i B i m^Si i:PmA\ m 7'' I' '"^y/y'* m UNIVERSITY OF h^sSk^se: 9 I /y^..,c ^-% /^f George Viilkx^, 3tuonti Duke of 15iuiving1)am. Hb \YlTS AND 3eAUX of g^^ClETY. KY GRACE AND PHILIP WHARTON, cp^cucd.a AUTHORS OF " THK OIIEENS OF SOCIIiTY. H^l TH IL L US TRA TIONS. VOL. 1 PHILADHLPHIA: PORTER & COATES. ; '.'.'\ >: /,'. '.': •/ *. t L *^ i. c < L C t t ^ •DA 4-65 T. ;] w 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 Jolm J^^dmot, ^^ax\ of L\orl)t'$tn-. mMJ^ ;# 'v'^Pw^ 1 .^t^% N »^ '*; ' ^^^^I^^^^^^^V 1 ' ^^^S^HK^'' 1 ■l '^ps^'" Yz/i- J 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. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below .iftt'tt MAR zm,„, AUG 8 Ul79 Form L-t» 25;rt-10.' 44(2101) THELIBSt\I^Y LOS ANGELES DA 485 T3Bw 1861 v.l (T 3 1158 00506 5825 AA 000 386 620