij)-r()(»ni, to the music of a tolerable 
 band, was the next nu'asure ; and there, of course, the 
 gentlemen mingled with the ladies. A coffee-house 
 was ready to receive those of either sex ; for that was 
 a time when madanie and miss lived a great deal in 
 public, and English people Avere not ashamed of eating 
 their breakfast in public company. These breakfasts 
 were often enlivened by concerts paid for by the rich 
 and enjoyed by all. 
 
 Supposing the peacocks now to be dressed out and 
 to have their tails spread to the l)est advantage, we 
 next find -^oiiie in the ])ublie promenades, others in the 
 reading-rooms, the ladies having their clubs as well as 
 the men ; others riding ; others, perchance, already 
 gambling. INIankind and womankind then dined at 
 a reasonable hour, and the evening's amusements 
 began early. Nash insisted on this, knowing the 
 value of health to those, and they Avere many at 
 that time, who sought Bath on its account. The 
 balls began at six, and took place every Tuesday 
 iviul Friday, private balls filling up the vacant nights. 
 About the commencement of his reign, a theatre was 
 built, and whatever it may have been, it afterwards 
 
 Vol. I.— 15
 
 226 COMPACT WITH THE DUKE OF BEAUFOET. 
 
 became celebrated as the nursery of the London stage, 
 and now, tempo 2)assnto ! is ahnost abandoned. It 
 is needless to add that the o-amincr-tables were throno-ed 
 in the evenings. 
 
 It was at them that Nash made the money which 
 sufficed to keep up his state, which was vulgarly regal. 
 He drove about in a chariot, flaming with heraldry, 
 and drawn by six grays, with outriders, running foot- 
 men, and all the appendages which made an impression 
 on the vul2;ar minds of the visitors of his kingdom. 
 His dress was magnificent ; his gold lace unlimited, 
 his coats ever new ; his hat alone was always of the 
 same color — ivhlte ; and as the emperor Alexander 
 was distinguished by his purple tunic and Brummell 
 by his bow. Emperor Nash was known all England 
 over by his white hat. 
 
 It is due to the King of Bath to say that, however 
 much he gained, he always played fair. He even 
 patronized young players, and after fleecing them, 
 kindly advised them to play no more. When he 
 found a man fixed upon ruining himself, he <lid his 
 l)est to keep him from that suicidal act. This was 
 tlie case witli a young Oxonian, to whom he had 
 lost money, and wliom lie invited to su])per, in order 
 to give him liis parnital advice. Tlie fool would not 
 take the Beau's counsel and "came to grief." Even 
 noblemen sought his protection. The Puke of Beau- 
 fort entered on a compact witli him to save his purse, 
 if not his soul. He agreed to pay Nash ten thousand
 
 GAMING AT BATH. 227 
 
 guineas, wliciicvcr lie lost the same amount at a sitting. 
 It was a comfortable treaty for our Beau, who accord- 
 ingly watched his grace. Yet it must be said, to 
 Nash's honor, that he once saved him from losing 
 clrNcn tlioiisaiid, when he had already lost eight, 
 by reminding him of his compact. Such was play 
 in those days I It is said that the duke had after- 
 wards to pay the fine, from losing the stipulated sum 
 at Newmarket. 
 
 He displayeil as niiicli honesty with the young Lord 
 Townshend, who lost him liis whole fortune, his estate, 
 and even his carria<j;c and horses — what madmen are 
 gamblers I — and actually cancelled the whole debt, on 
 condition my lord should pay him .£5000 whenever he 
 chose to claim it. To Nash's honor it nuist be said 
 that he never came down upon the nobleman during 
 his life. He claimed the sum from his executors, wlio 
 paid it. — " Honorable to both parties." 
 
 ]]ut an end was put to the gaming at Bath and 
 everywhere else — crccpt in a royal palace^ and Nash 
 swore that, as he was a king, Batli came undrr the 
 head of the exception — by an act of Parliament. Of 
 course Nash and the sharpers who frequented Bath — 
 and their name was Legion — found means to evade this 
 law for a time, bv the invention of new games. But 
 this could not last, and the Beau's fortune went with 
 the death of the dice. 
 
 Still, however, the very prohibition increased the 
 zest for play for a time, and Nash soon discovered that
 
 228 THE FOP'S VANITY. 
 
 a private table was more comfortable than a public one. 
 He entered into an arranfjement with an old woman at 
 Bath, in virtue of which he was to receive a fourth 
 share of the profits. This was probably not the only 
 " hell "-keeping transaction of his life, and he had once 
 before quashed an action against a cheat in consider- 
 ation of a handsome bonus ; and, in fact, there is no 
 saying what amount of dirty work Nash would not have 
 done for a hundred or so, especially when the game of 
 the table was shut up to him. Tlie man was immensely 
 fond of money ; he liked to show his gold-laced coat 
 and superb new Avaistcoat in tlie Grove, the Abbey 
 Ground, and Bond Street, and to be known as Le 
 Grand Nash. But, on the other hand, he did not love 
 money for itself, and never hoarded it. It is, indeed, 
 something to Nash's honor, that he died poor. He 
 delighted, in the poverty of his mind, to display his 
 great thick-set person to the most advantage ; he Avas 
 as vain as any fop, Avithout the affectation of that cha- 
 racter, for he was always blunt and free-spoken, but, 
 as long as he had enough to satisfy his vanity, he cared 
 nothing for mere wealth. He had generosity, though 
 he neglected the precept about the right hand and the 
 left, and showed some ostentation in his charities. 
 When a poor ruined fellow nt his elbow saw him Avin 
 at a tliroAV £200, and murmured " Hoav happy that 
 would make me I" Nash tossed the money to him, 
 and said. '' Go and be happy then." Probably the 
 Avitless beau did not see the delicate satire implied in
 
 ANiXDUTKS OF NASII. 229 
 
 his speech. It was only the triumph of a gamester. 
 On otlier occasions he collected subscriptions for poor 
 curates, and so forth, in the same spirit, and did his 
 best towards founding an hospital, which has since 
 proved of great value to those afflicted with rheumatic 
 gout. In the same spirit, though himself a gamester, 
 he often attempted to win young and inexperienced 
 boys, who came to toss away their money at the rooms, 
 from seeking their own ruin ; and, on the whole, there 
 was some g-oodness of heart in this gold-laced bear. 
 
 That he was a bear there are anecdotes enough to 
 show, and whether true or not, they sufficiently prove 
 what the reputation of the man must have been. Thus, 
 when a lady, afflicted with a curvature of the spine, 
 told hiui that " She had come straujht from London 
 that day," Nash replied with utter heartlessness, 
 "Then, ma'am, you've been damnably Avarpt on the 
 road." The lady had her revenge, however, for meet- 
 inij the beau one dav in the Grove, as she toddled 
 along with her dog, and being impudently asked by 
 him if she knew the name of Tobit's dog, she answered 
 quicklv, " Yes, sir, his name was Nash, and a most 
 impudent dog he was too." 
 
 It is due to Nash to state that he made many at- 
 tempts to put an end to the perpetual system of scandal, 
 Avhich from some hidden cause seems always to be con- 
 nected witli luiiicial springs; but as he did not banish 
 i]iv (lid maids, of course he fail('(l. ( ){' tiie voung ladies 
 and their reputation he took a kind of paternal care,
 
 230 "MISS SYLVIA." 
 
 and in that day they seem to have needed it, for even 
 at nineteen, those Avho had any money to lose, staked it 
 at the tahles with as much gusto as the wrinkled, puck- 
 ered, greedy-eyed ''single woman," of a certain or un- 
 certain age. Nash protected and cautioned them, and 
 even gave them the advantage of his own unlimited 
 experience. Witness, for instance, the care he took 
 of "• Miss Sylvia," a lovely heiress who brought her 
 face and her fortune to enslave some and enrich others 
 of the louno-ers of Bath. She had a terrible love of 
 hazard, and very little prudence, so that Nash's good 
 offices were much needed in the case. The young lady 
 soon became the standing toast at all the clubs and 
 suppers, and lovers of her, or her ducats, crowded 
 round her ; but though at that time she might have 
 made a brilliant match, she chose, as young women 
 will do, to fix her aifeetions upon one of the Avorst men 
 in Bath, who, naturally enough, did not return them. 
 When this individual, as a climax to his misadventures, 
 was clapt into prison, the devoted young creature gave 
 the greater part of her fortune in order to pay off his 
 debts, and fidling into disrepute from this act of gener- 
 osity, which was, of course, interpreted after a woi-ldly 
 fashion, she seems to have lost her honor with her fame, 
 and the fnir Sylvia took a position which couhl not 1)0 
 creditable to her. At last the poor girl, weary of 
 slights, and overcome with shame, took her silk sash 
 and ]i;ing(Ml herself. The terrible event made a nine 
 liours" — /lot nine days' — sensation in B;itli, whicli was
 
 A GENEROUS ACT. 2.11 
 
 too busy witli mains and aces to care about the fate of 
 one Avhohail lon^ sunk out of its circles. 
 
 When Xasli reached the zenith of liis power, tlie 
 aduhition he received was somewhat (;f" a jiarody on 
 tlie flattery of courtiers. True, he liad his bards from 
 Grul) Street who sani; his prai.ses, and he had letters 
 to show from Sarah of Marlborough and others of that 
 calibre, but his chief worshippers were cooks, musi- 
 cians, and even imprisoned highwaymen — one of whom 
 disclosed the secrets of the craft to him — who wrote 
 him dedications, letters, poems, and what not. The 
 good city of Bath set up liis statue, and did Newton 
 and Pope ^ the great honor of playing " supporters " 
 to him, which elicited from Chesterfield some well- 
 known lines : — 
 
 " This stiitUL', [)Iac'ed the busts iK'twccn, 
 Adds to the satire strength ; 
 AVisdoni and \\'it ai\' little seen, 
 But Folly at full length." 
 
 Meanwhile his private character was none of the 
 best, lie had in earlv life had one attachment, be- 
 sides that unfortunate afl[\iir for which his friends had 
 removed liim from Oxford, and in tlitit had behaved 
 with ";reat majinanimitv. The voung lady had hon- 
 estly told him that he had a rival; the Beau sent for 
 him, settled on her a fortune equal to that her father 
 
 ' A full-leiigth statue of Nash was placed between the busts of 
 Newton and I 'ope.
 
 232 THE SETTING SUN. 
 
 intended for her, and himself presented her to the 
 favored suitor. Now, however, he seems to have given 
 up all thoughts of matrimony, and gave himself up to 
 mistresses, who cared more for his gold than for him- 
 self. It was an awkward conclusion to Nash's frener- 
 ous act in that one case, that before a year had passed, 
 the bride ran away Avith her husband's footman ; yet, 
 though it disgusted him with ladies, it does not seem 
 to have cured him of his attachment to the sex in 
 general. 
 
 In the height of his glory Nash was never ashamed 
 of receiving adulation. He was as fond of flattery as 
 Le Grand Monarque — and he paid for it too — whether 
 it came from a prince or a chairman. Every day 
 brought him some fresh meed of praise in prose or 
 verse, and Nash was always delighted. 
 
 But this sun was to set in time. His fortune Avent 
 when gaming was put down, for he had no other means 
 of subsistence. Yet he lived on : he had not the good 
 sense to die ; and he reached the patriarchal age of 
 eighty-seven. In his old age he was not only garru- 
 lous, but bragging : he told stories of his exploits, in 
 which he, Mr. Richard Nash, came out as the first 
 swordsman, swimmer, leaper, and what not. But by 
 this time people began to doubt Mr. Richard Nash's 
 long-bow, and the yarns he spun were listened to with 
 impatience. He grew rude and testy in his old age; 
 suspected Quin, the actor, who was living at Bath, of 
 an intention to su))plant him ; made coarse, imperti-
 
 A I'ANWJYKIC. 233 
 
 ncnt repartees to the visitors at that city, and in gen- 
 eral raised up a dislike to himself. Yet as other nion- 
 arclis have had tlicir eulogists in sober mind, Nash had 
 his in one of the most depraved ; and Anstey, the low- 
 iiiiiiilcd author of " The New Bath Guide," panegy- 
 rized liiiii a short time after his deatli in the following 
 verses : — 
 
 " Yet here no confusion — no tumult is known ; 
 I'^air order and lieauty cstablisli tlieir llirone ; 
 For order, and lieauty, and just rej^ulation, 
 Support all the works of this ample creation. 
 For tlii>!, in compassion, to mortals below, 
 The gods, their peculiar favor to show, 
 iSent Hermes to I'ath in the sliape of a beau: 
 Tliat grandson of Atlas came down from above 
 To bless all the regions of ])leasure and love ; 
 To lead the fair nymph thro' the various ma/e, 
 Bright beauty to marshal, his glory and praise; 
 To govern, improve, and adorn the gay scene, 
 By the tJraces instructed, and Cyprian queen: 
 As when in a garden delightful and g:iy, 
 Where Flora is wont all her charms to display, 
 The sweet hyacinthus with pleasure we view 
 Contend with narcissus in delicate hue ; 
 The gard'ner, industrious, trims out his border, 
 Puts each odoriferous plant iu its order; 
 The myrtle he ranges, the rose and the lily, 
 With iris, and crocus, and daflii-ilown-ililly ; 
 Sweet i)eas and sweet orangi-s all he disposes, 
 At ouce to regale both your eyes and your noses. 
 I>ong reign'd the great Nash, this onmipotent lord, 
 Kespected by youth, and by [larents ador'd ;
 
 234 NASH'S OLD AGE. 
 
 For him not enough at a ball to preside, 
 
 The unwary and beautiful nymph would he guide ; 
 
 Oft tell her a tale, how the credulous maid 
 
 By man, by perfidious man, is betrayed : 
 
 Taught Charity's hand to relieve the distrest, 
 
 While tears have his tender compassion exprest; 
 
 But alas ! lie is gone, and the city can tell 
 
 How in years and in glory lamented he fell. 
 
 Him mourn'd all the Dryads on Claverton's mount; 
 
 Him Avon d^M'lor'd, him the nym])h of the foimt, 
 
 The crystalline streams. 
 
 Then perish his picture — his statue decay — 
 
 A tribute more lasting the Muses shall pay. 
 
 If true, what philosophers all will assure us, 
 
 AVho dissent from tlie doctrine of great Ejiicurus, 
 
 That the si)irit's immortal (as poets allow) : 
 
 In reward of his labors, his virtue and pains, 
 
 He is footing it now in the Elysian plains, 
 
 Indulged, as a token of Proserpine's favor. 
 
 To preside at her l)alls in a cream-color'd beaver. 
 
 Then peace to his ashes — our grief be sui)prest. 
 
 Since we find such a phoenix has sprung from his nest; 
 
 Kind Heaven has sent us another professor, 
 
 Who follows the steps of his great predecessor." 
 
 The end of the Bath Beau was somewhat less 
 traijical than that of his London successor — Brum- 
 mell. N.ish, in his ohi age and povert_y, hung about 
 the (dubs and supper-tables, button-liohnl youngsters, 
 who thought him a bore, spun liis long yarns, and tried 
 to insist on obsolete fasliions, when near the end of his 
 life's century. 
 
 The clergy took more care of him tlian the young- 
 sters. They heard that Nash was an octogenarian,
 
 HIS FUNERAL. 235 
 
 and likely to die in his sins, and resolved to do tluir 
 best to slii-i\c Iiiiii. Worthy and well-iiicaniiitr men 
 accordinj^ly wrote him lonj^ letters, in Avhieh there 
 Avas a deal of waniin;:-, and tliere was nothing which 
 Nash dreaded so iiiiu li. As long as there was imme- 
 diate fear of death, he was pious and huniMc: tlic 
 moment the fear IkhI passeil, he was jo\ ial and indif- 
 ferent again. His especial delight, to the last, seems 
 to have been swearing against the doctors, whom he 
 treated like the individual in Anstey's "Bath Guide," 
 shying their medicines out of the window upon their 
 own heads. But the wary old Beckoner called him in, 
 in due time, with his broken, empty-chested voice ; and 
 Nash was forced to obe3^ Death claimed him — and 
 much good it got of him — in 17<)1, at the age of 
 eighty-seven: there are few beaux wlio lived so long. 
 Thus ended a life of wliich tlu' moral lav, so to 
 speak, out of it. The worthies of Bath Avere true to 
 the worshi[) of Folly, Avhom Anstey so Avell, though 
 indelicately, describes as there conceivino; Fashion ; 
 and though Nash, old, slovenly, disrespected, had long 
 ceased to be either beau or monarch, treated his huge 
 unlovely corpse with the honor due to the great — or 
 little. His funeral was as glorious as that of any 
 hero, and for more sliowv^ though much less solemn, 
 tlian tlie 1)ui'ial of Sir John Moore. Perhaps for a 
 bit of prose flummery, l)y way of contrast to Wolfe's 
 lines on tlie latter event, there is little to iMjual the 
 account in a contemporary paper: — "Sorrow sate
 
 236 HIS CHAP.ACTERISTICS. 
 
 upon every face, and even children lisped that their 
 sovereign was no more. The awfulness of the solem- 
 nity made the deepest impression on the minds of the 
 distressed inhabitants. The peasant discontinued his 
 toil, the ox rested from the plough, all nature seemed 
 to sympathize with their loss, and the muffled bells 
 rung a peal of bob-major." 
 
 The Beau left little behind him, and that little not 
 worth much, even including his renown. Most of the 
 presents which fools or flatterers had made him, had 
 long since been sent chtz ma tante ; a few trinkets 
 and pictures, and a few books, which probably he had 
 never read, constituted his little store. ^ 
 
 Bath and Tunbridge — for he had annexed that 
 lesser kingdom to his own — had reason to mourn him, 
 for he had almost made them what they were ; but the 
 country has not much cause to thank the upholder of 
 gaming, the institutor of silly fashion, and the high- 
 priest of folly. Yet Nash was free from many vices 
 we should expect to find in such a man. He did not 
 drink, for instance ; one glass of wine, and a moderate 
 quantity of small beer, being his allowance for dinner. 
 He Avas early in his hours, and made others sensible 
 in theirs. He Avas generous and charitable when he 
 had tlie money ; and when lie had not he took care to 
 make his subjects subscribe it. In a word, there have 
 
 ' In the "Annual Register" (vol. v. ]>. ."7) it is stated tliat a 
 pension of ten guineas a month was paiil to Nash during the hitter 
 years of his life by the Coriioiation of I5ath.
 
 BEAU NASH AND HIS FLATTERERS. 237 
 
 been worse men and greater fools ; and we may again 
 ask whether those who obeyed and flattered liini were 
 not nioi-e contemptible tlian Beau Nash himself. 
 
 So much for the powers of impudence and a fine 
 coat I
 
 PHILIP, DUKE OF WHARTON. 
 
 If an illustration Avere wanted of that character un- 
 stable as water which shall not excel, this duke would 
 at once supply it : if we had to warn genius against 
 self-indulgence — some clever boy against extravagance 
 — some poet against the bottle — this is the " shocking 
 example " we should select : if we wished to show hoAV 
 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 properly, it is enough to cite that nobleman 
 whose acts gained for him the name of the infamous 
 Duke of Wharton. Never was character more mer- 
 curial, or life more unsettled than his ; never, perhaps, 
 were more chann;es crowded into a fewer number of 
 years, more fame and infamy gathered into so short a 
 space. Suffice it to say, that when Pope wanted a man 
 to hold up to the scorn of the world as a sample of 
 wasted abilities, it was Wharton that he chose, and his 
 lines rise in grandeur in jji'oportion to the vileness of 
 the theme : 
 
 " "Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days, 
 AVhose ruling passion was a love of praise. 
 
 2;js
 
 iJ1)iUp, 73ukr of Mii)artou,
 
 POPE'S LINES ON WIIAKTON. 2:39 
 
 Born willi wliate'er could win it from the wise, 
 WoniLMi anil fouls must like him or he dies; 
 Though raptured senates hung on all he spoke, 
 The club must liail liim m;i.ster of tliu joke. 
 Shall parts so various aim at nothing new? 
 He'll shine a Tully and a Wiliiint too. 
 * -x- ;;• x- 
 
 Thus with each gift of nature and of art, 
 And wanting nothing but an honest heart; 
 Grown all to all, from no one vice e.vempt. 
 And most contemptible, to shun contempt; 
 His jyassion still to covet general i)raise. 
 His life to forfeit it a thousand ways; 
 A constant bounty which no friend has made ; 
 An angel tongue which no man can persuade; 
 A fool with more of wit than all maidvind; 
 Too rash for thought, for action too refined." 
 
 And tlu'ii tliosc ineniorablc lines — 
 
 "A tyrant to the wilV' his heart approved, 
 A rebel to the very king he loved ; 
 lie dies, sad outcast of each church and state; 
 And, harder still ! llagitious, yet not great." 
 
 Though it may be doubted if the " hist of praise " was 
 the cause of his ecoentricities, so much as an utter 
 re.stlcssness and instability of character, Pope's de- 
 scription is sufficiently con-ect. and \vill jn-epare us for 
 one of the most disapjwinting lives wo could well have 
 to read. 
 
 Philip, Duke of Wharton, was one of those men of 
 whom an Iri.shman would say, that they were fortu- 
 nate before they were born. His ancestors bequeathed
 
 240 THE DUKFS ANCESTORS. 
 
 him a name that stood high in England for bravery 
 and excellence. The first of the house, Sir Thomas 
 Wharton, had won his peerage from Henry VIII. for 
 routing some 15,000 Scots with 500 men, and other 
 gallant deeds. From his father the marquis he in- 
 herited much of his talents ; but for the heroism of the 
 former, he seems to have received it only in the ex- 
 travagant form of foolhardiness. "Walpole remembered, 
 but could not tell where, a ballad 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 quotes two lines to show that he was not 
 ashamed of his own cowardice on the occasion : — 
 
 "The duke he drew out half his sword, 
 tlie guard drew out the rest." 
 
 At the siege of Gibraltar, where he took up arms 
 against his own king and country, he is said to have 
 gone alone one night to the very walls of the town, 
 and challenged the outpost. They asked him who 
 he was, and when he replied, openly enough, " The 
 Duke of Wharton," they actually allowed him to re- 
 turn without either firing on or capturing him. The 
 story seems somewhat apocryphal, but it is quite possi- 
 ble that the English soldiers may have refrained from 
 violence to a well-known mad-cap nobleman of their 
 own nation. 
 
 Philip, son of the Marquis of Wharton, at that time 
 only a baron, was born in the last year but one of the
 
 Ills KAIM.V VKARS. 211 
 
 sevoiitc'C'iilli ceiitiiiT, iiiid caiiic into the world endowed 
 witli every (|ii:ility wliicli iniLrlit have made a great 
 /nan, it" he had oidy adde<l wisdom to tliem. His 
 Hither wishi'd to make him a brilliant statesman, and, 
 to have a lietter eliancc of" doing so, kept liim at home, 
 ami had him educated under liis own eye. lie seems 
 to have easily and lapidly ae(juired a knowledge of 
 classical languages ; and his memory was so good that 
 "Nvlicn a boy of thirteen he could repeat the greater 
 part of the "^l^neid "" and of Horace by heart. Ilis 
 father's keen perception did not allow him to stop at 
 classics ; and he wisely prepared liim for the career to 
 which he was destined by the study of history, ancient 
 and modern, and of English literature, and by teach- 
 ing him, even at that early age, the art of thinking and 
 Avriting on any given subject, by proposing themes for 
 essays. There is certainly no surer mode of develop- 
 ing the reflective and reasoning powers of the mind ; 
 and the boy progressed with a rapidity which was al- 
 most alarming. Oratory, too, was of course cultivated, 
 an<l to this end the young nobleman w^as made to re- 
 cite before a small audience passages from Shakespeare, 
 and even speeches which had been delivered in the 
 House of Lords, and we may be certain he showed no 
 bashfulness in this displav. 
 
 He was precocious beyond measure, and at sixteen 
 was a man. His first act of folly — or, perhaps, he. 
 thought, of manhood — came off at this early age. He 
 fell in love with the daughter of a Major-General 
 
 Vol.. I.— 16
 
 242 MARRIAGE AT SIXTEEN. 
 
 Holmes ; and tlioug-h there is notliino; extraordinary in 
 that, for nine-tenths of us have been h)ve-mad at as 
 early an age, he did Avliat fortunately very few do in a 
 first love affair, he married the adored one. Early 
 marriages are often extolled, and justly enough, as 
 safeguards against profligate habits, but this one seems 
 to have had the contrary effect on young Philip. His 
 wife was in every sense too good for him : he was 
 madly in love with her at first, but soon shamefully 
 and openly faithless. Pope's line — 
 
 "A tyrant to the wife his heart approved," 
 
 requires explanation here. It is said that she did not 
 present her boy-husband with a son for three years 
 after their marriage, and on this child he set great 
 value and great hopes. About this time he left his 
 wife in the country, intending to amuse himself in 
 town, and ordered her to remain behind with the 
 child. The poor deserted woman Avell knew what was 
 the real object of this journey, and could not endure 
 the separation. In the hope of keeping her young 
 husband out of harm, and none the less because 
 she loved him very tenderly, she followed him soon 
 after, taking the little Marquis of Malmsbury, as 
 the young live ])ranch was called, with her. The 
 duke was, of course, disgusted, but his anger was 
 turned into hatred, when tlie child, which he had 
 hoped to make his heir and successor, caught in 
 town the small-pox, and died in infancy, lie was
 
 WFTARTOX TAKES LEAVE OF HIS TUTOR. 243 
 
 lurioiis with liis \viii', I'cf'iiscil t(> see licr for a Idiij^ 
 time, atiil treated lier with iiiireleiitini!; eehlues.s. 
 
 The early iiiania;re was inmh to the distaste of 
 r]iili|)'s fatlier, who liad heeii hitely made a marquis, 
 and \vh(t hoped to arraii<fe a very grand '•alliance" 
 ior his petted son. lie was, in fact, so much grieved 
 bv it that he was fool enouLn-h to die of it in 1T1-"), and 
 tlie mareliioness survived him only about a year, be- 
 iiii: no less disgusted witli tlie licentiousness which she 
 already discovered in her Young Hopeful. 
 
 She did what she could to set him rijiht. ami the 
 young married man was shipped off" with a tutor, 
 a French Huguenot, who was to take him to Geneva 
 to be educated as a Protestant and a Whig. The 
 young scamp declined to be either, lie was taken, 
 by Avay of seeing the Avorhl, to the petty courts of 
 Germany, and of course to that of Hanover, Avhich 
 had kindly sent us the worst family that ever dis- 
 graced the English throne, and by the various princes 
 and grand-dukes received with all the honors due to a 
 young British nobleman. 
 
 The tutor ami his (diarge settled at last at Geneva, 
 and mv young lord amused himself with tormentinir 
 his strict guardian. Walpole tells us that he once 
 roused him out of l)ed only to borrow a pin. There 
 is no doubt tliat lie led the worthy man a sad life of 
 it ; and to put a climax to his conduct ran away from 
 him at last, leaving Avith him. by way of hostage, 
 a young bear-cub — ])rubably (piite as tame as him-
 
 244 ESPOUSES THE CHEVALIER'S CAUSE. 
 
 self — wliicli lie had picked up somewhere, and grown 
 very fond of — birds of a featlier, seemingly — with a 
 message, Avhicli showed more ^\\t tlian good-nature, to 
 this efiect : — " Beino- no lonsjer able to bear with your 
 ill-usage, I think proper to be gone from you ; how- 
 ever, that you niiiy not want company, I have left you 
 the bear, as the most suitable companion in the Avorld 
 that could be picked out for you." 
 
 The tutor had to console himself with a tu quoqiie, 
 for the young scapegrace had found his way to Lj^ons 
 in October, 171G, and then did the very thing his 
 father's son should not have done. The Chevalier de 
 St. George, the Old Pretender, James III., or by 
 Avhatever other alias you prefer to call him, having 
 failed in his attempt " to have his own again " in the 
 preceding year, was then holding high court in high 
 dudgeon at Avignon. Any adherent would, of course, 
 be welcomed with open arms ; and when the young 
 marquis wrote to him to offer his allegiance, sending 
 Avith his letter a fine entire horse as a peace offering, 
 he was warmly responded to. A person of rank was 
 at once despatched to bring the youth to the ex-regal 
 court ; he was welcomed with much enthusiasm, and 
 the empty title of Duke of Northumberland at once 
 most kindly conferred on him. However, the young 
 marquis does not seem to luive gofife the exile's court, 
 for he stayed there one day only, and returning to 
 Lyons, set off to enjoy himself at Paris. Witli much 
 Avit, no prudence, and a plentiful supply of money,
 
 FKOLICS AT I'ARIS. 240 
 
 ■\vliicli lie tlirow about vnth tlic recklessness of a Imy 
 just escaped iVom liis tutor, lie could not fail to succeed 
 in that caj)it;il : and, accordingly, the English received 
 liiui with open arms. Even the ambassador. Lord 
 ytair, though he had heard i-umors of liis wild doings, 
 invited him repeatedly to dinner, and did his best, by 
 advice and warning, to keej) him out of harm's way. 
 Young Philip had a hoiTuv of preceptors, paid or 
 gratuitous, ami treated the plenipotentiary Avitli tlie 
 same coolness as he had served the Huguenot tutor. 
 "When the former, praising the late marquis, expressed 
 — by Avay of a sliglit liint — a liope "that he uoidd 
 follow so illustrious an example of fidelity to his prince, 
 and affection to his country, by treading in the same 
 steps," the young scamj) replied, cleverly enough, 
 " That he thanked his excellency for his good advice, 
 and as his excellency had also a worthy and deserving 
 father, he hoped he would likewise copy so bright an 
 example, and tread in all liis steps;" the pertness of 
 which was pertinent enough, for old Lord Stair had 
 taken a disgraceful part against his sovereign in tlie 
 massacre of Glencoc. 
 
 His frolics at Paris were of the most reckless cha- 
 racter for a young nobleman. At the ambassador's 
 own table he would occasionally send a servant to some 
 one of the guests, to ask him to join in tlie Old Chev- 
 alier's health, thoiigli it was almost treason at that 
 time to mention his name even. And airain, when the 
 windows at the embassv had been broken bv a youno;
 
 24G SEEKS A SEAT IX PAELIAMENT. 
 
 English Jacobite, 'wlio Avas forthwith committed to 
 Fort TEveque, the hare-brained marquis proposed, 
 out of revenge, to break them a second time, and only 
 abandoned the project because he could get no one to 
 join him in it. Lord Stair, however, had too much 
 sense to be offended at the follies of a boy of seventeen, 
 even though that boy was the representative of a great 
 Englisn family ; he probably thought it would be bet- 
 ter to recall him to his allegiance by kindness and 
 advice, than, by resenting his behavior, to drive him 
 irrevocably to the opposite party ; but he was doubt- 
 less considerably relieved when, after leading a Avild 
 life in the capital of France, spending his money lav- 
 ishly, and doing precisely everj^tliing which a young 
 English nobleman ought not to do, my lord marcjuis 
 took his departure in Decemlicr, 1716. 
 
 The political education he had received now made 
 the unstable youth ready and anxious to shine in the 
 State ; but being yet under age, he could not, of course, 
 take his seat in the House of Lords. Perhaps he was 
 conscious of his own wonderful abilities ; perhap,s, as 
 Pope declares, he was thirsting for praise, and wislied 
 to display them ; certainly he was itching to l)ecome 
 an orator, and as he could not sit in an Eniilish Par- 
 liament, he remembered that he Iiad a peerage in Ire- 
 land as Earl of IJathfernhame and Marquis of Cath- 
 erlogh, and ofl' he set to see if the Milesians would 
 stand upon somewhat less ceremony. He was not dis- 
 appointed there. " His brilliant parts,"' we ai'e told
 
 "PAWNINCi Ills PRINCIPLES." 247 
 
 by contemporary writers, but ratber, we sIjouM tbink, 
 bis reputation for wit and eccentricity, ''found favor 
 in tbe eyes of Hibernian <juieksilvers, and in spite 
 of liis years, be was a(bnitti.'d to tbe Iri.sli House of 
 Lords." 
 
 Wbcn a friend liad rc])roacbed bini, liefore lie b'ft 
 France, witb infidelity ti> tbe princii)les so long es- 
 poused by bis family, be is reported to liave replied, 
 cbaracteristically enougb, tbat " he bad pawned bis 
 princii)les to Gordon, the Chevalier's banker, for a 
 considerable sum, and, till be could repay him, be 
 must be a Jacobite ; but when that was done, he would 
 aorain return to the Wbigs." It is as likely as not that 
 
 O CD •^ 
 
 he borrowed from Gordon on tbe strength of the Chev- 
 alier's favor, for though a marquis in bis own right, he 
 Avas even at this period always in want of cash ; and 
 on tbe other band, the speech, exhibiting tbe grossest 
 want of any sense of honor, is in thorough keeping 
 witli bis after-life. I»ut wdietber he paid Gordon on 
 bis return to England — which is highly iniprobalde — 
 or whether be bad not honor enough to keep his com- 
 i)aet — which is extremely likely — there is no doubt 
 tbat mv lord marquis Ix'gan. at this period, to ipialify 
 himself f'or tbe })ost of parish weathercock to St. 
 Stephen's. 
 
 His early defectioni to a man who, whether rightful 
 heir or not, had tbat of romance in his history which 
 is even now sufficient to make our young ladies 
 ^' thorough Jacobites " at heart, was easily to be ox-
 
 248 ZEAL FOR THE OEANGE CAUSE. 
 
 cused, on the plea of youth and high spirit. The 
 same excuse does not exphiin his rapid return to 
 Whiggery — in which there is no romance at all — the 
 moment he took his seat in the Irish House of Lords. 
 There is only one way to explain the zeal with which 
 he now advocated the Orange cause: he must have 
 been eitlier a very designing knave, or a very unprin- 
 cipled fool. As he gained nothing ])y the change 
 but a, dukedom for which he did not care, and as he 
 cared for little else that the government could give 
 him, we may acquit him of any very deep motives. 
 On the other hand, his life and some of his letters 
 show that, with a vast amount of bravado, he was suf- 
 ficiently a coward. When supplicated, he was always 
 obstinate; when neglected, always supplicant. Now 
 it required some courage in those days to be a Jacobite. 
 Perhaps he cared for nothing but to astonisli and dis- 
 gust everybody with the facility with Avliich he coidd 
 turn his coat, as a hippodromist does with the ease with 
 Avhich he changes his costume. He was a boy and a 
 peer, and he wotdd make pretty play of his position. 
 He had considerable talents, and now, as he sat in the 
 Irish House, devoted them entirely to tlie support of 
 the government. 
 
 For the next four years he was employed, on the 
 one hand in political, on the other in profligate, life. 
 He shone in botli ; and was no less admired, by 
 the wits of those days, for his speeches, his argu- 
 ments, and his zeal, ibaii for the utter disregard
 
 A JACOBITE HERO. 249 
 
 of public decency he displayed in his vices. Such a 
 promising youth, adhering to the government, merited 
 some mark of its esteem, and accordingly, before attain- 
 ing the age of twenty-one, he was raised to a dukedom. 
 Bein<r of a^e, he took his seat in the English House of 
 Lords, and had not l^een long there before he again 
 turned coat, and came out in the light of a Jacobite 
 hero. It was now that he gathered most of his 
 laurels. 
 
 The Hanoverian monarch had been on the English 
 throne some six years. Had the Chevalier's attempt 
 occurred at this period, it may be doubted if it woidd 
 not have been successful. Th- "Old Pretender" 
 came too soon, the "Young Pretender" too late. 
 At till' period of the first attempt, the public had 
 had no time to contrast Stuarts and Guelphs ; at that 
 of the second, thev hail forijjotteii tlie one and ijrown 
 accustomed to the other; but at the moment when 
 our young duke appeared on the l)oards of the senate, 
 the vices of the Hanoverians were beginning to draw 
 down on them the contempt of the educated and the 
 ridicule of the vidgar; and perhaps no moment could 
 have been more favorable for advocating a restoration 
 of the Stuarts. If Wharton liad had as much energy 
 and consistency as he had talent and impudence, he 
 rai<Tlit have done much towards that desirable, or 
 undesirable, end. 
 
 The grand (piestion at this time before the House 
 was the trial of Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester,
 
 250 THE TRIAL OF ATTERBURY. 
 
 demanded by Sir Robert Walpole. The man had 
 a spirit ahiiost as restless as his defender. The son 
 of a man -who might have been the original of the 
 Vicar of Bray, he was very little of a poet, less 
 of a priest, but a great deal of a politician. He 
 was born in 1662, so that at this time he must 
 have been nearly sixty years old. lie had had by 
 no means a hard life of it, for family interest, to- 
 gether with eminent talents, procured him one ap- 
 pointment after another, till he reached the bench 
 at the age of fifty-one, in the reign of Anne. He 
 had already distinguished himself in several ways, 
 most, perhaps, by controversies with Hoadley, and by 
 sundry high-church motions. But after his elcation, 
 ho displayed his principles more boldly, refused to sign 
 the Declaration of the Bishops, which was somewhat 
 servilely made to assure George the First of the fi<lelity 
 of the Established Church, suspended the curate of 
 Gravesend for three years because he allowed the 
 Dutch to have a service performed in his church, 
 and even, it is said, on the death of Anne, offered 
 to proclaim Kiiig James III., and head a procession 
 himself in his lawn sleeves. The end of this and 
 other vagaries was, that in 1722, the Government sent 
 him to the Tower, on suspicion of being connected 
 with a plot in favor of tlie Gld (Mievalior. The case 
 excited no little attention, for it was long since a 
 bishop had been charged with high ti'eason ; it was 
 added that his jailers used him rudely : and. in short.
 
 WHARTON'S DEFENCE OF THE BISHOP. 251 
 
 public SYiTipathy ratlicv went aloHL^ witli him for a time. 
 Ill MmicIi, 17--"n :i 1)111 was presented to the Commons, 
 lui- '' iiillicting certain pains ;iii<l penalties on Francis, 
 Liinl Bishop of Rochester," an<l it passed that House in 
 Apiil; hut -when carried up to the Lords, a defence 
 was resolved on. The hill Avas read a third time 
 on ^Fav l')tli, anil on that occasion the Duke of 
 AVh:irti>n, llu-n only twenty-four years old, rose and 
 delivered a sj)eech in fivor of the hislioji. Tliis 
 oration far more resemhicd that of a lawyer sum- 
 min;i; up the evidence than of a parliamentary orator 
 enlar<!;ini2; on the general issue. It was remarkable for 
 the clearness of its argument, the wonderful memory of 
 facts it displayed, and the ease and rapidity with which 
 it annihilated the testimony of various witnesses ex- 
 amined before the House. It was mild and moderate, 
 abb and sufficient, but seems to have lacked all the 
 enthusiasm Ave might expect from one who was after- 
 Avards so active a partisan of the Chevalier's cause. 
 In short, striking as it Avas, it cannot be said to give 
 the duke any claim to the title of a great orator ; 
 it Avould rather prove that he might have nuide a 
 first-rate hiAvyer. It shows, however, that had he 
 chosen to apply himself diligently to politics, he might 
 have turned out a great leader of the Opposition. 
 
 Neither this speech nor the bishops able defence 
 saved him ; and in the following month he Avas ban- 
 islicil tlic kingdom, and passi'il the rest of his days in 
 Paris.
 
 2o2 A PARTISAN OF THE CHEVALIER. 
 
 Wharton, however, was not content with the House 
 as an arena of political agitation. He was now old 
 enough to have matured his principles thoroughly, and 
 he completely espoused the cause of the exiled family. 
 He amused himself with agitating throughout the coun- 
 try, influencing elections, and seeking popularity by 
 becoming a member of the Wax-chandlers' Company. 
 It is a proof of his great abilities, so shamefully thrown 
 away, that he now, during the course of eight months, 
 issued a paper, called " The True Briton," every Mon- 
 day and Friday, written by himself, and containing 
 varied and sensible arguments in support of liis oj)in- 
 ions, if not displaying any vast amount of original 
 genius. This paper, on the morlel of ''The Tatler," 
 "The Spectator," etc., had a considerable sale, and 
 attained no little celebrity, so that the Duke of Whar- 
 ton acquired the reputation of a, literary man as well as 
 of a political leader. 
 
 But, whatever he might have been in either capacity, 
 his disgraceful life soon destroyed all hope of success 
 in them. He was now an acknowledged wit about 
 town, and, what was then almost a recognized concom- 
 itant of tlint character, an acknowledged })rofligate. 
 He scattered his large fortune in the most reckless and 
 foolish manner : tliough married, his moral conduct was 
 iis ]);ul as that of any ])achelor of the day : and such 
 Avas liis extravagance and open licentiousness, tliat, 
 liaving Avasted a princely revenue, he Avas soon caught 
 in the meshes of Chancery, Avhich very sensibly vested
 
 iivi'()( i;ri'i< Ai. sKiXS of pfxithnce. 253 
 
 his fortune in the hands of trustees, and cDiuiJeUed him 
 to be satisfied with an income of twelve hundred pounds 
 a year. 
 
 The youn<f rascal ikjw slujwed hypocritical signs 
 of ])enitenee — he Avas always an adept in that line — 
 and |)rotested lie would go abroad and live quietly, till 
 his losses sIiouM be retrieved. There is little doubt 
 that, under this laudable design, he concealed one of 
 attaching himself closer to the Chevalier party, and 
 even espousing the faith of that unfortunate prince, or 
 pretender, whichever he may have been. He set off 
 for Vienna, leaving his wife behind to die, in April, 
 172G. lie had long since quarrelled with her. and 
 treated her with cruel neglect, and at her death lie was 
 not likely to be niucli alliieted. It is said, that, after 
 that event, a ducal I'auiilv ol1eve(| him a daughter and 
 large fortune in marriage, and that the Duke of Whar- 
 ton declined the offer, because the latter was to be tied 
 up, and he could not conveniently 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 undiscovered. The fascinating scapegrace seems 
 to have delighted in playing on the credulity of others; 
 and Walpole relates that, on the eve of the day on 
 which he delivered his famous speech for Atterbury, 
 he sought an interview with the minister, Sir Robert 
 Walj)ole, expressed great contrition at having espoused 
 the bishop's cause hitherto, and a determination to
 
 254 SIR ROBERT WALPOLE DUPED. 
 
 speak against liim tlie following day. The minister 
 Avas taken in, and at the duke's request, supplied hiui 
 Avitli all the main arguments, pro and eon. The de- 
 ceiver, havino; irot these well into his hrain — one of the 
 most retentive — rejiaired to his London haunts, passed 
 the night in drinking, and the next day produced all 
 the arguments he had digested, in the hlshoiis favor. 
 
 At Vienna he was well received, and carried out his 
 private mission successfully, but was too restless to stay 
 in one place, an<l soon set oft' for Madrid. Tired now 
 of politics, he took a turn at love. He was a poet after 
 a fashion, for the pieces 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. Ilis 
 portraits do not give us this impression : the features 
 are not very regular, and, though not coarse, are cer- 
 tainly not refined. The mouth, somewhat sensual, is 
 still much firmer than his character would lead us to 
 expect ; the nose sharp at the ])oint, but cogitative at 
 the nostrils ; the eves lonii; but not larjie ; Avhile the 
 raised brow has all that openness Avhich he displayed 
 in the indecency of his vices, but not in any honesty in 
 his political career. In a word, the face is not attract- 
 ive. Yet he is described as liaving had a brilliant 
 complexion, a lively, vai'ying expression, and a charm 
 of person and manner that was (i[uito irresistible. 
 Whether on this account, or for his talents and wit, 
 wdiich Avere really shining, his new Juliet fell as deeply 
 in love with him us he with her.
 
 A XKW lOVE. 255 
 
 Slic ^VMS iiiiiid ol' lidiioi' — Mild a liiiilily limiorahlo 
 maid — to tlu' (.^Miccn of Sj)ain. Tlie Irish I'e^iiiK'iit.s 
 lull')- iiiH)lovcd ill tlio Siiaiiisli service liad l)ocoinc 
 more or less iiatiirali/.i'd in lluit coimlrv. which ac- 
 counts for the great inniil»er of thoroughly Milesian 
 names still to he I'oiiiid there, some of them, as 
 O'DoniicIl, owned hy men of high distinction. 
 Among other officers Avho had settled with their 
 families in the jx'iiinsula was a Colonel O'llyrne, 
 who, like most of his countrymen there, died })cnni- 
 less, leaving his widow with a pension and his daugh- 
 ter without a sixpence. It can well he imagined that 
 an oflTer from an English duke was not to he sneezed 
 at hy either Mrs. or Miss OByrne ; hut there Averc 
 some grave obstacles to the match. '^Flie duke was a 
 Protestant. But what of that 't — he had never heen 
 encumbere<l with religion, nor even with a decent 
 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 respectability, made a 
 point of having the hounds out on a Sunday morn- 
 ing, lie was not going to lose a pretty girl for the 
 sake of a faith Avith which he had got disgusted 
 ever since his Huguenot tutor tried to make him a 
 sober Christian. lie had turned coat in politics, and 
 Avould now try his weathercock capabilities at relig- 
 ion. Nothing like variety, so Romanist he became. 
 But this was not all : his friends on the one hand 
 objected to his marrying a ])enniless girl, antl hers, on
 
 256 VERY TRYING. 
 
 the other, warned her of his disreputable character. 
 But Avhen two people have made up their minds to 
 be one, such trifles as these are of no consequence. 
 A far more trying obstacle was the absolute refusal 
 of her Most Catholic Majesty to allow her maid of 
 honor to marry the duke. 
 
 It is a marvel that after the life of dissipation he 
 had led, this man should have retained the power of 
 loving at all. But everything about him was extrava- 
 gant, and now that he entertained a virtuous attach- 
 ment, he was as wild in it as he had been reckless in 
 less respectable connections. He must have been sin- 
 cere at the time, for the queen's refusal was followed 
 by a fit of depression that brought on a low fever. 
 The queen heard of it, and, touched by the force of 
 his devotion, sent him a cheering message. The 
 moment was not to be lost, and, in spite of his Aveak 
 state, he hurried to court, threw himself at her 
 Majesty's feet, and swore he must have his lady- 
 love or die. Thus pressed, the (;[ueen was forced to 
 consent, but warned him that he Avould repent of it. 
 The marriage took place, and the couple set off to 
 Rome. 
 
 Here the Chevalier again received him with oj)en 
 arms, and took the opportunity of displaying his 
 imaginary sovereignty by bestowing on him the 
 Order of the Garter — a politeness the duke returned 
 by wearing while there the no less unrecognized title 
 of Duke of Northumberland, which "his Majesty"
 
 THE DUKE OF WIIAUTON'S "WIIENS." 2;" 
 
 J.-)t 
 
 had formerly conferred on liini. But James TTT., 
 though no saint, had more respect for decent con- 
 (hict tliaii liis father and uncle; the duke van off into 
 every species of excess, got into debt as usual — 
 
 " Wlicn Wliarton's just, and learns to pay liis debts, 
 And reputation dwells at Mother IJrett's, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Then, Celia, shall my constant passion cease. 
 And my poor sulf'ring heart shall be at pestce," 
 
 says a satirical poem of the day, called " The Duke 
 of Wharton's Whens' — was faitldess to the ^vife he 
 had lately been dying for ; and in short, such a 
 thorough blackguard, that not even the Jacobites 
 could tolerate him, and they turned him out of the 
 Holy City till he should learn not to bring dishonor 
 on the court of theii' fictitious sovereign. 
 
 Tlio duke Avas not the man to be nuicli aslianicd of 
 himself, though his poor w'li'e ma}'' now have begun to 
 think her late mistress in the right, and he was prob- 
 ably glad of an excuse for another change. At this 
 time, 1727, the Spaniards were determined to wrest 
 Gibraltar from its English defenders, and were sending 
 thither a powerful army under the command of Los 
 Torres. The duke had tried many trades Avith more 
 or less success, and now thought that a little military 
 glory Avould tack on well to his highly honorable 
 biography. At any rate, there was novelty in the din 
 of war, and for novelty he would go anywhere. It 
 Vol. r.— ]7
 
 258 MILITARY GLORY AT GIBRALTAR. 
 
 mattered little tliat lie sliould fio;lit ao;ainst his own 
 king and own countrymen ; lie was not half blackguard 
 enough yet, he may have thought ; he had played 
 traitor for some time, he would now play rebel outright 
 — the game ivas worth tlie candle. 
 
 So what does my lord duke do l)ut write a letter 
 (like the Chinese behind their mud-walls, he was al- 
 ways bold enough when well secured under the protec- 
 tion of the post, and was more absurd in ink even than 
 in action) to the King of Spain, offering him his ser- 
 vices as a volunteer against " Gib." Whether his 
 Most Catholic Majesty thought him a traitor, a mad- 
 man, or a devoted partisan of his own, does not appear, 
 for without Avaitin"; for an answer — waitino; was always 
 too dull work for Wharton — he and his wife set off for 
 the camp before Gibraltar, introduced themselves to 
 the Conde in command, were received with all the 
 honor — let us sav honors — due to a duke — and estab- 
 lished themselves comfortably in the ranks of the 
 enemy of England. But all the duke's hopes of 
 prowess were blighted. lie 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 out- 
 work was resolved upon, the duke, from his rank, was 
 chosen for tlie command. Yet in the trenches he got 
 no worse wound than a slight one on the foot from a 
 sphnter of a shell, and this he afterwards made an ex- 
 cuse for not fii>;htino; a duel wilh swords ; and as to the
 
 A "COLONEL-AGGREGATE." 2o9 
 
 oiit\vork. the English aliaiidniKMl tlic attack, so that 
 there ^vas no jrlui'v to be foiniil in the defence. He 
 soon grew Aveary of such inglorious and rather dirty 
 work as visiting trenches before a stronghold ; and well 
 he might ; for if there be one thing duller than another 
 and less satisfactory, it must be digging a hole out of 
 which to kill your brother mortals; and thinking ho 
 should amuse himself better at the court, he set off lor 
 ]Madrid. Here the king, by way of reward for his 
 brilliant services in doing nothing, made him colonel- 
 aggregate — whatever that may be — of an Irish regi- 
 ment ; a very poor aggregate, Ave should think. But 
 my lord duke Avanted something livelier than the com- 
 mand of a liand of Hispaniolized Milesians; and hav- 
 ing found the military career someAvhat uninteresting, 
 Avished to return to that of politics. He remembered 
 Avith gusto the frolic life of the Holy City and the 
 political excitement in the Chevalier's court, and sent 
 off a letter to '-his INIajesty James III.," expressing, 
 like a rusticated Oxonian, his penitence for having 
 been so naughty the last time, and offering to come 
 and be very good again. It is to the praise of the 
 Chevalier de St. George that he had worldlv Avisdom 
 enough not to trust the gay penitent. lie Avas tired, 
 as everybody else Avas, of a man who could stick to 
 nothing, and did 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 —
 
 260 "UNCLE nOEACE." 
 
 as a policeman does a riotous drunkard — that lie liad 
 better go home. The duke thought so too, was not at 
 all offended at the letter, and set off, by way of return- 
 ing towards his Penates, for Paris, where he arrived in 
 May, 1728. 
 
 Horace Walpole — not tlie Horace — but " Uncle Hor- 
 ace," or " old Horace," as he Avas called, was then am- 
 bassador to the court of the Tuilerics. Mr. Walpole 
 was one of the Houghton "lot," a brother of the 
 fiimous minister Sir Robert, and, though less celebra- 
 ted, almost as able in liis line. He had distinguished 
 himself in various diplomatic appointments, in Spain, 
 at Hanover and the Hague, and having successfully 
 tackled Cardinal Fleury, the successor of the Riche- 
 lieus and Mazarins at Paris, he was now in hio-li ftivor 
 at home. In after years he was celebrated for his duel 
 with Chetwynd, who, when " Uncle Horace "had in 
 the House expressed a hope that the question miglit be 
 carried, had exclaimed, " I hope to see you hanged 
 first I" "You hope to see me hanged first, do you?" 
 cried Horace, with all tlie ferocity of the Walpoles ; 
 and thereupon, seizing him by the most prominent 
 feature of his face, shook him violently. This was 
 matter enough for a brace of swords and coffee for four, 
 and Mr. Chetwynd had to repent of his remark after 
 being severely wounded. In those days our honorable 
 House of Commons was as much an arena of Avild 
 beasts as the American Senate of to-day.^ 
 ' /. c. in 18(30; before the War.
 
 wiiAirroN TO "linclp: iiokack." 2<j1 
 
 To this minister (iiiv iioldc duke Avrotc a liypocritical 
 letter, \vliicli, as it shows how the uum could write jieiii- 
 tently, is worth transcrihing : 
 
 " Lioxs, June 28, 1728. 
 
 " Sir, — Your excellency will he surpris'd to receive 
 a letter iVoni ine ; l)ut the clemency with which the 
 government of En^-land has treated me, which is 
 in a great measure owing to your brother's regard to 
 iiiv fatlier'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 he concerned witli the 
 Pretender or any of his affairs ; and during my stay 
 ill Italy liave behaved myself in a manner that Dr. 
 Peters, JMr. Godolphin, and jMr. Mills can declare 
 to be consistent with my duty to the present king. 
 I was forc'd to go to Italy to get out of Spain, 
 where, if my true design had lieen known, I should 
 have been treated a little severely. 
 
 "I am coming to Paris to put myself entirely under 
 . your excellency's protection ; and ]io])e that Sir Roliert 
 AValpole's good-nature will prompt him to save a family 
 which his generosity induced him to spare. If your 
 excellency would permit me to wait upon you for 
 an hour, 1 am certain you Avould be convincd of 
 the sincerity of my repentance for my former mad- 
 ness, Avould become an advocate witli his majesty 
 to grant me his most gracious pardon, Avhieh it is 
 my comfort I shall never lie re(iuired to purchase
 
 '2G2 THE DUKE'S IMPUDENCE. 
 
 by any step unworthy of a man of honor. I do 
 not intend, in case of the king's allowing me to 
 pass the evening of my days under the shadow of 
 his royal protection, to see England for some years, 
 but shall remain in France or Germany, as my friends 
 shall advise, and enjoy country sports till all former 
 stories are buried in oblivion. I beg of your excel- 
 lency to let me receive your orders at Paris, which I 
 will send to your hostel to receive. The Dutchess 
 of Wharton, who is with me, desires leave to wait 
 on ?>Irs. Walpole, if you think proper. 
 
 " I am, etc." 
 
 After this, the ambassador could do no less than 
 receive him ; but he "was somewhat disgusted when 
 on leavin<ij him the duke frankly told him — foro-ettinji; 
 all about his penitent letter, probably, or too reckless 
 to care for it — that he was going to dine with the 
 Bishop of Rochester — Atterbury himself, then living 
 in Paris — whose society was interdicted to any subject 
 of King George. The duke, with his usual folly, 
 touched on other subjects e(j[ually dangerous, his visit 
 to Rome, and his conversion to Romanism ; and, in 
 short, disgusted the cautious Mr. Walpole. There is 
 something delightfully impudent about all these acts 
 of Wharton's ; and hnd he only been a clown at Drury 
 Lane instead of an English n()l)lemaii, he must have 
 been successful. As it is, when one reads of the petty 
 hatred .and ]iuiu))ug of those days, when liberty of
 
 LIVING BEYOND HIS MEANS. 203 
 
 speech was as unknown as any other liberty, one 
 cannot but aihiiirc the inipn(k'nce of his Grace of 
 AVharton. ami wish that most dukes, without beiiiLT 
 as prolligate, would be as free-spoken. 
 
 With six hundred pounds in his pocket, our youn;5 
 Lothario now set up house at Rouen, with an establish- 
 ment " equal," say the old-school writers, " to his 
 position, but not to his mcAns." In other words, 
 he undertook to live in a style for whicli he could 
 not ])ay. Twelve hundred a year may be enough 
 for a duke, as for anv other man, l)ut not for one 
 who considers a legion of servants a necessary ap- 
 pendage to his position. My lord duke, Avho was 
 a good French scholar, soon found an ample number 
 of friends and acquaintances, and, not being par- 
 ticular about either, managed to get through his half- 
 year's income in a few weeks. Evil consequence : he 
 was assailed by duns. French duns know nothing 
 about forjcivino; debtors ; " vour monev first, and then 
 my pardon," is their motto. My lord duke soon found 
 this out. Still he had an income, and could pay them 
 all ofl' in time. So he diaiik and was merrv, till one 
 fine day came a disagreeal)k' piece of news, which 
 startled him considerably. The government at home 
 had lieai-d of his doings, and determined to arraign 
 him for high treason. 
 
 He could expect little else, for had he not actually 
 taken uj) arms against his sovereign ? 
 
 Now Sir Robert Walpole was, no doubt, a vulgarian.
 
 264 HIGH TREASON. 
 
 He was not a man to love or sympathize ■with ; but he 
 was good-natured at bottom. Our " frolic grace " had 
 reason to acknowledge this. He could not complain 
 of harshness in any measures taken against him, and 
 he had certainly no claim to consideration 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 couple 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 Wharton's character was anomalous. The same man 
 who had more than once humiliated himself when un- 
 asked, who had Avritten to Walpole's brother the letter 
 we have read, would not now, when entreated to do so, 
 Avrite a few lines to that minister to ask mercy. Nay, 
 when the gentleman in question oft'ered to be content 
 even with a letter fi-om the duke's valet, he refused to 
 allow the man to write. Some peojjle may admire what 
 thev will believe to be firmness, but when we review 
 the duke's character and subsequent acts, we cannot 
 attribute this refusal to nnything but obstinate pride. 
 The consequence of this folly was a stoppage of sup- 
 plies, for as he was accused of high treason, his estate 
 w^as of course sequestrated. He revenged himself by 
 writing a paper Avliich was published in "Mist's Jour- 
 nal," and which, under the cover of a Persian tale, con- 
 tained a species of libel on the government. 
 
 His position was now far from onvi:il)]e : and, assailed 
 by duns lie liad no resource but to ]niii)l)k' himself, not
 
 WllAKTON'S KEAhV WIT. 2G5 
 
 before those lie had offended, l)ut before the Chevalier, 
 to whom he Avrote in his distress, and who sent him 
 c£:2<)(H), Avhich he soon frittered away in follies. This 
 gone, the duke begged and borrowed, for there are 
 some people sueh fools that they would rather lose a 
 thousand jxHinds to a peer than give sixpence to a 
 ]).iiiper, and many a tale was told of the artful manner 
 in wJiiih his grace managed to cozen his friends out of 
 a louis or two. His ready Avit generally saved him. 
 
 Thus on one occasion an Irish toady invited him to 
 dinner: the duke talked of his wardrobe, then sadly 
 defective; what suit should he wear? The Ilibei'nian 
 sii":<Tested black velvet. " Could vou recommend a 
 tailor?" " Certainly." Snip came, an expensive suit 
 Avas ordered, put on, and the dinner taken. In due 
 course the tailor called for his money. The duke was 
 not a bit at a loss, thou<i;h he had but a few francs to 
 his name. "Honest man," quoth he, " you mistake 
 the matter entirelv. Carry the bill to Sir Peter ; for 
 know that whenever I consent to Avear another man's 
 livery, my master pays for the clothes," and inasmuch 
 as the dinner-giver Avas an Irishman, he did actually 
 discharge the account. 
 
 At other times he Avould give a sumptuous entertain- 
 ment, and in one Avav or another induce his guests to 
 pay for it. lie Avas only less adroit in coining excuses 
 than Theodore Hook, and had lie li\ cd a century later, 
 Avc niiglit have a volume full of anecdotes to give of his 
 ways and no means. MeanAvhile his unfortunate duchess
 
 266 LAST extre:\[ities. 
 
 was living on the charity of friends, wliile licr lord and 
 master, when he could get any one to pay for a band, 
 was serenading young ladies. Yet he was jealous 
 enouo-h of his wife at times, and once sent a challen2;e 
 to a Scotch gentleman, simply because some silly friend 
 asked him if he had forbidden his wife to dance with 
 the lord. lie went all the way to Flanders to meet his 
 opponent ; but, perhaps fortunately for the duke, Mar- 
 shal Berwick arrested the Scotchman, and the duel 
 never came off. 
 
 Whether he felt his end approaching, or whether he 
 was sick of vile pleasures which he had recklessly pur- 
 sued from the age of fifteen, he now, though only thirty 
 years of age, retired for a time to a convent, and was 
 looked on as a penitent and devotee. Penury, doubt- 
 less, cured him in a measure, and poverty, the porter 
 of the gates of heaven, warned him to look forward be- 
 yond a life he had so shamefully misused. But it was 
 only a temporary repentance ; and when he left the 
 religious house, he again rushed furiously into every 
 kind of dissipation. 
 
 At length, utterly reduced to the last extremities, he 
 bethought himself of his colonelcy in Spain, and deter- 
 mined to set out to join his regiment. The following 
 letter from a friend who accompanied him will best 
 show what circumstances he was in : — 
 
 "Paris, June 1, 1729. 
 "Dear Sir, — T am just returned from the Gates
 
 SAD DAYS IN TAKIS. 207 
 
 of Dcatli, to return ymi Tliaiiks for your last kind 
 Letter of Accusations, ^vliirli I am persuaded was 
 intended as a seasonable Ilelj) to my llecollcction, 
 at a Time that it was necessary lor me to send an 
 Iiii|iiisitor General into my Conscience, to examine 
 and settle all the Abuses that ever were committed in 
 tliat little Court of Equity ; but I assure you, your 
 long Letter did not lay so much my Faults as my 
 
 Misfortunes before me, which believe me, dear , 
 
 have fallen as heavy and as thick upon me as the 
 
 Shower of Ilail upon us two in E Forest, and 
 
 has left me much at a Loss which way to tui-n myself. 
 The Pilot of the Ship I embarked in, who industriously 
 ran upon every Rock, has at last split the Vessel, and 
 so iiHu-li of a sudden, tliat tlie whole Crew, I mean his 
 Domesticks, are all left to swim for their Lives, without 
 one friendly Plank to assist them to Shore. Li short, 
 he left me sick, in Debt, and without a Penny ; but as 
 I begin to recover, and have a little time to Think, I 
 can't help considering myself, as one whisk'd up behind 
 a Witch upon a Broomstick, and hurried over ^Moun- 
 tains and Dales through confus'd AVoods and thorny 
 Thickets, and when the Charm is ended, and the poor 
 Wretch dropp'd in a Desart, he can give no other Ac- 
 count of his enchanted Travels, but that he is nnich 
 fatiirued in r>odv and ^lind, his Cloaths torn, and 
 worse in all other Circumstances, without being of 
 the least Service to himself or any body else. But 
 I will follow your Advice with an active Resolution,
 
 2G8 HIS LAST JOURNEY TO SPAIN. 
 
 to I'etrievc my bad Fortune, and almost a Year mis- 
 erably misspent. 
 
 " But notwithstanding what I have suffered, and 
 what my Brother Mad-man has done to undo himself, 
 and every body who was so unlucky to luive the least 
 Concern with him, I could not but be movingly touch'd 
 at so extraordinary a Vicissitude of Fortune, to see a 
 great Man fallen from that shining Light, in which I 
 beheld him in the House of Lords, to such a Degree 
 of Obscurity, that I have observ'd the meanest Com- 
 moner here decline, and the Few he would sometimes 
 fasten on, to be tired of his Company ; for you know 
 he is but a bad Orator in his Cups, and of late he has 
 been but seldom sober. 
 
 " A week before he left Paris, he was so reduced, 
 that he had not one single Crown at Command, and 
 Avas forc'd to thrust in with any Acquaintance for 
 a Lodgino; ; Walsh and I have had him by Turns, 
 all to avoid a Crowd of Duns, which he lia<l of all 
 Sizes, from Fourteen hundred Livres to Four, wlio 
 hunted him so close, that he was forced to retire to 
 some of the neighboring A^illages for Safety. I, sick 
 as I was, hurried almut Paris to raise Money, and 
 to St. Germain's to get him Linen ; I bought him one 
 Shirt and a Cravat, which with 500 Livres, his whole 
 Stock, he and his Duchess, attended by one Servant, 
 set out for Spain. All tlie News I have heard of them 
 since is that a Day or two after, he sent for Captain 
 Brierlv, and two or throe of his Domesticks, to follow
 
 Ills ACTIVITY OF MIND. 269 
 
 liini ; but none but the Captain obey'd the Summons. 
 Where they are now, I can't tell, but fear they must 
 be in great Distress by this Time, if he has no other 
 Suj)plies ; and so ends my Mehmcholy Story. 
 
 " I am, etc." 
 
 Still his good-humor did not desert him ; he joked 
 about their poverty on the road, and wrote an amusing 
 account of tlieir journe}' to a friend, winding up with 
 the well-known lines : — 
 
 " Be kind to my remains, and oh ! defend, 
 Against your judgment, your departed friend." 
 
 Ilis mind was as vigorous as ever, in spite of the 
 waste of many debaiu lies ; and when recommended to 
 make a new transLitiou of '• Telemachus," he actually 
 devoted one whole dav to the work ; the next he forgot 
 all about it. In the same manner he began a play on 
 the story of ^Nlary, Queen of Scots, and Lady M. AV. 
 Montagu Avrote an epilogue for it, but the piece never 
 got beyond a few scenes. His genius, perhaps, was 
 not for either poetry or the drama. Ilis mind was 
 a keen, clear one, better suited to argument and to 
 gra]iple tough j)olemic subjects. Had he but been 
 a sober mnn. he might have been a foir, if not a great 
 writer. The '' True Briton," Avitli many faults of 
 license, shows what his capabilities were. His absence 
 of moral sense may be guessed from his poem on the
 
 270 HIS DEATH IN A CONVENT. 
 
 preaching of Atterbury, in which is a parallel almost 
 blasphemous. 
 
 At leno-th he reached Bilboa and his regiment, and 
 had to live on the meagre pay of eighteen pistoles a 
 month. The Duke of Ormond, then an exile, took 
 pity on his -wife, and supported her for a time : she 
 afterwards rejoined her mother at Madrid. 
 
 Meanwhile, the year 1730 brought about a salutary 
 chantre in the duke's morals. His health was fast 
 giving way from the eifects of divers excesses ; and 
 there is nothing like bad health for purging a bad 
 soul. The end of a misspent life was flist drawing 
 near, and he could only keep it up by broth with eggs 
 beaten up in it. lie lost the use of his limbs, but not 
 of his gayety. In the mountains of Catalonia he met 
 with a mineral spring which did him some good ; so 
 much, in fact, that he was able to rejoin his regiment 
 for a time. A fresh attack sent him back to the 
 waters ; but on his way he was so violently attacked 
 that he was forced to stop at a little village. Here he 
 found himself without the means of ji'oino; f;irtlier, 
 and in the worst state of health. The monks of a 
 ]]ernardine convent took pity on him and received 
 him into tlieir house. He grew worse and worse; 
 and in a week died on the 31st of May, witliout a 
 friend to pity or attend him, among strangers, and at 
 the early age of thirty-two. 
 
 Tlius ended the life of one of the cleverest fools 
 that have ever disgraced our iieerajje. 
 
 O 1 O
 
 :?)oi)u, ilovti il)rvliri).
 
 LORD HERVEY. 
 
 Tin: villa":c of Kcnsino;ton Avas disturlicl in its 
 sweet rej»()se one day, more than a centui-y :i;:o, l»y 
 tlie rumljliiiii- of a ])on(lerous coach ami six, witli four 
 outriders and tAvo equerries kicking up the thist ; 
 ■whilst a small body of heavy dragoons rode solemnly 
 after the huge vehicle. It -waded, with inglorious 
 stru2[<nrles, through a deei) mire of mud, between the 
 Palace and Hyde Turk, until the cortege entered 
 Kensington Park, as the gardens were then called, 
 and beiran to track the old road that led to the red- 
 brick structure to which William 111. liad added a 
 hicrher story, built by Wren. There are tAvo roads by 
 which coaches could approach the house: ''one," as 
 the famous John, Lord Ilervcy, wrote to his mother, 
 "so convex, the other so concave, that, by this ex- 
 treme of faults, tliey agree in the connnon one of 
 being, hkc tlie high-i-oad, inipassa1)le." The rum- 
 bling coaeh, with its j)letli<)ric steeds, toils sloAvly on, 
 and readies the dismal pile, of which no association 
 is so precious as that of its having been the birth- 
 place of our loved Mctoria Regina. All around, as 
 the end)lazoned earriage impressively veers round 
 into the grand entrance, savors of William and 
 
 271
 
 272 GEORGE II. ARRIVIXG FROM HANOVER. 
 
 INIary, of Anne, of Bishop Burnet and Harley, Atter- 
 bury and Bolingbroke. But those were pleasant days 
 compared to those of the second George, whose return 
 from Hanover in this mountain of a coach is now 
 described. 
 
 The panting steeds arc gracefully curbed by the 
 state coachman in his scarlet livery, Avith his cocked- 
 hat and gray wig underneath it : now the horses are 
 foaming and reeking as if they had come from the 
 world's end to Kensington, and yet they have only 
 been to meet King Georo-e on his entrance into Lon- 
 don, Avhich he has reached from Helvoetsluys, on his 
 way from Hanover, in time, as he expects, to spend his 
 birthday among his English subjects. 
 
 It is Sunday, and repose renders the retirement of 
 Kensington and its avenues and shades more sombre 
 tliiin ever. Suburban retirement is usually so. It is 
 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 are at hand 
 to offer their respectful assistance to the diminutive 
 figure that, in full Field-marshal regimentals, a cocked- 
 hat stuck cross-wise on his head, a sword dangling; even 
 doAvn to his heels, ungraciously heeds them not, but 
 stepping down, as the great iron gates arc thrown open 
 to receive him, looks neither like a kino; nor a gentle- 
 man. A thin, worn face, in which weakness and 
 passion are at once pictured ; a form buttoned and 
 padded up to the chin; high Hessian boots without a
 
 HIS >n:KTiNG with the queen. 273 
 
 Avriiikle ; a swonl :iii<l a swagfj^er, no more constituting 
 liiiii tlie niilitarv cliaractci' than t lie " your Majesty " 
 iVdiii every lip can make a poor thing of clay a king. 
 Such was (leorge II. : hrutal, even to his submissive 
 Nvitc. Stunted by nature, he was insignificant in form, 
 as he was petty in charactei' ; 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 presence; still less in his 
 bearing, language, or ((ualities. 
 
 The queen and her couit have come from chapel, to 
 meet the roval absentee at the great gate: the consort, 
 who was to his gracious Majesty like an elder sister 
 rather than a wife, bends down, not to his knees, but 
 yet she bends, to kiss the hand of her royal husband. 
 She is a fair, fat woman, no longer young, scarcely 
 comely ; but with a charm of manners, a composure, 
 and a sai'oir faire 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 liim. The pair, nevertheless, embrace: it is a 
 triennial ceremony performed when the king goes or 
 returns from Hanover, l)ut suffered to lapse at other 
 times ; but the condescension is too great : and Caro- 
 line ends, where she began : " glueing her lips " to the 
 ungracious hand held out to her in evident ill-humor. 
 
 They turn, and walk through the court, then up the 
 
 grand staircase, into the queen's apartment. The king 
 
 has been swearing all tlie way at England and the 
 Vol. I.— is
 
 274 MRS. CLAYTON. 
 
 English, because he has been oblio-eJ to return from 
 Hanover, where the German mode of life and new mis- 
 tresses were more agreeable to him than the English 
 customs and an old wife. He displays, therefore, even 
 on this supposed happy occasion, one of the worst out- 
 breaks of his insufferable temper, of which the queen 
 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 Lady 
 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 
 useful at these tristcs 7'encontres. ]Mrs. Clayton is the 
 amalgamating substance between chemical agents which 
 have, of themselves, no cohesion ; she covers with ad- 
 dress what is awkward ; she smooths down with some- 
 thing pleasant what is rude ; she turns off — and her 
 office in that respect is no sinecure at that court — what 
 is indecent, so as to keep the small majority of the 
 company who have respectable notions in good humor. 
 To the right of Queen Caroline stands another of her 
 Majesty's household, to whom the most deferential 
 attention is paid by nil ])reseut ; nevertheless, she is 
 queen of the court, but not the queen of the royal 
 master of that court. It is Lady Suffolk, the mistress 
 of King George II., and long mistress of the robes to 
 Queen Caroline. She is now past the bloom of youth,
 
 I.AItY SUFFOLK. 275 
 
 Ijiil licr ;ill I'acI iiiii< arc \\n\ in their wane: Init ciiiliircMl 
 until slic hail allaiiird h<i' scvciil v-niiith year. Of !i 
 luitldle hoighl, well iiiaih', cxtrcincly lair, witli very 
 fine liiiht hair, she attracts rc<far<l from her swct't, fresh 
 face, which liad in it a comeliness independent of reiru- 
 laritv of feature. According to her invariable custom, 
 she is dressed with siiii|ilicit_v : lier silky tresses are 
 drawn somewhat 1>ack IVoiu her snowy forehead, and 
 fdl ill lonii: tresses on her shouhlers, not less transpar- 
 ently white. She wears a gown of rich silk, oj)ening 
 in front to display a chemisette of the most delicate 
 cambric, which is scarcely less delicate than her skin. 
 Iler slender arms are without bracelets, and her tajjcr 
 fingers without rings. As she stands behind the queen, 
 holding her Majesty's fiii and gloves, she is obliged, 
 from her deafness, to lean her fair face with its sunny 
 hair first to the right side, then to the left, Avith the 
 helpless air of one exceedingly deaf — for she has been 
 afflicted wi til tliat infirmity for some years: yet one 
 cannot say whether her appealing looks, Avhich seem to 
 say, "Enlighten me if you please,' — and the sort of 
 softened manner in wliich she accepts civilities which 
 she scarcely comprehends, do not enhance the wonderful 
 charm which drew eveiy one who knew her towards 
 this frail, but passionless Avoman. 
 
 The queen forms the centre of the group. Caroline, 
 daughter of the Maivpiis of Brandenburg-Anspach, 
 notwithstanding her residence in England of many 
 years, notwithstanding her ha\ing been, at the era at
 
 276 QUEEN CAEOLINE. 
 
 Avliicli tliis biography begins, ten years its queen — is 
 still German in every attribute. She retains, in her 
 fair and comely face, traces of having been handsome ; 
 but her skin is deeply scarred by the cruel small-pox. 
 She is now at that time of life when Sir Robert Wal- 
 pole even thought it expedient to reconcile her to no 
 longer being an object of attraction to her royal con- 
 sort. As a woman, she has ceased to be attractive to 
 a man of the character of George II. ; Init, as a queen, 
 she is still, as far as manners are concerned, incompar- 
 able. As she turns to address various members of the 
 assembly, her style is full of sweetness as well as of 
 courtesy, yet on other occasions she is majesty itself. 
 The tones of her voice, with its still foreign accent, arc 
 most captivating ; her eyes penetrate into every coun- 
 tenance on which they rest. Her figure, jjlump and 
 matronly, has lost much of its contour ; Init is well 
 suited for her port. Majesty in wenien should be 
 cruhonpoint. Her hands are beautifully white, and 
 f lultless in shape. The king always admired her ])ust ; 
 and it is, therefore, by royal command, tolerably ex- 
 posed. Her fair hair is upraised in full short curls 
 over her brow : her dress is rich, and distinguished in 
 that respect from that of the Countess of Suffolk. — 
 "Her good Howard" — as she was wont to call her, 
 Avhen, before her elevation to the peerage, she was lady 
 of the bedchamber to Caroline, — had, when in tluit 
 capacity, been often subjected to servile offices, which 
 the (jueen, tliougli apologizing in the sweetest manner,
 
 SIR ROBERT WALPOLE. 277 
 
 (leli-,'lite(l to make her perform. " My good Howard " 
 havin"" one dav iilaccil a liandkerchief on tlie back of 
 her royal mistress, the king, -who lialf woi-sliipped his 
 intellectual wife, pulled it ofl' in a ]>assion, saying, 
 "• Because you have an ugly neck yourself, you hide the 
 queen's !" All, however, that evening was smooth as 
 ice, and perhaps as cold also. The company are quickly 
 dismissed, and the king, who has scarcely spoken to 
 tlie fpieen, retires to his closet, where he is attended 
 by the subservient Caroline, and by two other persons. 
 Sir Robert Walpole, prime minister, has accompanied 
 the kinji; in his carriao;e, from the very entrance of 
 London, where the famous statesman met him. lie is 
 now the privileged companion of their Majesties, in 
 their seclusion for the rest of the evening. His cheer- 
 ful face, in its fidl evenin;]:; disguise of wio; and tie, his 
 invariable good humor, his frank manners, his wonder- 
 ful sense, his views, more practical than elevated, suffi- 
 ciently account for the influence which this celebrated 
 minister obtained over Queen Caroline, and the readi- 
 ness of King George to siilmiit to the tie. But Sir 
 Roberts great source of ascendancy was his temper. 
 Never Ava^ thei'o in tlie annals of our country a min- 
 ister so free of access: so obliirinn; in irivinc;, so un- 
 offendina; when he refused ; so indulgent and kind to 
 those dependent on him ; so generous, so faithful to his 
 friends, so forgiving to his foes. This w\'is his cha- 
 racter under one phase : even his adherents sometimes 
 blamed his easiness of temper; tlio im}»ossibility in his
 
 27S A STATESMAN'S LAST DAYS. 
 
 nature to cherish the rcmcmhrance of a wrong, or even 
 to be roused by an insult. But, whilst such Avere the 
 amiable traits of his character, history has its lists of 
 accusations against him for corruption of the most 
 shameless description. The end of this veteran states- 
 man's career is well known. Tlie fraudulent contracts 
 Avhich he gave, the peculation and profusion of the 
 secret service money, his undue influence at elections, 
 brought around his later life a storm, from which he 
 retreated into the Upper House, when created Earl of 
 Orford. It Avas before this timely retirement from 
 office that he burst forth in these words : " I oppose 
 nothing ; give in to everything ; am said to do eveiy- 
 thing; and to answer for everything; and yet, God 
 knows, I dare not do what I think is right." 
 
 "With his public capacity, however, we have not here 
 to do : it is in his character of a courtier that we view 
 him following the ({ueen and king. Ilis round, com- 
 placent face, with his small glistening eyes, arched 
 eyebrows, and with a mouth ready to In-eak out 
 aloiul into a laugh, arc all sulxlued into a respect- 
 ful gravity as he listens to King George grum))ling 
 at the necessity for his return home. No English 
 cook could di-ess a dinner ; no Endish cook could 
 select a dessert; no English coachman coidd drive, 
 nor English jockey ride; no Englishman — such were 
 his habitual taunts — knew how to come into a room ; 
 no Englishwoman understood how to dress herself 
 The men, he said, talked of nothincr but their dull
 
 LORD IIERVEY. 270 
 
 politics, ;uul tlie ■women of notliing but their u;^ly 
 clothes. Where.is. in Hanover, all these thin^^s were 
 at perfection : men were patterns of politeness and 
 gallantry ; women, of beauty, "wit, ami entertainment. 
 His troops thei-e were the bravest in tlie world; his 
 m.iiiiifjicturiTs the most in<renious ; his people the 
 happiest: in Hanover, in short, plenty rei<^ned, riches 
 flowed, arts lloiirislu'd, magnificence abounded, every- 
 thing was in abundance that could make a prince great 
 or a people blessed. 
 
 There was one standing behind the queen who 
 listened to these outbreaks of the king's bilious 
 temper, as he cnlleil it, witli an apparently respect- 
 ful solicitude, I)ut with the deepest disgust in his 
 heart. A slender, elegant figure, in a court suit, 
 faultlessly and carefully perfect in that costume, stands 
 behind the queen's chaii-. It is Lord Herve^^ His 
 lofty forehead, his features, which have a refinement 
 of character, his well-turned mouth, and full and 
 dimpled chin, form his claims to that beauty which 
 ■won tlie heart of the lovely Mary Lepel ; whilst the 
 somewhat thoughtful and pensive expression of his 
 physiognomy, when in repose, indicated the sympa- 
 tliizing, 3''et, at tlie same time, satirical cliaracter 
 of one who won the affections, perhaps unconsciously, 
 of the amiable Princess Caroline, the favorite daugh- 
 ter of George II. 
 
 A general air of languor, ill concealed by the most 
 studied artifice of countenance, and even of posture,
 
 280 THE MACARONI. 
 
 characterizes Lord Hervey. He would have abhorred 
 robustness ; for he belonged to the clupie then called 
 Macaronis ; a set of fine gentlemen, of whom the 
 present world Avould not he worthy, tricked out for 
 show, fitted only to drive out fading majesty in a 
 stage-coach ; exquisite in every personal append- 
 age, too fine for the common usages of society ; 
 point-device, not only in every curl and ruffle, but in 
 every attitude and step ; men with full satin roses on 
 their shinino- shoes ; diamond tablet rin2:s on ihcir 
 forefingers ; with snuflF-boxes, the worth of which 
 might almost purchase a farm ; lace worked by the 
 delicate fingers of some religious recluse of an ances- 
 tress, and taken from an altar-cloth ; old point-lace, 
 dark as coffee-water could make it ; with embroidered 
 waistcoats, w^'cathed in cx([uisite tambour-work round 
 each capricious lappet and pocket ; with cut steel but- 
 tons that glistened beneath the courtly wax-lights : 
 Avith these and fifty other small l»ut costly character- 
 istics that established the reputation of an aspirant 
 Macaroni. Lord Hervey was, in truth, an effeminate 
 creature : too dainty to walk ; too precious to commit 
 his frame to horseback ; and prone to imitate the some- 
 what recluse habits which the German rulers introduced 
 within the court: he was disposed to candle-light pleas- 
 ures and cockney diversions; to Marybone and the 
 Mall, and shrinkini;; from the athletic and social rec- 
 reations which, like so much that was manly and 
 English, were confined almost to the English squire
 
 LORD HERVEY'S ANCESTRY. 281 
 
 pur et simple after tlie ITanoverian accession ; wlion 
 so iiiiicli degeneracy for a while obscured the English 
 character, debased its tone, enervated its best races, 
 vilified its literature, corrupted its morals, changed its 
 costume, and degraded its architecture. 
 
 Beneath the eifcminacy of the Macaroni, Lord Iler- 
 vcy was one of the few who united to mtense Jinert/ in 
 every minute detail, an acute and cultivatci] intellect. 
 To perfect a Macaroni it was in tnitli advisaldc, if not 
 essential, to unite some smattering of learning, a pre- 
 tension to wit, to his super-dandyism ; to be the author 
 of some personal squib, or the translator of some classic. 
 Queen Caroline was too cultivated herself to suffer fools 
 about her, and Lord TTervey was a man after her own 
 taste; as a courtier he was essentially a fine gentle- 
 man; and, more than that, lie coidil be the most de- 
 liu-htful companion, the most sensible adviser, and the 
 most winning friend in the court. His ill-health, 
 wliicli lie carefully concealed, his fiistidiousness, his 
 ultra-dflic-acv of h:il)its, fornieil an agreeable contrast 
 to the coar^^e rol)ustness of '' Sir Rol)ert," and consti- 
 tuted a relief after the society of the vulgar, strong- 
 minded minister, who was l)orn for tlie hustings and 
 the House of Commons rather than for the courtly 
 drawing-room. 
 
 John, Loiil ITervey, long vice-chamberlain to Queen 
 Cai-olinc, was, like Sir Robert Waljiole, descended from 
 a commoner's family, one of those good old S((nii\'-^ wlio 
 lived, as Sir Henry Wotton says, ■■' without lustre and
 
 282 AN ECCENTRIC RACE. 
 
 without obscurity." The Duchess of Marlborough had 
 procured the elevation of the Herveys of Ickworth to 
 the peerage. She happened to be intimate with Sir 
 Thomas Fclton, the fiither of Mrs. Hervey, afterwards 
 Lady Bristol, whose husband, at first ci'eated Lord 
 Hervey, and afterwards Earl of Bristol, exj^ressed his 
 obligations bv rctaininri; as his motto, when raised to 
 the peerage, the words " Je n'oublieray jamais," in 
 allusion to the service done him by the Duke and 
 Duchess of Marlborough. 
 
 The Herveys had always been an eccentric race ; 
 and the classification of " men, women, and Herveys," 
 by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Avas not more witty 
 than true. There was in the whole race an eccentricity 
 which bordered on the ridiculous, but did not imply 
 Avant of sense or of talent. Indeed this third species, 
 "the Herveys," were more gifted than the generality 
 of 'Mnen and women." The father of Lord Hervey 
 had been a country gentleman of good fortune, living 
 at Ickworth, near Bury in Suffolk, and representing 
 the town in Parliament, us his father liad Ijefore him, 
 until raised to tlie peerage. Before that elevation he 
 had lived on in liis own county, uniting the character 
 of the English scpiire, in that fox-hunting county, with 
 that of a perfect gentleman, a scholar, and a most ad- 
 mirable member of society. He was a poet, also, 
 affecting the style of Cowley, wlio wrote an elegy upon 
 his uncle, William Hervey, an elegy companMl to Mil- 
 ton's " Lycidas " in imagery, music, and tenderness
 
 CAKR, LORD IIKRVEY. 283 
 
 of tliou'Jiilit. The shade of Cowlcv, •wliom Cliarlcs IT. 
 pronounct'tl, ,it his death, to be " the best rnnn in Kii;;- 
 hiiid. " haunted this peer, the first Earl of Bristol, lie 
 :is|)iri'd cspeeially to the jmet's 2cit ; and the ambition 
 to be a \\it lU'W like wildfire among his family, espe- 
 cially infeetitii:- his two sons, Carr, the elder brother of 
 the subject <»f' this memoir, and Lord llervey. 
 
 It would have been well could the Earl of Bristol 
 have transmitted to his sons his other qualities. He 
 "was pious, moral, affectionate, sincere ; a consistent 
 Whig of the old school, and, as such, disapproving of 
 Sir Robert Walpole, of the standing army, the corrup- 
 tions, and that doctrine of expediency so unblushingly 
 avowed l)y tlu> ministers. 
 
 Created Earl of Bristol in 1714, the heir-apparent 
 to his titles and estates was the elder brother, by a 
 former marriage, of John, Lord llervey ; the dissolute, 
 clever, Avhimsical Carr, Lord llervey. Pope, in one 
 of his satirical appeals to the second Lord llervey, 
 speaks of his friendship -with Carr, " whose early death 
 deprived the family " (of llervey) " of as much wit and 
 honor as he left behind him in any part of it." The 
 ivit was a familv attril)ute, but the honor was dul)ious : 
 Carr was as deistical as any Macaroni of the day. and, 
 perhaps, more dissolute than most : in one respect he 
 has left beliin<l him a- celebrity which may be as ques- 
 tionable as his wit, or his honor ; he is reputed to be the 
 father of Horace "Walpole, and if we accept presumptive 
 evidence of the fact, the statement is clearlv borne out,
 
 284 A FRAGILE BOY. 
 
 for in his wit, his indifference to religion, to snv the 
 least, his satirical turn, his love of the world, and his 
 contempt of all that was great and good, he strongly 
 resembles his reputed son ; whilst the levity of Lady 
 Walpole's character, and Sir Robert's laxity and dis- 
 soluteness, do not furnish any reasonable doubt to the 
 statement made by Lady Louisa Stuart, in the intro- 
 duction to Lord "VVharncliffe's " Life of Lady INIary 
 Wortlev Montagu." Carr, Lord Ilervcv, died early, 
 and his half-brother succeeded him in his title and 
 expectations. 
 
 John, Lord Hervey, was educated first at "Westmin- 
 ster School, under Dr. Freind, tlie fi-icnd of Mrs. 
 Montagu ; tliencc he was removed to Clare Hall, 
 Cambridge : he graduated as a noblcnum, and Ijc- 
 camc M. A. in 171"). 
 
 At Cambridge Lord Ilervey might have ac([uired 
 some manly prowess ; but he liad a mother who Avas 
 as strange as tlie family into which she liad married, 
 and wlio was passionately devoted to her son : slic 
 evinced her affection b}' never letting liim Jiave a 
 chance of being like other English boys. When his 
 fiither Avas at NcAvmarket, Jack Hervey, as he was 
 called, was to ride a race, to please his father; but 
 liis moflier could not I'isk lier dear boy's safety, and 
 tlie r;ice ^vas Avon by a jockey. lie Avas as precious 
 :iu(l as fragile as porcelain: the elder brother's denth 
 made the heir of the Herveys more valualJe, more 
 effeminnte. ;md more controlled than ever ])V liis
 
 A BrTTERFLY EXISTENCE. 285 
 
 eccentric rnotlier. A court amis to Ite liis lienii- 
 splicre, and to that all liis views, early in life, tended. 
 He went to Hanover to pay liis court to Geor^^e I. : 
 Carr liad done the same, and had come l)a(d< eii- 
 chanted with (ieorge, the lieir-presuniptive, who made 
 liini one of the h)rds of the hedchaniher. Jack Iler- 
 ve_y also returned full of enthusiam for the Prince of 
 Wales, afterwards George II., and the i'rincess; and 
 that visit influenced his destiny. 
 
 He now projjosed making tlie grand tour, which 
 comprised Paris, Germany, and Italy. But liis 
 mother again interfere<l : she wept, she exhorted, 
 she prevailed. Means were refused, and the strip- 
 ling was recalled to hang about the court, or to loiter 
 at Ickworth, scribbling verses, and causing his fatlier 
 uneasiness lest lie should be too much of a poet, and 
 too little of a public man. 
 
 Such was his youth : di.sappointed by not obtaining 
 a commission in the Guards, he led a desultory but- 
 terfl^'-like life ; one day at Richmond with Queen 
 Caroline, then Princess of Wales ; another, at Pope's 
 villa at Twickenham ; sometimes in the House of 
 Commons, in which he succeeded his elder brother 
 as member for Bury ; and, at the period when he 
 has been described as forming one of the quartett in 
 Queen Caroline's closet at St. James's, as vice-cham- 
 berlain to his partial and royal patroness. 
 
 His early marriage with Mary Lepel, the beautiful 
 maid of honor to Queen Caroline, insured his felicity,
 
 28G GEORGE II.'S FAMILY. 
 
 though it did not curb his predilections for otlier 
 ladies. 
 
 Henceforth Lord Ilervey lived all the year round in 
 -what were then called lodgings, that is, apartments 
 appropriated to the royal household, or even to others, 
 in St. James's, or at Richmond, or at Windsor. In 
 order fully to comprehend all the intimate relations 
 Avhich he had with the court, it is necessary to present 
 the reader with some account of the ftimily of George 
 II. Five daughters had been the female issue of his 
 ]\Iajesty"s marriage with Queen Caroline. Three of 
 these princesses, the three elder ones, had lived, dur- 
 ino- the life of George I., at St. James's with their 
 grandfather ; who, irritated by the differences between 
 him and his son, then Prince of Wales, adopted that 
 measure rather as showing his authority than IVom 
 any affection to the young princesses. It Avas, in 
 truth, difficult to say which of these royal ladies 
 was the most unfortunate. 
 
 Anne, the eldest, had shown her spirit early in life 
 Avhilst residing with George I. ; she had a proud, im- 
 perious nature, and her temper Avas, it must be owned, 
 put to a severe test. The only time that George I. 
 did the English the ]to)i(>r of choosing one of the 
 beauties of the nation for his mistress, was during 
 the last year of his reign. The object of his clioice 
 was Anne Brett, the eldest daughter of the infamous 
 Countess of jNIacclesfield by her second husl)aiid. 
 The neglect of Savage, the poet, her son, was merely
 
 ANNE intKTT. 287 
 
 Olio paPsa<i;o in tlio iniquitous life of Lady ^Nlacc-k'S- 
 ficld. Kndow cd witli siuLiiilav taste and judffincnt, 
 consiilii'd hy Culley (Jibber on every new play lie 
 produced, tlio inotlior of Sava<^e uas not only Avliolly 
 destitute of all virtue, but of all shame. One day, 
 looking out of the window, she perceived a very 
 handsome man assaulted by some bailiffs who Avero 
 going to arrest him : she ])aid his debt, released, and 
 married liiiii. The hero of this story was Colonel 
 Brett, the father of Anne Brett. 
 
 The child of such a mother was not likely to be 
 even decently respectable ; and Anne was proud of 
 her disgraceful pre-eminence and of her disgusting and 
 royal lover. She was dark, and her flashing dark eyes 
 reseml)hMl those of a Sj)aiiis]i l)eauty. Ten years after 
 the death of (leorgo I., she found a husband in Sir 
 William Leman, of Northall, and was announced, on 
 that occasion, as the half-sister of Richard Savage. 
 
 To the society of this woman, when at St. James's 
 as '"Mistress Brett," the three princesses were sub- 
 jected: at the same time the Duchess of Kendal, the 
 king's German mistress, occupied other lodgings at 
 St. James's. 
 
 Miss Brett was to he rewarded with the coronet of a 
 countess for her degradation, the king hcing absent on 
 the occasion at Hanover ; elated by her expectations, 
 she took the liberty, during his Majesty's absence, of 
 ordering a door to be broken out of her apartment 
 into the roval garden, where the iirincesses Avalkcd.
 
 288 A BITTER CUP. 
 
 The Princess Anne, not deigning to associate with her, 
 commanded that it should be forthwith closed. Miss 
 Brett imperiously reversed that order. In the midst 
 of the affair, the king died suddenly, and Anne Brett's 
 reign was over, and her influence soon as much forgot- 
 ten as if she had never existed. The Princess Anne 
 was pining in the dulness of her royal home, when a 
 marriage with the Prince of Orange was proposed for 
 the consideration of his parents. It was a miserable 
 match as well as a miserable prospect, for the prince's 
 revenue amounted to no more than £12,000 a year ; and 
 the state and pomp to which 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, happiness. The Prince of Orange Avas 
 both deformed and disgusting in his person, though 
 his face was sensible in expression ; and if he inspired 
 one idea more strongly than another when he appeared 
 in his uniform and cocked hat, and spoke bad French' 
 or Avorse English, it Avas that of seeing before one a 
 dressed-up baboon. 
 
 It was a bitter cup for the princess to drink, but she 
 drank it : she reflected that it might be tlie only way 
 of quitting a court Avhere, in case of her father's death, 
 she would be dependent on her brother Frederick, or on 
 that Aveak prince's strong-minded Avife. So she con- 
 sented and took the dAvarf ; and that consent Avas re- 
 garded by a grateful people, and by all good courtiers, 
 as a sacrifice for the sake of Protestant principles, the
 
 THE DAKIJNC OF TlIK FAMILY. 289 
 
 House of Orange being, p^r excellence, at the head of 
 the orthodox dynasties in Europe. A dowry of X80,0U0 
 ■was fortlnvitli granted by an admiring Commons — 
 just double Avhat liad ever been given before. That 
 sum was happily lyini; in the exchequer, being the 
 purchase-money of some lands in St. Christopher's 
 uhieh had lately been sold ; and King George "was 
 tliaiiki'iil to get rid of a daughter whose haughtiness 
 gave liiiii trouble. In person, too, the Princess lloj'al 
 was not very ornamental to the Court. She Avas ill- 
 made, with a propensity to grow fat; her comj)lexion, 
 otherwise yery fine, was marked with the small-pox ; 
 she had, however, a lively, clean look — one of her 
 chief beauties — and a certain royalty of manner. 
 
 The Princess Amelia died, as the world thought, 
 single, but consoled herself Avith various love flirtations. 
 The Duke of Newcastle made love to her, but her af- 
 fections were centred on the Duke of Grafton, to 
 whom she was privately married, as is confidently 
 asserted. 
 
 The Princess Caroline was the darlinir of her fimilv. 
 Even the king relied on her truth. When there was 
 any disjnite, he used to say, " Send for Caroline ; she 
 will tell us the right story." 
 
 Her fate had its clouds. Amiable, gentle, of un- 
 bounded charity, with strong affections, which Averc not 
 suffered to flow in a legitimate channel, she became 
 devotedly attached to Lord Ilervey : her heart was 
 
 bound u]) in him; his death drove her into a per- 
 VoL. I.— 19
 
 290 THE YOUNGER ROYAL TRIXCESSES. 
 
 manent retreat from tlie world. No debasing connec- 
 tion existed between tliem ; but it is misery, it is sin 
 enou<Tli to love another woman's husband — and that 
 sin, that misery, was the lot of the royal and otherwise 
 virtuous Caroline. 
 
 The Princess Mary, another victim to conventional- 
 ities, was united to Frederick, Landgrave of Hesse Cas- 
 sel ; a barbarian, from whom she escaped, whenever 
 she could, to come, with a bleeding heart, to her Eng- 
 lish home. She was, even Horace Walpole allows, 
 " of the softest, mildest temper in the world," and 
 fondly beloved by her sister Caroline, and by the 
 " Butcher of Culloden,"' William, Duke of Cumber- 
 land. 
 
 Louisa became Queen of Denmark in 174G, after 
 some years' marriage to the Crown Prince. " We are 
 lucky," Horace Walpole writes on that occasion, "in 
 the death of kings." 
 
 The two princesses who were still under the paternal 
 roof were contrasts. Caroline was a constant invalid, 
 gentle, sincere, unambitious, devoted to her mother, 
 whose death nearly killed her. Amelia affected popu- 
 larity, and assumed the esprit fort — was fond of med- 
 dling in politics, and after the death of her mother, 
 joined the Bedford faction, in opposition to her father, 
 liut both these princesses were outwai'dly submissive 
 when Lord Hervey became the queen's chamberlain. 
 
 The evenings at St. James's were sj)ent in the same 
 way as those at Kensington.
 
 EVENINGS AT ST. JAMES'S. 201 
 
 Quadrille formed li< r ^^ajesty's pastime, uiid, whilst 
 L(»r(l Ilervev i)l;ived pools of cvibba^ie ■with the Princess 
 Caroline and ilic maids of honor, the Duke of Cumber- 
 land amused himself ami the Princess Amelia at '' Itid- 
 fet." Oil ^Mondays and Fridays there av ere drawing- 
 rooms held ; and these receptions took place, very 
 Aviselv, in tlie cveninii. 
 
 Beneatli ;dl the show of gayety and the freezing 
 ceremony of those stately occasions, there was in 
 that court as much misery as family dissensions, or, 
 to speak accurately, fiimily hatreds, can engender. 
 Endless jealousies, which seem to us as frivolous as 
 they were rabid, and contentions, of which even llie 
 origin is still unexplained, had long severed the queen 
 from her eldest son. George II. had always loved his 
 mother : his affection for the uidiappy Sophia Dorothea 
 was one of the very few traits of goodness in a character 
 utterlv vulurar, sensual, and entirely selfish. His son, 
 Frederick, Prince of Wales, on the other hand, hated 
 his mother. He loved neither of his parents: but llic 
 queen liad the ])re-cmiiu'nce in his aversion. 
 
 The king, during the year 173G, was at Hanover. 
 His return was announced, but under circumstances 
 of danger. A tremendous storm arose just as he was 
 prepared to embark at Helvoetsluys. All London was 
 on the look-out, weathercocks w'ere watched, tides, 
 winds, and moons formed the only subjects of con- 
 versation ; but no one of his iNIajesty's subjects was 
 so demonstrative as the Prince of Wales, and his
 
 292 FEEDEEICK, PEINCE OF WALES. 
 
 cheerfulness, and his triumph even, on the occasion, 
 were of course resentfully heard of by the queen. 
 
 During the storm, when anxiety had almost amounted 
 to fever, Lord Ilervey dined Avith Sir Robert Walpole. 
 Their conversation naturally turned on the state of 
 affairs, prospectively. Sir Robert called the prince 
 a " poor, weak, irresolute, false, lying, contemptible 
 wretch." Lord Hervey did not defend him, but sug- 
 gested that Frederick, in case of his father's death, 
 might be more influenced by the queen than he had 
 hitherto been. "Zounds, my lord!" interrupted Sir 
 Robert, " he would tear the flesh off her bones with 
 red-hot irons sooner ! The distinctions she shows to 
 you, too, I believe, would not be forgotten. Then the 
 notion he has of his great riches, and the desire he has 
 of fingering them, would make him pinch her, and 
 pinch her again, in order to make her buy her ease, 
 till she had not a ii;roat left." 
 
 What a picture of a heartless and selfish character ! 
 The next day the (jueen sent for Lord Ilervey to ask 
 him if he knew the particulars of a great dinner which 
 the prince had given to the lord mayor the previous 
 day, whilst the whole country, and the court in par- 
 ticular, was trembling for the safety of the king, liis 
 father. Lord Ilervey told her that the prince's speech 
 at the dinner was the most ingratiating piece of popu- 
 larity ever lieard ; tlie healths, of course, as usual. 
 "Heavens!" cried the (jueen : " po})ularity always 
 makes me sick, but Fritzs popularity makes mo
 
 AMELIA SOPHIA \VALMODEN. 293 
 
 vomit ! I hear that yesterday, on tlie prince's side 
 of the House, they talked of tlic king's being cast 
 away with tlie same mtuj froid as you woiilfl talk 
 of an overturn, and that my good son strutted about 
 as if he had been already king. Did you mark the 
 airs Avith which he came into my drawing-room in 
 the mornin";? thou<!;h he does not think fit to honor 
 me with his presence, or ennui me with his wife's, of 
 an evening ? I felt something here in my throat that 
 swelled and half-choked me." 
 
 Poor Queen Caroline! with such a son, and such a 
 husband, she must have been possessed of a more than 
 usual share of German imperturbability to sustain her 
 cheerfulness, writhing, as she often was, under the 
 pangs of a long-concealed disorder, of Avhich eventually 
 she died. Even on the occasion of the king's return 
 in time to spend his birthday in England, the queen's 
 temper had been sorely tried. Nothing had ever vexed 
 her more than the king's admiration for Amelia Sophia 
 AValmoden, who, after the death of Caroline, was cre- 
 ated Countess of Yarmouth. INIadame Walmoden liad 
 been a reiy-ninjr belle among the married women at 
 Hanover when George II. visited that country in 
 1735. Not that her Majesty's affections were wounded ; 
 it was her ))ride that was hurt l)y the idea that people 
 Avould think that this Hanoverian lady had more influ- 
 ence than she had. In other respects tlic king's ab- 
 sence Avas a relief : slic hail the o'A/^ of the regency; 
 she had llie comfort of having the hours Avhich her
 
 294 KINGLY INSULTS. 
 
 royal torment decreed were to be passed in amusin<^ 
 his dulness, to herself; she was free from his "(quotid- 
 ian sallies of temper, which," as Lord Hervey relates, 
 "let it be charged by what hand it would, used always 
 to discharge its hottest fire, on some pretence or other, 
 upon her," 
 
 It is quite true that from the first dawn of his prefer- 
 ence for Madame Walmoden, the king wrote circum- 
 stantial letters of fifty or sixty pages to the queen, 
 informing her of every stage of the affair ; the queen, 
 in rej)ly, saying that she was only one woman, and an 
 old woman, and adding, " that he might love more and 
 younger tvomen.'^ In return, the king wrote, "You 
 must love the Walmoden, for she loves you;'' a civil 
 insult, which he accompanied with so minute a descrip- 
 tion of liis new favorite, that the (jueen, had she been 
 a painter, might have drawn her portrait at a hundred 
 miles' distance. 
 
 The queen, subservient as she seemed, felt the 
 humiliation. Such was the debased nature of George 
 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 desired her to sliow tliem to Sir Robert Walpole. 
 lie used to "tag several paragraphs," as Lord Her- 
 vey expresses it, with these words, ^' 3Iontrez ceci, et 
 consultez la-dessus de gros homwe,'' meaning Sir Rob- 
 ert. But this was onlv a ))()rti(m of the diso;ustin<); dis- 
 closures made by tbe vulgar, licentious monarch to his 
 too degrade(l consort.
 
 POOR QUEEN CAROLINE! 295 
 
 In the bitterness of her mortification the queen con- 
 sulted Lord llervey and Sir Robert as to the possibility 
 oC her losing her influence, should she resent the king's 
 delay in returniiiL^. They agreed that her taking the 
 '"'' jiire turn "' would ruin her witli her royal consort; 
 Sir Robert adding, that it" he had a mind to flatter her 
 into her ruin, he might talk to her as if she were 
 twenty-five, and try to make her imagine that she 
 could bring the king back by the apprehension of 
 losing her affection. lie said it was now too late in 
 her life to try new methods ; she must persist in the 
 soothing, coaxing, submissive arts which had been 
 practised with success, and even press his Majesty to 
 bring this woman to England ! " lie taught her," 
 says Lord llervey, "this hard lesson till she wept." 
 Nevertheless, the queen expressed her gratitude to the 
 minister for his advice. " My lord," said Walpole to 
 llervey, "• she laid her thanks on me so thick that I 
 found I had gone too far, for I am never so much afraid 
 of her rebukes as of her commendations." 
 
 Such was the state of affjiirs between this singular 
 couple. Nevertheless, the queen, not from attachment 
 to the king, but from the horror she had of her son's 
 reigning, felt such fears of the prince's succeeding to 
 the throne as she could liardly ^express. He would, 
 slio Avas convinced, do all he could to ruin and injure 
 her in case of his accession to the throne. 
 
 Tlie consolation of such a fi'iend as L(n-d llervey can 
 easily be conceived, when he told her Majesty that he
 
 296 MISS VANE. 
 
 had resolved, in case the king had been lost at sea, to 
 have retired from her service, in order to prevent any 
 jealousy or irritation that might arise from his sup- 
 posed influence with her Majesty. The queen stopped 
 him short, and said, " No, my lord, I should never 
 have suffered that ; you are one of the greatest pleas- 
 ures of my life. But did I love you 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. You," she added, "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 
 ben-jred Sir Robert Waliiolc on her knees not to have 
 sent in his resignation. 
 
 The animosity of the Prince of Wales to Lord Her- 
 vey augmented, there can be no doubt, his unnatural 
 aversion to the queen, an aversion which he evinced 
 early in life. There was a beautiful, giddy maid of 
 honor, who attracted not only the attention of Fred- 
 erick, but the rival attentions of other suitors, and 
 among them, the most favored was said to be Lord 
 Ilervcy, notwithstanding that he had then been for 
 some years the husband of one of the loveliest orna- 
 ments of the court, the sensible and virtuous Mary 
 Lepel. Miss Vane became eventually the avowed 
 fivorite of tlie prince, and after giving birth to a son, 
 who was christene<l Fitz-Frederick Vane, and ^vlio 
 died in IToG, his unhappy motlier died ;i few months
 
 NOCTURNAL DIVERSIONS. 297 
 
 nftcrwards. It is melancholy tu read a letter fVdiu 
 hmly Ilervey to Mrs. IToward, portraying tlio f'r(tlic 
 and levity of tliis once joyous creature among the 
 other maids of honor ; and her strictures show at once 
 the unrefined nature of the pranks in which they in- 
 dulged, and her own sohriety of demeanor. 
 
 ►She speaks, on one occasion, in which, however, 
 Miss Vane did not sliarc tlie nocturnal diversion, of 
 some of the maids of honor being out in tlic Avintcr 
 all night in the gardens at Kensington — opening and 
 rattling the windows, and trying to frighten people out 
 of their wits; and she gives Mrs. Howard a hint that 
 the queen ought to be informed of the Avay in which 
 her young attendants amused themselves. After levi- 
 ties such as these, it is not surprising to find poor 
 Miss Vane writing to Mrs. Howard, with complaints 
 that she Avas unjustly aspersed, tmd referring to her 
 relatives, Lady Betty Nightingale and Lady Hewet, 
 in testimony of the falsehood of reports Avhich, un- 
 happily, the event verified. 
 
 The prince, however, never forgave Lord Hervcy 
 for being his rival witli INIiss Vane, nor his mother for 
 lier favoi's to Lord Ilervey. In vain did the (jueen 
 endeavor to reconcile Fritz, as she called him, to his 
 father ; — nothing could be done in a case where the 
 one was all dogged selfishness, and where the other, 
 tlie idol oi" the opposition party, as the ]irince ]iad 
 ever been, so hyere de tStc as to swallow all the adula- 
 tion oficred to him, and to lielieve himself a demigud.
 
 298 " NEIGHBOR GEORGE'S ORANGE-CHEST." 
 
 "The queen's dread of a rival," Horace Walpole re- 
 marks, " was a feminine weakness : the behavior of 
 her eldest son was a real thorn." Some time before 
 his marriage to a princess who was supposed to aug- 
 ment his hatred of his mother, Frederick of Wales 
 had contemplated an act of disobedience. Soon after 
 his arrival in England, Sarah, Duchess of Marl- 
 borough, hearing that he was in want of money, had 
 sent to offer him her granddaughter. Lady Diana 
 Spencer, with a fortune of £100,000. The prince ac- 
 cepted the young lady, and a day was fixed for his mar- 
 riage in the duchess's lodge at the Great Park, Wind- 
 sor. But Sir Robert Walpole, getting intelligence of 
 the plot, the nuptials Avere stopped. The duchess 
 never forgave either Walpole or the royal family, and 
 took an early opportunity of insulting the latter. 
 W'hen the Prince of Orange came over to marry the 
 Princess Royal, a sort of boarded gallery was erected 
 from the Avindows of the great drawing-room of the 
 palace, and was constructed so as to cross the garden 
 to the Lutheran chapel in the Friary, where the 
 duchess lived. The Prince of Orange being ill, went 
 to Bath, and the marriage was delayed for some weeks. 
 Meantime the windows of IVIarlborough House were 
 darkened by the gallery. " I wonder," cried the old 
 duchess, " when my neighbor George will take away 
 his orange-chest?" — the structure, with its pent-house 
 roof, reallv rcscmblino; an orange-chest. 
 
 Mary Lepel, Lady Hervey, whose attractions, great
 
 MARY LKrKI., LADY irERVP:Y. 299 
 
 as they were, jdovcil insiifTiciciit to rivot tlio fxclusivc 
 admiiMtiuii ul' tlic ;iccoiii|»lislic(l I Icivcv, liml hecoiiie 
 liis wife ill ITliO, some liiiic hclore lici" luishaiid liiul 
 been coiiij)letc'ly eiitlirallcd with tlie gikled prison 
 doors of a eoiii-t. She was endowed with that intel- 
 lectual beauty calculated to attract a ninn dt' talent : 
 she was hi;rhly educated, of" great talent; possessed 
 of" sacoir faire^ infinite good temper, and a strict sense 
 of" duty. Slie also derived from lier father. Brigadier 
 Lepel, Avho was of an ancient family in Sark, a con- 
 siderable fortune. Good and correct as she was, Lady 
 Hervey viewed with a fashionable composure the 
 various intimacies formed during the course of their 
 married life ])y his lordsliip. 
 
 The fact is, tliat the aim of Ijoth was not so much 
 to insure tlieir domestic felicity as to gratify tlicir 
 ambition. Probably they were disappointed in both 
 these aims — certaiidy in one of them ; talented, in- 
 defatigable, popular, liveh', and courteous. Lord Her- 
 ve}', in the House of Commons, advocated in vain, in 
 brilliant orations, tlie measures of Walpole. Twelve 
 years, fourteen years elapsed, and he was left in the 
 somewhat subordinate position of vice-chamberlain, in 
 spite of that high order of talents which he po.ssessed, 
 and wdiich Avould have been displayed to advantage in 
 a graver scene. The fact has been explained: the 
 queen coiild not do without him ; she confided in 
 him ; hci' <laiighter loved him ; an<l his influence in 
 that court was too poAverful f"or Walpole to dispense
 
 300 EIVALEY. 
 
 Avitli an aid so valuable to his own plans. Some 
 episodes in a life thus frittered away until, too late, 
 promotion came, alleviated his existence, and gave his 
 wife only a passing uneasiness, if even indeed they 
 imparted a pang. 
 
 One of these was his dangerous passion for Miss 
 Vane ; another, his platonic attachment to Lady Mary 
 VVortley Blontagu. 
 
 Whilst he lived on the terms with his wife which is 
 described even by the French as being a '' 3Ienage de 
 Paris,'" Lord Ilervey found in another quarter the 
 sympathies which, as a husband, he Avas too well-bred 
 to require. It is pro]»able that he always admired his 
 Avife more than any other person, for she had qualities 
 that were ({uite congenial to the tastes of a wit and a 
 beau in those times. Lady Ilervey was not only singu- 
 larly captivating, young, gay, and handsome; but a 
 complete model also of the polished, courteous, high- 
 bred Avoman of fashion. Iler manners are said by 
 Lady Louisa Stuart to have ''had a foreign tin^e, 
 wdiich some called affected ; Init they were gentle, easy, 
 and altogether exquisitely pleasing." She was in 
 secret a Jacobite — and resembled in that respect most 
 of the fine ladies in Great Britain. Whio-acry and 
 Walpolism were vulgar: it was haiit tou to take of- 
 fence when James IT. was anatliematized, and (piite 
 good taste to hint that some people Avished Avell to the 
 Chevalier's attenqtts : and this Avay of s])eaking owed 
 its fashion probably to Frederick of Wales, wliosc in-
 
 LADY MAKY WORTLEY MONTAGT. .iOl 
 
 terest in Flora MacdonaM, and -wliosc concern for 
 the exiled family, ^vere anion<^ the fe^v amiahle traits 
 of his disposition. Perhaps they arose from a wish to 
 plague his parents, rather than from a greatness of 
 character foreign to this prince. 
 
 Lady Ilervey was in the bloom of youth. Lady 
 Mary in the zenith of her age, when they became 
 rivals: Lady Mary had once excited the jealousy of 
 Queen Caroline when Princi'ss of Wales. 
 
 "How becomingly Lady Mary is dressed to-night I" 
 whispered George IL to his wife, whom he had called 
 up from the card-table to impart to her that important 
 conviction. "Lady Mary always dresses well," was 
 the cold and curt reply. 
 
 Lord Hervey had been married about seven years 
 when Lady Mary Wortley INIontagu reappeared at the 
 court of Queen Caroline, after her long residence in Tur- 
 key. Lord Ilervey was thirty-three years of age ; Lady 
 INLiry was verging on forty. She Avas still a pretty wom- 
 an, with a pi(|uant, neat-featured face; which does not 
 seem to Imvc done any justice to a mind at once mascu- 
 line and sensitive, nor to a heart capable of benevolence 
 — capable of strong attachments, and of bitter hatred. 
 
 Like Lady Ilervev, she lived with her husband on 
 well-bred terms : there existed no quarrel between 
 them, no avowed ground of coldness; it was the icy 
 boundary of frozen feeling that severed them ; the 
 sure and lasting though polite destroyer of all bonds, 
 indift'erence. Lady ^Liry was full of rej)artee, of
 
 302 HERVEY'S INTIMACY WITH LADY MARY. 
 
 poetry, of anecdote, and was not averse to admira^ 
 tion ; but she was essentially a woman of common 
 sense, of views enlarged by travel, and of ostensibly 
 good principles. A woman of delicacy Avas not to be 
 foun<l in those days, any more than other productions 
 of the nineteenth century : a telegraphic message 
 would have been almost as startling to a courtly 
 ear as the refusal of a fine lady to suffer a double 
 entendre. Lady Mary was above all scruples, and 
 Lord Hervey, who had lived too lono; with Gcoro-e 
 II. 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 their right names, on which Lady Mary 
 plumed herself: she was what they term in the north 
 of England, "Emancipated." They formed an old 
 acquaintance Avith a confidential, if not a tender friend- 
 ship ; and that their intimacy was unpleasant to Lady 
 Hervey was proved by her refusal — when, after the 
 grave had closed over Lord Hervey, late in life, Lady 
 Mary, ill and broken down l)y age, returned to die in 
 England — to resume an acquaintance wliich had been 
 a painful one to her. 
 
 Lord Hervey was a martyr to illness of an epileptic 
 character; and Lady Mary gave him lier sympathy. 
 She was somewhat of a doctor — and being older than 
 her friend, may have had the art of soothing sufferings, 
 which were the Avorse because thev Avere concealed. 
 Whilst he writhed in pain, he Avas obliued to n'we
 
 VISITS TO TWICKENIfAM. 303 
 
 vent to his a;;ony liy ullcging that an attack of cramp 
 bent liini douhle : yet lie liveil hy nilc — a rule lianhf to 
 adhere to than that (if tlie most conscientious honuxjo- 
 patli in tlic present day. In the midst of court gayeties 
 ami thi' (hities of office, he tlius Avrote to Dr. Chevne : — 
 
 ...'•' To h't you know that I continue one of your 
 most pious votaries, and .to tell you the method I am 
 in. Tn the first place, I never take wine or malt drink, 
 nor any lif(uid but water ami milk-tea; in the next, I 
 eat no meat but the whitest, youngest, and tenderest, 
 nine times in ten nothing but chicken, and never more 
 than the quantity of a small one at a meal. I seldom 
 eat any supper, but if any, nothing absolutely but 
 bread and water ; two days in the week I eat no flesh ; 
 my breakfast is dry biscuit, not sweet, and green tea ; 
 T liave left off butter as bilious ; I eat no salt, nor any 
 sauce but bread-sauce." 
 
 Among the most cherished relaxations of the royal 
 household were visits to Twickenham, whilst the court 
 was at Richmond. The River Thames,> which has 
 borne on its waves so much misery in olden times — 
 Avhich was the highway from the Star-chamber to the 
 Tower — wliic-h has been belabored in our days with so 
 imicli wealth, and sullied with so much iiiijiuritv : that 
 I'ivcr, whose cnn-cnt is one hour rich as tlie stream of 
 a gold river, the next hour, foul as the pestilent church- 
 yard, — was then, especially between Richmond and 
 Teddington, a glassy, placid stream, reflecting on its 
 margin the chestnut-trees of stately Ham, and the
 
 304 BACON'S OPINION OF TWICKENHAM. 
 
 reeds and wild flowers wliicli grew undisturbed in the 
 fertile meadows of Petersham. 
 
 Lord Hervey, with the ladies of the court, Mrs. 
 Howard as their chaperon, delighted in being wafted 
 to that village, so rich in names which give to Twicken- 
 ham undying associations with the departed great. 
 Sometimes the effeminate valetudinarian, Hervey, was 
 content to attend the Princess Caroline to Marble Hill 
 only, a villa resideuce built by George II. for Mrs. 
 Howard, and often 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, pointed over fair brows 
 in front, with a fold of sarsenet round them, termin- 
 ated in a long bow and ends behind — with deep falling 
 mantles over dresses never coirnizant of crinoline: o-en- 
 tleman, with cocked -hats, their bag-wigs and ties ap- 
 pearing behind ; and beneath their puce-colored coats, 
 delicate silk tights and gossamer stockings were visible, 
 as they trod the mossy lawn of the Palace Gardens at 
 Richmond, or, followed by a tiny greyhound, prepared 
 for the lazy pleasures of the day. 
 
 Sometimes the visit was private; the sickly Princess 
 Caroline had a fancy to make one of the group who arc 
 bound to Pope's villa. TAvickenham, where that great 
 little man had, since 171 T), established himself, was 
 pronounced by Lord Bacon to be the finest place in 
 tlic world for study. "Let Twitnam Park," he wrote 
 to his stcAvard, Thomas Bushel), " whicli I sold in my
 
 A VISIT TO POPE'S VILLA. 305 
 
 youns^cr days, Ix' puvcli.iscd, if possihlc, f(ir a rosidcnoo 
 fur siicli (Icscrx iiiu' |K'rsoiis to study in (siiit-e 1 expori- 
 iiientallv loiind the situation oi" tliat place iniicli con- 
 vcnit'iit lor the tiial of" my pliilosopliical conclusions) 
 — expressed in a ]»aper sealed, to the trust — wh'cli I 
 myself li;id ])iit in practice and settled tlie same by act 
 of Parliament, if the vicissitudes of fortune had not 
 intervened and in-evented me." 
 
 Twickenham continued, long after Bacon liad penned 
 this injunction, to be the retreat of the poet, the states- 
 man, tlie scholar ; the haven where the retired actress 
 and lo-oken novelist found peace; the abode of Henry 
 Fielding, who lived in one of the back streets;, the 
 temporary refuge, from tlie world of London, of Lady 
 Mary Wortley Montagu, and the life-long home of 
 Pope. 
 
 Let us picture to ourselves a visit from the princess 
 to Pope's villa : — As the barge, following the gentle 
 bendings of the river, ncars Twickenham, a richer 
 green, a summer brightness, indicates it is approach- 
 ing that spot of whicli even Bishop Warburton says 
 that " the beauty of the owner's poetic genius appeared 
 to as much advantage in the disposition of these roman- 
 tic materials as in any of his best-contrived poems." 
 And the loved toil which formed the quincunx, which 
 j)erforated and extended the grotto until it extended 
 across the road to a garden on the opposite side — the 
 toil which slidwcd tlie gentler parts of Pope's better 
 nature — has been respected, and its effects preserveil. 
 
 Vol. I.— 20
 
 306 POPE AS A HOST. 
 
 The enamelled lawn, green as no other grass save that 
 by the Thames side is green, was swept until late years 
 by the light boughs- of the famed willow. Every me- 
 morial of the bard Avas- treasured by the gracious hands 
 into which, after 1744, the classic spot fell — those of 
 Sir William Stanhope. 
 
 In the subterranean- passage this verse appears ; 
 adulatory it must be confessed : — 
 
 " The humble roof, the garden's scanty line, 
 III suit the genius of the bard divine; 
 But fancy now assumes a fairer scope, 
 And Stanhope's plans unfold the soul of Pope." 
 
 It should have been Stanhope's "gold," — a metal 
 which Avas not so abundant, nor indeed so much 
 wanted in Pope's time as in our own. Let us picture 
 to ourselves the poet as a host. 
 
 As the barge is moored close to the low steps which 
 lead up from the river to the villa, a diminutive figure, 
 then in its prime (if prime it ever had), is seen moving 
 impatiently forward. By that young-old face, with its 
 large lucid speaking eyes that liglit it up, as does a rush- 
 light in a cavern — by that twisted figure with its emaci- 
 ated legs — by the large, sensible mouth, the pointed, 
 marked, well-defined nose — by the wig, or hair pushed 
 off in masses from the broad forehead and falling bc- 
 liind in tresses — by the dress, that loose, single-breasted 
 black coat — by the cambric baiid and plaited shirt, 
 without a fiill, bat fine and white, for the poor poet
 
 THE LITTLE NIGIITIXCiALE. 307 
 
 lias taken infinite pains tliat day in self-adornraent — 
 by tlic delieate rufHe on tliat lariiv thin liaiid, and still 
 more Ity the elear, most musical voice wliich is heanl 
 "vvelcuminix his i-oval and iiohlo quests, as he stands 
 bowin^r low to the Princess Caroline, and hendin"; to 
 kiss hands — liv that voice Avhicli gained him more espe- 
 ciallv the name of the little nij;litino;ale — is Pone at 
 once recognized, and Pope in the perfection of his days, 
 in the very zenith of his fame. 
 
 One ^vould gladly have been a sprite to listen from 
 some twig of that then stripling Avilhnv uhidi the poet 
 had planted Avith his own hand, to talk of those who 
 chatted for a while under its shade, before they went 
 in-doors to an elegant dinner at the usual hour of 
 t\vcl\('. How deiightfid to hear, unseen, tlie repartees 
 of Lady ]Mary Wortley Montagu, who comes down, it 
 is natural to conclude, from her villa near to that of 
 Pope. How fine a study might one not draw of the 
 fine gentleman and the Avit in Lord Ilervey, as he is 
 commanded by the gentle Princess Caroline to sit on 
 her right hand ; l)iit his heart is across the table, with 
 Lady ]\Lvry I IIow amusing to observe the dainty but 
 not sumptuous repast contrived with Pope's exquisite 
 taste, but regulated by his habitual economy — for his 
 late fiither, a worthy Jacobite hatter, erst in the Strand, 
 disdained to invest the fortune he had amassed, from 
 the extensive sale of cocked-hats, in the Funds, over 
 which an Hanoverian stranger ruled ; but had lived on 
 his capital of £20,000 (as spendthrifts do, without
 
 o08 THE ESSENCE OF SMALLTALK. 
 
 eitlier moral, religious, or political reasons) as long as 
 it lasted him ; yet lie was no spendtlirii't. Let us look, 
 therefore, ^vith a lil)eral eve, noting, as we stand, how 
 that fortune, in league with nature, who made the poet 
 crooked, had maimed two of his fingers, such time as, 
 passing a hridge, tlie poor little poet was overturned 
 into the river, and lie would have been drowned, had 
 not the postilion broken the coach window and dragged 
 the tiny body through the aperture. We mark, how- 
 ever, that he generally contrives to hide this defect, as 
 he would fain have hidden every other, from the lynx 
 eyes of Lady Mary, who knows him, however, thorough- 
 ly, and reads every line of that poor little heart of his, 
 enamored of her as it was. 
 
 Tlien the conversation ! How gladly would wc 
 cntch here some drops of what must liave 1)een 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 delicacy, 
 politeness, and a certain tact he had of showing every 
 guest that he was Avelcomc in the choicest expressions 
 and most elegant terms. Tlien Lady Mary ! how 
 brilliant is her slightest turn ! how slie banters Pope 
 — hoAv slie gives double entendre for douhle entendre 
 to Ilervey ! How sensible, yet how gay is all slie 
 says ; how bright, liow cutting, yet how polished is the 
 equivoque of the witty, high-bred Ilervey! He is 
 happy tliat d:iy — away IVom the coarse, jiassionate 
 kin"', wliom he hated with a hatred tliat l)urns itself
 
 IIEKVKY-S ArFKCTATION. oOO 
 
 out in liis lonMiip's "Mcinoirs;" away from the somc- 
 -wliat exactini^ and iiitialile ({ueen ; a^ay IVom tlic 
 hated IVdliaiii, and I In- ri\.il (Jniftdii. 
 
 And conversation never ila;:^s uhen all, more or less, 
 are congenial ; Avlien all aie Avell-informed, Avell-bred 
 and resolved to please. Yet there is a canker in that 
 ■whole assembly ; that canker is a ^vant of confidence ; 
 no one trusts the other ; Ladv Mary's encouragement 
 of Ilervey surprises and shocks the Princess Caroline, 
 •who loves him secretly; Ilervey 's attentions to the 
 queen of letters scandalizes Pope, who soon afterwards 
 makes a declaration to Lady ]Mary. Pope Avrithes 
 undti- a lash just held over him by Lady Mary's hand. 
 Ilervey feels that the poet, though all suavity, is ready 
 to demolish him at any moment, if lie can ; and the 
 only really happy and com})lacent person of the whole 
 party is, perhaps, Pojjc's old mother, A\ho sits in the 
 room next to that occupied for dinne)-, industriously 
 spinning. 
 
 This happy state of things came, however, as is 
 often the case in close intimacies, to a painful conclu- 
 sion. There was too little reality, too little earnestness 
 of feeling, for the friendship between Pope and Lady 
 Mary, including Lord Ilervey, to last long. His lord- 
 ship had his afl'ectations, and his efleminate nicety was 
 pi'cncrbinl. One day being asked at dinner if ho 
 would take some 1)0(1". he is i'e|iorted to have ans\vt'i'e(l, 
 " lu'ct".'' (ill no I laii'jii ! (Jon I you know I iicxcr c-it 
 lu'cf ni»r //<'/. s'. noi- eurrv, nor anv of those thint^s?"
 
 310 rOPE'S QUARRELS. 
 
 Poor man ! it was probably a pleasant -way of turning 
 off what he may have deemed an assault on a digestion 
 that could hai'dly conquer any solid food. This affec- 
 tation offended Lady Mary, Avhose mot, that there 
 were three species, "Men, women, and Herveys " — 
 implies a perfect perception of the eccentricities even 
 of Iier gifted friend, Lord Ilervey, Avhose mother's 
 friend slie had been, and the object of whose admira- 
 tion she undoubtedly was. 
 
 Pope, who was the most irritable of men, never for- 
 got or forgave even the most trifling offence. Lady 
 Bolingbroke truly said of him that he played the 
 politician about cabbages and salads, and everybody 
 agrees that he could hardly tolerate the wit that Avas 
 more successful than his own. It was about the year 
 1725 that he began to hate Lord Ilervey with such a 
 hatred as only he could feel ; it was unmitigated by a 
 single touch of generosity or of compassion. Pope 
 afterwards owned that his acquaintance with Lady 
 Mary and Avith Ilervey Avas discontinued, merely be- 
 cause tliey had too much Avit for him. Towards the 
 latter end of 1732, "The Imitation of the Second 
 Satire of tlie First Book of Horace " a))i)eared, and in 
 it Pope attacked Lady Mary Avitli the grossest and 
 most indecent couplet ever printed : she Avas called 
 Sappho, and Hervey, Lord Fanny ; and all the Avorld 
 knew the characters at once. 
 
 In retaliation for this satire, appeared "Verses to 
 the Imitator of Horace;" snid to hiive ))een the joint
 
 rol'KS LINES ON LOIll) HI-RVKY. fill 
 
 production of Lord Ilorvey aii<l Lady Mary. This 
 •was followed liy a \)\vce entitled "Letter from a 
 Noblciiiaii at Hampton Court to a Doctor of Divin- 
 ity." To this composition Lord Ilervey, its sole 
 author, added these lines, by way, as it seems, of 
 extenuation. 
 
 Pope's first rejily was in a prose letter, on which 
 Dr. Johnson has passed a condemnation. " It ex- 
 hibits," he says, "nothing but tedious malignity." 
 But he was partial to the Ilerveys, Thomas and Henry 
 Hervey, Lord Ilervey 's brothers, having been kind to 
 him — " If you call a dog Hervey,'" he said to Boswell, 
 " I shall love him." 
 
 Next came the epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, in which 
 every infirmity and peculiarity of Ilervey are handed 
 down in calm, cruel irony, and polished verses, to pos- 
 terity. The verses arc almost too disgusting to l)c re- 
 vived in an a";e which disclaims scurrilitv- After the 
 most personal rancorous invective, he thus writes of 
 Lord Ilervey 's conversation: 
 
 His wit all s('(-s,nv lietween this and thai — 
 Now lii,e;li, now low — now mrmlrr up, now w(i.s.s — 
 And ho himself one wild •antithesis. 
 
 vr * v> •» * * 
 
 Fop ;U the toilet, flatterer at the lioard, 
 
 Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. 
 
 Eve's tempter, thus the rabbins have expressed — 
 
 A cherub's face — a reptile all the rest. 
 
 Keauty that shocks yon, facts that none can trust, 
 
 Wit that can creep, and pride that bites the dust."
 
 312 IIERVEY'S DUEL WITH TULTENEY. 
 
 " It is impossible," Mr. Croker thinks, " not to ad- 
 mire, however we may condemn, the art by which 
 acknowled<fed wit, 1)cauty, and gentle manners — the 
 f[ueen's favor — and even a valetudinary diet, are 
 travestie<l into the most odious offences." 
 
 Pope, in two lines, pointed to the intimacy between 
 Lady Mary and Lord Ilervey : — 
 
 " Once, iinrl l)nt once, this lieedless youth was Iiif, 
 And liked tliat dangerous tiling, a female wit." 
 
 Nevertheless, he aftenvards pretended that tlie name 
 of iSappho was not applied to Lady Mary, but to women 
 in general ; and acted with a degree of mean prevari- 
 cation which greatly added to the amount of his offence. 
 The quarrel with Pope was not the only attack 
 which Lord Ilervey had to encounter. Among tlic 
 most zealous of his foes was Pulteney, afterwards 
 Lord Bath, the rival of Sir Robert Walpolc, and the 
 confederate with Bolingbroke in opposing that minister. 
 Tlie " Craftsman," contained an attack on Pulteney, 
 written, with great ability, by Ilervey. It provoked 
 a Reply from Pulteney. In this composition he spoke 
 of Hervey as " a thing below contempt," and ridiculed 
 liis personal appearance in the grossest terms. A d'u'l 
 was the result, the ]):n'ties meeting bcliind Arlington 
 House, in Piccadillv, wlicre Mr. Pulteney had tlic 
 satisfaction of almost running Lord Ilervey through 
 with his sword. Luckily the poor man slipped down, 
 so the blow was evaded, and the seconds interfered :
 
 "i»i:\i"ii di'' LoKD iii:i;\'i;y: a i»i:a.ma." ;;i;', 
 
 Mr. I'liliciicv llicii ciiibracrd Lnjd I Icrvoy, and oxpross- 
 iiiijr his rc'irrct lur llicir ((ii;irrcl, (IccLircd that he woiihl 
 never a;iaiii, either in speecli <ir writing, attaek liis h>r(l- 
 ship. Loid llervev onlv bowed, in silence; and thus 
 tliey parted. 
 
 The (|iiecn having ob.scrved wliat an alteration in 
 the j)ahiee Lord ITervcy's death wouKl cause, he said 
 he couhl guess how it ■\vouhl Ite, and he pro(kiced " The 
 Death of Ijord llervey ; or, a ^Morning at Court; a 
 Drama:"" the idea being taken, it is thought, from 
 Swift's verses on his own deatli, of which Hervey 
 might liavc seen a Hurre])titious copy. The following 
 scene Avill give some idea of the plot and structure of 
 this amusing little piece. The part allotted to the 
 Princess Caroline is in imison with the idea prevalent 
 of her attachment to Lortl llervey : — 
 
 vVcT r. 
 
 Scene : The QueeiiJs G'ulkni. The lime, nine in the mominr/. 
 
 Enter (he (iiEi:x, Princess Emii.v, Princess Caroline, ful- 
 lowed by Lord LiFKORn, ami Mrs. Pircel. 
 
 Queen. Mon IMoii, riticlle chak'ur! on V(?rite on c'toude. Pniy 
 open 11 little those windows. 
 
 Lord Lifford. Ilasa your Majesty heani de news? 
 
 Queen. \\\y.\{ news, my dear LorI? 
 
 Lord Lifford. I>at my I.ord llervey, as lie was cominf]^ last ni^lit 
 to (oiir^ was rol> and murdered l>y hif^hwaynien and tron in a 
 diteh. 
 
 Priaeeiw Ciirolinc. \\h\ i;iaiiil hi 
 
 ell : 
 
 Quern [.s/r//-/»7 her hand iijkiii hrr kiirr.'] ( 'ntnment est-il veritalile- 
 nient nmrt'/ I'unel, my angel, .sIkiII 1 imi Ikivc a liKic Iimiktast ?
 
 314 CARD-TABLE CONVERSATION. 
 
 Mrs. PtnreL What would your ^Majesty please to have? 
 
 Queen. A little chocolate, my soul, if you give me leave, and a 
 little sour cream and some fruit. [Exit Mrs. Purcel. 
 
 Queen [to Lord Lifford.] Eh bien ! ray Lord Liflbrd, dites-nous 
 un peu comment cela est arrive. I cannot imagine what he had to 
 do to be putting his nose there. Seulement pour un sot voyage 
 avec ce petit mousse, eh bien? 
 
 Lord Lifford. Madame, on scait quelque chose de celui de Mon. 
 Maran, qui d'abord qu'il a vu les voleurs s'est enfin venu a grand 
 galojipe a Londres, and after dat a wagoner take up the body and 
 put it in his cart. 
 
 Queen \_(o Princess Emily.] Are you not ashamed, Amalie, to 
 laugh ? 
 
 Princess Emih/. I only laughed at the cart, mamma. 
 
 Queen. Oh ! tliat is very fade plaisanterie. 
 
 Princess Emily. But if I may say it, mamma, I am not very 
 sorry. 
 
 Queen. Oh ! fie done I Eh h'lon ! my Lord Liflbrd ! My God ! 
 where is this chocolate, Purcel ? 
 
 As Mr. Croker remarks, Queen Caroline's break- 
 fast-table, and her parentheses, reminds one of the 
 card-table conversation of Swift : — 
 
 "The Dean's dead: (pray wliat arc trumps?) 
 Then L<u-d have mercy on his soul ! 
 (Ladies, Pll venture for the vole.) 
 Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall ; 
 (I wish 1 knew what king to call.)" 
 
 Fragile as was Lord Ilervey's constitution, it was 
 his lot to Avitness the dcath-l)ed of the queen, for Aviiose 
 amusement he had ])ennod tlio jeu d"esi)rit just (pioted, 
 in which tliere was, perliaps, as much truth as wit.
 
 QUEEN CAROLINE'S LAST DRAWING-ROOM. 31 o 
 
 The wrctclici] Queen rm-olinc liinl. during I'ourtcen 
 years, concealed from every one, except Lady Sundon, 
 an incurable disorder, that of hernia. In Noveniher 
 (17-57) she was attacked with what we should now call 
 English cholera. Dr. Tessier, her house-physician, 
 was called in. and gave her Daffey's elixir, which was 
 not likely to aiVord any relief to the deep-seated cause 
 of her sufferings. She held a drawing-room that night 
 for the last time, and ])layed at cards, even cheerfully. 
 At length she Avhispered to l^ord Ilervey, " I am not 
 aide to entertain people." '' For heavens sake, 
 madam," was the reply, "go to your room: Avould to 
 heaven the kino; would leave off talking of the Dragon 
 of AVantlcy, and release you I" The Dragon of Want- 
 ley was a l)urles(juc on the Italian opera, by Henry 
 Carey, and was the theme of the fashionable world. 
 
 The next day the queen was in fearful agony, very 
 hot, and willing to take anything proposed. Still she 
 did not, even to Lord Ilervey, avow the real cause of 
 her illness. None of the most learned court physicians, 
 neither Mead nor AVilmot, were called in. Lord Her- 
 vey sat by the queen's bed-side, and tried to soothe 
 her, Avhilst the Princess Caroline joined in begging 
 him to o-ive her mother something to relieve her aironv. 
 At length, in utter ignorance of the case, it was pro- 
 posed to give her some snakeroot, a stimulant, and, at 
 the same time, Sir Walter Raleigh's cordial ; so singu- 
 lar was it thus to find that great mind still influencing 
 a court. It was that very medicine which was admin-
 
 316 ITER ILLNESS AND AGONY. 
 
 istercd Ijy Queen Anno of Dennnark, however, to 
 Prince Henry ; that medicine ■\vliich Raleigh said, 
 " Avould cure him, or any other, of a disease, except in 
 case of poison." 
 
 However, Ranby, house-surgeon to the king, and a 
 favorite of Lord Ilervev's, assurinir him that a cordial 
 with tliis name or that name was mere (juackery, some 
 usquebaugh was given instead, but was rejected by the 
 queen soon afterwards. At last Raleigh's cordial was 
 administered, but also rejected about an hour after- 
 Avards. Her fever, after taking Raleigh's cordial, was 
 so much increased, that she was ordered instantly to 
 be bled. 
 
 Then, even, the queen never disclosed the fact that 
 could alone dictate the course to be pursued. George 
 II., with more feeling than judgment, slept on the 
 outside of the queen's bed all that night ; so tliat the 
 unhappy invalid could get no rest, nor change her 
 position, not daring to irritate the king's temper. 
 
 Tlie next day the queen said touchingly to her gen- 
 tle, affectionate daugliter, herself in declining health, 
 " Poor Caroline ! you are very ill, too : we shall soon 
 meet again in another j>lacc." 
 
 Meantime, though the (jueen declare<l to every one 
 th:it she was sure nothing could save her, it was re- 
 solved to hold a 1crr(\ The foreign ministers were to 
 come to court, imd the king, in the midst of bis real 
 grief, did not forget to send word to bis pnges to be 
 sure to b;ive bis last \\v\s niflles sewed on tbe shirt lie
 
 Till': qt:k!-:n kkeps 111:11 secret. ;;i7 
 
 ■was to ]>iil oil tli;it il;iy : :i tridc wliicli often, ns Lord 
 llcrvcv remarks, slious more of tlie real eliavaeter 
 than events of im|>ortanee, from wliieh one frenueiitly 
 knows no inoi'c of ;i jierson s state of niin<l tlian one 
 docs of his natural -iait from liis dancing. 
 
 Tjady Siimlon was, meantime, ill at Bath, so that 
 the (jueens secret rested alone in her o\vn heart. " I 
 have an ill," she said, one evening, to her daughter 
 Caroline, '' that nohody knows of." Still, neither the 
 princess nor Lord Ilervey could guess at the full mean- 
 ing of that sad assertion. 
 
 The famous Sir Ilans Sloane was then called in ; but 
 no remedy except large and repeated bleedings were 
 suiTjiested, and Idisters were ])ut on her legs. There 
 seems to have been no means left untried liy the 
 faculty to hasten the catastrophe — thus working in the 
 dark. 
 
 The king now sat up with her whom he had so 
 cruelly wounded in every nice feeling. On being 
 asked, l)y Lord Ilcrvoy, what was to be done in case 
 tlie Prince of Wales should come to in(|uire after the 
 (jueen, he answered in the following terms, worthy of 
 his ancestry — worthy of himself It is difficult to say 
 Avhieh was the most ])ninful scene, that in the chamber 
 where the (jueon lay in agony, or without, Avhere the 
 curse of family dissensions came like a ghoul to hover 
 near the bod of deatli, and to gloat over the royal 
 corpse. This was the royal dictum : — " If the puppy 
 should, in one of his impertinent airs of duty and
 
 318 A PAINFUL SCENE. 
 
 affection, dare to come to St. James's, I order you to 
 go to the scoundrel, and tell liim I wonder at his im- 
 pudence for daring to come here ; that he has my 
 orders already, and knows my pleasure, and bid him 
 go about his business ; for his poor mother is not in a 
 condition to see him act his false, whinino;, crino-ino- 
 tricks now, nor am I in a humor to bear Avith his im- 
 pertinence ; and bid him trouble me with no more mes- 
 sages, but get out of my house." 
 
 In the evening, whilst Lord Hervey sat at tea in the 
 queen's outer apartment with the Duke of Cumberland, 
 a page came to the duke to speak to the prince in the 
 passage. It was to prefer a request to see his mother. 
 This message was conveyed by Lord Hervey to the 
 king, whose reply was uttered in the most vehement 
 rage possible. ''This," said he, "is like one of his 
 scoundrel tricks; it is just of a piece with his kneeling 
 down in the dirt before the n'iob to kiss her hand at the 
 coach door when she came home from Hampton Court 
 to see the Princess, though he had not spoken one word 
 to her during her Avhole visit. I always hated the 
 rascal, but now I hate him worse than ever. He wants 
 to come and insult his poor dying mother ; but she shall 
 not see him : you have heard her, and all my daudi- 
 ters have heai'd her, very often this year at TLimpton 
 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
 
 THE TRUTH DIHCOVKRED. 319 
 
 never desire it. No, im ! lie sIimU nut come inid act 
 any of liis silly pluys here. " 
 
 In the afternoon the (|iieen said to the king, .she 
 "wondered tlie Griff, a iiickiiaine she gave to the prince, 
 liad not sent to in(|uire after her yet ; it would he so 
 like one of his j^aroltres. " Sooner or later," she added, 
 " I am sure we .shall be plagued with some mes.sagc of 
 that sort, because he will tliiid< it will have a good air 
 in the worhl to ask to see me ; and, |jerhaj)S, hopes I 
 shall be fool enough to let him come, and give him the 
 pleasure of seeing the hist breath go out of my body, 
 by which means he would have the joy of knowing I 
 Avas dead five minutes sooner than he could know it in 
 Pall Mall." 
 
 She afterwards declared that nothing: wouhl induce 
 her to see him except the king's absolute commands. 
 "Therefore, if I grow worse," she said, ''and should T 
 be weak enougli to talk of seeing him, I beg you, sir, 
 to conclude that I dote — or rave." 
 
 'i'lic king, who had long since guessed at the queen's 
 di.sease, urged her now to permit liim to name it to her 
 physicians. She begged him not to do so; and for the 
 first time, and the hist, the unliaj)]>y Avoman spoke 
 peevishly and warmly. Then llanby, the house-sur- 
 geon, Avho had by this time discovered the truth, said, 
 "There is no more time to be lost; your Majesty has 
 concealed the truth too lonj; : I berj another sur<»;eon 
 may be called in immediately." 
 
 The queen, who had. in her passion, started up in
 
 320 THE HATED "GRIFF." 
 
 lior bed, lay doAvii iigain, turned her liead on tlie otlier 
 side, and, as tlie king told Lord Ilervey, "shed the 
 only tear ho ever saw her shed whilst she was ill." 
 
 At length, too late, other and more sensible means 
 were resorted to : but the ({ueen's strength Avas foiling 
 fast. It must have been a strange scene in that cham- 
 ber of death. Much as the king really grieved for the 
 queen's state, he was still sufficiently collected to grieve 
 also lest Richmond Lodge, which was settled on the 
 queen, should go to the hated Griff: ' and he actually 
 sent Lord Ilervey to the lord chancellor to inquire 
 about that point. It was decided that the queen could 
 make a will, so the king informed her of his inquiries, 
 in order to set her mind at ease, and to assure her it 
 was impossible that the prince could in any way benefit 
 pecuniarily from her death. The Princess Emily now 
 sat up with her mother. The king Avent to bed. The 
 Princess Caroline slept on a couch in the ante-chamber, 
 and Lord Hcrvoy lay on a mattress on the floor at the 
 foot of the Princess Caroline's couch. 
 
 On the following day (four after the first attack) 
 mortification came on, and the weeping Princess Caro- 
 line and Lord Ilervey Avere informed that the queen 
 could not hold out many hours. Ijord Ilervey Avas 
 ordered to AvithdraAV. The king, the Duke of Cumber- 
 land, and the queen's four daughters alone remained, 
 the queen begging tliem not to leave liei' until she ex- 
 pired; yet her life Avas prolonged many days. 
 
 ' rrince l^'redcrick.
 
 THE QUEEN'S DYINC; r.l'.QrESTS. 321 
 
 Wlicn iilone with lu-r familv, slic took from licr 
 finger a ruby ring, which hail hern ])lacc'il on it at 
 tlic time of" the coronation, ami irave it to the kin<;. 
 "This is the last thing," she said, "I have to give 
 yon ; naked I came to you, and nake<l I go from you ; 
 I had everything I ever possessed from you, and to 
 you whatever I liavo I return." She tiien asked for 
 her keys, and gave them to the king. To the Princess 
 Caroline she intrusted the care of her voun;;er sisters : 
 to the Duke of Cumberlaml, that of keeping up the 
 credit of the family. "Attempt nothing against your 
 brother, and endeavor to mortify him by showing 
 superior merit," she said to him. She advised the 
 king to marry again ; he heard her in sol)S, and with 
 iniich dilhculty got out this sentence: '■'■ Non, f aural 
 des )naitresses." To which tlie (jueen made no other 
 re])ly than '■^ Ah, vion Dicu! ccla nemp^che pas.'' 
 "I know," says Lord Ilervey, in his Memoirs, "that 
 this episode will hardly be credited, but it is literally 
 true. 
 
 She then fancied she could sleep. The king kissed 
 her, and wejjt over her; yet Avhen she asked for her 
 watcli, which hung near the chimney, that she might 
 give him the seal to take care of, his brutal temper 
 liroke forth. In the midst of his tears he called out, 
 in a loud voice, "Let it alone! won Dieu I the (jueen 
 has such strange fancies ; who should meddle with 
 your seal ? It is as safe there as in my pocket." 
 
 The (jueen then thought she could sleep, and, in 
 
 Vol. I.— 21
 
 322 HER SON'S LOVING ATTENTIONS. 
 
 fact, sank to rest. She felt refreshed on awakening 
 and said, " 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 T.'as born on a Wednesday, and she had heard 
 of the late king's death on a Wednesday. 
 
 On the ensuing day she saw Sir Robert Walpole. 
 "My good Sir Robert," she thus addressed him, "you 
 see me in a very indifferent situation. I have nothing 
 to say to you but to recommend the king, my children, 
 and the kingdom to your care." 
 
 Lord Hervey, when the minister retired, asked him 
 what he thought of the queen's state. 
 
 "My lord," was the reply, "she is as much dead 
 as if she was in her coffin ; if ever I heard a corpse 
 speak, it was just now in that room !" 
 
 It was a sad, an awful death-bed. The Prince of 
 Wales having sent to inquire after the health of his 
 dying mother, the (|ueen became uneasy lest he should 
 hear the true state of her case, asking " if no one 
 would send those ravens," meaning the prince's at- 
 tendants, out of the house. " They were only," she 
 said, "watching her death, and would gladly tear her 
 to pieces whilst she was alive." Whilst thus she 
 spoke of her son's courtiers, that son was sitting up 
 all nii;ht in his bouse in Tall INIall, and savins:, when
 
 AKCinilSUOP POTTKIl IS SENT FOR. 32)] 
 
 any messenger came in fiuni St. Jmnes's, "Well, sure, 
 Ave shall soon liiivc good news, she cannot hold out 
 nuu-h longer.' And the princesses were •writing let- 
 ters to prevent the Princess Royal from coming to 
 England, wliere she ■was certain to mc^et with liiat.d 
 unkindness from her father, wlio could not endure to 
 be put to any expense. Orders ■were, indeed, sent to 
 stop hor if she set out. She came, however, on pre- 
 tence of takino; the Bath waters: hut Georjie II., 
 furious at her disobedience, oblisjed her to 20 direct 
 to :ind from Bath Avithout stopping, and never foi'gavc 
 her. 
 
 Notwithstanding her predictions, the queen survivo<l 
 the fatal Wednesday. Until this time no pix'late had 
 been called in to pray l»y her INIajesty, nor to admin- 
 ister the Holy Coniniiininn ; ;nid as people about tlie 
 court began to be scandalized by this omission, Sir 
 Rol)i'vt Walpole advised that the Archbishop (jf Can- 
 terbury should be sent for: his opinion Avas conclied 
 in tlie following terms, characteristic at once of the 
 mail, tlic times, and the court: — 
 
 " Pray, madam," he said to tlie Princess Emily, 
 " let this farce be played; the arcbbisho]) will act it 
 very well. You may bid him be as short as you 
 Avill : it will do the (|ueen no hurt, no more than anv 
 good; and it will satisfy all the Avise and good fools, 
 Avho Avill eall us atheists if Ave don't pretend to be as 
 great fools as they are." 
 
 Unhappily, Lord Ilervey, Avho relates this anecdote.
 
 324 THE DUTY OF EECONCILIATION. 
 
 was himself an unbeliever ; yet the scoffing tone adopted 
 by Sir Robert seems to have shocked even him. 
 
 In consequence of this advice, Archbishop Potter 
 prayed by the queen morning and evening, the king 
 always quitting the room when his grace entered it. 
 Her children, however, knelt bv her bedside. Still 
 the whisperers Avho censured were unsatisfied — the con- 
 cession was thrown away. Why did not the queen 
 receive the communion ? Was it, as the world believed, 
 either " that she had reasoned herself into a very low 
 and cold assent to Christianity?" or "that she was 
 heterodox?" or "thnt tlie archbishop refused to ad- 
 minster the sacrament until she should be reconciled 
 to her son ?" Even Lord Ilervey, who rarely left the 
 antechamber, has only by his silence proved that she 
 did not take the communion. That antechamber was 
 crowded with persons who, as the prelate left the 
 chamber of death, crowded around, eagerly asking, 
 "Has the queen received?" "Her Majesty," Avas 
 the evasive reply, "is in a heavenly disposition:" 
 the public were thus deceived. Among those who 
 were near the queen at tliis solemn hour was Dr. But- 
 ler, author of the "Analogy." He had been made 
 clerk of the closet, and became, after the queen's death. 
 Bishop of Bristol. He was in a remote living in Dur- 
 ham when the queen, remembering that it was long 
 since she had lieard of him, asked the Archbishop of 
 York "whetlier Dr. Butler was dead?" — "No, mad- 
 am," re])lied tliat pix'late (Dr. B]aekl)Ui-ii), "l)ut lie is
 
 TIIK T)YIX(; (2UEEX. 325 
 
 buried;" upon uhicli slic liad sent for liiin to court. 
 Yet lie was not courageous enough, it seems, to speak 
 to lier of lier son, nihl of the duty of reconciliation; 
 ■whether slie ever sent the prince any message or not is 
 uncertain ; Lord Ilervey is sih-nt on tliat ])oint, so that 
 it is to be feared that Lord Chesterfiehl's line — 
 
 "Anil, imrdrLiviiiir, unforgivcn, dies!" 
 
 had Imt too sure a foundation in fact ; so that Pope's 
 sarcastic verses — 
 
 " Ilanpj tlio sad verse on Carolina's urn, 
 And hail her passage to the realms of rest; 
 All parts performed and all her children blest," 
 
 ninv have been but too just, though cruelly bitter. 
 The (jueen lingered till the 20th of November. Dur- 
 ing that interval ol" agony her consort was perpet- 
 ually boasting to every one of her virtues, her sense, 
 her patience, her softness, her delicacy ; and ending 
 with the praise, " Comme elle soutenoit sa dignite avec 
 grace, avec jyoUtcsse, avec douceur!" Nevertheless he 
 scarcely ever went into her room. Lord Hervey states 
 that he did, even in this moving situation, snul> her 
 for something or other she did or said. One morning, 
 as she lay witli her eyes fixed on a point in the air, as 
 people sometimes do wlien they want to keep their 
 thoughts IVom wandering, the king coarsely told her 
 "slie looked like a ealf whieh had Just had its throat 
 cut." He expected her to die in state. Then, with
 
 326 THE DEATH OF QUEEN CAEOLINE. 
 
 all liis bursts of tenderness ho always mingled liis own 
 praises, hinting that though she was a good wife he 
 kneAV he had deserved a good one, and remarking-, 
 
 CD f ^1 
 
 when he extolled her understanding, that he did not 
 " think it the worse for her having kept him company 
 so many years." To all this Lord Hervey listened 
 with, doubtless, well-concealed disgust ; for cabals were 
 even then formino; for the future influence that mi<Tht 
 or might not be obtained. 
 
 The queen's life, meantime, was softly ebbing away 
 in this atmosphere of selfishness, brutality, and unbe- 
 lief. One evening she asked Dr. Tessier impatiently 
 how long her state might continue. 
 
 "Your Majesty," was the reply, " Avill soon be re- 
 leased." 
 
 " So much the better," the queen calmly answered. 
 
 At ten o'clock that night, whilst the king lay at the 
 foot of her bed, on the floor, and the Princess Emily 
 on a couch-bed in the room, the fearful death-rattle in 
 the throat was heard. Mrs. Purcel, her chief and old 
 attendant, gave the alarm: the Princess Caroline and 
 Lord Hervey were sent for ; but the princess was too 
 late, her mother had expired before she arrived. All 
 the dying queen said was, " I have now got an asthma; 
 open the window:" then she added, "■ Pm}) l" That 
 was her last word. As the Princess Emily began to 
 read some prayers, the sufferer breathed her last sigh. 
 The Princess Caroline held a looking-glass to her lips, 
 and finding there Avas no damp on it, said, " 'Tis
 
 A CIIAXdK I.\ IIEKVEY'S LIFE. ,327 
 
 over i" Yet she shed not one tear upon the arrival of 
 tliat event, tlie prospect of which had cost her so many 
 heart-rendino; sohs. 
 
 The king kissed tlic lifeless face and hands of his 
 often-injured wife, and then retired to his own apart- 
 ment, ordering that a page should sit up with him for 
 that and several other nights, for his Majesty was 
 afraid of apparitions, and feared to l)c left alone. He 
 caused himself, however, to be buried by the side of 
 his queen, in Henry VII. 's chapel, and ordered that 
 one side of his coffin and of hers should be withdrawn ; 
 and in that state the two coffins were discovered not 
 many years ago. 
 
 With the death of Queen Caroline, Lord Ilervey's 
 life, as to court, was changed. He was afterwards 
 made lord privy seal, and had consequently to enter 
 the political world, witli the disadvantage of knowing 
 that much was expected from a man of so high a repu- 
 tation for wit and learning. He was violently opposed 
 by Pelham, Duke of Newcastle, who had been adverse 
 to his entering the ministry, and since, with Walpole's 
 favor, it was impossible to injure him by fair means, it 
 was resolved to oppose Lord Hervey by foul ones. One 
 evening, when he was to speak, a party of fashionable 
 Amazons, with two duchesses — her grace of Queens- 
 berry and her grace of Ancaster — at tlioir head, 
 stormed the House of Lords and disturbed the de- 
 bate with noisy laugliter and sneers. Poor Lord 
 Hervey was completely daunted, and spoke miser-
 
 328 LOSS OF COUET I^'FLUENCE. 
 
 ably. After Sir Robert Walpole's fall Lord Ilervey 
 retired. The following letter from liim to Lady Mary 
 Wortley Montagu fully describes his position and cir- 
 cumstances : — 
 
 " I must now," he writes to her, " since you take so 
 friendly a part in what concerns me, give you a short 
 account of my natural and political health ; and Avhen 
 I say I am still alive, and still privy seal, it is all I 
 can say for the pleasure of one or the honor of the 
 other ; for since Lord Orford's retiring, as I am too 
 proud to offer my service and friendship where I am 
 not sure they will be accepted of, and too inconsiderable 
 to have those advances made to me (though I never 
 forgot or failed to return any obligation I ever re- 
 ceived), so I remain as illustrious a nothing in this 
 office as ever filled it since it was erected. There 
 is one benefit, however, I enjoy from this loss of 
 my court interest, which is, that all those flies which 
 were hnzz'nm about me in the summer sunshine and 
 full ripeness of that interest, have all deserted its 
 autumnal decay, and from thinking my natural death 
 not far off, and my political demise already over, have 
 all furti-ot the death-bed of the one and the coffin of the 
 other." 
 
 Agnin lie wrote to her a characteristic letter: — 
 " i liave been confined these three weeks by a fever, 
 Avliicb is a sort of annual tax my detestable constitution 
 pa^'s to our detestable climate at the return of every
 
 LOKD IIEKVEY'S DEATH. 329 
 
 spring ; it is now nmcli al^ated, though not quite 
 gone off." 
 
 lie was long a helpless invalid; and on tlie 8th of 
 August, 1743, his short, uni:)rofitablc, brilliant, un- 
 liajipy life was closed, lie died at Ickworth, attended 
 and deplored by his wife, who had ever held a second- 
 ary part ill the heart of the great wit and beau of the 
 court of George II. After his death his son George 
 returned to Lady ]\Iary all the letters she had written 
 to his father : the packet was sealed : an assurance was 
 at the same time given that they had not been read. 
 In acknowledging this act of attention, Lady ]Mary 
 wrote that she could almost regret that he had not 
 glanced his eye over a correspondence Avhich might 
 have shown him what so young a man might perhaps 
 be inclined to doubt — " the possibility of a long and 
 steady friendship subsisting between two persons of 
 different sexes without the least mixture of love." 
 
 Nevertheless some expressions of Lord Hervey's 
 seem to have bordered on the tender style, when 
 writing to Lady Mary in such terms as these. She 
 had complaiiuMl that she Avas too old to inspire a pas- 
 sion (a sort of challenge for a compliment), on which 
 he wrote : " I should think anybody a great fool that 
 said he liked spring better than summer, merely 
 because it is further from autumn, or that thvy loved 
 green fruit better than ripe only because it was further 
 from ])eing rotten. I ever diil, and believe ever shall, 
 like wouKin best —
 
 330 PLATONIC LOVE. 
 
 'Just in the noon of life — tliose golden days, 
 When the mind ripens ere the form decays.' " 
 
 Certainly this looks very unlike a pure Platonic, 
 and it is not to be wondered at that Lady Ilervey 
 refused to call on Lady Mary when, long after Lord 
 Hervey's death, that fascinating woman returned to 
 England. A wit, a courtier at the very fount of all 
 politeness, Lord Ilervey wanted the genuine source of 
 all social qualities — Christianity. That moral refrig- 
 erator which checks the kindly current of neighborly 
 kindness, and which prevents all genial feeling from 
 expanding, produced its usual effect — misanthropy. 
 Lord Hervey's lines, in his " Satire after the man- 
 ner of Persius," describe too well his own mental 
 canker : — 
 
 "Mankind I know, their motives and their art, 
 Their vice their own, their virtue best apart. 
 Till played so oft, that all the cheat can tell, 
 And dangerous only when 'ih acted well." 
 
 Lord Hervey left in the possession of his family a 
 manuscript Avork, 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 life in tlic 
 foregoing pages, was long guarded from the eye of any 
 but the Ilervey family, owing to an injunction given 
 ill Ills will liy Augustus, tliird Earl of Pristol, Lord 
 llei'vey's sun, tliat it sliould not see the liglit until
 
 MEMOIKS OF III8 OWN TIME. 331 
 
 after the death of liis Majesty George ITT. Tt Avas not 
 therefore published until 184S, ulicii tliey were edited 
 by Mr. Croker, They arc referred to 1)otli by Hor- 
 ace Walpole, who had heard of tlieni, if he had not 
 seen them, and by Lord ITailes, as aflbrding the most 
 intimate portraiture of a court that has ever been pre- 
 sented to the English people. Such a delineation as 
 Lord Ilervey has left ought to cause a sentiment of 
 tluiiik fulness in every British heart for not being ex- 
 posed to such influences, to such examples as he gives, 
 in the present day, when goodness, affection, purity, 
 benevolence, are the household deities of the court of 
 our beloved, inestimable Queen Victoria.
 
 PHILIP DORMEPv STANHOPE, FOURTH 
 EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 The subject 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 wo are told 
 to the contrary hy one who loved him not. Lord Ilcr- 
 vey says of Lord Chesterfield that he was " allowed by 
 everybody to have more conversable entertaining table- 
 wit than any man of his time ; his propensity to ridi- 
 cule, in Avhich he indulged himself with infinite humor 
 and no distinction ; and his inexhaustible spirits, and 
 no discretion ; made him sought and feared — liked and 
 not loved — by most of liis acquaintance." 
 
 This formidable personage was born in London on 
 the 2d 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 Chester- 
 field, in the time of Charles II.' — tliat lady who was 
 looked on as a martyr because her husband was jealous 
 
 'Tlic ('(iimtess of ( licstcrfield liciv :illii(k'(l to was tlic second 
 wife of I'liilip, sc'coiiil l<],nl of ('lu'sln-llfld. l'liili|i Dormer, fourtli 
 l']arl, was uraiidsoii ol' tlu' si'coiul Jvirl, by his tliird wife. 
 o'62
 
 i31)ilip XDormrr Siani)ope, 
 ifourti) a?avl of <jri)estrrficlt).
 
 ooo 
 
 EARLY YEARS. 'V.V.\ 
 
 of licr : " ii prodigy," says Dc (Jraiuinont, ''in tlie city 
 of London," Avliere indulgent critics endeavored to ex- 
 cuse his lordship on account of his bad education, and 
 mothers vowed tliat none of their sons sliould ever set 
 font in Italy, lest they should " l)ring back witli them 
 that infauious custom of laying restraint on their 
 ■wives. " 
 
 Even Horace Walpole cites Chesterfield as the 
 "witty earl," apropos to an anecdote Avhich he re- 
 lates of an Italian lady, who said that she Avas only 
 four-and-twenty ; " I suppose," said Lord Chester- 
 field, "she means four-and-twenty stone." 
 
 By his father the future wit, historian, and orator 
 Avas utterly neglected ; Ijut his grandmother, the 
 Marchioness of Halifax, sup])lied to him the {)lacc 
 of both parents, his mother — lier daughter. Lady 
 Elizabeth Saville — having died in his childhood. 
 At the aire of eiirhteon, Chesterfield, then Lord 
 Stanhope, Avas entered at Trinity Hall, Cambridge. 
 It Avas one of the features of his character to fiill at 
 once into the tone of the society into Avhich he hap- 
 pened to be throAvn. One can hardly imagine his 
 being "an absolute pedant," but such Avas, actually, 
 his own account of himself : — "When I talked my 
 best, I quoted Horace; Avhcn T aimed at being face- 
 tious, I quoted Martial : and when I bail a mind to be 
 a fine gentleman, I talked Ovid. 1 Avas convinced 
 that none but the ancients had common sense ; that 
 the classics contained everytliing that Avas either neces-
 
 334 HIS AIM IN LIFE. 
 
 sary, useful, or ornamental to men ; and I was not 
 even Avithout thoughts of wearing the toga virilis of 
 the Romans, instead of the vulgar and illiberal dress 
 of the moderns." 
 
 Thus, again, when in Paris, he caught the manners, 
 as he had acquired the language, of the Parisians. 
 " I shall not give you my opinion of the French, be- 
 cause I am very often taken for one of them, and 
 several have paid me the highest compliment they 
 think it in their power to bestow — which is, ' Sir, 
 you are just like ourselves.' I shall only tell you 
 that I am insolent ; I talk a great deal ; I am very 
 loud and peremptory ; I sing and dance as I walk 
 along ; and, above all, I spend an immense sum in 
 hair-powder, feathers, and Avhite gloves." 
 
 Althouiih he entered Parliament before he had 
 attained the legal age, and was expected to make a 
 great figure in that assembly, Lord Chesterfield pre- 
 ferred the reputation of a wit and a beau to any other 
 distinction. " Call it vanity, if you will," he wrote 
 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 Ilcrvev's account, he often even 
 sacrificed his interest to his vanity. The description 
 given of Lord Chesterfield by one as l)ittcr as himself 
 implies, indeed, that great pains were requisite to 
 counterbalance the defects of iintui-e. Wilkes, one
 
 IIERVEY'.S DESCRIPTION OF ClIESTEKFIELD. .335 
 
 of" the uy;liest men of his time, used to sav, that Avith 
 au hour's start he would carry ofl' the affections of" any 
 ■woman from the liandsomest man breathing. Lord 
 Chesterfield, according to Lord Ilervey, recjuired to 
 be still longer in advance of a rival. 
 
 "With a person," Ilervey writes, "as disagreeable 
 as it -was possible for a human figure to be without 
 being deformed, he affected following many women of 
 the first beauty and the most in fashion. lie 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 Ben 
 iVsliurst, who said a few good things, though admired 
 for many, told Lord Chesterfield once, that he was 
 like a stunted giant — which was a humorous idea and 
 really apposite." 
 
 Notwithstanding that Chesterfield, when young, in- 
 jured 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. IIow 
 late soever lie went to bed, he resolved always to rise 
 early ; and this resolution he adhered to so faithfully, 
 that at the age of fifty-eight he could declare that fur 
 more than forty years he had never been in bed at 
 nine o'clock in the morning, but had generally been 
 up before eight. He had the good sense, in this re- 
 spect, 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 of
 
 336 STUDY OF ORATOEY. 
 
 ordinary life out of their usual beat, just as if tlie 
 clocks had been set two hours for>yard. The man in 
 ordinary society, who rises at four in this country, and 
 goes to bed at nine, is a social and family nuisance. 
 
 Strong good sense characterized Chesterfield's early 
 pursuits. Desultory reading he abhorred. 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 upon those triv- 
 ial, futile books published by idle, necessitous authors 
 for the amusement of idle and ignorant readers." 
 
 Even in those days such books " swarm and buzz 
 about one:" "flap them away," says Chesterfield, 
 "they have no sting." The carl directed the whole 
 force of his mind to oratory, and became the finest 
 speaker of his time. Writing to Sir Horace Mann, 
 about the Hanoverian debate (in 1743, Dec. 15), AVal- 
 pole, praising the speeches of Lords Halifiix and Sand- 
 wich, adds, " I was there, and heard Lord Chester- 
 field make the finest oration I have ever heard there." 
 This from a man who had listened to Pulteney, to 
 Chatham, to Carteret, was a singularly valuable tribute. 
 
 Whilst a student at Cambridge, Chesterfield Avas 
 forming an acquaintance with the Hon. George Berke- 
 ley, the youngest son of the second Earl of Berkeley, 
 and remarkable rather as being the second husband of 
 Lady Suffolk, the favorite of George II., than from 
 any merits or demerits of his own. 
 
 This early intimacy probably brought Lord Chester-
 
 Ttl'TY OK AN AMHAS^AnOK. .>:;/ 
 
 field into tlif r\n:.c IViciidsliiii w liidi ;iricr\v;inls siilisi-^tcd 
 l)ot\vc('ii liiiii ;iiid Lady Sidlolk, to wlioiii many of liis 
 letters ai'e addresse(l. 
 
 His first |)nl)lic ea))aeity was a di].loniatie aiqioint- 
 nieiit : he ai'terwards attained to llie rank ot'an andjas- 
 sador, \\!io-e duty it is, according to a Avitticisni of Sir 
 IK'iii-v ^Votton's, " to III' abroad for the •zood of his 
 counti'y ;" and no man was in this respect more com- 
 petent to fullil these re(iuirements than Chesterfield. 
 ]Iatin<^ both Avinc and tobacco, he had smoked and 
 drunk at Cambridge, "to be in the fashion;" he 
 gamed at tlie Hague, on the same principle ; and, un- 
 happily, gaming became a habit and a passion. Yet 
 never did he induly-e it when acting, afterwards, in a 
 ministerial eaj)aeity. Neither when Lord-Lieutenant 
 of Ireland, or as Undcr-secretary of State, diil he 
 allow a 2;amin<2;-table in his house. On the very night 
 that he resigned office he went to White s. 
 
 The Hague was then a <-]iarming residence: among 
 others who, from political motives, were living there, 
 were John Duke of jNLirlborough and Queen Sarah, 
 both of wliom paid Chesterfield marked attention. 
 Naturally industrious, with a ready insight into cha- 
 racter — a perfect master in that art which bids ns keep 
 one's thoughts close and our eount< nances ojien, Ches- 
 terfield was ailmiral)ly fitted for dij)loniacy. A master 
 of moileiii laniiuaij-es and of historv, he soon l)ei:an to 
 like liusiness. When in England, he had lieen aeeused 
 of ha\ing " a need of a certain proportion n[' talk in 
 Vol. 1.— 22
 
 o 
 
 38 "IIISTOIiY OF THE REIGN OF GEOEGE II." 
 
 a day:" "that," ho Avrote to Lady Suffolk, "is noAv 
 changed into a need of such a proportion of writing in 
 a (lay. 
 
 In 1728 he was promoted, being sent as ambassa- 
 dor to the Hague, where he was popuhir, and where lie 
 believed his stay would be beneficial both to soul and 
 body, there being " fewer temptations, and fewer op- 
 portunities to sin," as he wrote to Lady Suffolk, " than 
 in England." Here his days passed, he asserted, in 
 doing the king's business, very ill — and his own still 
 worse : — sitting down daily to dinner with fourteen or 
 fifteen people ; whilst at five the pleasures of the even- 
 ing began with a lounge on the Voorhoot, a public 
 walk planted by Charles V. : — then, either a very bad 
 French play, or a ^^ reprise quadrille,'' with three 
 ladies, the youngest of them fifty, and the chance of 
 losing, perhaps, three florins (besides one's time) — 
 lasted till ten o'clock ; at which time " His Excellency " 
 went home, " reflecting with satisfaction on the inno- 
 cent 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's time was not passed 
 in this serene dissipation. He began to compose " The 
 History of the Reign of George II." at this period. 
 About onlv half a dozen characters Avere Avritten. 
 Tlie intention Avas not confined to Chesterfield : Car- 
 teret and Bolingbroke entertained a similar design, 
 Avhicli Avas com])leted by neither. When tlie subject
 
 GKORCK ii;s oriNiox oi' HIS ( iiiioniclkks. :i;i9 
 
 ^v;^s hrojiclicd beioro George If., lie thus expressed 
 liimselC: :in<l his icinarks are tlie more aiiuising as 
 they were addressed tu Loid Ilcrvey, who uas, at (hat 
 very iiioniciit, inakiiiL; his notes for tliat l)itter chroni- 
 cle of" his Majesty's reign, whieli has hoen uslicrc(l 
 into tlic worhl by the hite Wilson Croker — " They will 
 all three," said King George 1 1., "• have about as nuuli 
 truth in them as the Milk et Uiw Niuta. Not but I 
 shall like to read ]»olingbroke's, avIio of all those ras- 
 cals and knaves that have been lying against me these 
 ten years has certainly the best parts, and the most 
 knoAvledge. lie is a scouncb'el, but he is a scoundrel 
 of a hitfher class than Chesterfield. Chesterfield is a 
 little, tea-table scoundrel, that tells little womanish lies 
 to make ([uarrels in families : and tries to make women 
 lose their reputations, and make tlieir husbands l>eat 
 them, -without any object but to give himself ail's; as 
 if anybody could believe a woman could like a dwarf 
 baboon." 
 
 Lord Ilervcy gave a preference to I>oling1)rokc ; 
 stating as his reason, that " though Lord Bolingbroke 
 had no idea of wit, his satire was keener than any one's. 
 Lord Chesterfield's, on tlie other hand, would have a 
 great deal of wit in them ; but, in every page you see 
 he intended to bo Avitty : every paragraph would be an 
 epigram. Polish, he declared, would be his bane;" 
 and Lord Ilervey was perfectly right. 
 
 Li 17;)2 Lord Chesterfield was obliged to retire from 
 his endjassy on the plea of ill-health, but probably,
 
 340 LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 from some political cause. lie ■\vas in the opposi- 
 tion against Sir Robert Walpole on the Excise Bill ; 
 and felt the displeasure of that all-powerful min- 
 ister hy being dismissed from his oilice of High 
 Steward. 
 
 Being badly received at court, he now lived in the 
 country ; sometimes at Buxton, >vhere his father drank 
 the waters, Avhere he had his recreations, Avhen not per- 
 secuted by two young brothers, Sir William Stanhope 
 and John Stanhope, one of whom performed " tolerably 
 ill upon a broken hautboy, and the other something 
 worse upon a cracked flute." There he won three 
 half-crowns from the curate of the place, and a shilling 
 from "Gaffer Foxeley '" at a cock-match. Sometimes 
 he souglit relaxation in Scar1»orough, where fashionable 
 beaux "danced with the ])retty ladies all night," and 
 hundreds of Yorkshire county bumpkins "played the 
 inferior parts ; and, as it were, only tumble, whilst the 
 others dance upon the high ropes of gallantry." Scar- 
 borough was full of Jacobites : the popular feeling was 
 then all rife against Sir Robert Walpole's excise scheme. 
 Lord Cliesterfield thus wittily satirized that famous 
 measure : — 
 
 " The people of this town are, at present, in great 
 consternation upon a re])ort they have heard from Lon- 
 do7), which, if true, they think will ruin them. They 
 are informed, that considering the vast consum])tion 
 of those waters, tliere is a, design laid of c.rcixi)!;/ tliem 
 next session ; and, moreover, that as bathing in the
 
 MKLUSINA, CUL'.NTKSS oK \VALSiN( illAM. ;; 1 1 
 
 sea is lu'cumc tlio general practice of both sexes, ami 
 as llic kings of England liave always been allowed to 
 be masters of the seas, every person so bathing shall be 
 gauged, and pay so much per foot square, as their cubi- 
 cal bulk aiiKiiiiits to." 
 
 In 17-J-5, Lord Chesterfield married Melusina, the 
 supposed niece, but, in fact, the daughter of the Duchess 
 of Kcndnl, the mistress of George 1. This Indv Avas 
 j)resumed to be a great heiress, from the dominion 
 which her mother had over the king. Mclusina bail 
 been created (for life) Baroness of Aldborough, county 
 Suflblk, and Countess of Walsingham, county Norfolk, 
 nine years previous to her marriage. 
 
 Iler i'aihcv being George I., as Horace ^Valpolc 
 terms him, '' rather a ^ood sort of man than a shinino; 
 king," and her mother "being no genius," there was 
 probably no great attraction about Lady Walsingham, 
 except her expected dowry. 
 
 During her girlhood Mcbisina resided in the apart- 
 ments at St. James's — opening into the garden ; and 
 here Horace Walpole describes his seeing George I., 
 in the ronms aj)propriated to the Duchess of Kendal, 
 next to those of jNIclusina Schulemberg, or, as she was 
 then called, the Countess of Walsingham. The Duchess 
 (if KCiidnl was then vi-ry '•lean and ill-favored." 
 '•Just before her." says Horace, ""stood a tall, elderly 
 man, rather pah', of an aspect rather giiod-natured than 
 august : ill a daik tie-wig, a jilain coat, Avaisleoat, and 
 breeches of snuil-colored cloth, with stockings of the
 
 .342 CHESTERFIELD AND LADY SUFFOLK. 
 
 same color, and a blue ribbon over all. That was 
 George I." 
 
 The Duchess of Kendal had been maid of honor to 
 the Electress Sophia, the mother of George I. and tlie 
 daughter of Elizabeth of Bohemia. The duchess was 
 always frightful ; so much so tliat one night the elect- 
 ress, Avho had acquired a little English, said to Mrs. 
 Howard, afterwards Lady Suffolk, — glancing at Mad- 
 emoiselle Schulemberg — " Look at that mawkin, and 
 think of her being my son's passion!" 
 
 The duchess, however, like all Hanoverians, knew 
 how to })rofit by royal preference. She took bribes : — 
 she had a settlement of i^oOOO a year. But her 
 daughter was eventually disappointed of the expected 
 bequest from her father, the king.^ 
 
 In the apartments at St. James's, Lord Chesterfield 
 for some time lived, when he was not cno-an-ed in office 
 abroad ; and there lie dissipated large sums in play. It 
 was liere, too, tliat Queen Caroline, the wife of George 
 II., detected the intimacy that existed between Chester- 
 field and Lady Suffolk. There was an obscure Avindow 
 in Queen Caroline's apartments, whicli looked into a 
 dark passage, lighted only by a single lamp at night. 
 
 ' In tiic "Annu;il Re<?ister," for 1774, p. 'JO, it is stated tlirit :is 
 Cioorsj;e I. had left Lady Walsiii^iiaiii a Ir.i^acy wliicli liis succi'ssor 
 did iiiil tliink )in>|icr to drlivor, tlic Ivirl of ( 'licstciiicld was do- 
 tLTiuiiied to recover it iiy a suit in ( iianecry, had not iiis Majesty, 
 on qncstioninc tlie l>ord ( "Iianei'lh)r on the sul)jeet, and lieint; 
 answered that he coidd ^ive no ojiTnion cxtra-jndit-ially, tlionght 
 proper to I'ullil the bequest.
 
 (IKOiKiE II. AM) JUS FATIIKKS WILL. oL") 
 
 Oik- Twelfth Niy;ht, Lord Chcstcrficlil, having' ^v()ll a 
 liu-j^e sum at cards, deposited it with Lady SufVolk, 
 think iii;j; it not safe to carry it lioiue at night. He 
 \vas watched, and his intimacy with the mistress of 
 George IL tliereupon inferred. Thencefortli he cnulil 
 obtain no court iniluence ; and, in desperation, he 
 went into the op])Osition. 
 
 On the deatli of George I., a singuhir scene, with 
 which Lord Chesterfield's interests were connected, 
 occurred in the Privy Council. Dr. Wake, Arch- 
 bishoj) of Canterbury, produced the king's will, and 
 delivered it to his successor, expecting that it Avould 
 be opened and read in the council ; what was his con- 
 sternation, wlien his ^Majesty, Avithout saying a word, 
 put it into his pocket, and stalked out of the room 
 Avith real German imperturbability ! Neither the as- 
 tounded prelate nor the subservient council ventured 
 to utter a Avonl. The Avill was never more heard of: 
 and rumor declared that it Avas l)nrnt. The contents, 
 of course, never transpired ; and the legacy of i;40,000, 
 said to have been left to the Duchess of Kendal, Avas 
 nevermore spoken of, until Lord Chesterfield, in 1733, 
 married the Countess of Walsinghani. In 174->, it 
 is said, he claimed the legacy — in right of his Avife — 
 l]\v \)\ir\\vs^ of Kendal being then dead: and Avas 
 "([iiieted"" wilh tlJO, <)<)(). and got, as Horace Wal- 
 pole observes, nothing iVoni the iliidiess — "e.xrejit his 
 
 wife." 
 
 The only excuse that Avas urgeil to extenuate this
 
 344 DISSOLVI^'G VIEWS. 
 
 act on the part of George II., was that his royal father 
 had burned two wills Avhicli had been made in his favor. 
 These were supposed to be the Avills of the Duke and 
 Duchess of Zell and of the Electress Sophia. There 
 Avas not even common honesty in the House of Hanover 
 at that period. 
 
 Disappointed in his wife's fortune, Lord Chesterfield 
 seems to have cared very little for the disappointed 
 heiress. Their union Avas childless. His opinion of mar- 
 riage appears very much to have coincided Avitli tliut 
 of the Avorld of malcontents Avho rush, in the present 
 day, to the court of Judge Cresswell, Avitli " dissolv- 
 ing views." On one occasion he writes thus : '' I liave 
 at last done the best office that can be done to most 
 married people; that is, I have fixed tlie separation 
 between my brother and his Avife, and the definitive 
 treaty of peace Avill be proclaimed in about a fort- 
 night." 
 
 Horace Walpole related the following anecdote of 
 Sir William Stanhope (Chesterfield's brother) and liis 
 lady, Avliom he calls '' a fond couple." After their 
 return from Paris, Avhcn they arrived at Lord Ches- 
 terfield's house at Blackheath, Sii' William, avIio Imd, 
 like his brother, a cutting, polite Avit, that Avas proba- 
 bly expressed Avith the "nllowed simper" of Tjovd 
 Chesterfield, got out of the chaise and said, willi a 
 low boAV, " Madame, I hope i shall never see your 
 face again." She re])lied, "Sir, I Avill take care that 
 vou never shall ;'" and so thev parted.
 
 MADA.Mi-; i»r i:()l:ciiet. 345 
 
 There was little i)rol)iibility of Lord Chesterfield's 
 )iartici|ialiiiL:; in domestic felicity, ■when ncitlier his 
 heart ni)r his lUnev was cno;a<!;ed in the union whit h 
 lie hail IoiukmI. The lady to whom he was really 
 attached, and hy whom \iv had a son, resided in the 
 Netherlands : she passed by the name of Madame 
 (111 Ihnichet, ami survived Itoth Lord Chesterfield 
 and her son. A j)ermanent j»rovision was made lor 
 her, and a sum <»r live inindix-il pounds bequeathed to 
 her, with these words: "As a small reparation for the 
 injury 1 did her." " Certainly," adds Lord Mahon, 
 ill his Memoir of his illustrious ancestor, "a small 
 one." 
 
 For some time Lord Chcstei'field remained in Enj^- 
 land, and liis letters are dated from Bath, from Tiin- 
 brid_£i;e, from ]>lackheath. Jle had, in 1726, been 
 elevated to the House of Lords ujion the death ol' his 
 father. In that assembly his great eloquence is thus 
 Will described by his biographer: — ^ 
 
 "Lord Chesterfield's eloijucnce, the fniit of iiinch 
 
 study, was less characterized by force and conqiass 
 
 than by elegance ami perspicuity, and especially by 
 
 good taste and urbanity, and a vein of delicate irony 
 
 which, while it sometimes inflicted severe strokes, 
 
 never passcil (lie limits of decency and ))Vo])riety. It 
 
 was that of a mai> wlio, in the union of wit and good 
 
 sense with politeness, had not a competitor. These 
 
 ' Lord Mahon, now Karl of StanhojH.', if imt the most elofiuent, 
 one of the most honest historians of our time.
 
 346 COURT LADIES. 
 
 qualities were matured by the advantage which he 
 assiduously sought and obtained, of a familiar acquaint- 
 ance with almost all the eminent wits and writers of his 
 time, many of whom had been the ornaments of a pre- 
 cedin<T a<^e of literature, while others were destined to 
 become those of a later period." 
 
 The accession of George II., to whose court Lord 
 Chesterfield had been attached for many years, brought 
 him no political preferment. The court had, however, 
 its attractions even for one who OAved his polish to the 
 belles of Paris, and who was almost always, in taste 
 and manners, more foreign than English. Henrietta, 
 Lady Pomfret, the daughter and heiress of John Jef- 
 freys, the son of Judge Jeffreys, Avas at that time the 
 leader of fashion. 
 
 Six daughters, one of th-em. Lady Sophia, surpass- 
 ingly lovely, recalled the perfections of that ancestress, 
 Arabella Fermor, whose charms Pope has so exquisitely 
 touched in the " Rape of tlie Lock." Lady Sophia 
 became eventually the wife of Lord Carteret, the min- 
 ister, whose talents and the charms of whose eloquence 
 constituted him a sort of rival to Chesterfield. With 
 all his abilities. Lord Chesterfield may be said to have 
 failed l)otli as a courtier and as a political character, 
 as far as permanent influence in any ministry was con- 
 cerned, until 1744, when wliat was called the " I'lo.nl- 
 bottomed administration " avms fitiiKMl, ^\]\^■n he was 
 admitted into the cabinet. In tlie lollowing year, how- 
 ever, lie went, for the hist time, to Holland, as ambas-
 
 L()I;I)-LI1;L TENANT OF TKKLAND. 347 
 
 sador, and succeeded beyond the expectations <if" his 
 party in the purposes of his embassy, lie took leave 
 of" the States-General just before the battle of Fonte- 
 nov, and hastened to Ireland, Avherc he had been noni- 
 inated Lord-Lieutenant previous to his journey to 
 Holland, lie remained in that country only a year ; 
 but long enough to prove how liberal Avere his views — 
 how kindly the dispositions of his heart. 
 
 Only a few years before Lord Chesterfield's arrival 
 in Dublin, the Duke of Shrew^sbury had given as a 
 reason for accepting the vice-regency of that country 
 (of wliich King James I. had said, there was "more 
 ado" than with any of his dominions), ''that it Avas a 
 place Avliere a man had l)usiness enough to keep him 
 from falling asleep, and not enough to keep him 
 awake." 
 
 Chesterfield, however, Avas not of that opinion, lie 
 did more in one year than the duke Avould have accom- 
 j)lished in five. lie began by instituting a principle 
 of impartial justice. Formerly, Protestants had alone 
 been emiiloyed as "manafjersi" the Lieutenant Avas 
 to see Avitli Protestant eyes, to hear Avith Protestant 
 ears. 
 
 " I have determined to proscribe no set of persons 
 Avhatever," says Chesterfield, '"and deteniiined Id be 
 goveiTieil by none. Had the Papists made any attempt 
 to |tut themselves above tlic law, I should have taken 
 good care to have ((tu-lled tlieni again. It was said my 
 lenity to the Papists had wrought nu alteration either
 
 348 A WISE AND JUST ADMINISTRATION. 
 
 in tlicir religious or their political sentiments. I did 
 not expect that it Avould : but surely that was no reason 
 for cruelty towards them." 
 
 Often by a timely jest Chesterfield conveyed a hint, 
 or even shrouded a reproof. One of tlie ultra-zealous 
 informed him that his coachman Avas a Papist, and 
 Avent every Sunday to nuiss. " Does he indeed ? I 
 "will take care he never drives me there," was Chestcr- 
 field's cool reply. 
 
 It was at this critical period, when the Hanoverian 
 dynasty was shaken almost to its downfall by the in- 
 surrection in Scotland of 1745, that Ireland was im- 
 perilled : "With a weak or wavering, or a fierce and 
 headli^ng Lord-Lieutenant — witli a (irafton or a Straf- 
 fi)rd," remarks Loi'd Mahon, "there would soon have 
 been a simultaneous rising in the Emerald Isle." But 
 Cliesterfield's energy, his lenity, his wise and just 
 administration, saved the Irish from l»eing excited 
 into relx'llion l)y the emissaries (if Charles Edward, 
 or slaughtered, when con([uered, by tlie " Butcher," 
 and his ti^er-like dra<2;ons. When all was over, and 
 that sad page of history in which the deaths of so 
 many faithful adlierents of the exiled fimily are ro- 
 corde*!, had 1»eeii lield ui) to the iraze of lileedinsi Calo- 
 donia, (Jhesterfield ix-commeiidcd mild measures, and 
 advised the (^stal)lishment (if scliouls in tbe Highlands; 
 Imt tbe age was too narrow-minded t(» adopt his views. 
 Jn .January, 1748, Chesterfield retired from public 
 life. "Could I do anv good," be vrote to a friend,
 
 KEFOKMATIOX OF TIFK CALKNDAR. 340 
 
 "T -wniild sMci'ifico soino more (|iiict to it; Iml cdfi- 
 viiicftl as 1 am that I can '!<) ikuic. I will iiidiil^jc my 
 case, and prcscivc my cliaraclci-. 1 have gone t]irou;;h 
 pleasures while my eonstitutioii and my spirits -would 
 allow mo. l)usiness succeeded them ; and I have now 
 f^one thr(ju«^h every part of it without liking it at all 
 the better for heini; ac(|uainted with it. Like many 
 Other things, it is most admired l)y llujse who know it 
 least. ... 1 have been Ijehind the scenes both of 
 pleasure and l)usiness; I have seen all the coarse 
 pulleys and dirty ropes wliich cxhi)>it and move all 
 the gaudy machines ; and I have seen and smelt the 
 tallow candles which illuminate the whole decoration, 
 to the astonishment and admiration of tlie ignorant 
 multitude. . . . My horse, my l)ooks, and my fiicmls 
 will (lividc my time ])retty e(|ually." 
 
 lie still interested himself in Avhat was useful; and 
 carried a 15 ill in the House of Lords tor the Reforma- 
 tion of the ("alcndar, in 17")1. It seems a small 
 matter for so grc:it a mind as his to accomplish, but it 
 was an achievement of ijifinite difliculty. IMany 
 statesmen had shrunk from the undertaking ; and even 
 Chesterfield found it essential to ])repare the public, by 
 writing in some periodical papers on the subject. 
 Nevertheless the vulgar outcry was vehement : " Give 
 us back the eleven days we have been robbed of I" 
 cried the mol) at a general election. Wlien TJradley 
 was dviui:, the connnon ix'ople as< ril)cd his sufferings 
 to a judgment for the part he had taken in that
 
 350 IN MIDDLE LIFE. 
 
 "impious transaction," the alteration of the calendar. 
 But they were not less homes in tlieir notions than the 
 Duke of Newcastle, then prime minister. Upon Lord 
 Chesterfield giving him notice of his Bill, that bus- 
 tling premier, who had been in a hurry fn- forty years, 
 who never "walked but always ran," greatly alarmed, 
 begged Chesterfield not to stir matters that had been 
 long quiet ; adding, that he did not like " new-fangled 
 things." lie was, as we have seen, overruled, and 
 henceforth the New Style was adopted ; and no special 
 calamity has fiillen on the nation, as was expected, in 
 consequence. Nevertheless, after Chesterfield had 
 made his speech in the House of Lords, and Avhen 
 every one had complimented him on the clearness of 
 his explanation — " God knows," he wrote to his son, 
 " I had not even attempted 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 \\\^ furore ^ov politics had subsided, Chester- 
 field returned to his ancient passion for play. We 
 must linger a little over the still brilliant period of 
 his middle life, whilst his hearing Avas spared ; whilst 
 his wit remained, and the charming manners on which 
 he had formed a science, continued ; and before we see 
 him in the mournful decline of a life wholly given to 
 the world.
 
 CIIKSTEIIFIET.I* IForSE. 351 
 
 lie had now cstaMislicd liiiiisclf in ClicstcrficM 
 House. Hitherto liis pro^^eiiitors luul Ix-eii satisfied witli 
 Bloomslmry S(inare, in Avliich the T.ovd Chesteiiiehl 
 mentioned by Do Grainniont resided; but tlic accom- 
 plished Chesterfichl chose a site near Aiulley Street, 
 Avliicli had l)ecn Ituilt on Avhat Avas called Mr. Aud- 
 ley's hind, lying between Great Brook Field and the 
 " Shoulder of ^Mutton Field." And near ihis locality 
 ■with the elegant name, Chesterfield chose his spot, for 
 ■which he had to ■svrangle and fight with the Dean and 
 Chapter of Westminster, who asked an exorbitant sum 
 for the ground. Isaac AVare, the editor of " Palladio," 
 was the architect to whom the erection of this han.l- 
 some residence was intrusted. IlappUy it is still 
 untouched by any renovativfi hand. Chesterfield's 
 favorite apartments, looking on the most spacious 
 private garden in London, are just as they ■were in 
 his time ; one especially, Avhich he termed the " finest 
 room in London," was furnished and decorated by 
 him. " The walls," says a writer in the " Quarterly 
 Review," "are covered halfway up with rich and 
 classical stores of literature ; above the cases are in 
 close series the portraits of eminent authors, French 
 and English, -with most of whom he had conversed ; 
 over these, and immediately under the massive cornice, 
 extend all round in foot-long capitals the Iloratian 
 lines : — 
 
 "Nunc, vctcnmi. lihris. Xunc. somno. ct. inertibus. Iloris. 
 Lucon. solictt'r. jiuuiul:i. olilivia. vitca.
 
 352 EXCLUSIVENESS. 
 
 " On the mantel-pit'ces and cabinets stand busts of 
 old orators, interspersed Avith voluptuous vases and 
 bronzes, antique or Italian, and airy statuettes in 
 marble or alabaster of nude or semi-nude opera 
 nymplis." 
 
 What Chesterfield called the '' cannonical pillars" 
 of the house were columns brought from Cannons, 
 near Edgeware, the seat of the Duke of Chandos. 
 The antechamber of Chesterfield House has been 
 erroneously stated as the room in which Johnson 
 waited the great lord's pleasure. That state of en- 
 durance was probably passed by "Old Samuel" in 
 Bloomsbury. 
 
 In this stately abode — one of the few, the very fcAV, 
 that seem to hold noblesse apart in our levelling me- 
 tropolis — Chesterfied held his assemblies of all that 
 London, or indeed England, Paris, the Hague, or 
 Vienna, could furnish of what was polite and charm- 
 ing. Those were days when the stream of society did 
 not, as noAv, flow freely, mingling with the grace of 
 aristocracy the acquirements of hard-working profes- 
 sors ; there was then a strong line of demarcation ; it 
 had not been broken down in the same way as now, 
 when people of rank and Avealth live in rows, instead 
 of inluibiting hotels set apart. Paris has sustained a 
 similar revolution, since her gardens Avere built over, 
 and their green shades, delicious in the centre of that 
 hot city, are seen no nu)re. In tlie very Fau1)()urg 
 St. Germain, the grand old hotels are rapidly dis-
 
 CIIESTKi;i-li:Li)-.S NEGLECT OF .lolIXSOX. nr).'"5 
 
 appearing, ami with tlicm soiiietliiiig of the exclusive- 
 ness of the higher orders. Lord Chestcrfiehl, how- 
 ever, triunipliaiitly pointing to the fruits of his taste 
 and distribution of his wealtli, witnessed, in his library 
 at Chesterfield House, the events which time produced. 
 He heanl of the death of Sarah, Duchess of Marl- 
 borough, and oi' her bequest to him of twenty thou- 
 sand j)ounds, and her best and largest brilli.iiit dia- 
 mond ring, "out of the great regard she had for his 
 merit, and the infinite obligations she had received 
 from him." lie witnessed the change of society and 
 of politics which occurred when (leorge II. expired, 
 and the Earl of Bute, calling himself a descendant 
 of tlie house of Stuart, " and humble enoujih to bo 
 proud of it," having quitted the isle of Bute, wliicli 
 Lord Chesterfield calls " but a little south of Nova 
 Zembla," took possession, not only of the affections, 
 but even of the senses of the voun2; kino;, George III., 
 who, assisted by the widowed Princess of Wales (sup- 
 posed to 1)0 attached to Lord Bute), was " lugged out 
 of the seraglio," and "placed upon the throne." 
 
 Chesterfield lived to have the honor of having the 
 plan of "Johnson's Dictionary" inscribed to him, and 
 the dishonor of neglecting the great author. Johnson, 
 indeed, denicil the truth of the storv Avhich gained 
 general belief, in which it Avas asserted that he had 
 taken a disgust at being kept waiting in the earl's 
 antechaml)er, (he reason being assigned that his lord- 
 ship "had company with him ;" when at last the door 
 Vol. I.— 2;J
 
 354 EECOMMEXDING " JOHNSON'S DICTIONARY." 
 
 opened, and forth came Colley Gibber. Then Johnson 
 — so report said — indignant, not only for having been 
 kept Avaiting but also for ivlioin, went away, it was 
 affirmed, in disgust ; but this was solemnly denied 
 by the doctor, who assured Boswell that his wrath 
 proceeded from continual neglect on the part of 
 Chesterfield. 
 
 Whilst the Dictionary was in progress, Chesterfield 
 seemed to forget the existence of him whom, together 
 with the other literary men, he affected to patronize. 
 
 He once sent him ten pounds, after which he forgot 
 Johnson's address, and said " the great author had 
 changed his lodgings." People who really Avish to 
 benefit others can always discover where they lodge. 
 The days of patronage were then expiring, but they 
 had not quite ceased, and a dedication was always to 
 be in some way paid for. 
 
 AVhen the publication of the Dictionary drew near, 
 Lord Chesterfield flattered himself that, in spite of all 
 his neglect, the great compliment of having so vast an 
 undertaking dedicated to him would still be paid, and 
 wrote some papers in the " World," recommending the 
 work, more especially referring to the "plan," and 
 terming Johnson the "dictator," in respect to lan- 
 guage: "I will not only o])ey him," he said, "as 
 my dictator, like an old Honiaii, but like a modern 
 Roman, will implicitly believe in him as my pope." 
 
 Johnson, however, was not to be propitiated by 
 those " honeved words." ITe wrote a letter couched
 
 "OLD SAMUEL" TO CIIESTEKFIELD. 355 
 
 in what he called "civil terms," to Chesterfield, from 
 Avliicli we extract the following passages: 
 
 " When, upon some slight encouragement, I first 
 visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the 
 rest of mankind, hy the enchantment of your ad- 
 dress; and could not forbear to wisli that I miiiht 
 boast mysoli vainqueiir du vainqueur de la terrc — that 
 1 raifi-ht obtain that re;2;ard for which I saw the world 
 contending ; but I found my attendance so little en- 
 couraged, that neither pride nor modesty would sufier 
 me to continue it. AVhcii 1 had once addressed your 
 lordship in |)ul)lick, 1 had exhausted all the art of 
 pleasing whicli a retired and uncourtly scholar can 
 possess. I had done all that I could ; and no man 
 is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever 
 so little. 
 
 " Seven years, my lord, have now past, since I 
 waited in your outAvnvd room, or Avas repu^sed from 
 your door, during which time I have been pushing 
 on my work t]n()ui:li diificulties, of wdiich it is useless 
 to com})lain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge 
 of pubjic-ation without one act of assistance, one word 
 of encourasement, or one smile of favor: such treat- 
 mciit I did not expect, for I never had a pntron 
 before. ... Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks 
 ■with unconcern on a man who is strufio;ling for life in 
 the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers 
 him witli help? The notice which 3'ou have been 
 pleased to take of my labors, liad it been early, hail
 
 356 "DEFENSIVE TKIDE." 
 
 been kind ; but it has been delayed till I aui indif- 
 ferent and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary and 
 cannot impart it ; till I am known and do not want 
 it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to con- 
 fess obligations -where no benefit has been received, or 
 to be unwilling that the publick should consider me as 
 owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled 
 me to do for myself." 
 
 The conduct of Johnson, on this occasion, was ap- 
 proved by most manly minds, except that of his pub- 
 lisher, Mr. Robert Dodsley ; Dr. Adams, a friend of 
 Dodsley, said he was sorry that Johnson had written 
 that celebrated letter (a very model of polite contempt). 
 Dodsley said he was sorry too, for he liad a property in 
 the Dictionary, to which his lordship's patronage might 
 be useful. He then said that Lord Chesterfield had 
 shown him the letter. " I should have thought," said 
 Adams, " that Lord Chesterfield would have concealed 
 it." " Pooh !" cried Dodsley, " do you think a letter 
 from Johnson could hurt Lord Chesterfield ? not at all, 
 sir. It lay on his table, where any one might sec it. 
 He read it to me; said, ' This man has great powers,' 
 pointed out the severest passages, and said, ' ]u)w 
 well they were expressed.' " The art of dissimula- 
 tion, in which Chesterfield was perfect, imposed on 
 Mr. Dodsley. 
 
 Dr. Adams expostulated with the doctor, and said 
 Lord Chesterfield declared lie would part with the best 
 servant lie had, if he had known that lie had turned
 
 CIIESTEKFIKLI/S REJOINDER. 357 
 
 away a man wlio \^'a.s^^alwaj/s welcome." Then Adams 
 insisted on Lord Chesterfield's aflfability, and easiness 
 of access to literary men. But the sturdy Johnson 
 replied, " Sir, tliat is not Lord Chesterfield; he is the 
 proudest man existiiiir." " I tliink," Adams rejoined, 
 "I know one tliat is prouder; you, by your own 
 account, are the prouder of tlic two." " But mine," 
 Johnson answered, Avith one of his happy turns, " was 
 defensive pride." "This man," he afterwards said, 
 referring to Chesterfield, " I tlionght had been a 
 lord among Avits, but I find he is only a Avit among 
 lords." 
 
 In revenge, Chesterfield in his Letters depicted 
 Johnson, it is said, in the character of the " respect- 
 able Hottentot." Amono;st other thino;s, he observed 
 of the Hottentot, "he throws his meat anywhere but 
 down his throat." Tiiis being remarked to Johnson, 
 who was by no means pleased at being immortalized as 
 the Hottentot — "Sir," he answered, "Lord Chester- 
 field never saw me eat in his life." 
 
 Such are tlie leading points of this famous and last- 
 ing controversy. It is amusing to know tliat Lord 
 Chesterfield was not always precise as to directions to 
 his letters. He once directed to Lord Pembroke, who 
 Avas ahvays SAvimming, " To the Earl of Pembroke, in 
 the Thames, over against Wliitehall." This, as Horace 
 AValpole remarks, " Avas sure of finding him Avithin a 
 certain fatliom." 
 
 Lord Chesterfield Avas noAV admitted to be the very
 
 358 THE GLASS OF FASHION. 
 
 "glass of fasliion," though age, and, according to Lord 
 Hervey, a hideous person, impeded his being the 
 "moukl of form," " I don't knoAv why," writes Hor- 
 ace Walpole, in the dog-days, from Strawberry Hill, 
 " but people are always more anxious about their hay 
 than their corn, or twenty other things that cost them 
 more : I suppose my Lord Chesterfield, or some such 
 dictator, made it fashionable to care about one's hay. 
 Nobody betrays solicitude about getting in his rents." 
 "The prince of wits," as the same authority calls him 
 — " his entrance into the world was announced by his 
 bon-mots, and his closing lips dropped repartees that 
 sparkled with his juvenile fire." 
 
 No one, it was generally allowed, had such a force 
 of table-wit as Lord Chesterfield ; but while the 
 " Graces " were ever his theme, he indulged himself 
 Avithout distinction or consideration in numerous sallies. 
 He was, therefore, at once sought and feared ; liked 
 but not loved ; neither sex nor relationship, nor rank, 
 nor friendship, nor obligation, nor profession, could 
 shield his victim from what Lord Hervey calls, " those 
 pointed, glittering weapons, that seemed to shine 
 only to a standcr-by, but cut deep into those they 
 touched." 
 
 He cherished "a voracious appetite for abuse;" fell 
 upon every one that came in his way, and thus treated 
 each one of his companions at the expense of the other. 
 To him Hervey, Avho liad probably often smarted, ap- 
 plied tlic lines of Boih'au —
 
 LOUD scAi'ju )!:()['( ; ITS niiKNDsinr. 359 
 
 "Mais c'cst im ]iclit fou <(iii se croit tout permis, 
 Et qui pour uii l>nii mot va perdrc viugt amis." 
 
 Horace Walpole (a more lenient judge of Clicster- 
 ficld's merits) observes tliat " Chesterfield took no less 
 pains to be the phoenix of fine gentlemen, than Tullj 
 did to ([iialify himself as an orator. Both succeeded: 
 Tully immortalized his name; Chesterfield's rei'^^n 
 lasted a little longer than tliat of a fashionable 
 beauty." It was, perhaps, because, as Dr. Johnson 
 said, all Lord Chesterfield's witty sayings were puns, 
 that even his brilliant wit failed to please, although it 
 amused, ami sui-prised its hearers. 
 
 Notwithstanding the contemptuous description of 
 Lord Chesterfield's personal appearance by Lord Iler- 
 vcy, his portraits represent a handsome, though hard 
 countenance, Avell-markcd features, and his figure and 
 air appear to have l)een elegant. With his command- 
 ing talents, his wonderful brilliancy and fluency of con- 
 versation, he Avould perhaps sometimes have been even 
 tedious, had it not been for his invariable cheerfulness. 
 He was always, as Lord Ilervey says, "present" in 
 his company. Amongst the few friends who really 
 loved this thorough man of the world, was Lord Scar- 
 borough, yet no two characters were more opposite. 
 Lord Scarborough had judgment, without Avit : Ches- 
 terfield wit, and no judgment ; Lord Scarborough had 
 honesty and principle ; Lord Chesterfield had neither. 
 Everybody liked the one, but did not care for his 
 company. Every one disliked the other, but wished
 
 360 DEATH OF CHESTERFIELD'S SON. 
 
 for Ills company. The fact was, Scarborough was 
 "splendid and absent." Chesterfiekl "cheerful and 
 present : ' ' wit, grace, attention to what is passing, the 
 surface, as it were, of a highly-cultured mind, produced 
 a fascination with which all the honor and respectabil- 
 ity in the Court of George II. could not compete. 
 
 In the earlier part of Chesterfield's career. Pope, 
 Bolingbroke, Hervey, Lady INIary Wortley Montagu, 
 and, in fact, all that could add to the pleasures of the 
 then early dinner-table, illumined Chesterfield House 
 by their wit and gayety. Yet in the midst of this ex- 
 citing life. Lord Chesterfield found time to devote to 
 the improvement of his natural son, Philip Stanhope, 
 a great portion of his leisure. His celebrated Letters 
 to that son did not, however, appear during the earl's 
 life ; nor were they in any way the source of his 
 popularity as a wit, which was due to his merits in 
 that line alone. 
 
 The youth to A\hom these letters, so useful and yet 
 so objectionable, were addressed, was intended for a 
 dii)lomatist. lie Avas the very reverse of his father : 
 learned, sensible, and dry ; but utterly wanting in the 
 graces, and devoid of eloquence. As an orator, there- 
 fore, lie failed ; as a man of society, he must also have 
 ftiled; iind his death, in 17(38, some years before that 
 of his father, left that father desolate, and disappointed. 
 Philip Stanlioj)e had attained the rank of envoy to 
 Dresden, v.hcre be expired. 
 
 Durinir the five years in which Chesterfield dra2;<2;ed
 
 CIIESTEKFIELD GROWING OLD. ^01 
 
 out a iiKMii'uriil life after tliis event, lie made tlic pain- 
 ful discovery that his son liad married without confidin;^ 
 that step to the father to whom he owed so much. This 
 must have been almost as trying as the awkward, un- 
 graceful deportment of him wliom he mourned. The 
 AvorM now left Chesterfield ere he had left the world. 
 lie ami his contemporary Lord Tyrawley were now 
 old and iiifinn. '' Tlio fact is," Chesterfield wittily 
 said, " Tyrawley and 1 have been dead these two 
 years, but wc don't choose to have it known." 
 
 "The Bath," he wrote to his friend Dayrolles, " did 
 me more good than I thought anything could do me ; 
 but all that good does not amount to what builders 
 call half-repairs, and only keeps up the shattered fabric 
 a little longer than it would have stood without them ; 
 but, take my word for it, it will stand but a very little 
 while longer. 1 am now in my grand climacteric, and 
 shall not complete it. Fontenelle's last words at a hun- 
 dred and three were, Je souffre d'etre : deaf and in- 
 firm as T am, T can with truth say the same thing at 
 sixty-three. In my mind it is only the strength of 
 our passions, and tlio weakness of our reason, that 
 makes us so fond of life ; but wlien the former sul)- 
 side and give way to the latter, we grow weary of 
 being, and willing to Avithdraw. I do not recommend 
 this train of serious reflections to you, nor ought j^ou 
 to adopt them. . . . You have children to educate and 
 pro\ide for, you have all your senses, and can enjoy all 
 the comforts Itoth of domestic and social life. I am in
 
 3G2 HIS INTEREST IN HIS GEANDSON. 
 
 every sense isole, and have wound up all my bottoms ; 
 I may now walk off quietly, without missing nor being 
 missed." 
 
 The kindness of his nature, corrupted as it was by 
 a life wholly worldly, and but little illumined in 
 its course by religion, shone now in his care of his 
 two grandsons, the offspring of his lost son, and of 
 their mother, Eugenia Stanhope. To her he thus 
 wrote : — 
 
 " The last time I had the pleasure of seeing you, I 
 was so taken up in playing with the boys, that I forgot 
 their more important affairs. How soon would you 
 have them placed at school ? When I know your 
 pleasure as to that, I will send to Monsieur Perny, 
 to prepare everything for their reception. In the 
 mean time, I beg that you will equip them thoroughly 
 with clothes, linen, etc., all good, but plain ; and give 
 me the amount, which I will pay ; for I do not intend, 
 from tliis time forwards, the two boys should cost you 
 one shilling." 
 
 He lived, latterly, much at Blackheath, in the house 
 which, being built on Crown land, has finally become 
 the Ranger's lodge ; but whicli still sometimes goes by 
 the name of Chesterfield House. Here he spent large 
 sums, especially on pictures, and cultivated Cantelupc 
 melons ; and here, as he grew older, and became per- 
 manently afflicted with deafness, his chief companion 
 was a useful friend, Solomon Dayrollos — one of those 
 indebted hangers-on whom it was an almost invariable
 
 "1 MUST GU AND KEIIKARSE MY FUNERAL." 303 
 
 custom to find, at that period, in great bouses — and 
 perhaps too frc({uently in our own day. 
 
 Dayrolles, who was eniph)yed in tlie embassy under 
 Lord Sandwich at the Hague, bad always, to borrow 
 Horace Walpole's ill-natured expression, " been a k-il- 
 captain to the Dukes of Richmond and Grafton, used 
 to be sent to auctions for them, and to walk in the 
 parks witli tlidi- daughters, and once went dry-nurse 
 in Ilollaiul with them. He has belonged, too, a good 
 deal to my Lord Chesterfield, to whom I believe he 
 owes this new honor, ' that of being minister at the 
 Hajirue,' as he had before made him black-rod in 
 Ireland, and gave the ingenious reason that he liad 
 a black face." But the great "dictator" in the 
 empire of ]»nliteness was now in a slow but sure 
 decline. Not long before his death he Avas visited 
 by Monsieur Suard, a French gentleman who was 
 anxious to see " Vliommc le jjIus aimable, le plus poli 
 et le plus spirit uel des trois royaumes" but who found 
 him fearfully altered ; morose from his deafness, yet 
 still anxious to please. " It is very sad," he said, 
 with his usual politeness, "to be deaf, when one would 
 so much enjoy listening. I am not," he added, "so 
 philosophic as my friend the President de Montes- 
 quieu, wlio says, ' I know how to be blind, but I do 
 not yet know how to be deaf.'" "We shortened 
 our visit," says M. Suard, "lest wo should fatigue 
 the earl." " I do not detain you," said Chesterfield, 
 "for I must go and rehearse my funeral." It was
 
 3G4 CHESTERFIELD\S WILL. 
 
 tlius that lie styled liis daily drive througli the streets 
 of London. 
 
 Lord Chesterfield's wonderful memory continued till 
 his latest hour. As he lay, gasping in the last agonies 
 of extreme debility, his friend, Mr. Dayrolles, called 
 in to see him half an hour before he expired. The 
 politeness "which had become part of his very nature 
 did not desert the dying earl. He managed to say, in 
 a low voice, to his valet, " Give Davrolles a chair." 
 This little trait greatly struck the famous Dr. Warren, 
 Avho was at the bedside of this brilliant and wonderful 
 man. He died on the 24th of jNLirch, 1773, in the 
 79th year of his age. 
 
 The preamble to a codicil (Feb. 11, 1773) contains 
 the following striking sentences, written when the in- 
 tellect was impressed with the solemnity of that solemn 
 change which comes alike to the unreflecting and to 
 the heartstricken, holy believer : — 
 
 "I most humbly recommend my soul to the extensive mercy of 
 that Eternal, Supreme, Intelligent Being who gave it me; most 
 earnestly at the same time deprecating his justice. Satiated with 
 the pompous follies of this life, of which I have had an uncommon 
 share, I would have no iiosthumous ones disjilayed at my funeral, 
 and therefore desire to he buried in the next burying-place to the 
 place where I shall die, and limit the whole expense of my funeral 
 to £100." 
 
 His body was interred, according to his wish, in the 
 vault of the chapel in South Andley Street, but it was 
 afterwards removeil to tlie family burial-place in Shcl- 
 ford Church, Nottingliamshire.
 
 CIIES'rKKFIEJJ)S WILL. P.Go 
 
 III liis will he left legacies to his servants.' " I con- 
 sider thein," he said, "as unfortunate friends; my 
 C(iuals by nature, and my inferiors only in the differ- 
 ence of our fortunes." There "was something lofty in 
 the mind that prompted that sentence. 
 
 His estates reverted to a distant kinsman, descended 
 from a younger son of tlic first earl ; and it is remark- 
 able, on lookinj; throunjh the Pecrase of Great Britain, 
 to perceive how often this has been the case in a race 
 remarkable for the absence of virtue. Interested mar- 
 riages, vicious habits, perliaps account for the fact ; 
 but retributive justice, thougli it be presumptuous to 
 trace its course, is everywhere. 
 
 He had so great a horror in his last days of gam- 
 bling, that in bequeathing his possessions to his heir, 
 as he expected, and godson, Philip Stanhope, he inserts 
 this clause : — 
 
 " In f.-isf my said .lijodson, Philip Stanhope, shall at any time 
 hereinafter keep, or be concerned in keeping of, any race-horses, or 
 pack of honnds, or reside one night at Newmarket, that infamous 
 seminary of ini([uity and ill-manners, during the course of tlie races 
 there ; or shall resort to the said races ; or shall lose, in any one 
 day, at any game or bet whatsoever, the sum of £500, then, in any 
 the cases aforesaid, it is my express will that lie, my said godson, 
 shall fiirfcit and pay, out of my estate, the sum of £oOOO t<> and for 
 the use of tlie Dean and Chapter of "Westminster." 
 
 When we say that Lord Chesterfield was a man wlio 
 had 710 friend, we sum up his character in those few 
 words. Just after his death a small but distinguished 
 ' Tw(.) vears' wages were left to the servants.
 
 ■3G6 "A MAN WHO HAD NO FRIENDS." 
 
 party of men dined together at Topliam Beauclerk's. 
 There was Sir Joshua Reynohls ; Sir William Jones, 
 the orientalist ; Bennet Langton ; Steevens ; Boswell ; 
 Johnson. The conversation turned on Garrick, who, 
 Johnson said, had friends, but no friend. Then Bos- 
 well 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 company 
 mentioned Lord Chesterfield as one who had no friend ; 
 and Boswell said : " Garrick Avas pure gold, but beat 
 out to thin leaf. Lord Chesterfield was tinsel." And, 
 for once, Johnson did not contradict him. But not so 
 do we judge Lord Chesterfield. lie was a man who 
 acted on false principles through life ; and those prin- 
 ciples gradually undermined everything that Avas noble 
 and generous in character ; just as those deep under- 
 ground currents, noiseless in their course, work through 
 fine-grained rock, and produce a chasm. Everything 
 with Chesterfield was self: for self, and self alone, were 
 agreeable qualities to be assumed ; for self, was the 
 country to be served, because that country protects 
 and serves us: for self, were friends to be sought and 
 cherished, as useful auxiliaries, or pleasant accessories : 
 in tlie very core of the cankered heart, that advocated 
 tliis corrupting doctrine of expediency, lay unbeli(>f; 
 tliat woi-in which never died in the hearts of so many 
 illustrious men of that ])ei'iud — the refi'igerator of the 
 feeliniis.
 
 HIS "LETTERS T(J HIS SOX." 3G7 
 
 One only gentle and genuine sentiment possessed 
 Lord Chesterfield, and that was his love for his son. 
 Yet in this affection the ■worldly man might be seen in 
 mournful colors. He did not seek to render his son 
 good ; his sole desire was to see him successful : every 
 lesson that he taught him, in those matchless Letters 
 which have carried down Chesterfield's fame to us when 
 his other productions have virtually expired, exposes a 
 code of dissimulation wliich Philip Stanhope, in his 
 marriage, turned upon the father to whom he owed so 
 much care and advancement. These Letters are, in 
 fact, a complete exposition of Lord Chesterfield's cha- 
 racter and views of life. No other man could have 
 written them : no otiier man Iiave conceived the notion 
 of existence being one great effort to deceive, as well 
 as to excel, and of society forming one gigantic lie. 
 It is true tliey were addressed to one who was to enter 
 the maze of a diplomatic career, and must be taken, 
 on that account, with some reservation. 
 
 They have justly been condemned on the score of 
 immorality ; but Ave must remember that the age in 
 Avhich tliey were written was one of lax notions, es- 
 pecially among men of rank, who regarded all women 
 accessible, either from indiscretion or inferiority of 
 rank, as fair game, and acted accordingly. But whilst 
 we agree with one of Johnson's bitterest sentences as 
 to the innnorality of Chesterfield's letters, we disagree 
 witli his stvlin«r his code of manners the manners of a 
 dancing-master. Chesterfield was in himself a perfect
 
 368 LES MANIEEES KOBLES. 
 
 instance of what he calls les inanieres nobles ; and this 
 even Johnson allowed. 
 
 " Talking of Chesterfield," Johnson said, " his man- 
 ner was exquisitely elegant, and he had more know- 
 ledge than I expected." Boswell : '' Did you find, sir, 
 his conversation to be of a superior sort?" — Johnson: 
 " Sir, in the conversation which I had with him, I had 
 the best right to superiority, for it was upon philology 
 and literature." 
 
 It was well remarked how extraordinary a thing it 
 w'as that a man who loved his son so entirely should 
 do all he could to make him a rascal. And Foote 
 even contemplated bringing on the stage a father who 
 had thus tutored his son ; and intended to shoAV the 
 son an honest man in everything else, but practising 
 his father's maxims upon him, and cheating him. 
 
 "It should be so contrived," Johnson remarked, 
 referring to Foote's plan, "that the father should be 
 the only sufferer by the son's villainy, and thus there 
 would be poetical justice." " Take out the immoral- 
 ity," 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 differ, and to confess to a moral 
 taint throughout the whole of the Letters ; and even 
 had the immorality been expunged, the false motives, 
 the deej^, invariable advocacy of principles of ex- 
 pediency, would have poisoned what otherwise might be 
 of eff"ectual benefit to the minor virtues of jxdite society.
 
 *!i\)i Hi) lie !rravvon.
 
 THE ABBE SCARRON. 
 
 Tin:i;K is :in Tiidiun or Cliiiiose legend, I forgot 
 wliicli, IVoiii wliicli Mrs. Shelley may have taken 
 her hideous idt'u of Frankenstein. We are told in 
 this allegory that, after fashioning some thousands 
 of men after the most approved model, endowing 
 them Avith all that is noble, generous, admirable, and 
 lovable in man or Avoman, the eastern Prometheus 
 grew wearv in his -woi-k, stretched his hand for the 
 beer-can, and draining it too deeply, lapsed presently 
 into a state of what Germans call " other-ma n-ness." 
 There is a simpler Anglo-Saxon term for this con- 
 dition, but I spare you. The eastern Prometheus went 
 on seriously Avith his work, and still produced the same 
 perfect models, faultless alike in brain and leg. But 
 •when it came to the delicate finish, when the last 
 touches were to bo made, his hand shook a little, 
 and the more delicate members went awry. It was 
 thus that instead of the power of seeing every color 
 properly, one man came out with a pair of optics 
 wliich turned everything to green, and this verdancy 
 pro]»ably transmitted itself to the intelligence. An- 
 other, to C(mtinue the allegory, wdiose tympanum had 
 slipped a little under tlu^ unsteady finders of tlic inaii- 
 
 VoL. I.— 21 3C'J
 
 370 AN EASTERN ALLEGORY, 
 
 maker, hoard everything in a wrong sense, and his life 
 was miserable, because, if you sang his praises, he 
 believed you were ridiculing him, and if you heaped 
 abuse upon him, he thought you were telling lies of 
 him. 
 
 But as Prometheus Orientalis grew more jovial, it 
 seems to have come into his head to make mistakes 
 on purpose. "I'll have a friend to laugh with," quoth 
 he ; and when warned by an attendant Yaksha, or 
 demon, that men who laughed one hour often wept the 
 next, he swore a lusty oath, struck his thumb heavily 
 on a certain bump in the skull he was completing, and 
 holding up his little doll, cried, " Here is one who will 
 laugh at everything !" 
 
 I must now add what the legend neglects to tell. 
 The model laugher succeeded well enough in his own 
 reiirn, but he could not besiet a larcre family. The 
 laughers who never weep, the real clowns of life, who 
 do not, when the curtain drops, retire, after an infini- 
 tesimal allowance of "cordial," to a half-starved com- 
 plaining family, with brats that cling round their parti- 
 colored stockings, and cry to them — not for jokes — but 
 for bread, these laughers, I say, are few and far between. 
 You should, therefore, be doubly grateful to me for in- 
 troducing to you now one of the most famous of them ; 
 one who with all right and title to be lugubrious, was 
 the merriest man of his age. 
 
 On Shrove Tuesday, in the year 1G38, the good city 
 of Mans was in a state of great excitement : the carni-
 
 WHO (OMKS IIKRE? 371 
 
 v:il was at its liciulit, iiml cverybotlv li;i<l i^onc Tiiml lor 
 one (l;i_v Ix'Tin'c t iiniiiiL!; pious fui- tlic ll)llL^ <liill lorty 
 (lays of Lent. 'Flic iimrkft-placc Avas lillcil wllli 
 maskers in (|ii,iiiit costiniies,. cacli wilder ami more 
 extravagant than the last. Here weie maiiieians with 
 lii^h peaked hats covered with eal)alistic signs, here 
 Eastern sultans of the m('(li;vv:il modt'l, witli very fierce 
 looks and very large scimitars : here Amadis de ( laul 
 with a Avagging plume a yard high, here Pantagrucl, 
 here hai-hMiuins, here irii<Tuenots ten times more Ingu- 
 brious than the despised sectaries they mocked, here 
 Cnesar and Pompey in triird< hose and Roman helmets, 
 and a mass of other notabilities Avho Avere great favor- 
 ites in that day, appeared. 
 
 But Avho comes here ? What is the meaning of these 
 roars of laughter that greet the last mask who runs into 
 the market-place? Why do all the Avomen and children 
 hurry together, calling upon one another, ami shout- 
 ing Avith delight? What is this thing? Is it some 
 ncAV species of 1)ird, thus covered with feathers and 
 doAvn ? In a few minutes the little figure is surrounded 
 by a croAvd of boys and Avomen, Avho begin to ])bi(dv 
 him of his borroAved plumes, Avhile he chatters to them 
 like a magpie, Avhistles like a song-bird, croaks like a 
 raven, or in his natural character shoAvers a mass of 
 funny nonsense on them, till their laughter makes 
 their sides ache. The little wretch is literally covered 
 Avith small feathers from head to foot, and even his 
 face is nut to ])q recognized. The Avomen pluck him
 
 372 A MAD FREAK AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 behind and before ; be dances round and tries to evade 
 their fingers. This is impossil)h' ; lie breaks away, 
 runs down 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 dis- 
 covered. Little by little his back is bared, and little 
 ])y little is seen a black jerkin, black stockings, and, 
 wonder upon wonder ! the bands of a canon. Now 
 they have cleared his face of its plumage, and a cry 
 of disgust and shame hails the disclosure. Yes, this 
 curious masker is no other than a reverend abbe, a 
 young canon of the cathedral of Mans ! " This is too 
 much — it is scandalous — it is diso;raceful. The church 
 must be respected, the sacred order must not descend 
 to such fi'ivolities." The people, lately laughing, are 
 now furious at the shameless abbe, and not his liveliest 
 wit can save him ; they threaten and cry shame on 
 liim, and in terror of his life, he beats his way through 
 the crowd, and takes to his heels. The mob follows, 
 hootin2; and sava2;e. The little man is nimble ; those 
 well-shaped legs — qui ont si hien danse — stand him in 
 good stead. Down the streets, and out of the town 
 go hare and hounds. The pursuers gain on him — a 
 bridge, a stream filled with tall reeds and delightfully 
 miry, are all the hope of refuge he sees before him. 
 lie leaps gallantly from ihe bridge in among the osiers, 
 and has the joy of listening to the disappointed curses 
 of the mob when, reaching tlu^ stream, their quarry is 
 nowhere to be secji. The reeds conceal him, and there
 
 SCAIIKUN'S i;.\i;i.v vkaus. 373 
 
 lie linir('i"S lill iii''litfall, wlicti lie (•.■iii issue fVoiii liis 
 liirkiii<f-[)lac(.', ami escape tVoiu the town. 
 
 SiK-Ii was the nuid freak which deprived the Ahhe 
 Searrun ot" tlie use of his liiuhs fur life. His healtli 
 AVJ18 alreadv niined when lie iudulgeil this caprice; the 
 damp (if the river ljrou<iht on a violent attack, ■which 
 closed with palsy, and the gay young ahbe had to jiay 
 dearly for the pleasure of astonishing the citizens of 
 jNIans. The disguise was easily accounted for — he had 
 smeared himself with honey, ripped open a feather-bed 
 and rolled himself in it. 
 
 This little incident gives a good idea of what Scar- 
 ron was in his younger days — ready at any time for 
 any wild caprice. 
 
 Paul Scarron was the son of a Conseiller du Parle- 
 ment of good family, resident in I'aris. He was horn 
 in IGIO, and his early days Avould have been wretched 
 enough, if his elastic spirits had allowed him to give 
 wav to misery. His father was a ^ood-natured, weak- 
 minded man, who on the death of his first Avife' married 
 a second, who, as one hen Avill peck at another's chicks, 
 would not, as a step-mother, leave the little Paul in 
 peace. She was continually putting her own children 
 forward, and ill-treating the late "anointed" son. 
 The father 'Mve in too readily, and young Paul was 
 idad enou'di io be set free from his nnhai))>v home. 
 There uiav be some excuse in this for the licentious 
 liviu"' to which he now urave hiinscir iiii. He was heir 
 to a decent fortune, and of course thought himself jus-
 
 374 MAKING AN ABBE OF IIIM. 
 
 tified in spending it beforehand. Then, in spite of 
 his quaint little figure, ho had something attractive 
 about him, for his merry face was good-looking, if not 
 positively handsome. If we add to this, spirits as 
 buoyant as an Irishman's — a mind that not only saw 
 the ridiculous wherever it existed, but could turn the 
 most solemn and awful themes to laughter, a vast deal 
 of good-nature, and not a little assurance — we can un- 
 derstand that the young Scarron was a favorite with 
 both men and women, and among the reckless pleasure- 
 seekers of the day soon became one of the Avildest. 
 In short, he was a fast young Parisian, with as little 
 care for morality or religion as any youth who saun- 
 ters on the Boulevards of the French ca})ital to this 
 day. 
 
 But his step-motlier w^as not content with getting rid 
 of young Paul, but had her eye also on his fortune, and 
 therefore easily persuaded her husband that the service 
 of the church Avas precisely the career for which the 
 young reprobate was fitted. There was an uncle who 
 was Bishop of Grenoble, and a canonry could easily be 
 got for him. The fixst youth Avas compelled to give in 
 to this arrangement, but declined to take full orders; 
 so tliat while drawing the revenue of his stall, he had 
 notliing to do with the duties of bis calling. 'J'lien, 
 toi>, it was rather a, fasliionablc tiling ti> be an abbe, 
 especially a gay one. 4'lie position placed you on a 
 level with peo})le of all raidvs. Half tlic courl was 
 composed of hn-e-making ecclesiastics, and llie soiitfOie
 
 'I'm: .MAYi'Aii: of pakis. :j/o 
 
 "vvas a kiml of diploiiin fni- wit and wickedness. Viewed 
 in this li^ht, the ehureh was as jovial a profession as 
 the army, and tlie young Scarron went to the full 
 extent of the letter allowed to the black gown. It 
 was oidy such stupid superstitious louts as those of 
 Mans, who did not know anything of the Avays of Paris 
 life, who could object to such little freaks as he loved 
 to indult!;e in. 
 
 The merry little abbd was soon the delight of the 
 Marais. This distinct and anti<|uated quarter of Paris 
 was then the May fair of that capital. Here lived in 
 ease, and contempt of the bourgeoisie, the great, the 
 gay, the courtier, and the wit. Here ]Marion de Lorme 
 received old cardinals and young abbds ; here were 
 the salons of j\Iadame de Martel, of the Comtcsse de 
 la Suze, who changed her creed in order to avoid scc- 
 in«- her husband in this world or the next, and the 
 famous — or infamous — Ninon de TEnclos ; and at these 
 houses vouni; Scarron met the courtly Saint-Evremond, 
 tlie witty Sarrazin, an<l the learned but arrogant \o\- 
 ture. Here he read his skits and parodies, here tra- 
 vestied A"ir;ril. made epigrams on Richelieu, ami 
 poureil out his indelicate liut always laughable wit- 
 ticisms. Put his indulgences were not confined to 
 iiiti-i'jiK'S ; he also diaiik deep, and there was not a 
 pleasiii-.' witliin liis reach which he ever tliought of 
 deiiving himself. lie laiiLrhed at religion. llioMght 
 iiinnilitva nuisance, and resolved to be nien-y at all 
 costs.
 
 376 A HELPLESS CRIPPLR 
 
 The little account was brought in at last. At the 
 age of five-and-twcnty his constitution was broken up. 
 Gout and rheumatism assailed him alternately or in 
 leash. He began to feel the annoyance of the con- 
 straint they occasioned ; he regretted those legs which 
 had figured so well in a ronde or a minuet, and those 
 hands which had played the lute to dames more fair 
 than modest ; and to add to this, the pain he suffered 
 was not slight. lie sought relief in gay society, and 
 was cheerful in s])ite of his sufferino;s. At leu'^th 
 came the Shrove Tuesday and the feathers ; and the 
 consequences were terrible. lie was soon a prey to 
 doctors, whom he believed in no more tlian in the 
 churcli of which he was so great a lio-ht. His leo-s 
 were no longer his own, so he was obliged to borrow 
 those of a chair. He Avas soon tucked down into a 
 species of dumb-waiter on casters, in wliich he could 
 be rolled about in a party. In front of this chair was 
 fastened a desk, on which he wrote; for too wise to be 
 overcome by his agony, he drove it away by cultivat- 
 ing his imagination, and in this way some of the most 
 fantastic productions in French literature were com- 
 posed by this quaint little a1»be. 
 
 Nor was sickness his only trial now. Old Scarron 
 was a citizen, and had, what was then criminal, sun- 
 dry ideas of the libei-fy of the nation. He saw Avith 
 disgust the tyranny of lliehelieu, and joined a ])arty 
 in the ParlianuMit to op])ose tlie cardinal's measui-es. 
 He even had the courage to speak opcidy against one
 
 scAi:i:()Ns i,ami;nt 'lo pklllsson. o77 
 
 of the court edicts : mid tlic pitiless cardiiuil, vlio never 
 overlooked any ofleiice, bunislied liiin to Touraiiie, and 
 naturally extended his animosity to the conseiller's son. 
 This 1i:i])])('ii(m1 at a moment at \viru-li the cripple be- 
 lieved iiiniself to 1k' on the road to favor. lie had 
 already won that of Madame de Ilautefort, on A\hom 
 Tiduis XIII. had set his afiections, and this lady had 
 ])romised to present him to Anne of Austria. The 
 fathers honest boldness put a stop to the son's in- 
 tended servility, and Scarron lamented his fate in a 
 letter to Pellisson : 
 
 "U iiiille ecus, j):ir niallu'iir ivlranfiies, 
 Quo vous poiivicz iii't'par^'ncr do i)(?c'li(?s! 
 Quand nil valil mo ilil, tri-iiililaiU et have, 
 Nous u'avoiis plus dv liucius dans la cave 
 Que pour allcr jiisqu'a demain matin, 
 Je poste alnrs sur mon cliien de destin, 
 iSur le grand froid, sur Ic hois de hi grove, 
 Qu'on vend hi clier, ct qui si-tot s'aehove. 
 ,Ie jiiro alors, ct inome je in^dis 
 IH" raction di' iiioii pore efourdi, 
 (^uand sans snngcr a cc qji'il allail faire 
 II nrohaiiclia sous tin astre contraire, 
 Et m'aclu'va par tin diseniirs niandit 
 (^ii'il lit dopuis sur iin rortain odit.'' 
 
 The fatlu'r died in exile: his second uife had spent 
 tlie greater [lai't of tlie son's fortune, and seciintl the 
 rest for her own children. Scarnm was left with a 
 mere pittance, ami. to complete his troubles, was in- 
 volved in a lawsuit about the projierty. The cripple.
 
 37S PRESENTED AT COURT. 
 
 Vvitli his usual impudence, resolved to plead liis own 
 cause, and did it only too well ; he made the judges 
 laugh so loud that they took the whole thing to be a 
 fiirce on his part, and gave — most ungratefully — judg- 
 ment against him. 
 
 Glorious days were those for the penniless — halcyon 
 days for the toady and the sycophant. There was still 
 much of the old oriental munificence about the court, 
 and sovereigns like Mazarin and Louis XIV. granted 
 pensions for a copy of flattering verses, or gave away 
 places as the reward of a judicious speech. Sinecures 
 were legion, yet to many a holder they Avere no sine- 
 cures at all, for they entailed constant servility and a 
 complete abdication of all freedom of opinion. 
 
 Scarrou was nothing more than a merry buffoon. 
 Many another man has gained a name for his mirth, 
 but most of them have been at least independent. 
 Scarron seems to have cared for nothinii; that was hon- 
 orable or dignified. lie laughed at everything l)ut 
 money, and at that he smiled, though it is only fair to 
 say that he was never avaricious, but only cared for 
 ease and a little luxury. 
 
 When Richelieu died, and the gentler but more 
 subtle Mazarin mounted liis thi"one, Madaiiie de 
 Ilautefort made aiiotlier attempt to present her jiroti'je 
 to tlic (|Heeii, and this time succeeded. Aiiuc <•(" Aus- 
 ti'ia had heard of the (juaint little m;\n who could laugli 
 over !i lawsuit in wliicli liis wlmlc roriiiiK' was staked, 
 and received liini uraeioiisly. lie begged loi" some
 
 TIIK OFKICK OK TIIK QUEP:N'.S PATIKNT. ;)70 
 
 pliU'c to support liiiii. AVliMt could he do? Wliiit was 
 lie lit for? "" iS'otliiiig, your Majesty, luit the iinjiort- 
 aiit oliicc of The Queen's Patient; for that I am fully 
 (juaiified." Anne smiled, and Scarron from that time 
 styled himself " par la <;race de Dieu, le malade de la 
 Ixeiiie," But there Avas no stipend attacheil to this 
 novel office. Mazarin procured him a pension of 500 
 crowns. lie was then puhlishing his " Typhon, or the 
 Gigantomachy," and dedicated it to the cardinal, with 
 an adulatory sonnet. He forwarded the great man a 
 splcinlidly hound copy, wliieh was accepted with noth- 
 ing nioi'e than thanks. In a rage the author suppressed 
 the soiniet and substituted a satire. This piece was 
 bitterly cutting, and terribly true. It galled Mazarin 
 to the heart, and he was undignified cnoun;li to reveno;c 
 himself by cancelling the poor little pension of i!GO per 
 annum whicli had previously been granted to the writer. 
 IScarron having lost his pension, soon afterwards asked 
 for an abbey, but Avas refused. '" Then give me," said 
 he, " a simple benefice, so simple, indeed, that all its 
 duties will be comprised in believing in God." But 
 Scarron had tlie satisfaction of gaining a great name 
 among the cardinal's many enemies, and with none 
 more so than De Ivetz, the coadjuteur^ to the Arch- 
 bishoj) of Baris. and alrcaily deeply implicated in the 
 Fromle mo\ cmeiit. To insure the l'a\<ir of this i"isin<i 
 man. iSearron determined to dedicate to him a work he 
 was just about to publish, and on wliirh he justly 
 
 ' Coddjuteur. — A high ofliee in the rluiuli of Koiue.
 
 380 SCARROX'S WRITIXGS. 
 
 prided himself as l)y far liis best. This was the 
 "Roman Comique," the only one of his productions 
 ■\vhieh is still read. That it should be rea<l, I can 
 quite understand, on account not only of the ease of its 
 style, but of the ingenuity of its improbable plots, the 
 truth of the characters, and the charmina: bits of satire 
 which are found here and there, like gems amid a mass 
 of mere fun. The scene is laid at Mans, tlie town in 
 which tlie author had himself perpetrated his chief fol- 
 lies ; and many of the characters Avere probably drawn 
 from life, while it is likely enough that some of the 
 stories were taken from facts which had there come to 
 his knowledge. As in many of the romances of th.-it 
 age, a number of episodes are introduced into the main 
 storv, Avhich consists of the ndventures of a strolling 
 company. These are mainly amatory, and all indel- 
 icate, while some arc as coarse as anything in P'rench 
 literature. Scarron liad little of the clear wit of Ralie- 
 lais to atone for this ; but he makes up for it, in a 
 measure, by the utter absurdity of some of his iiu-i- 
 dents. Not the least curious part of the book is the 
 Prefii'ce, in which lie gives a description of himself, in 
 order to contradict, as he affirms, the extravagant I'e- 
 ports circulated about him, to the effect that he Avas 
 set upon a table, in a cage, (tr that his hat was fast- 
 ened to the ceiling by a pulley, that he might ''jilnck 
 it M]) or let it down, to do compliment to a IViciid, 
 who h(»n(»reil liini with a visit." '^I^his descriplioii is 
 a toleralde sitecimen (d" his stvle, and we cive it in
 
 scAin;nN's DKscuii'i'iox /)! iiimski;f. n.si 
 
 the (in:iiiit l-iii^na;L^t' of mii olil translatidii, |iiililislicil 
 in 1711 :— 
 
 '' I am past thirty, as tlimi niay'st sec by tiie l>ack 
 of my Chaif. if I live to !)(> forty, I sliall acM tlic 
 Lord knows Jiow many Misfortunes to tliosc I have 
 already sulferi'd for these ei^i^ht or nine Years jiast. 
 There was a Time wlieii my Stature was not to be 
 found fault with, tho" now 'tis of the smallest. My 
 iSiekness has taken me shorter by a Foot. My Head 
 is somewhat too big, considering my Height; and my 
 Face is full enough, in all Conscience, for one that 
 carries such a Skeleton of a Body about him. T 
 have Hair enouirh on mv Head not to stand in need 
 of a Peruke; and 'tis gray, too, in spite of the 
 Proverb. My Sight is good enough, tho' my Eyes 
 ai'c large; they are of a l)lu(' Coloi*, and one of them 
 is sunk deeper into my Head tliaii the other, whieh 
 was occasion'd by my leaning on that Side. My Nose 
 is well enough mounted. i\Iy Teeth, Avhich in the Days 
 of Yore look'd like a. Row of square Pearl, are now of 
 an Ashen Color; and in a few Years more, will have 
 the Complexion of a Small-coal Man's Saturday Shirt. 
 I have lost one Tooth aiul a half on the left Side, and 
 tw'o and a half precisely on the right : and I have two 
 more that stand somewhat out of their Ranks. My 
 Legs and Thighs, in the first place, compose an obtuse 
 Angle, then a right one, and lastly an acute. ^ly 
 Thighs and Body make another: and my Head, leaning 
 perpetually over my Belly, I fancy makes nn^ not very
 
 382 lilPROVIDENCE AND SERVILITY. 
 
 tinlike tlie Letter Z. My Arms arc sliortened, as avcII 
 as my Legs ; and my Fingers as well as my Arms. In 
 short, I am a living Epitome of human Misery. This, 
 as near as I can give it, is my Shape. Since I am got 
 so far, I will e'en tell thee something of ray Humor. 
 Under the Rose, be it spoken, Courteous Reader, 1 do 
 this only to swell the Bulk of my Book, at the Recjuest 
 of the Bookseller — the poor Dog, it seems, being afraid 
 he should be a loser by this Impression, if he did not 
 give the Buyer enough for his ]Money." 
 
 This allusion to the publisher reminds us that, on 
 the suppression of his pension — on hearing of which 
 Scarron only said, "I should like, then, to suppress 
 myself" — he had to live on the profits of his works. 
 In later days it Avas Madame Scarron herself who often 
 carried them to the bookseller's, when there was not a 
 penny in the house. The publisher was Quinct, and 
 the merry wit, when asked whence he drew his income, 
 used to reply with mock haughtiness, " De mon INIar- 
 quisat do Quinet." Ilis comedies, which have been 
 described as mere burlesques — I confess I have never 
 read them, and hoped to be al)Solved — were successful 
 enough, and if Scarron had known how to keep what 
 he made, he might sooner or later have been in easy 
 circumstances. He knew neither that nor any other 
 art of self-restraint, and, therefore, was in perpetual 
 vicissitudes of riches and penury. At one time he 
 could afford to dedicate a piece to his sister's grey-
 
 THE SOCIKTY AT SCAUItON'S. .3.S:^> 
 
 lioiiml, at anotlicr lie* av;is servile in his iidilress to some 
 prince or <lukc. 
 
 In the hitter spirit, li<' Imnilihil himself hefore 
 Mazinin. in spite of the pul)lieation of his '' Mazariii- 
 ade," and was, iis he niiudit liavc expected, repulsed. 
 He tlien tiirnctl to Fou(|uet, the new Surintc nd.int de 
 Finances, who was liberal enoui^h with the public 
 money, which he so freely embezzled, and extracted 
 from liim a pension of IGOO francs (about £G4). In 
 one Avay or another, he got back a part of the property 
 his step-mother had alienated from him, and obtained a 
 prebend in the diocese of Mans, wliieh made u[) his 
 income to something more respectable. 
 
 He Avas now a1)le to indulii-e to the utmost his love 
 of society. In his apartment, in tlie TJue St. Louis, 
 he received all the leaders of the Fronde, heaile(l bv 
 De lletz, and bringing with them their pasquinades 
 on Mazarin, whicth tlu' easy Italian read and laughed 
 at and pretended to heed not at all. Politics, however, 
 was not the staple of the conversation at Scarron's. He 
 Avas visited as a curiosity, as a clever buffoon, and those 
 who came to see, remained to laugh. He kept them all 
 alive by his coarse, easy, impudent wit ; in which there 
 was more vulgarity and dirtiness than ill-nature, lie 
 had a fund of hon-liommie, which set his visitors at their 
 ease, for no one was afraid of being bitten by the 
 chained dog they came to pat. His salon became 
 famous; and tlie admission to it was a diploma of 
 wit. Ho kept out all the dull, and ignored all the
 
 384 SCAREON'S LADY FRIENDS. 
 
 simply great. Any man "wlio could say a good tiling, 
 
 tell a good story, write a good lampoon, or mimic a 
 
 fool, "vvas a Avelcome guest. Wits mingled with pedants, 
 
 courtiers with j^oets. Abbes and gay women were at 
 
 home in the easy society of the cripple, and circulated 
 
 freely round his dumb-waiter. 
 
 The ladies of the party were not the most respectable 
 
 in Paris, yet some Avho were models of virtue met there, 
 
 without a shudder, many others who were patterns of 
 
 vice. Ninon de I'Enclos — then youno; — thouo-h age 
 
 made no alteration in her — and already slaying her 
 
 scores, and ruining her liundreds of admirers, there 
 
 met Madame de Sevigne, the most i-espectable, as well 
 
 as tlie most a";reeable woman of that ao;e. Made- 
 ira o 
 
 moiselle de Scudery, leaving, for the time, lier twelve- 
 volume romance about Cyrus and Ibrahim, led on a 
 troop of jMoliere's Pr^cieuses Ridicules, and here re- 
 cited ]icr verses, and talked pedantically to Pellisson, 
 the ugliest man in Paris, of whom Boilcau wrote : 
 
 "L'or meme a, Pellisson donne un teiiit de beaute." 
 
 Then there was Madame de la Sabliere, who was as 
 masculine as her husband the marquis was effeminate ; 
 tlie Duchesse de Lesdiguieres, who Avas so anxious to be 
 thought a wit tliat slie employed the Chevalier de M^re 
 to make her one ; and the Comtesse de la Suze, a clever 
 but foolish woman. 
 
 The men were poets, courtiers, nnd pedants. Menage 
 with his tiresome memory, Monti-cnil and i\I;irigni
 
 THE WITTY CONVERSATION. 38o 
 
 the soiig-writcrs, the elogiint Dc Graminont, TuroiiMo, 
 Coligiii, the galhint Abbe Tetu, and many another 
 celebrity, thronged the rooms where Scarron sat in his 
 furious ■wheelbarrow. 
 
 The conversation Avas decidedly light ; often, indeed, 
 obscene, in spite of the presence of ladies ; but always 
 witty. The hostility of Scarron to tlie reigning car- 
 dinal was a great recommendation, and when all else 
 flagged, or the cripple had an unusually sharp attack, 
 he had but to start with a line of his " Mazarinadc," 
 and out came a fresh lampoon, a new caricature, or 
 fresh rounds of wit fired off at the Italian from the 
 well-filled cartridge-boxes of the guests, many of whom 
 kept their mots ready made up for discharge. 
 
 But a change came over the spirit of the paralytic's 
 
 dream. In the Rue St. Louis, close to Scarron's, 
 
 lived a certain INIadame Neuillant, who visited him as 
 
 a neighbor, and one day excited his curiosity by the 
 
 romantic history of a mother and daughter, Avho had 
 
 long lived in Martinique, who had been ruined by the 
 
 extravagance and follies of a reprobate husband and 
 
 father; and were now living in great poverty — the 
 
 daughter being supported by Madame de Neuillant 
 
 herself. The good-natured cripple was touched by this 
 
 story, and begged liis neighbor to bring the unhappy 
 
 ladies to one of his parties. The evening came ; tlic 
 
 abb6 was, as usual, surrounded by a circle of lady wits, 
 
 dressed in the last fashions, flaunting their fans, and 
 
 laughing merrily at his sallies. INIadame de Neuillant 
 Vol. I.— 2j
 
 386 FEANgOISE D'AUBIGNE'S DEBUT. 
 
 was announced, and entered, followed by a simply- 
 dressed lady, with the melancholy face of one broken- 
 down by misfortunes, and a pretty girl of fifteen. The 
 contrast between the new-comers and the fashionable 
 habituecs around him at once struck the abbe. The 
 girl was not only badly, but even shabbily dressed, and 
 the shortness of her gown shoAved that she had grown 
 out of it, and could not afford a new one. The grayides 
 dames turned upon her their eye-glasses, and whispered 
 comments behind their fans. She was very pretty, 
 they said, very interesting, elegant, lady-like, and so 
 on ; but, j^arbleii ! how shamefully mal mise ! The new- 
 comers were led up to the cripple's dumb-waiter, and 
 the grandes dames drew back their ample petticoats as 
 they passed. The young girl was overcome with shame ; 
 their whispers reached her ; she cast down her pretty 
 eyes, and growing more and more confused, she could 
 bear it no lono;er, and burst into tears. The abbe and 
 his guests were touched by her shyness, and endeavored 
 to restore her confidence. Scarron himself leant over, 
 and whispered a few kind words in her car ; than break- 
 ing out into some happy pleasantry, he gave her time 
 to recover her composure. Such was the first d^hut 
 in Parisian society of Franfoise d'Aubigne, who was 
 destined, as Madame Scarron, to be afterwards one 
 of its leaders, and, as Madame de Maintenon, to be 
 its ruler. 
 
 Some peo])lc are cursed with bad sons — some with 
 erring daughters. Fran^oisc d'Aubigne was long the
 
 THE SAD ST(JKY OF LA BELLE INDIENNE. o87 
 
 victim of :i wicked father. Constans d'Aubignd be- 
 longed to an old and lionorable family, and was the 
 son of that famous oM Huguenot general, Theodore- 
 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 reckless life, in which he scjuandered 
 his patrimony, he married a rich widow, and then, it 
 is said, contrived to put her out of the way. He was 
 -ir-prisoned as a murderer, but acquitted for want of 
 evidence. The story goes, that he was liberated by 
 the daughter of the governor of the jail, Avliom he had 
 seduced in the prison, and whom he married Avhen free. 
 He souo-ht to retrieve his fortune in the island of ]Mar- 
 tinique, ill-treated his wife, and eventually ran away, 
 and left her and her children to their fate. They fol- 
 lowed him to France, and found him again incarcer- 
 ated. Madame d'Aubignd was foolishly fond of her 
 good-for-nothing spouse, and lived Avith him in his cell, 
 where the little Frangoise, who had been born in prison, 
 was now educated. 
 
 Rescued from starvation by a worthy Huguenot 
 aunt, Madame de Vilette, the little girl was brought 
 up as a Protestant, and a very staunch one she proved 
 for a time. But ^ladame d'Aubigne, who was a 
 Romanist, would not allow her to remain long under 
 the Calvinist lady's protection, and sent her to be con- 
 verted by her godmother, the i\Iadame de Neuillant
 
 388 SCAERON IN LOVE. 
 
 above mentioned. This Avoman, who was as merciless 
 as a woman can be, literally broke her into Roman- 
 ism, treated her like a servant, made her groom the 
 horses and comb the maid'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 persecution, and young Fran9oise, at the 
 time she was introduced to Scarron, was a highly re- 
 spectable member of "the only true church." 
 
 Madame d'Aubignd Avas at this time supporting her- 
 self by needlework. Her sad story won the sympathy 
 of Scarron's guests, who united to relieve her wants. 
 La belle Indienne, as the cripple styled her, soon be- 
 came a favorite at his parties, and lost her shyness by 
 degrees. Ninon de I'Enclos, who did not want heart, 
 took her by the hand, and a friendship thus com- 
 menced between that inveterate La'is and the future 
 wife of Louis XIV. Avhich lasted till death. 
 
 The beauty of Frangoise soon brought her many 
 admirers, among whom was even one of Ninon's slaves ; 
 but as marriage was not the object of those attentions, 
 and the young girl would not relinquish her virtue, 
 she remained for some time unmarried, but respectable. 
 Scarn^i was particularly fond of her, and well knew 
 that, portionless as she Avas, the poor girl would have 
 but little chance of makino; a match. TTis kindness 
 touched her, his wit charmed her; she pitied his in- 
 firmities, and as his neighbor, frequently saw and tried 
 to console him. On the otlier hand, the cripple, though
 
 MATKIMONIAL CONSIDERATION. 389 
 
 forty years old, iiml in a state of hcaltli uliicli it is 
 impossible to describe, fell positively in \o\v willi the 
 young girl, ulio alone of nil the ladies Avho visited him 
 combined wit with perfect modesty. He pitied her 
 destitution. There 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 it to a beautiful young girl, 
 would have seemed ridiculous, if not unpardonable. 
 But let us take into account the difference in ideas of 
 matrimony between ourselves and the French. We 
 must remember that marriage has always been re- 
 garded among our neighbors as a contract for mutual 
 benefit, into which the consideration of money of 
 necessity entered largely. It is true that some qual- 
 ties are taken as e(|uivalents for actual cash : thus, if 
 a young man has a straight and well-cut nose he may 
 sell himself at a higher j)rice than a young man there 
 Avitli the hideous pug; if a girl is beautiful, the mar- 
 quis will 1)0 content with some thousands of francs less 
 for her dower tli:in if her hair were red or her com- 
 plexion irreclaimably brown. If Julie has a pretty 
 foot, a svelte waist, and can play the piano thunder- 
 ingly, or sing in the charmingest soprana, her ten 
 thousand francs are quite as acceptable as those of 
 stout, awkward, glum-fiiced Jeannette. The faultless 
 boots and yelloAV kids of young Adolphe counterbalance 
 the somewhat apocryphal vicomte of ijl-kempt and ill- 
 attired Ilenii.
 
 390 "AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE." 
 
 But then there must be some fortune. A French- 
 man is so much in the habit of expecting it, that he 
 thinks it ahnost a crime to fall in love where there is 
 none. Franjoise, pretty, clever, agreeable as she was, 
 was penniless, and even worse, she was the daughter 
 of a man who had been imprisoned on suspicion of 
 murder, and a woman who had gained her livelihood 
 by needlework. All these considerations made the 
 fancy of the merry abbe less ridiculous, and Fran- 
 poise herself, being sufficiently versed in the ways of 
 the world to understand the disadvantage under which 
 she labored, was less amazed and disgusted than another 
 girl might have been, when, in due course, the cripple 
 offered her himself and his dumb-waiter. He had little 
 more to give — his pension, a tiny income from his pre- 
 bend and his Marquisat de Quinet. 
 
 The offer of the little man was not so amusing as 
 other episodes of his life. He went honestly to work ; 
 represented to her what a sad lot would hers be if 
 Madame de Neuillant died, and what were the tempta- 
 tions of beauty without a penny. His arguments were 
 more to the point than delicate, and he talked to the 
 young girl as if she was a woman of the world. Still, 
 she accepted him, cripple as he was. 
 
 Madame de Neuillant made no objection, for she was 
 only too glad to be rid of a beauty who ate and drank, 
 but did not marry. 
 
 On the making of the contract, Scarron's fun re- 
 vived. When asked by the notary what was the
 
 "SCAKllON'S WIFE WILL LIVJO FOR EVER." 391 
 
 young lady's fortune, he replied : " Four louis, two 
 large wicked eyes, one fine figure, oue jmir of good 
 hands, and lots of mind." "And what do you give 
 her?" asked the lawyer. — " Immortality," replied lie, 
 with the air of a bombastic poet. " The names of the 
 wives of kin<i;s die with them — that of Scarron's wife 
 ■will live for ever !" 
 
 His marriage obliged him to give up his canonry, 
 which he sold to Menage's man-servant, a little bit of 
 simony whirh was not even noticed in those days. It 
 is amusing to find a man who laughed at all religion, 
 insisting that his wife shouhl make a formal avowal of 
 the Romish faith. Of the character of this marriage 
 we need say no more than that Scarron had at that 
 time the use of no more than his eyes, tongue, and 
 hands. Yet such was then, as now, the idea of matri- 
 mony in France, that the young lady's friends con- 
 sidered her fortunate. 
 
 Scarron in love was a picture which amazed and 
 amused the Avhole society of Paris, but Scarron mar- 
 ricil was still more curious. The queen, when she 
 heard of it, said tliat Fran§oise would be nothing 
 but a useless ])it of furniture in liis liouse. She 
 proved not only the most useful appendage he could 
 have, but the salvation alike of his soul and bis 
 reputation. The woman who charmed Louis XIV. 
 by her good sense, had enough of it to see Scarron's 
 faults, and ])rided herself on reforming him as far as 
 it was possible. Her husband had hitherto been the
 
 392 PETITS SOUPEES. 
 
 great Nestor of indelicacy, and when he was induced 
 to give it up, the rest followed his example. Madame 
 Scarron checked the license of the abbe's conversation, 
 and even worked a beneficial change in his mind. 
 
 The joviality of their parties still continued. Scar- 
 ron had always been famous for his petits soupers, the 
 fashion of which he introduced, but as his poverty 
 would not allow him to give them in proper style, 
 his friends made a pic-nic of it, and each one either 
 brought or sent his own dish of ragout, or whatever 
 it might be, and his OAvn bottle of wine. This does 
 not seem to have been the case after the marriage, 
 however ; for it is related as a proof of Madame 
 Scarron 's conversational powers, that, when, one even- 
 ing a poorer supper than usual Avas served, the waiter 
 whispered in her ear, " Tell them another story, Ma- 
 dame, if you please, for we have no joint to-night." 
 Still both guests and host could well afford to dispense 
 with the coarseness of the cripple's talk, which might 
 raise a laugh, but must sometimes have caused disgust, 
 and the young wife of sixteen succeeded in making 
 him purer both in his conversation and his writings. 
 
 The household she entered was indeed a villainous 
 one. Scarron rather gloried in his early delinquencies, 
 and, to add to this, his two sisters had characters far 
 from estimable. One of them had been maid of honor 
 to the Princess do Conti, but had given up her a])point- 
 ment to become the mistress of the Due de Tremcs. 
 Tlie lauu'lKM- laniilied even at his sister's dishonor, and
 
 tup: LAU(iiii:K'.s deatii-];];i). 00:> 
 
 allowed her to live in the same house on a hi;^lier ctafje. 
 AVhen, on one occasion, some one tallril on him to solicit 
 the lady's interest with the duke, he coolly said, " You 
 are mistaken ; it is not I who know the duke ; go up 
 to the next storey." The offspring of this connection 
 he styled "■ his nephews after the fashion of the Marais." 
 rran9oise did her hest to reclaim this sister and to con- 
 ceal her shame, but the laughing abbe made no secret 
 of it. 
 
 But the laugher Avas approaching his end. His 
 attacks became more and more violent : still he 
 hui<rlied at them. Once he was seized with a terrible 
 choking liiccu}), which threatened to suffocate him. 
 The first moment he could speak he cried, " If I get 
 well, 111 write a satire on the hiccup." The priests 
 came about him, and his wife did what she could to 
 brin"; him to a sense of his future danger. He hiuirhed 
 at the priests and at his wife's fears. She sjjoke of 
 hell. "• If there is such a place," he answered, " it 
 w'on't be for me, for without you I must have had my 
 lu'U ill this life." The priests told him, by way of 
 consolation, tliat " God had visited him more than 
 anv man." — " lie does me too much honor," answered 
 the mocker. "You should give him thanks," urged 
 the ecclesiastic. " I can't see for what," was the shame- 
 less answer. 
 
 On his death-bed he parodied a will, leaving to Cor- 
 neille " two hundred pounds of patience ; to Boileau 
 (witli wliuiii he luul a long feud), the gangrene; and to
 
 394 SCAKEON'S LAST MOMENTS. 
 
 the Academy, the power to alter the French hinguage 
 as they liked." His legacy in verse to his wife is 
 grossly disgusting, and quite unfit for quotation. Yet 
 he loved her well, avowed that his chief grief in dy- 
 ing was the necessity of leaving her, and begged her 
 to remember him sometimes, and to lead a virtuous 
 life. 
 
 His last moments were as jovial as any. When he 
 savr' his friends weeping around him he shook his head 
 and cried, " I shall never make you weep as much as I 
 have made you laugh." A little later a softer thought 
 of hope came across him. " No more sleeplessness, no 
 more gout," he murmured; "the Queen's patient will 
 be well at last." At length the laugher was sobered. 
 In the presence of death, at the gates of a ncAV world, 
 he muttered, half afraid, "■ I never thought it was so 
 easy to laugh at death," and so expired. This was in 
 October, 1660, when the cripple had reached the age 
 of fifty. 
 
 Thus died a laugher. It is unnecessary here to 
 trace the story of his widow's strange rise to be the 
 wife of a kino;. Scarron was no honor to her, and in 
 later years she tried to forget his existence. Boileau 
 fell into disgrace for merely mentioning his name before 
 the king. Yet Scarron was in many respects a better 
 man than Louis ; and, laugher as he was, he had a 
 good heart. There is a time for mirth and a time 
 for mourning, the Preacher tells us. Scarron never 
 learned this truth, and he lauglied too much and too
 
 A LKSSON Foil (iAY AND (IliAVK. 395 
 
 lonir. Yet let u.s not end the lauo;lier's life in 
 
 sorrow : 
 
 " It is well to be merry and wise," etc. 
 
 Let us 1)0 niorry ns the poor cripple, "svho bore liis suf- 
 lrriiiii;s so ■well, and let ns l>e Avise too. There i.s a 
 lesson for <j;ay an<l grave in the life of Scarron, the 
 laugher. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 I.
 
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