THE WITS AND BEAUX OF SOCIETY

 BY GRACE AND PHILIP WHARTON

 New Edition with a Preface

 BY JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY, M. P. 

 _And the original illustrations by_ H. K. BROWNE AND JAMES GODWIN

 TWO VOLS. --VOL. I. 

 New York WORTHINGTON CO. , 747 BROADWAY 1890

[Illustration: WHARTON'S ROGUISH PRESENT. ]

DEDICATION. 

DEAR MR. AUGUSTIN DALY, May I write your name on the dedication page of this new edition of anold and pleasant book in token of our common interest in the people andthe periods of which it treats, and as a small proof of our friendship?

 Sincerely yours, JUSTIN HUNTLY M'CARTHY. 

LONDON, _July, 1890. _

CONTENTS. 

 PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION p. Xi PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION p. Xxv PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION p. Xxix

 GEORGE VILLIERS, SECOND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 

 Signs of the Restoration. --Samuel Pepys in his Glory. --A Royal Company. --Pepys 'ready to Weep. '--The Playmate of Charles II. --George Villiers's Inheritance. --Two Gallant Young Noblemen. --The Brave Francis Villiers. --After the Battle of Worcester. --Disguising the King. --Villiers in Hiding. --He appears as a Mountebank. --Buckingham's Habits. --A Daring Adventure. --Cromwell's Saintly Daughter. --Villiers and the Rabbi. --The Buckingham Pictures and Estates. --York House. --Villiers returns to England. --Poor Mary Fairfax. --Villiers in the Tower. --Abraham Cowley, the Poet. --The Greatest Ornament of Whitehall. --Buckingham's Wit and Beauty. --Flecknoe's Opinion of Him. --His Duel with the Earl of Shrewsbury. --Villiers as a Poet. --As a Dramatist. --A Fearful Censure!--Villiers's Influence in Parliament. --A Scene in the Lords. --The Duke of Ormond in Danger. --Colonel Blood's Outrages. --Wallingford House and Ham House. --'Madame Ellen. '--The Cabal. --Villiers again in the Tower. --A Change. --The Duke of York's Theatre. --Buckingham and the Princess of Orange. --His last Hours. --His Religion. --Death of Villiers. --The Duchess of Buckingham. P. 1

 COUNT DE GRAMMONT, ST. EVREMOND, AND LORD ROCHESTER. 

 De Grammont's Choice. --His Influence with Turenne. --The Church or the Army?--An Adventure at Lyons. --A brilliant Idea. --De Grammont's Generosity. --A Horse 'for the Cards. '--Knight-Cicisbeism. --De Grammont's first Love. --His Witty Attacks on Mazarin. --Anne Lucie de la Mothe Houdancourt. --Beset with Snares. --De Grammont's Visits to England. --Charles II. --The Court of Charles II. --Introduction of Country-dances. --Norman Peculiarities. --St. Evremond, the Handsome Norman. --The most Beautiful Woman in Europe. --Hortense Mancini's Adventures. --Madame Mazarin's House at Chelsea. --Anecdote of Lord Dorset. --Lord Rochester in his Zenith. --His Courage and Wit--Rochester's Pranks in the City. --Credulity, Past and Present--'Dr. Bendo, ' and La Belle Jennings. --La Triste Heritière. --Elizabeth, Countess of Rochester. --Retribution and Reformation. --Conversion. --Beaux without Wit. --Little Jermyn. --An Incomparable Beauty. --Anthony Hamilton, De Grammont's Biographer. --The Three Courts. --'La Belle Hamilton. '--Sir Peter Lely's Portrait of her. --The Household Deity of Whitehall. --Who shall have the Calèche?--A Chaplain in Livery. --De Grammont's Last Hours. --What might he not have been? p. 41

 BEAU FIELDING. 

 On Wits and Beaux. --Scotland Yard in Charles II. 's day. --Orlando of 'The Tatler. '--Beau Fielding, Justice of the Peace. --Adonis in Search of a Wife. --The Sham Widow. --Ways and Means. --Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine. --Quarrels with the King. --The Beau's Second Marriage. --The Last Days of Fops and Beaux. P. 80

 OF CERTAIN CLUBS AND CLUB-WITS UNDER ANNE. 

 The Origin of Clubs. --The Establishment of Coffee-houses. --The October Club. --The Beef-steak Club. --Of certain other Clubs. --The Kit-kat Club. --The Romance of the Bowl. --The Toasts of the Kit-kat. --The Members of the Kit-kat. --A good Wit, and a bad Architect. --'Well-natured Garth. '--The Poets of the Kit-kat. --Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax. --Chancellor Somers. --Charles Sackville, Lord Dorset. --Less celebrated Wits. P. 91

 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 

 When and where was he born?--The Middle Temple. --Congreve finds his Vocation. --Verses to Queen Mary. --The Tennis-court Theatre. --Congreve abandons the Drama. --Jeremy Collier. --The Immorality of the Stage. --Very improper Things. --Congreve's Writings. --Jeremy's 'Short Views. '--Rival Theatres. --Dryden's Funeral. --A Tub-Preacher. --Horoscopic Predictions. --Dryden's Solicitude for his Son. --Congreve's Ambition. --Anecdote of Voltaire and Congreve. --The Profession of Mæcenas. --Congreve's Private Life. --'Malbrook's' Daughter. --Congreve's Death and Burial. P. 106

 BEAU NASH. 

 The King of Bath. --Nash at Oxford. --'My Boy Dick. '--Offers of Knighthood. --Doing Penance at York. --Days of Folly. --A very Romantic Story. --Sickness and Civilization. --Nash descends upon Bath. --Nash's Chef-d'oeuvre. --The Ball. --Improvements in the Pump-room, &c. --A Public Benefactor. --Life at Bath in Nash's time. --A Compact with the Duke of Beaufort. --Gaming at Bath. --Anecdotes of Nash. --'Miss Sylvia. '--A Generous Act. --Nash's Sun setting. --A Panegyric. --Nash's Funeral. --His Characteristics. P. 127

 PHILIP, DUKE OF WHARTON. 

 Wharton's Ancestors. --His Early Years. --Marriage at Sixteen. --Wharton takes leave of his Tutor. --The Young Marquis and the Old Pretender. --Frolics at Paris. --Zeal for the Orange Cause. --A Jacobite Hero. --The Trial of Atterbury. --Wharton's Defence of the Bishop. --Hypocritical Signs of Penitence. --Sir Robert Walpole duped. --Very Trying. --The Duke of Wharton's 'Whens. '--Military Glory at Gibraltar. --'Uncle Horace. '--Wharton to 'Uncle Horace. '--The Duke's Impudence. --High Treason. --Wharton's Ready Wit. --Last Extremities. --Sad Days in Paris. --His Last Journey to Spain. --His Death in a Bernardine Convent. P. 148

 LORD HERVEY. 

 George II. Arriving from Hanover. --His Meeting with the Queen. --Lady Suffolk. --Queen Caroline. --Sir Robert Walpole. --Lord Hervey. --A Set of Fine Gentlemen. --An Eccentric Race. --Carr, Lord Hervey. --A Fragile Boy. --Description of George II. 's Family. --Anne Brett. --A Bitter Cup. --The Darling of the Family. --Evenings at St. James's. --Frederick, Prince of Wales. --Amelia Sophia Walmoden. --Poor Queen Caroline!--Nocturnal Diversions of Maids of Honour. --Neighbour George's Orange Chest. --Mary Lepel, Lady Hervey. --Rivalry. --Hervey's Intimacy with Lady Mary. --Relaxations of the Royal Household. --Bacon's Opinion of Twickenham. --A Visit to Pope's Villa. --The Little Nightingale. --The Essence of Small Talk. --Hervey's Affectation and Effeminacy. --Pope's Quarrel with Hervey and Lady Mary. --Hervey's Duel with Pulteney. --'The Death of Lord Hervey: a Drama. '--Queen Caroline's last Drawing-room. --Her Illness and Agony. --A Painful Scene. --The Truth discovered. --The Queen's Dying Bequests. --The King's Temper. --Archbishop Potter is sent for. --The Duty of Reconciliation. --The Death of Queen Caroline. --A Change in Hervey's Life. --Lord Hervey's Death. --Want of Christianity. --Memoirs of his Own Time. P. 170

 PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, FOURTH EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. 

 The King of Table Wits. --Early Years. --Hervey's Description of his Person. --Resolutions and Pursuits. --Study of Oratory. --The Duties of an Ambassador. --King George II. 's Opinion of his Chroniclers. --Life in the Country. --Melusina, Countess of Walsingham. --George II. And his Father's Will. --Dissolving Views. --Madame du Bouchet. --The Broad-Bottomed Administration. --Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland in Time of Peril. --Reformation of the Calendar. --Chesterfield House. --Exclusiveness. --Recommending 'Johnson's Dictionary. '--'Old Samuel, ' to Chesterfield. --Defensive Pride. --The Glass of Fashion. --Lord Scarborough's Friendship for Chesterfield. --The Death of Chesterfield's Son. --His Interest in his Grandsons. --'I must go and Rehearse my Funeral. '--Chesterfield's Will. --What is a Friend?--Les Manières Nobles. --Letters to his Son. P. 210

 THE ABBE SCARRON. 

 An Eastern Allegory. --Who comes Here?--A Mad Freak and its Consequences. --Making an Abbé of him. --The May-Fair of Paris. --Scarron's Lament to Pellisson. --The Office of the Queen's Patient. --'Give me a Simple Benefice. '--Scarron's Description of Himself. --Improvidence and Servility. --The Society at Scarron's. --The Witty Conversation. --Francoise D'Aubigné's Début. --The Sad Story of La Belle Indienne. --Matrimonial Considerations. --'Scarron's Wife will live for ever. '--Petits Soupers. --Scarron's last Moments. --A Lesson for Gay and Grave. P. 235

 FRANCOIS DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULT AND THE DUC DE SAINT-SIMON. 

 Rank and Good Breeding. --The Hôtel de Rochefoucault. --Racine and his Plays. --La Rochefoucault's Wit and Sensibility. --Saint-Simon's Youth. --Looking out for a Wife. --Saint-Simon's Court Life. --The History of Louise de la Vallière. --A mean Act of Louis Quatorze. --All has passed away. --Saint-Simon's Memoirs of His Own Time. P. 253

SUBJECTS OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME I. 

 PAGE

WHARTON'S ROGUISH PRESENT (_Frontispiece_)

VILLIERS IN DISGUISE--THE MEETING WITH HIS SISTER 14

DE GRAMMONT'S MEETING WITH LA BELLE HAMILTON 74

BEAU FIELDING AND THE SHAM WIDOW 85

A SCENE BEFORE KENSINGTON PALACE--GEORGE II. AND QUEEN CAROLINE 172

POPE AT HIS VILLA--DISTINGUISHED VISITORS 194

A ROYAL ROBBER 217

DR. JOHNSON AT LORD CHESTERFIELD'S 226

SCARRON AND THE WITS--FIRST APPEARANCE OF LA BELLE INDIENNE 247

PREFACE. 

When Grace and Philip Wharton found that they had pleased the world withtheir "Queens of Society, " they very sensibly resolved to follow uptheir success with a companion work. Their first book had been all aboutwomen; the second book should be all about men. Accordingly they set towork selecting certain types that pleased them; they wrote a freshcollection of pleasant essays and presented the reading public with"Wits and Beaux of Society". The one book is as good as the other; thereis not a pin to choose between them. There is the same bright easy, gossiping style, the same pleasing rapidity. There is nothing tedious, nothing dull anywhere. They do not profess to have anything to do withthe graver processes of history--these entertaining volumes; they seekrather to amuse than to instruct, and they fulfil their purposeexcellently. There is instruction in them, but it comes in by the way;one is conscious of being entertained, and it is only after theentertainment is over that one finds that a fair amount of informationhas been thrown in to boot. The Whartons have but old tales to tell, butthey tell them very well, and that is the first part of their business. 

Looking over these articles is like looking over the list of a goodclub. Men are companionable creatures; they love to get together andgossip. It is maintained, and with reason, that they are fonder of theirown society than women are. Men delight to breakfast together, to takeluncheon together, to dine together, to sup together. They rejoice inclubs devoted exclusively to their service, as much taboo to women as atrappist monastery. Women are not quite so clannish. There are not verymany women's clubs in the world; it is not certain that those which doexist are very brilliant or very entertaining. Women seldom give supperparties, "all by themselves they" after the fashion of that "grande damede par le monde" of whom we have spoken elsewhere. A woman'sdinner-party may succeed now and then by way of a joke, but it is a jokethat is not often repeated. Have we not lately seen how an institutionwith a graceful English name, started in London for women and womenonly, has just so far relaxed its rigid rule as to allow men upon itspremises between certain hours, and this relaxation we are told has beenconceded in consequence of the demand of numerous ladies. Well, well, ifmen can on the whole get on better without the society of women thanwomen can without the society of men it is no doubt because they arerougher creatures, moulded of a coarser clay, and are more entertainedby eating and drinking, smoking and the telling of tales than women are. 

If all the men whom the Whartons labelled as wits and beaux of societycould be gathered together they would make a most excellent club in thesense in which a club was understood in the last century. Johnsonthought that he had praised a man highly when he called him a clubbableman, and so he had for those days which dreamed not of vast caravanseraicalling themselves clubs and having thousands of members on their roll, the majority of whom do not know more than perhaps ten of their fellowmembers from Adam. In the sense that Dr. Johnson meant, all these witsand beaux whom our Whartons have gathered together were eminentlyclubbable. If some such necromancer could come to us as he who inTourguenieff's story conjures up the shade of Julius Cæsar; and if in anobliging way he could make these wits and beaux greet us: if such aspiritualistic society as that described by Mr. Stockton in one of hisdiverting stories could materialise them all for our benefit: then onemight count with confidence upon some very delightful company and somevery delightful talk. For the people whom the Whartons have been goodenough to group together are people of the most fascinating variety. They have wit in common and goodfellowship, they were famousentertainers in their time; they add to the gaiety of nations still. TheWhartons have given what would in America be called a "Stag Party". Ifwe join it we shall find much entertainment thereat. 

Do people read Theodore Hook much nowadays? Does the generation whichloves to follow the trail with Allan Quatermain, and to ride with aSplendid Spur, does it call at all for the humours of the days of theRegency? Do those who have laughed over "The Wrong Box, " ever laugh overJack Brag? Do the students of Mr. Rudyard Kipling know anything of"Gilbert Gurney?" Somebody started the theory some time ago, that thiswas not a laughter-loving generation, that it lacked high spirits. Ithas been maintained that if a writer appeared now, with the rollickinggood spirits, and reckless abandon of a Lever, he would scarcely win awarm welcome. We may be permitted to doubt this conclusion; we are asfond of laughter as ever, as ready to laugh if somebody will set usgoing. Mr. Stevenson prefers of late to be thought grim in his fiction, but he has set the sides shaking, both over that "Wrong Box" which wespoke of, and in earlier days. We are ready to laugh with Stockton fromoverseas, with our own Anstey, with anybody who has the heart to bemerry, and the wit to make his mirth communicable. But, it may bedoubted if we read our Lever quite as much as a wise doctor, whohappened also to be a wise man of letters, would recommend. And we maywell fancy that such a doctor dealing with a patient for whom laughterwas salutary--as for whom is it not salutary--would exhibit TheodoreHook in rather large doses. 

Undoubtedly the fun is a little old fashioned, but it is none the worsefor that. Those who share Mr. Hardcastle's tastes for old wine and oldbooks will not like Theodore Hook any the less, because he does nothappen to be at all "Fin de Siècle". He is like Berowne in the comedy, the merriest man--perhaps not always within the limits of becomingmirth--to spend an hour's talk withal. There is no better key to the agein which Hook glittered, than Hook's own stories. The London of thatday--the London which is as dead and gone as Nineveh or Karnak orTroy--lives with extraordinary freshness in Theodore Hook's pages. Andhow entertaining those pages are. It is not always the greatest writerswho are the most mirth provoking, but how much we owe to them. The manmust have no mirth in him if he fail to be tickled by the best ofLabiche's comedies, aye and the worst too, if such a term can beapplied to any of the enchanting series; if he refuse to unbend over "ADay's Journey and a Life's Romance, " if he cannot let himself go andenjoy himself over Gilbert Gurney's river adventure. If the revival ofthe Whartons' book were to serve no other purpose than to send somelaughter loving souls to the heady well-spring of Theodore Hook'smerriment, it would have done the mirthful a good turn and deserved wellof its country. 

There is scarcely a queerer, or scarcely a more pathetic figure in theworld than that of Beau Brummell. He seems to belong to ancient history, he and his titanic foppishness and his smart clothes and his smartsayings. Yet is it but a little while since the last of his adorers, themost devoted of his disciples passed away from the earth. Over in Paristhere lingered till the past year a certain man of letters who was verybrilliant and very poor and very eccentric. So long as people studyFrench literature, and care to investigate the amount of high artisticworkmanship which goes into even its minor productions, so long the nameof Barbey D'Aurevilly will have its niche--not a very large one, it istrue--in the temple. The author of that strange and beautiful story "LeChevalier des Touches, " was a great devotee of Brummell's. He washimself the "last of the dandies". All the money he had--and he had verylittle of it--he spent in dandification. But he never moved with thetimes. His foppishness was the foppishness of his youth, and to the lasthe wandered through Paris clad in the splendour of the days when youngmen were "lions, " and when the quarrel between classicism andromanticism was vital. He wrote a book about Beau Brummell and a verycurious little book it is, with its odd earnest defence of dandyism, with its courageous championship of the arts which men of letters solargely affect to despise. 

Poor Beau Brummell. After having played his small part on life's stage, his thin shade still occasionally wanders across the boards of thetheatre. Blanchard Jerrold wrote a play upon him, which was acted at theLyceum Theatre in 1859, when Emery played the title role. Jerrold'splay, which has for sub-title "The King of Calais, " treats of thatperiod in Brummell's life in which he had retired across the channel tolive upon black-mail and to drift into that Consulship at Caen which heso queerly resigned, to end a poor madman, trying to shave his ownperuke. Jerrold's is a grim play; either it or a version on the samelines of Brummell's fall is being played across the Atlantic at thisvery hour by Mr. Mansfield whose study of the final decay and idiotcy ofthe famous beau is said to rival the impressiveness of his Mr. Hyde. Beau Brummell is never likely to be quite forgotten. Folly often bringswith it a kind of immortality. The fool who fired the Temple of Ephesushas secured his place in history with Aristides and Themistocles; thefop who gave a kind of epic dignity to neck-clothes, and who asked thefamous "Who's your fat friend?" question, is remembered as a figure ofthat age which includes the name of Sheridan and the name of Burke. 

Another and a no less famous Beau steps to salute us from the pages ofthe Whartons. Beau Nash is an old friend of ours in fiction, an oldfriend in the drama. Our dear old Harrison Ainsworth wrote a novel abouthim yesterday; to-day he figures in the pages of one of the mostattractive of Mr. Lewis Wingfield's attractive stories. He found hisway on to the stage under the care of Douglas Jerrold whose comedy ofmanners was acted at the Haymarket in the midsummer of 1834. There is acharm about these Beaux, these odd blossoms of last centurycivilisation, the Brummells and the Nashes and the Fieldings, so "highfantastical" in their bearing, such living examples of the eternalverities contained in the clothes' philosophy of Herr DiogenesTeufelsdröckh of Weissnichtwo. Their wigs were more important than theirwit; the pattern of their waistcoats more important than the compositionof their hearts; all morals, all philosophy are absorbed for them in theengrossing question of the fit of their breeches. D'Artois is of theirkin, French d'Artois who helped to ruin the Old Order and failed tore-create it as Charles the Tenth, d'Artois whom Mercier describes asbeing poured into his faultlessly fitting breeches by the careful andunited efforts of no less than four valets de chambre. But the Englishdandies were better than the Frenchman, for they did harm only tothemselves, while he helped to ruin his cause, his party, and his king. 

As we turn the pages, we come to one name which immediately ifwhimsically suggests poetry. The man was, like Touchstone's Audrey, notpoetical and yet a great poet has been pleased to address him, very muchas Pindar might have addressed the Ancestral Hero of some mighty tyrant. 

 Ah, George Bubb Dodington Lord Melcombe--no, Yours was the wrong way!--always understand, Supposing that permissibly you planned How statesmanship--your trade--in outward show Might figure as inspired by simple zeal For serving country, king, and commonweal, (Though service tire to death the body, teaze The soul from out an o'ertasked patriot-drudge) And yet should prove zeal's outward show agrees In all respects--right reason being judge-- With inward care that while the statesman spends Body and soul thus freely for the sake Of public good, his private welfare take No harm by such devotedness. 

Thus Robert Browning in Robert Browning's penultimate book, that"Parleyings with certain people of importance in their day" which fellsomewhat coldly upon all save Browning fanatics, and which, when itseemed to show that the poet's hand had palsied, served only as thediscordant prelude to the swan song of "Asolando, " the last and almostthe greatest of his glories. Perhaps only Browning would ever havethought of undertaking a poetical parley with Bubb Dodington. Dodingtonis now largely, and not undeservedly forgotten. His dinners and hisdresses, his poems and his pamphlets, his plays and his passions--thewind has carried them all away. If Pope had not nicknamed him Bubo, ifFoote had not caricatured him in "The Patron, " if Churchill had notlampooned him in "The Rosciad, " he would scarcely have earned in his ownday the notoriety which the publication of his "Diary" had in a mannerpreserved to later days. If he was hardly worth a corner in theWhartons' picture-gallery he was certainly scarcely deserving of theattention of Browning. Even his ineptitude was hardly important enoughto have twenty pages of Browning's genius wasted upon it, twenty pagesending with the sting about

 The scoff That greets your very name: folks see but one Fool more, as well as knave, in Dodington. 

Dodington has been occasionally classed with Lord Hervey but theclassification is scarcely fair. With all his faults--and he had them inabundance--Lord Hervey was a better creature than Bubb Dodington. If hewas effeminate, he had convictions and could stand by them. If Popesneered at him as Sporus and called him a curd of asses' milk, he hasleft behind him some of the most brilliant memoirs ever penned. If hehad some faults in common with Dodington he was endowed with virtues ofwhich Dodington never dreamed. 

The name of Lord Chesterfield is in the air just now. Within the lastfew months the curiosity of the world has been stimulated and satisfiedby the publication of some hitherto unknown letters by LordChesterfield. The pleasure which the student of history has taken inthis new find is just dimmed at this moment by the death of LordCarnarvon, whose care and scholarship gave them to the worlds. They areindeed a precious possession. A very eminent French critic, M. Brunetière, has inveighed lately with much justice against the passionfor raking together and bringing out all manner of unpublished writings. He complains, and complains with justice, that while the existingclassics of literature are left imperfectly edited, if not ignored, theactivity of students is devoted to burrowing out all manner ofunimportant material, anything, everything, so long as it has not beenknown beforehand to the world. The French critic protests against theclass of scholars who go into ecstacies over a newly discovered washinglist of Pascal or a bill from Racine's perruquier. The complaint tellsagainst us as well on our side of the Channel. We hear a great dealabout newly discovered fragments by this great writer and that greatwriter, which are of no value whatever, except that they happen to benew. But no such stricture applies to the letters of Lord Chesterfieldwhich the late Lord Carnarvon so recently gave to the world. They are avaluable addition to our knowledge of the last century, a valuableaddition to our knowledge of the man who wrote them. And knowledge aboutLord Chesterfield is always welcome. Few of the famous figures of thelast century have been more misunderstood than he. The world is tooready to remember Johnson's biting letter; too ready to remember thecruel caricatures of Lord Hervey. Even the famous letters have beentaken too much at Johnson's estimate, and Johnson's estimate wasone-sided and unfair. A man would not learn the highest life from theChesterfield letters; they have little in common with the ethics of an AKempis, a Jean Paul Richter, or a John Stuart Mill. But they have theirvalue in their way, and if they contain some utterances so unutterablyfoolish as those in which Lord Chesterfield expressed himself upon Greekliterature, they contain some very excellent maxims for the managementof social life. Nobody could become a penny the worse for the study ofChesterfield; many might become the better. They are not a whit morecynical than, indeed they are not so cynical as, those letters ofThackeray's to young Brown, which with all their cleverness make usunderstand what Mr. Henley means when in his "Views and Reviews" hedescribes him as a "writer of genius who was innately and irredeemably aPhilistine". The letters of Lord Chesterfield would not do much to makea man a hero, but there is little in literature more unheroic than theletters to Mr. Thomas Brown the younger. 

It is curious to contrast the comparative enthusiasm with which theWhartons write about Horace Walpole with the invective of Lord Macaulay. To the great historian Walpole was the most eccentric, the mostartificial, the most capricious of men, who played innumerable parts andover-acted them all, a creature to whom whatever was little seemed greatand whatever was great seemed little. To Macaulay he was agentleman-usher at heart, a Republican whose Republicanism like thecourage of a bully or the love of a fribble was only strong and ardentwhen there was no occasion for it, a man who blended the faults of GrubStreet with the faults of St. James's Street, and who united to thevanity, the jealousy and the irritability of a man of letters, theaffected superciliousness and apathy of a man of ton. The Whartonsover-praise Walpole where Lord Macaulay under-rates him; the truth liesbetween the two. He was not in the least an estimable or an admirablefigure, but he wrote admirable, indeed incomparable letters to which theworld is indebted beyond expression. If we can almost say that we knowthe London of the last century as well as the London of to-day it islargely to Horace Walpole's letters that our knowledge is due. They canhardly be over-praised, they can hardly be too often read by the loverof last century London. Horace Walpole affected to despise men ofletters. It is his punishment that his fame depends upon his letters, those letters which, though their writer was all unaware of it, aregenuine literature, and almost of the best. 

We could linger over almost every page of the Whartons' volumes, forevery page is full of pleasant suggestions. The name of George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham brings up at once a picture of perhaps thebrilliantest and basest period in English history. It brings up toomemories of a fiction that is even dearer than history, of thatwonderful romance of Dumas the Elder's, which Mr. Louis Stevenson hasplaced among the half-dozen books that are dearest to his heart, the"Vicomte de Bragelonne". Who that has ever followed, breathless andenraptured, the final fortunes of that gallant quadrilateral ofmusketeers will forget the part which is played by George Villiers, Dukeof Buckingham, in that magnificent prose epic? There is little to besaid for the real Villiers; he was a profligate and a scoundrel, and hedid not show very heroically in his quarrel with the fiery young Ossory. It was one thing to practically murder Lord Shrewsbury; it was quiteanother thing to risk the wrath and the determined right hand of theDuke of Ormond's son. But the Villiers of Dumas' fancy is a fairerfigure and a finer lover, and it is pleasant after reading the pages inwhich the authors of these essays trace the career of Dryden's epitometo turn to those volumes of the great Frenchman, to read the account ofthe duel with de Wardes and invoke a new blessing on the muse offiction. 

In some earlier volumes of the same great series we meet with yetanother figure who has his image in the Wharton picture gallery. In that"crowded and sunny field of life"--the words are Mr. Stevenson's, andthey apply to the whole musketeer epic--that "place busy as a city, bright as a theatre, thronged with memorable faces, and sounding withdelightful speech, " the Abbé Scarron plays his part. It was here thatmany of us met Scarron for the first time, and if we have got to knowhim better since, we still remember with a thrill of pleasure that firstencounter when in the society of the matchless Count de la Fere and themarvellous Aramis we made our bow in company with the young Raoul to thecrippled wit and his illustrious companions. The Whartons write brightlyabout Scarron, but their best merit to my mind is that they at onceprompt a desire to go to that corner of the bookshelf where the elevenvolumes of the adventures of the immortal musketeers repose, and takingdown the first volume of "Vingt Ans Après" seek for the twenty-thirdchapter, where Scarron receives society in his residence in the Rue desTournelles. There Scudery twirls his moustaches and trails his enormousrapier and the Coadjutor exhibits his silken "Fronde". There the velveteyes of Mademoiselle d'Aubigné smile and the beauty of Madame deChevreuse delights, and all the company make fun of Mazarin and recitethe verses of Voiture. 

There are others of these wits and beaux with whom we might like tolinger; but our space is running short; it is time to say good-bye. Congreve the dramatist and gentleman, Rochefoucault the wit, Saint-Simonthe king of memoir-writers, Rochester and St. Evremond and de Grammont, Selwyn and Sydney Smith and Sheridan each in turn appeals to us to tarrya little longer. But it is time to say good-bye to these shadows of thepast with whom we have spent some pleasant hours. It is their duty nowto offer some pleasant hours to others. 

 JUSTIN HUNTLY M'CARTHY. 

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

In revising this Publication, it has scarcely been found necessary torecall a single opinion relative to the subject of the Work. The generalimpressions of characters adopted by the Authors have received littlemodification from any remarks elicited by the appearance of 'The Witsand Beaux of Society. '

It is scarcely to be expected that even _our_ descendants will know muchmore of the Wits and Beaux of former days than we now do. The chests atStrawberry Hill are cleared of their contents; Horace Walpole's latestletters are before us; Pepys and Evelyn have thoroughly dramatized thedays of Charles II. ; Lord Hervey's Memoirs have laid bare the darkestsecrets of the Court in which he figures; voluminous memoirs of the lesshistoric characters among the Wits and Beaux have been published; stillit is possible that some long-disregarded treasury of old letters, likethat in the Gallery at Wotton, may come to light. From that preciousdeposit a housemaid--blotted for ever be her name from memory'spage--was purloining sheets of yellow paper, with antiquated writing onthem, to light her fires with, when the late William Upcott came to therescue, and saved Evelyn's 'Diary' for a grateful world. It is _just_possible that such a discovery may again be made, and that the doings ofGeorge Villiers, or the exile life of Wharton, or the inmost thoughts ofother Wits and Beaux may be made to appear in clearer lights thanheretofore; but it is much more likely that the popular opinions aboutthese witty, worthless men are substantially true. 

All that has been collected, therefore, to form this work--and, as inthe 'Queens of Society, ' every known source has been consulted--assumesa sterling value as being collected; and, should hereafter freshmaterials be disinterred from any old library closet in the homes ofsome one descendant of our heroes, advantage will be gladly taken toimprove, correct, and complete the lives. 

One thing must, in justice, be said: if they have been written freely, fearlessly, they have been written without passion or prejudice. Thewriters, though not _quite_ of the stamp of persons who would never have'dared to address' any of the subjects of their biography, 'save withcourtesy and obeisance, ' have no wish to 'trample on the graves' of suchvery amusing personages as the 'Wits and Beaux of Society. ' They haveeven been lenient to their memory, hailing every good trait gladly, andpointing out with no unsparing hand redeeming virtues; and it cannotcertainly be said, in this instance, that the good has been 'interredwith the bones' of the personages herein described, although the evilmen do, 'will live after them. '

But whilst a biographer is bound to give the fair as well as the darkside of his subject, he has still to remember that biography is a trust, and that it should not be an eulogium. It is his duty to reflect that inmany instances it must be regarded even as a warning. 

The moral conclusions of these lives of 'Wits and Beaux' are, it isadmitted, just: vice is censured; folly rebuked; ungentlemanly conduct, even in a beau of the highest polish, exposed; irreligion finds notoleration under gentle names--heartlessness no palliation from itsbeing the way of the world. There is here no separate code allowed formen who live in the world, and for those who live out of it. The task ofpourtraying such characters as the 'Wits and Beaux of Society' is aresponsible one, and does not involve the mere attempt to amuse, or themere desire to abuse, but requires truth and discrimination; asembracing just or unjust views of such characters, it may do much harmor much good. Nevertheless, in spite of these obvious considerationsthere do exist worthy persons, even in the present day, so unreasonableas to take offence at the revival of old stories anent their defunctgrandfathers, though those very stories were circulated by accreditedwriters employed by the families themselves. Some individuals arescandalized when a man who was habitually drunk, is called a drunkard;and ears polite cannot bear the application of plain names to well-knowndelinquencies. 

There is something foolish, but respectably foolish, in this wish toshut out light which has been streaming for years over these old tombsand memories. The flowers that are cast on such graves cannot, however, cause us to forget the corruption within and underneath. Inconsideration, nevertheless, of a pardonable weakness, all expressionsthat can give pain, or which have been said to give pain, have been, inthis Second Edition, omitted; and whenever a mis-statement 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 forthe 'Wits and Beaux:' with whom, during the holiday time of their lives, these fair ladies were so greatly associated. The 'Queens, ' whether allwits or not, must have been the cause of wit in others; their influenceover dandyism is notorious: their power to make or mar a man of fashion, almost historical. So far, a chronicle of the sayings and doings of the'Wits' is worthy to serve as a _pendant_ to that of the 'Queens:' happywould it be for society if the annals of the former could more closelyresemble the biography of the latter. But it may not be so: men aresubject to temptations, to failures, to delinquencies, to calamities, ofwhich women can scarcely dream, and which they can only lament and pity. 

Our 'Wits, ' too--to separate them from the 'Beaux'--were men who oftentook an active part in the stirring events of their day: they assumed tobe statesmen, though, too frequently, they were only politicians. Theywere brave and loyal: indeed, in the time of the Stuarts, all the Witswere Cavaliers, as well as the Beaux. One hears of no repartee amongCromwell's followers; no dash, no merriment, in Fairfax's staff;eloquence, indeed, but no wit in the Parliamentarians; and, in truth, inthe second Charles's time, the king might have headed the lists of theWits himself--such a capital man as his Majesty is known to have beenfor a wet evening or a dull Sunday; such a famous teller of astory--such a perfect diner-out: no wonder that in his reign we hadGeorge Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham of that family, 'mankind'sepitome, ' who had every pretension to every accomplishment combined inhimself. No wonder we could attract De Grammont and Saint Evremond toour court; and own, somewhat to our discredit be it allowed, Rochesterand Beau Fielding. Every reign has had its wits, but those in Charles'stime were so numerous as to distinguish the era by an especialbrilliancy. Nor let it be supposed that these annals do not contain amoral application. They show how little the sparkling attributes hereinpourtrayed conferred happiness; how far more the rare, though certainlyreal touches of genuine feeling and strong affection, which appear hereand there even in the lives of the most thoughtless 'Wits and Beaux, 'elevate the character in youth, or console the spirit in age. They provehow wise has been that change in society which now repudiates the 'Wit'as a distinct class; and requires general intelligences as acompensation for lost repartees, or long obsolete practical jokes. 

'Men are not all evil:' so in the life of George Villiers, we find himkind-hearted, and free from hypocrisy. His old servants--and the factspeaks in extenuation of one of our wildest Wits and Beaux--loved himfaithfully. De Grammont, we all own, has little to redeem him except hisgood-nature: Rochester's latest days were almost hallowed by hispenitence. Chesterfield is saved by his kindness to the Irish, and hisaffection for his son. Horace Walpole had human affections, though amost inhuman pen: and Wharton was famous for his good-humour. 

The periods most abounding in the Wit and the Beau have, of course, beenthose most exempt from wars, and rumours of wars. The Restoration; theearly period of the Augustan age; the commencement of the Hanoveriandynasty, --have all been enlivened by Wits and Beaux, who came to lightlike mushrooms after a storm of rain, as soon as the political horizonwas clear. We have Congreve, who affected to be the Beau as well as theWit; Lord Hervey, more of the courtier than the Beau--a Wit byinheritance--a peer, assisted into a pre-eminent position by royalpreference, and consequent _prestige_; and all these men were theoffspring of the particular state of the times in which they figured: atearlier periods, they would have been deemed effeminate; in later ones, absurd. 

Then the scene shifts: intellect had marched forward gigantically: theworld is grown exacting, disputatious, critical, and such men as HoraceWalpole and Brinsley Sheridan appear; the characteristics of wit whichadorned that age being well diluted by the feebler talents of Selwyn andHook. 

Of these, and others, '_table traits_, ' and other traits, are heregiven: brief chronicles of _their_ life's stage, over which a curtainhas so long been dropped, are supplied carefully from well establishedsources: it is with characters, not with literary history, that we deal;and do our best to make the portraitures life-like, and to bring forwardold memories, which, without the stamp of antiquity, might be sufferedto pass into obscurity. 

Your Wit and your Beau, be he French or English, is no mediævalpersonage: the aristocracy of the present day rank among his immediatedescendants: he is a creature of a modern and an artificial age; andwith his career are mingled many features of civilized life, manners, habits, and traces of family history which are still, it is believed, interesting to the majority of English readers, as they have long beento

 GRACE and PHILIP WHARTON

_October, 1860_. 

 * * * * *

 THE WITS AND BEAUX OF SOCIETY. 

 * * * * *

 GEORGE VILLIERS, SECOND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 

 Signs of the Restoration. --Samuel Pepys in his Glory. --A Royal Company. --Pepys 'ready to Weep. '--The Playmate of Charles II. --George Villiers's Inheritance. --Two Gallant Young Noblemen. --The Brave Francis Villiers. --After the Battle of Worcester. --Disguising the King. --Villiers in Hiding. --He appears as a Mountebank. --Buckingham's Habits. --A Daring Adventure. --Cromwell's Saintly Daughter. --Villiers and the Rabbi. --The Buckingham Pictures and Estates. --York House. --Villiers returns to England. --Poor Mary Fairfax. --Villiers in the Tower. --Abraham Cowley, the Poet. --The Greatest Ornament of Whitehall. --Buckingham's Wit and Beauty. --Flecknoe's Opinion of Him. --His Duel with the Earl of Shrewsbury. --Villiers as a Poet. --As a Dramatist. --A Fearful Censure!--Villiers's Influence in Parliament. --A Scene in the Lords. --The Duke of Ormond in Danger. --Colonel Blood's Outrages. --Wallingford House and Ham House. --'Madame Ellen. '--The Cabal. --Villiers again in the Tower. --A Change. --The Duke of York's Theatre. --Buckingham and the Princess of Orange. --His last Hours. --His Religion. --Death of Villiers. --The Duchess of Buckingham. 

Samuel Pepys, the weather-glass of his time, hails the first glimpse ofthe Restoration of Charles II. In his usual quaint terms and vulgarsycophancy. 

'To Westminster Hall, ' says he; 'where I heard how the Parliament hadthis day dissolved themselves, and did pass very cheerfully through theHall, and the Speaker without his mace. The whole Hall was joyfulthereat, as well as themselves; and now they begin to talk loud of theking. ' And the evening was closed, he further tells us, with a largebonfire in the Exchange, and people called out, 'God bless KingCharles!'

This was in March 1660; and during that spring Pepys was noting downhow he did not think it possible that my 'Lord Protector, ' RichardCromwell, should come into power again; how there were great hopes ofthe king's arrival; how Monk, the Restorer, was feasted at Mercers' Hall(Pepys's own especial); how it was resolved that a treaty be offered tothe king, privately; how he resolved to go to sea with 'my lord:' andhow, while they lay at Gravesend, the great affair which brought backCharles Stuart was virtually accomplished. Then, with variousparentheses, inimitable in their way, Pepys carries on his narrative. Hehas left his father's 'cutting-room' to take care of itself; and findshis cabin little, though his bed is convenient, but is certain, as herides at anchor with 'my lord, ' in the ship, that the king 'must ofnecessity come in, ' and the vessel sails round and anchors in Lee Roads. 'To the castles about Deal, where _our_ fleet' (_our fleet_, the saucyson of a tailor!) 'lay and anchored; great was the shoot of guns fromthe castles, and ships, and our answers. ' Glorious Samuel! in hiselement, to be sure. 

Then the wind grew high: he began to be 'dizzy, and squeamish;'nevertheless employed 'Lord's Day' in looking through the lieutenant'sglass at two good merchantmen, and the women in them; 'being prettyhandsome;' then in the afternoon he first saw Calais, and was pleased, though it was at a great distance. All eyes were looking across theChannel just then--for the king was at Flushing; and, though the'Fanatiques' still held their heads up high, and the Cavaliers alsotalked high on the other side, the cause that Pepys was bound to, stillgained ground. 

Then 'they begin to speak freely of King Charles;' churches in the City, Samuel declares, were setting up his arms; merchant-ships--moreimportant in those days--were hanging out his colours. He hears, too, how the Mercers' Company were making a statue of his gracious Majesty toset up in the Exchange. Ah! Pepys's heart is merry: he has fortyshillings (some shabby perquisite) given him by Captain Cowes of the'Paragon;' and 'my lord' in the evening 'falls to singing' a song uponthe Rump to the tune of the 'Blacksmith. '

The hopes of the Cavalier party are hourly increasing, and those ofPepys we may be sure also; for Pim, the tailor, spends a morning in hiscabin 'putting a great many ribbons to a sail. ' And the king is to bebrought over suddenly, 'my lord' tells him: and indeed it looks like it, for the sailors are drinking Charles's health in the streets of Deal, ontheir knees; 'which, methinks, ' says Pepys, 'is a little too much;' and'methinks' so, worthy Master Pepys, also. 

Then how the news of the Parliamentary vote of the king's declarationwas received! Pepys becomes eloquent. 

'He that can fancy a fleet (like ours) in her pride, with pendantsloose, guns roaring, caps flying, and the loud "_Vive le Roi!_" echoedfrom one ship's company to another; he, and he only, can apprehend thejoy this enclosed vote was received with, or the blessing he thoughthimself possessed of that bore it. '

Next, orders come for 'my lord' to sail forthwith to the king; and thepainters and tailors set to work, Pepys superintending, 'cutting outsome pieces of yellow cloth in the fashion of a crown and C. R. ; andputting it upon a fine sheet'--and that is to supersede the States'arms, and is finished and set up. And the next day, on May 14, the Hagueis seen plainly by _us_, 'my lord going up in his night-gown into thecuddy. '

And then they land at the Hague; some 'nasty Dutchmen' come on board tooffer their boats, and get money, which Pepys does not like; and in timethey find themselves in the Hague, 'a most neat place in all respects:'salute the Queen of Bohemia and the Prince of Orange--afterwards WilliamIII. --and find at their place of supper nothing but a 'sallet' and twoor three bones of mutton provided for ten of us, 'which was verystrange. Nevertheless, on they sail, having returned to the fleet, toSchevelling: and, on the 23rd of the month, go to meet the king; who, 'on getting into the boat, did kiss my lord with much affection. ' And'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, was scandalized at the fact. 

And now, before we proceed, let us ask who worthy Samuel Pepys was, thathe should pass such stringent comments on men and manners? His originwas 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 university education; first enteringTrinity College, Cambridge, as a sizar. To our wonder we find himmarrying furtively and independently; and his wife, at fifteen, was gladwith her husband to take up an abode in the house of a relative, SirEdward Montagu, afterwards Earl of Sandwich, the 'my lord' under whoseshadow Samuel Pepys dwelt in reverence. By this nobleman's influencePepys for ever left the 'cutting-room;' he acted first as secretary, (always as toad-eater, one would fancy), then became a clerk in theAdmiralty; and as such went, after the Restoration, to live in SeethingLane, in the parish of St. Olave, Hart Street--and in St. Olave hismortal part was ultimately deposited. 

So much for Pepys. See him now, in his full-buttoned wig, and bestcambric neckerchief, looking out for the king and his suit, who arecoming on board the 'Nazeby. '

'Up, and made myself as fine as I could, with the linning stockings on, and wide canons that I bought the other day at the Hague. ' So began hethe day. 'All day nothing but lords and persons of honour on board, thatwe were exceeding full. Dined in great deal of state, the royallecompany by themselves in the coache, which was a blessed sight to see. 'This royal company consisted of Charles, the Dukes of York andGloucester, his brothers, the Queen of Bohemia, the Princess Royal, thePrince of Orange, afterwards William III. --all of whose hands Pepyskissed, after dinner. The King and Duke of York changed the names of theships. The 'Rumpers, ' as Pepys calls the Parliamentarians, had given onethe 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 havebeen whilst he thus turned the Roundheads, as it were, off the ocean;and how he walked here and there, up and down, (quite contrary to whatSamuel Pepys 'expected, ') and fell into discourse of his escape fromWorcester, and made Samuel 'ready to weep' to hear of his travellingfour 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; andhow, at one place he was made to drink by the servants, to show he wasnot a Roundhead; and how, at another place--and Charles, the best tellerof a story in his own dominions, may here have softened his tone--themaster 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 who he was, but bid 'God blesshim, where he was going!'

Then, rallying after this touch of pathos, Charles took his hearers overto Fecamp, in France--thence to Rouen, where, he said, in his easy, irresistible way, 'I looked so poor that the people went into the roomsbefore I went away, to see if I had not stolen something or other. '

With what reverence and sympathy did our Pepys listen; but he was forcedto hurry off to get Lord Berkeley a bed; and with 'much ado' (as one maybelieve) he did get 'him to bed with My Lord Middlesex;' so, afterseeing these two peers of the realm in that dignified predicament--twoin a bed--'to my cabin again, ' where the company were still talking ofthe king's difficulties, and how his Majesty was fain to eat a piece ofbread and cheese out of a poor body's pocket; and, at a Catholic house, how he lay a good while 'in the Priest's Hole, for privacy. '

In all these hairbreadth escapes--of which the king spoke withinfinite humour and good feeling--one name was perpetuallyintroduced:--George--George Villiers, _Villers_, as the royal narratorcalled him; for the name was so pronounced formerly. And well he might;for George Villiers had been his playmate, classfellow, nay, bedfellowsometimes, in priests' holes; their names, their haunts, their hearts, were all assimilated; and misfortune had bound them closely to eachother. To George Villiers let us now return; he is waiting for his royalmaster on the other side of the Channel--in England. And a strangecharacter have we to deal with:--

 'A man so various, that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome: Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long; But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon. '[1]

Such was George Villiers: the Alcibiades of that age. Let us trace oneof the most romantic, and brilliant, and unsatisfactory lives that hasever been written. 

George Villiers was born at Wallingford House, in the parish of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, on the 30th January, 1627. The Admiralty nowstands on the site of the mansion in which he first saw the light. Hisfather was George Villiers, the favourite 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 ofhis father, by Felton, threw the affairs of his family into confusion. His mother, after the Duke of Buckingham's death, gave birth to a son, Francis; who was subsequently, savagely killed by the Roundheads, nearKingston. Then the Duchess of Buckingham very shortly married again, anduniting herself to Randolph Macdonald, Earl of Antrim, became a rigidCatholic. She was therefore lost to her children, or rather, they werelost to her; for King Charles I. , who had promised to be a 'husband toher, and a father to her children, ' removed them from her charge, andeducated them with the royal princes. 

The youthful peer soon gave indications of genius; and all that acareful education could do, was directed to improve his natural capacityunder private tutors. He went to Cambridge; and thence, under the careof a preceptor named Aylesbury, travelled into France. He wasaccompanied by his young, handsome, fine-spirited brother, Francis; andthis was the sunshine of his life. His father had indeed left him, ashis biographer Brian Fairfax expresses it, 'the greatest name inEngland; his mother, the greatest estate of any subject. ' With thisinheritance there had also descended to him the wonderful beauty, thematchless grace, of his ill-fated father. Great abilities, courage, fascination of manners, were also his; but he had not been endowed withfirmness of character, and was at once energetic and versatile. Even atthis age, the qualities which became his ruin were clearly discoverable. 

George Villiers was recalled to England by the troubles which drove theking to Oxford, and which converted that academical city into agarrison, its under-graduates into soldiers, its ancient halls intobarrack-rooms. Villiers was on this occasion entered at Christ Church:the youth's best feelings were aroused, and his loyalty was engaged toone to whom his father owed so much. He was now a young man oftwenty-one years of age--able to act for himself; and he went heart andsoul into the cause of his sovereign. Never was there a gayer, a moreprepossessing Cavalier. He could charm even a Roundhead. The harsh andPresbyterian-minded Bishop Burnet, has told us that 'he was a man of anoble presence; had a great liveliness of wit, and a peculiar faculty ofturning everything into ridicule, with bold figures and naturaldescriptions. ' How invaluable he must have been in the Common-rooms atOxford, then turned into guard-rooms, his eye upon some unluckyvolunteer Don, who had put off his clerkly costume for a buff jacket, and could not manage his drill. Irresistible as his exterior is declaredto have been, the original mind of Villiers was even far moreinfluential. De Grammont tells us, 'he was extremely handsome, but stillthought himself much more so than he really was; although he had a greatdeal of discernment, yet his vanities made him mistake some civilitiesas intended for his person which were only bestowed on his wit anddrollery. '

But this very vanity, so unpleasant in an old man, is only amusing in ayounger wit. Whilst thus a gallant of the court and camp, the youngnobleman proved himself to be no less brave than witty. Juvenile as hewas, with a brother still younger, they fought on the royalist side atLichfield, in the storming of the Cathedral Close. For thus allowingtheir lives to be endangered, their mother blamed Lord Gerard, one ofthe Duke's guardians; whilst the Parliament seized the pretext ofconfiscating their estates, which were afterwards returned to them, onaccount of their being under age at the time of confiscation. The youthswere then placed under the care of the Earl of Northumberland, by whosepermission they travelled in France and Italy, where theyappeared--their estates having been restored--with princelymagnificence. Nevertheless, on hearing of the imprisonment of Charles I. In the Isle of Wight, the gallant youths returned to England and joinedthe army under the Earl of Holland, who was defeated near Nonsuch, inSurrey. 

A sad episode in the annals of these eventful times is presented in thefate of the handsome, brave Francis Villiers. His murder, for one cancall it by no other name, shows how keenly the personal feelings of theRoundheads were engaged in this national quarrel. Under mostcircumstances, Englishmen would have spared the youth, and respected thegallantry of the free young soldier, who, planting himself against anoak-tree which grew in the road, refused to ask for quarter, butdefended himself against several assailants. But the name of Villierswas hateful in Puritan ears. 'Hew them down, root and branch!' was thesentiment that actuated the soldiery. His very loveliness exasperatedtheir vengeance. At last, 'with nine wounds on his beautiful face andbody, ' says Fairfax, 'he was slain. ' 'The oak-tree, ' writes the devotedservant, 'is his monument, ' and the letters of F. V. Were cut in it inhis day. His body was conveyed by water to York House, and was entombedwith that of his father, in the Chapel of Henry VII. 

His brother fled towards St. Neot's, where he encountered a strange kindof peril. Tobias Rustat attended him; and was with him in the rising inKent for King Charles I. , wherein the Duke was engaged; and they, beingput to the flight, the Duke's helmet, by a brush under a tree, wasturned upon his back, and tied so fast with a string under his throat, 'that without the present help of T. R. , ' writes Fairfax, 'it hadundoubtedly choked him, as I have credibly heard. '[2]

Whilst at St. Neot's, the house in which Villiers had taken refuge wassurrounded with soldiers. He had a stout heart, and a dexterous hand; hetook his resolution; rushed out upon his foes, killed the officer incommand, galloped off and joined the Prince in the Downs. 

The sad story of Charles I. Was played out; but Villiers remainedstanch, and was permitted to return and to accompany Prince Charles intoScotland. Then came the battle of Worcester in 1651: there Charles II. Showed himself a worthy descendant of James IV. Of Scotland. He resolvedto conquer or die: with desperate gallantry the English Cavaliers andthe Scotch Highlanders seconded the monarch's valiant onslaught onCromwell's horse, and the invincible Life Guards were almost driven backby the shock. But they were not seconded; Charles II. Had his horsetwice shot under him, but, nothing daunted, he was the last to tearhimself away from the field, and then only upon the solicitations of hisfriends. 

Charles retired to Kidderminster that evening. The Duke of Buckingham, the gallant Lord Derby, Wilmot, afterwards Earl of Rochester, and someothers, rode near him. They were followed by a small body of horse. Disconsolately they rode on northwards, a faithful band of sixty beingresolved to escort his Majesty to Scotland. At length they halted onKinver Heath, near Kidderminster: their guide having lost the way. Inthis extremity Lord Derby said that he had been received kindly at anold house in a secluded woody country, between Tong Castle and Brewood, on the borders of Staffordshire. It was named 'Boscobel, ' he said; andthat word has henceforth conjured up to the mind's eye the remembranceof a band of tired heroes, riding through woody glades to an ancienthouse, where shelter was given to the worn-out horses and scarcely lessharassed riders. 

But not so rapidly did they in reality proceed. A Catholic family, named Giffard, were living at White-Ladies, about twenty six miles fromWorcester. This was only about half a mile from Boscobel: it had been aconvent of Cistercian nuns, whose long white cloaks of old had once beenseen, ghost-like, amid forest glades or on hillock green. TheWhite-Ladies had other memories to grace it besides those of holyvestals, or of unholy Cavaliers. From the time of the Tudors, arespectable family named Somers had owned the White-Ladies, andinhabited it since its white-garbed tenants had been turned out, and theplace secularized. 'Somers's House, ' as it was called, (though morehappily, the old name has been restored, ) had received Queen Elizabethon her progress. The richly cultivated old conventual gardens hadsupplied the Queen with some famous pears, and, in the fulness of herapproval of the fruit, she had added them to the City arms. At that timeone of these vaunted pear-trees stood securely in the market-place ofWorcester. 

At the White-Ladies, Charles rested for half an hour; and here he lefthis garters, waistcoat, and other garments, to avoid discovery, ere heproceeded. They were long kept as relics. 

The mother of Lord Somers had been placed in this old house forsecurity, for she was on the eve of giving birth to the futurestatesman, who was born in that sanctuary just at this time. His fatherat that very moment commanded a troop of horse in Cromwell's army, sothat the risk the Cavaliers ran was imminent. The King's horse was ledinto the hall. Day was dawning; and the Cavaliers, as they entered theold conventual tenement, and saw the sunbeams on its walls, perceivedtheir peril. A family of servants named Penderell held various officesthere, and at Boscobel. William took care of Boscobel, George was aservant at White-Ladies; Humphrey was the miller to that house, Richardlived close by, at Hebbal Grange. He and William were called into theroyal presence. Lord Derby then said to them, 'This is the King; have acare of him, and preserve him as thou didst me. '

Then the attendant courtiers began undressing the King. They took offhis buff-coat, and put on him a 'noggon coarse shirt, ' and a green suitand another doublet--Richard Penderell's woodman's dress. Lord Wilmotcut his sovereign's hair with a knife, but Richard Penderell took up hisshears and finished the work. 'Burn it, ' said the king; but Richard keptthe sacred locks. Then Charles covered his dark face with soot. Couldanything have taken away the expression of his half-sleepy, half-merryeyes?

They departed, and half an hour afterwards Colonel Ashenhurst, with atroop of Roundhead horse, rode up to the White-Ladies. The King, meantime, had been conducted by Richard Penderell into a coppice-wood, with a bill-hook in his hands for defence and disguise. But hisfollowers were overtaken near Newport; and here Buckingham, with LordsTalbot and Leviston, escaped; and henceforth, until Charles's wanderingswere transferred from England to France, George Villiers was separatedfrom the Prince. Accompanied by the Earls of Derby and Lauderdale, andby Lord Talbot, he proceeded northwards, in hopes of joining GeneralLeslie and the Scotch horse. But their hopes were soon dashed: attackedby a body of Roundheads, Buckingham and Lord Leviston were compelled toleave the high road, to alight from their horses, and to make their wayto Bloore Park, near Newport, where Villiers found a shelter. He wassoon, however, necessitated to depart: he put on a labourer's dress; hedeposited his George, a gift from Henrietta Maria, with a companion, andset off for Billstrop, in Nottinghamshire, one Matthews, a carpenter, acting as his guide; at Billstrop he was welcomed by Mr. Hawley, aCavalier; and from that place he went to Brookesby, in Leicestershire, the original seat of the Villiers family, and the birthplace of hisfather. Here he was received by Lady Villiers--the widow, probably, ofhis father's brother, Sir William Villiers, one of those contentedcountry squires who not only sought no distinction, but scarcely thankedJames I. When he made him a baronet. Here might the hunted refugee see, on the open battlements of the church, the shields on which wereexhibited united quarterings of his father's family with those of hismother; here, listen to old tales about his grandfather, good SirGeorge, who married a serving-woman in his deceased wife's kitchen;[3]and that serving-woman became the leader of fashions in the court ofJames. Here he might ponder on the vicissitudes which marked the destinyof the house of Villiers, and wonder what should come next. 

That the spirit of adventure was strong within him, is shown by hisdaring to go up to London, and disguising himself as a mountebank. Hehad a coat made, called a 'Jack Pudding Coat:' a little hat was stuck onhis head, with a fox's tail in it, and cocks' feathers here and there. Awizard's mask one day, a daubing of flour another, completed thedisguise it was then so usual to assume: witness the long traffic heldat Exeter Change by the Duchess of Tyrconnel, Francis Jennings, in awhite mask, selling laces, and French gew-gaws, a trader to allappearance, but really carrying on political intrigues; every one wentto chat with the 'White Milliner, ' as she was called, during the reignof William and Mary. The Duke next erected a stage at Charing Cross--inthe very face of the stern Rumpers, who, with long faces, rode past thesinful man each day as they came ambling up from the Parliament House. Aband of puppet-players and violins set up their shows; and music coversa multitude of incongruities. The ballad was then the great vehicle ofpersonal attack, and Villiers's dawning taste for poetry was shown inthe ditties which he now composed, and in which he sometimes assistedvocally. Whilst all the other Cavaliers were forced to fly, he thusbearded his enemies in their very homes: sometimes he talked to themface to face, and kept the sanctimonious citizens in talk, till theyfound themselves sinfully disposed to laugh. But this vagrant life hadserious evils: it broke down all the restraints which civilised societynaturally, and beneficially, imposes. The Duke of Buckingham, Butler, the author of Hudibras, writes, 'rises, eats, goes to bed by the Julianaccount, long after all others that go by the new style, and keeps thesame hours with owls and the Antipodes. He is a great observer of theTartar customs, and never eats till the great cham, having dined, makesproclamation that all the world may go to dinner. He does not dwell inhis house, but haunts it like an evil spirit, that walks all night, todisturb the family, and never appears by day. He lives perpetuallybenighted, runs out of his life, and loses his time as men do their waysin the dark: and as blind men are led by their dogs, so he is governedby some mean servant or other that relates to his pleasures. He is asinconstant as the moon which he lives under; and although he doesnothing but advise with his pillow all day, he is as great a stranger tohimself as he is to the rest of the world. His mind entertains allthings that come and go; but like guests and strangers, they are notwelcome if they stay long. This lays him open to all cheats, quacks, andimpostors, who apply to every particular humour while it lasts, andafterwards vanish. He deforms nature, while he intends to adorn her, like Indians that hang jewels in their lips and noses. His ears areperpetually drilling with a fiddlestick, and endures pleasures with lesspatience than other men do their pains. '

The more effectually to support his character as a mountebank, Villierssold mithridate and galbanum plasters: thousands of spectators andcustomers thronged every day to see and hear him. Possibly many guessedthat beneath all the fantastic exterior some ulterior project wasconcealed; yet he remained untouched by the City Guards. Well did Drydendescribe him:--

 'Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Beside ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy. '

His elder sister, Lady Mary Villiers, had married the Duke of Richmond, one of the loyal adherents of Charles I. The duke was, therefore, indurance at Windsor, whilst the duchess was to be placed under strictsurveillance at Whitehall. 

Villiers resolved to see her. Hearing that she was to pass intoWhitehall on a certain day, he set up his stage where she could not failto perceive him. He had something important to say to her. As she drewnear, he cried out to the mob that he would give them a song on theDuchess of Richmond and the Duke of Buckingham: nothing could be moreacceptable. 'The mob, ' it is related, 'stopped the coach and the duchess... Nay, so outrageous were the mob, that they forced the duchess, whowas then the handsomest woman in England, to sit in the boot of thecoach, and to hear him sing all his impertinent songs. Having left offsinging, he told them it was no more than reason that he should presentthe duchess with some of the songs. So he alighted from his stage, covered all over with papers and ridiculous little pictures. Having cometo the coach, he took off a black piece of taffeta, which he always woreover 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 ofmistrust; nay, she gave him some very opprobrious language, but was veryeager at snatching the papers he threw into her coach. Among them was apacket of letters, which she had no sooner got but she went forward, theduke, at the head of the mob, attending and hallooing her a good way outof the town. '

[Illustration: VILLIERS IN DISGUISE--THE MEETING WITH HIS SISTER. ]

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 married, in1647, the saintly Henry Ireton, Lord Deputy of Ireland. Bridget was thepattern heroine of the '_unco guid_, ' the quintessence of all propriety;the impersonation of sanctity; an ultra republican, who scarcelyaccorded to her father the modest title of Protector. She was esteemedby her party a 'personage of sublime growth:' 'humbled, not exalted, 'according to Mrs. Hutchinson, by her elevation: 'nevertheless, ' saysthat excellent lady, 'as my Lady Ireton was walking in the St. James'sPark, the Lady Lambert, as proud as her husband, came by where she was, and as the present princess always hath precedency of the relict of thedead, so she put by my Lady Ireton, who, notwithstanding her piety andhumility, was a little grieved at the affront. '

After this anecdote one cannot give much credence to this lady'shumility: Bridget was, however, a woman of powerful intellect, weakenedby her extreme, and, to use a now common term, _crochety_ opinions. Like most _esprits forts_, she was easily imposed upon. One day thisparagon saw a mountebank dancing on a stage in the most exquisite style. His fine shape, too, caught the attention of one who assumed to be aboveall folly. It is sometimes fatal to one's peace to look out of a window;no one knows what sights may rivet or displease. Mistress Ireton wassitting at her window unconscious that any one with the hated andmalignant name of 'Villiers' was before her. After some unholyadmiration, she sent to speak to the mummer. The duke scarcely knewwhether to trust himself in the power of the bloodthirsty Ireton's brideor not--yet his courage--his love of sport--prevailed. He visited herthat evening: no longer, however, in his jack-pudding coat, but in arich suit, disguised with a cloak over it. He wore still a plaster overone eye, and was much disposed to take it off, but prudence forbade; andthus he stood in the presence of the prim and saintly Bridget Ireton. The particulars of the interview rest on his statement, and they mustnot, therefore, be accepted implicitly. Mistress Ireton is said to havemade advances to the handsome incognito. What a triumph to a man likeVilliers, to have intrigued with my Lord Protector's sanctifieddaughter! But she inspired him with disgust. He saw in her thepresumption and hypocrisy of her father; he hated her as Cromwell'sdaughter and Ireton's wife. He told her, therefore, that he was a Jew, and could not by his laws become the paramour of a Christian woman. Thesaintly Bridget stood amazed; she had imprudently let him into some ofthe most important secrets of her party. A Jew! It was dreadful! But howcould a person of that persuasion be so strict, so strait-laced? Sheprobably entertained all the horror of Jews which the Puritanical partycherished as a virtue; forgetting the lessons of toleration andliberality inculcated by Holy Writ. She sent, however, for a certainJewish Rabbi to converse with the stranger. What was the Duke ofBuckingham's surprise, on visiting her one evening, to see the learneddoctor 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 ofcontroversy; but thought it best forthwith to set off for the Downs. Before he departed he wrote, however, to Mistress Ireton, on the pleathat she might wish to know to what tribe of Jews he belonged. So hesent her a note written with all his native wit and point. [4]

Buckingham now experienced all the miseries that a man of expensivepleasures with a sequestrated estate is likely to endure. One friendremained to watch over his interests in England. This was John Traylman, a servant of his late father's, who was left to guard the collection ofpictures made by the late duke, and deposited in York House. Thatcollection was, in the opinion of competent judges, the third in pointof value in England, being only inferior to those of Charles I. And theEarl of Arundel. 

It had been bought, with immense expense, partly by the duke's agents inItaly, the Mantua Gallery supplying a great portion--partly inFrance--partly in Flanders; and to Flanders a great portion was destinednow to return. Secretly and laboriously did old Traylman pack up andsend off these treasures to Antwerp, where now the gay youth whom theaged domestic had known from a child was in want and exile. The pictureswere eagerly bought by a foreign collector named Duart. The proceedsgave poor Villiers bread; but the noble works of Titian and Leonardo daVinci, and others, were lost for ever to England. 

It must have been very irritating to Villiers to know that whilst hejust existed abroad, the great estates enjoyed by his father were beingsubjected to pillage by Cromwell's soldiers, or sold for pitiful sums bythe Commissioners appointed by the Parliament to break up and annihilatemany of the old properties in England. Burleigh-on-the-Hill, the statelyseat on which the first duke had lavished thousands, had been taken bythe Roundheads. It was so large, and presented so long a line ofbuildings, that the Parliamentarians could not hold it without leavingin it a great garrison and stores of ammunition. It was therefore burnt, and the stables alone occupied; and those even were formed into a houseof unusual size. York House was doubtless marked out for the nextdestructive decree. There was something in the very history of thishouse which might be supposed to excite the wrath of the Roundheads. Queen Mary (whom we must not, after Miss Strickland's admirable life ofher, call Bloody Queen Mary, but who will always be best known by thatunpleasant title) had bestowed York House on the See of York, as acompensation for York House, at Whitehall, which Henry VIII. Had takenfrom Wolsey. It had afterwards come into possession of the Keepers ofthe Great Seal. Lord Bacon was born in York House, his father havinglived there; and the

 'Greatest, wisest, meanest of mankind, '

built here an aviary which cost £300. When the Duke of Lennox wished tobuy 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 firstbreathed; and there will I yield my last breath, if it so please God andthe King. ' It did not, however, please the King that he should; thehouse was borrowed only by the first Duke of Buckingham from theArchbishop of York, and then exchanged for another seat, on the pleathat the duke would want it for the reception of foreign potentates, andfor entertainments given to royalty. 

The duke pulled it down: and the house, which was erected as a temporarystructure, was so superb that even Pepys, twenty years after it had beenleft to bats and cobwebs, speaks of it in raptures, as of a place inwhich the great duke's soul was seen in every chamber. On the walls wereshields on which the arms of Manners and of Villiers--peacocks andlions--were quartered. York House was never, however, finished; but asthe lover of old haunts enters Buckingham Street in the Strand, he willperceive an ancient water-gate, beautifully proportioned, built by InigoJones--smoky, isolated, impaired--but still speaking volumes ofremembrance of the glories of the assassinated duke, who had purposed tobuild the whole house in that style. 

'_Yorschaux_, ' as he called it--York House--the French ambassador hadwritten word to his friends at home, 'is the most richly fitted up ofany that I saw. ' The galleries and state rooms were graced by thedisplay of the Roman marbles, both busts and statues, which the firstduke had bought from Rubens; whilst in the gardens the Cain and Abel ofJohn of Bologna, given by Philip IV. Of Spain to King Charles, and byhim bestowed on the elder George Villiers, made that fair _pleasaunce_famous. It was doomed--as were what were called the 'superstitious'pictures in the house--to destruction: henceforth all was in decay andneglect. 'I went to see York House and gardens, ' Evelyn writes in 1655, 'belonging to the former greate Buckingham, but now much ruined throughneglect. '

Traylman, doubtless, kept George Villiers the younger in full possessionof all that was to happen to that deserted tenement in which the old manmourned 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 hadbestowed it on Fairfax. The blow was perhaps softened by the reflectionthat Fairfax was a man of generous temper; and that he had an onlydaughter, Mary Fairfax, young, and an heiress. Though the daughter of aPuritan, a sort of interest was attached, even by Cavaliers, to MaryFairfax, from her having, at five years of age, followed her fatherthrough the civil wars on horseback, seated before a maid-servant; andhaving, on her journey, frequently fainted, she was so ill as to havebeen left in a house by the roadside, her father never expecting to seeher again. 

In reference to this young girl, then about eighteen years of age, Buckingham now formed a plan. He resolved to return to Englanddisguised, to offer his hand to Mary Fairfax, and so recover hisproperty through the influence of Fairfax. He was confident of his ownattractions; and, indeed, from every account, he appears to have beenone of those reckless, handsome, speculative characters that often takethe fancy of better men than themselves. 'He had, ' says Burnet, 'no sortof literature, only he was drawn into chymistry; and for some years hethought he was very near the finding of the philosopher's stone, whichhad the effect that attends on all such men as he was, when they aredrawn in, to lay out for it. He had no principles of religion, virtue, or friendship; pleasure, frolic, or extravagant diversion, was all helaid 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 executeany design without spoiling it; he could never fix his thoughts, norgovern his estate, though then the greatest in England. He was bredabout the king, and for many years he had a great ascendant over him;but he spoke of him to all persons with that contempt, that at last hedrew a lasting disgrace upon himself. And he at length ruined both bodyand mind, fortune and reputation, equally. '

This was a sad prospect for poor Mary Fairfax, but certainly if in theirchoice

 ----'Weak women go astray, Their stars are more in fault than they, '

and she was less to blame in her choice than her father, who ought tohave advised her against the marriage. Where and how they met is notknown. 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 wasdescribed by the Vicomtesse de Longueville as a 'little round crumpledwoman, very fond of finery;' and she adds that, on visiting the duchessone day, she found her, though in mourning, in a kind of loose robe overher, all edged and laced with gold. So much for a Puritan's daughter!

To this insipid personage the duke presented himself. She soon likedhim, and in spite of his outrageous infidelities, continued to like himafter their marriage. 

He carried his point: Mary Fairfax became his wife on the 6th ofSeptember, 1675, and, by the influence of Fairfax, his estate, or, atall events, a portion of the revenues, about £4, 000 a year, it is said, were restored to him. Nevertheless, it is mortifying to find that in1682, he sold York House, in which his father had taken such pride, for£30, 000. The house was pulled down; streets were erected on thegardens: George Street, Villiers Street, Duke Street, Buckingham Street, Off Alley recall the name of the ill-starred George, first duke, and ofhis needy, profligate son; but the only trace of the real greatness ofthe family importance thus swept away is in the motto inscribed on thepoint of old Inigo's water-gate, towards the street: '_Fidei coticulacrux_. ' It is sad for all good royalists to reflect that it was not therabid Roundhead, but a degenerate Cavalier, who sold and thus destroyedYork House. 

The marriage with Mary Fairfax, though one of interest solely, was not a_mésalliance_: her father was connected by the female side with theEarls of Rutland; he was also a man of a generous spirit, as he hadshown, in handing over to the Countess of Derby the rents of the Isle ofMan, which had been granted to him by the Parliament. In a similarspirit he was not sorry to restore York House to the Duke of Buckingham. 

Cromwell, however, was highly exasperated by the nuptials between MaryFairfax and Villiers, which took place at Nun-Appleton, near York, oneof Fairfax's estates. The Protector had, it is said, intended Villiersfor one of his own daughters. Upon what plea he acted it is not stated:he committed Villiers to the Tower, where he remained until the death ofOliver, and the accession of Richard Cromwell. 

In vain did Fairfax solicit his release: Cromwell refused it, andVilliers remained in durance until the abdication of Richard Cromwell, when he was set at liberty, but not without the following conditions, dated February 21st, 1658-9:--

'The humble petition of George Duke of Buckingham was this day read. Resolved that George Duke of Buckingham, now prisoner at Windsor Castle, upon his engagement upon his honour at the bar of this House, and uponthe engagement of Lord Fairfax in £20, 000 that the said duke shallpeaceably demain himself for the future, and shall not join with, orabet, or have any correspondence with, any of the enemies of the LordProtector, and of this Commonwealth, in any of the parts beyond the sea, or within this Commonwealth, shall be discharged of his imprisonment andrestraint; and that the Governor of Windsor Castle be required to bringthe Duke of Buckingham to the bar of this House on Wednesday next, toengage his honour accordingly. Ordered, that the security of £20, 000 tobe 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 whommany a better man might have been envious: this was Abraham Cowley, anold college friend of the duke's. Cowley was the son of a grocer, andowed his entrance into academic life to having been a King's Scholar atWestminster. One day he happened to take up from his mother's parlourwindow a copy of Spenser's 'Faerie Queene. ' He eagerly perused thedelightful volume, though he was then only twelve years old: and thisimpulse 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 eminence. He proceeded to TrinityCollege, Cambridge, where his friendship with Villiers was formed; andwhere, perhaps, from that circumstance, Cowley's predilections for thecause of the Stuarts was ripened into loyalty. 

No two characters could be more dissimilar than those of Abraham Cowleyand George Villiers. Cowley was quiet, modest, sober, of a thoughtful, philosophical turn, and of an affectionate nature; neither boasting ofhis own merits nor depreciating others. He was the friend of LuciusCary, Lord Falkland; and yet he loved, though he must have condemned, George Villiers. It is not unlikely that, whilst Cowley imparted hislove of poetry to Villiers, Villiers may have inspired the pensive andblameless poet with a love of that display of wit then in vogue, andheightened that sense of humour which speaks forth in some of Cowley'sproductions. Few authors suggest so many new thoughts, really his own, as Cowley. 'His works, ' it has been said, 'are a flower-garden run toweeds, but the flowers are numerous and brilliant, and a search afterthem will repay the pains of a collector who is not too indolent orfastidious. '

As Cowley and his friend passed the weary hours in durance, many an oldtale could the poet tell the peer of stirring times; for Cowley hadaccompanied Charles I. In many a perilous journey, and had protectedQueen Henrietta Maria in her escape to France: through Cowley had thecorrespondence of the royal pair, when separated, been carried on. Thepoet had before suffered imprisonment for his loyalty; and, to disguisehis actual occupation, had obtained the degree of Doctor of Medicine, and assumed the character of a physician, on the strength of knowing thevirtues of a few plants. 

Many a laugh, doubtless, had Buckingham at the expense of _Dr. _ Cowley:however, in later days, the duke proved a true friend to the poet, inhelping to procure for him the lease of a farm at Chertsey from thequeen, and here Cowley, rich upon £300 a year, ended his days. 

For some time after Buckingham's release, he lived quietly andrespectably at Nun-Appleton, with General Fairfax and the vapid Mary. But the Restoration--the first dawnings of which have been referred toin the commencement of this biography--ruined him, body and mind. 

He was made a Lord of the Bedchamber, a Member of the Privy Council, andafterwards Master of the Horse, [5] and Lord Lieutenant of Yorkshire. Helived in great magnificence at Wallingford House; a tenement next toYork House, intended to be the habitable and useful appendage to thatpalace. 

He was henceforth, until he proved treacherous to his sovereign, thebrightest ornament of Whitehall. Beauty of person was hereditary: hisfather was styled the 'handsomest-bodied man in England, ' and GeorgeVilliers the younger equalled George Villiers the elder in all personalaccomplishments. When he entered the Presence-Chamber all eyes followedhim; every movement was graceful and stately. Sir John Reresbypronounced him 'to be the finest gentleman he ever saw. ' 'He was born, 'Madame Dunois declared, 'for gallantry and magnificence. ' His wit wasfaultless, but his manners engaging; yet his sallies often descendedinto buffoonery, and he spared no one in his merry moods. One evening aplay of Dryden's was represented. An actress had to spout forth thisline--

 'My wound is great because it is so small!'

She gave it out with pathos, paused, and was theatrically distressed. Buckingham was seated in one of the boxes. He rose, all eyes were fixedupon a face well known in all gay assemblies, in a tone of burlesque heanswered--

 'Then 'twould be greater were it none at all. '

Instantly the audience laughed at the Duke's tone of ridicule, and thepoor woman was hissed off the stage. 

The king himself did not escape Buckingham's shafts; whilst LordChancellor Clarendon fell a victim to his ridicule: nothing couldwithstand it. There, not in that iniquitous gallery at Whitehall, but inthe king's privy chambers, Villiers might be seen, in all the radianceof his matured beauty. His face was long and oval, with sleepy, yetglistening eyes, over which large arched eyebrows seemed to contract abrow on which the curls of a massive wig (which fell almost to hisshoulders) hung low. His nose was long, well formed, and flexible; hislips thin and compressed, and defined, as the custom was, by two veryshort, fine, black patches of hair, looking more like strips ofsticking-plaster than a moustache. As he made his reverence, his richrobes fell over a faultless form. He was a beau to the very fold of thecambric band round his throat; with long ends of the richest, closestpoint that was ever rummaged out from a foreign nunnery to be placed onthe person of this sacrilegious sinner. 

Behold, now, how he changes. Villiers is Villiers no longer. He isClarendon, walking solemnly to the Court of the Star Chamber: a pair ofbellows is hanging before him for the purse; Colonel Titus is walkingwith a fire shovel on his shoulder, to represent a mace; the king, himself a capital mimic, is splitting his sides with laughter; thecourtiers are fairly in a roar. Then how he was wont to divert the kingwith his descriptions! 'Ipswich, for instance, ' he said, 'was a townwithout inhabitants--a river it had without water--streets withoutnames; and it was a place where asses wore boots:' alluding to theasses, when employed in rolling Lord Hereford's bowling-green, havingboots on their feet to prevent their injuring the turf. 

Flecknoe, the poet, describes the duke at this period, in 'EuterpeRevived'--

 The gallant'st person, and the noblest minde, In all the world his prince could ever finde, Or to participate his private cares, Or bear the public weight of his affairs, Like well-built arches, stronger with their weight, And well-built minds, the steadier with their height; Such was the composition and frame O' the noble and the gallant Buckingham. '

The praise, however, even in the duke's best days, was overcharged. Villiers was no 'well-built arch, ' nor could Charles trust to thefidelity of one so versatile for an hour. Besides, the moral characterof Villiers must have prevented him, even in those days, from bearing'the public weight of affairs. '

A scandalous intrigue soon proved the unsoundness of Flecknoe's tribute. Amongst the most licentious beauties of the court was Anna Maria, Countess of Shrewsbury, the daughter of Robert Brudenel, Earl ofCardigan, and the wife of Francis, Earl of Shrewsbury: amongst manyshameless women she was the most shameless, and her face seems to havewell expressed her mind. In the round, fair visage, with its languishingeyes, and full, pouting mouth, there is something voluptuous and bold. The forehead is broad, but low; and the wavy hair, with its tendrilcurls, comes down almost to the fine arched eyebrows, and then, fallinginto masses, sets off white shoulders which seem to designate aninelegant amount of _embonpoint_. There is nothing elevated in the wholecountenance, as Lely has painted her, and her history is a disgrace toher age and time. 

She had numerous lovers (not in the refined sense of the word), and, atlast, took up with Thomas Killigrew. He had been, like Villiers, aroyalist: first a page to Charles I. , next a companion of Charles II. , in exile. He married the fair Cecilia Croft; yet his morals were sovicious that even in the Court of Venice to which he was accredited, inorder to borrow money from the merchants of that city, he was tooprofligate to remain. He came back with Charles II. , and was Master ofthe Revels, or King's Jester, as the court considered him, thoughwithout any regular appointment, during his life: the butt, at once, andthe satirist of Whitehall. 

It was Killigrew's wit and descriptive powers which, when heightened bywine, were inconceivably great, that induced Villiers to select LadyShrewsbury for the object of his admiration. When Killigrew perceivedthat he was supplanted by Villiers, he became frantic with rage, andpoured out the bitterest invectives against the countess. The result wasthat, 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 lastaroused the attention of Lord Shrewsbury, who had hitherto never doubtedhis wife: he challenged the Duke of Buckingham; and his infamous wife, it is said, held her paramour's horse, disguised as a page. LordShrewsbury was killed, [6] and the scandalous intimacy went on as before. No one but the queen, no one but the Duchess of Buckingham, appearedshocked at this tragedy, and no one minded their remarks, or joined intheir indignation: all moral sense was suspended, or wholly stifled; andVilliers gloried in his depravity, more witty, more amusing, morefashionable than ever; and yet he seems, by the best-known and mostextolled of his poems, to have had some conception of what a real andworthy attachment might be. 

The following verses are to his 'Mistress':--

 'What a dull fool was I To think so gross a lie, As that I ever was in love before! I have, perhaps, known one or two, With whom I was content to be At that which they call keeping company. But after all that they could do, I still could be with more. Their absence never made me shed a tear; And I can truly swear, That, till my eyes first gazed on you, I ne'er beheld the thing I could adore. 

 'A world of things must curiously be sought: A world of things must be together brought To make up charms which have the power to make, Through a discerning eye, true love; That is a master-piece above What only looks and shape can do; There must be wit and judgment too, Greatness of thought, and worth, which draw, From the whole world, respect and awe. 

 'She that would raise a noble love must find Ways to beget a passion for her mind; She must 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. She must be--what said I?--she must be _you_: None but yourself that miracle can do. At least, I'm sure, thus much I plainly see, None but yourself e'er did it upon me. 'Tis you alone that can my heart subdue, To you alone it always shall be true. '

The next lines are also remarkable for the delicacy and happy turn ofthe expressions--

 'Though Phillis, from prevailing charms, Have forc'd my Delia from my arms, Think not your conquest to maintain By rigour 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 beauties in their prime Have justified such cruelty, By the same fate that conquered me. When age shall come, at whose command Those troops of beauty must disband-- A rival's strength once took away, What slave's so dull as to obey? But if you'll learn a noble way To keep his empire from decay, And there for ever fix your throne, Be kind, but kind to me alone. '

Like his father, who ruined himself by building, Villiers had amonomania for bricks and mortar, yet he found time to write 'TheRehearsal, ' a play on which Mr. Reed in his 'Dramatic Biography' makesthe following observation: 'It is so perfect a masterpiece in its way, and so truly original, that notwithstanding its prodigious success, eventhe task of imitation, which most kinds of excellence have invitedinferior geniuses to undertake, has appeared as too arduous to beattempted with regard to this, which through a whole century standsalone, notwithstanding that the very plays it was written expressly toridicule are forgotten, and the taste it was meant to expose totallyexploded. '

The reverses of fortune which brought George Villiers to abject miserywere therefore, in a very great measure, due to his own misconduct, hisdepravity, his waste of life, his perversion of noble mental powers: yetin many respects he was in advance of his age. He advocated, in theHouse of Lords, toleration to Dissenters. He wrote a 'Short Discourse onthe Reasonableness of Men's having a Religion, or Worship of God;' yet, such was his inconsistency, that in spite of these works, and of onestyled a 'Demonstration of the Deity, ' written a short time before hisdeath, he assisted Lord Rochester in his atheistic poem upon 'Nothing. '

Butler, the author of Hudibras, too truly said of Villiers 'that he hadstudied _the whole body of vice_;' a most fearful censure--a mostsignificant description of a bad man. 'His parts, ' he adds, 'aredisproportionate 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 thatnature raised in him, and built himself up again after a model of hisown. He has dammed up all those lights that nature made into the noblestprospects of the world, and opened other little blind loopholes backwardby turning day into night, and night into day. '

The satiety and consequent misery produced by this terrible life areably described by Butler. And it was perhaps partly this wearied, worn-out spirit that caused Villiers to rush madly into politics forexcitement. In 1666 he asked for the office of Lord President of theNorth; it was refused: he became disaffected, raised mutinies, and, atlast, excited the indignation of his too-indulgent sovereign. Charlesdismissed him from his office, after keeping him for some time inconfinement. After this epoch little is heard of Buckingham but what isdisgraceful. He was again restored to Whitehall, and, according toPepys, even closeted with Charles, whilst the Duke of York was excluded. A certain acquaintance of the duke's remonstrated with him upon thecourse which Charles now took in Parliament. 'How often have you said tome, ' this person remarked, 'that the king was a weak man, unable togovern, but to be governed, and that you could command him as you liked?Why do you suffer him to do these things?'

'Why, ' answered the duke, 'I do suffer him to do these things, that Imay hereafter the better command him. ' A reply which betrays the mostdepraved principle of action, whether towards a sovereign or a friend, that can be expressed. His influence was for some time supreme, yet hebecame the leader of the opposition, and invited to his table thediscontented peers, to whom he satirized the court, and condemned theking's want of attention to business. Whilst the theatre was ringingwith laughter at the inimitable character of Bayes in the 'Rehearsal, 'the House of Lords was listening with profound attention to theeloquence that entranced their faculties, making wrong seem right, forBuckingham was ever heard with attention. 

Taking into account his mode of existence, 'which, ' says Clarendon, 'wasa life by night more than by day, in all the liberties that nature coulddesire and wit invent, ' it was astonishing how extensive an influence hehad in both Houses of Parliament. 'His rank and condescension, thepleasantness of his humours and conversation, and the extravagance andkeenness of his wit, unrestrained by modesty or religion, caused personsof all opinions and dispositions to be fond of his company, and toimagine that these levities and vanities would wear off with age, andthat there would be enough of good left to make him useful to hiscountry, for which he pretended a wonderful affection. '

But this brilliant career was soon checked. The varnish over the hollowcharacter of this extraordinary man was eventually rubbed off. We findthe first hint of that famous coalition styled the _Cabal_ in Pepys'sDiary, 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 discontentedpersons of the late House of Commons, and opposing the desires of theking in all his matters in that House; and endeavouring to becomepopular, and advising how the Commons' House should proceed, and how hewould order the House of Lords. And he hath been endeavouring to havethe king's nativity calculated; which was done, and the fellow now inthe Tower about it.... This silly lord hath provoked, by his illcarriage, the Duke of York, my Lord Chancellor, and all the greatpersons, and therefore most likely will die. '

One day, in the House of Lords, during a conference between the twoHouses, Buckingham leaned rudely over the shoulder of Henry PierrepontMarquis of Dorchester. Lord Dorchester merely removed his elbow. Thenthe duke asked him if he was uneasy. 'Yes, ' the marquis replied, adding, 'the duke dared not do this if he were anywhere else. ' Buckinghamretorted, 'Yes, he would: and he was a better man than my lord marquis:'on which Dorchester told him that he lied. On this Buckingham struck offDorchester's hat, seized him by the periwig, pulled it aside, and heldhim. The Lord Chamberlain and others interposed and sent them both tothe Tower. Nevertheless, not a month afterwards, Pepys speaks of seeingthe duke's play of 'The Chances' acted at Whitehall. 'A good play, ' hecondescends to say, 'I find it, and the actors most good in it; andpretty to hear Knipp sing in the play very properly "All night I weepe, "and sung it admirably. The whole play pleases me well: and most of all, the sight of many fine ladies, amongst others, my Lady Castlemaine andMrs. Middleton. '

The whole management of public affairs was, at this period, intrusted tofive persons, and hence the famous combination, the united letters ofwhich formed the word 'Cabal:'--Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley, and Lauderdale. Their reprehensible schemes, their desperate characters, rendered them the opprobrium of their age, and the objects of censure toall posterity. Whilst matters were in this state a daring outrage, whichspoke fearfully of the lawless state of the times, was ascribed, thoughwrongly, to Buckingham. The Duke of Ormond, the object of his inveteratehatred, was at that time Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Colonel Blood, --adisaffected disbanded officer of the Commonwealth, who had beenattainted for a conspiracy in Ireland, but had escaped punishment, --cameto England, and acted as a spy for the 'Cabal, ' who did not hesitate tocountenance this daring scoundrel. 

His first exploit was to attack the Duke of Ormond's coach one night inSt. James's Street: to secure his person, bind him, put him on horsebackafter one of his accomplices, and carry him to Tyburn, where he meant tohang his grace. On their way, however, Ormond, by a violent effort, threw himself on the ground; a scuffle ensued: the duke's servants cameup, 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, metBuckingham, and addressed him in these words:--

'My lord, I know well that you are at the bottom of this late attempt onmy father; but I give you warning, if he by any means come to a violentend, I shall not be at a loss to know the author. I shall consider youas an assassin, and shall treat you as such; and wherever I meet you Ishall pistol you, though you stood behind the king's chair; and I tellit you in his majesty's presence, that you may be sure I shall not failof performance. '

Blood's next feat was to carry off from the Tower the crown jewels. Hewas overtaken and arrested: and was then asked to name his accomplices. 'No, ' he replied, 'the fear of danger shall never tempt me to deny guiltor to betray a friend. ' Charles II. , with undignified curiosity, wishedto see the culprit. On inquiring of Blood how he dared to make so boldan attempt on the crown, the bravo answered, 'My father lost a goodestate fighting for the crown, and I considered it no harm to recover itby the crown. ' He then told his majesty how he had resolved toassassinate him: how he had stood among the reeds in Battersea-fieldswith this design; how then, a sudden awe had come over him: and Charleswas weak enough to admire Blood's fearless bearing and to pardon hisattempt. Well might the Earl of Rochester write of Charles--

 'Here lies my sovereign lord the king, Whose word no man relies on; Who never said a foolish thing, And never did a wise one. '

Notwithstanding Blood's outrages--the slightest penalty for which inour days would have been penal servitude for life--Evelyn met him, notlong afterwards, at Lord Clifford's, at dinner, when De Grammont andother French noblemen were entertained. 'The man, ' says Evelyn, 'had notonly a daring, but a villanous, unmerciful look, a false countenance;but very well-spoken, and dangerously insinuating. '

Early in 1662, the Duke of Buckingham had been engaged in practicesagainst the court: he had disguised deep designs by affecting the mereman of pleasure. Never was there such splendour as at WallingfordHouse--such wit and gallantry; such perfect good breeding; suchapparently openhanded hospitality. At those splendid banquets, JohnWilmot, Earl of Rochester, 'a man whom the Muses were fond to inspire, but ashamed to avow, ' showed his 'beautiful face, ' as it was called; andchimed in with that wit for which the age was famous. The frequenters atWallingford House gloried in their indelicacy. 'One is amazed, ' HoraceWalpole observes, 'at hearing the age of Charles II. Called polite. ThePuritans have affected to call everything by a Scripture' name; the newcomers affected to call everything by its right name;

 'As if preposterously they would confess A forced hypocrisy in wickedness. '

Walpole compares the age of Charles II. To that of Aristophanes--'whichcalled its own grossness polite. ' How bitterly he decries the stalepoems of the time as 'a heap of senseless ribaldry;' how truly he showsthat licentiousness weakens as well as depraves the judgment. 'WhenSatyrs are brought to court, ' he observes, 'no wonder the Graces wouldnot trust themselves there. '

The Cabal is said, however, to have been concocted, not at WallingfordHouse, but at Ham House, near Kingston-on-Thames. 

In this stately old manor-house, the abode of the Tollemache family, thememory of Charles II. And of his court seems to linger still. Ham Housewas intended for the residence of Henry, Prince of Wales, and was builtin 1610. It stands near the river Thames; and is flanked by nobleavenues of elm and of chestnut trees, down which one may almost, as itwere, hear the king's talk with his courtiers; see Arlington approachwith the well-known patch across his nose; or spy out the lovely, childish Miss Stuart and her future husband, the Duke of Richmond, slipping behind into the garden, lest the jealous mortified king shouldcatch a sight of the 'conscious lovers. '

This stately structure was given by Charles II. , in 1672, to the Dukeand Duchess of Lauderdale: she, the supposed mistress of Cromwell; he, the cruel, hateful Lauderdale of the Cabal. This detestable couple, however, furnished with massive grandeur the apartments of Ham House. They had the ceilings painted by Verrio; the furniture was rich, andeven now the bellows and brushes in some of the rooms are of silverfiligree. One room is furnished with yellow damask, still rich, thoughfaded; the very seats on which Charles, looking around him, sawClifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley (the infamous Shaftesbury), andLauderdale--and knew not, good easy man, that he was looking on a bandof traitors--are still there. Nay, he even sat to Sir Peter Lely for aportrait for this very place--in which, schemes for the ruin of thekingdom were concocted. All, probably, was smooth and pleasing to themonarch as he ranged down the fine gallery, ninety-two feet long; or satat dinner amid his foes in that hall, surrounded with an openbalustrade; or disported himself on the river's green brink. Nay, onemay even fancy Nell Gwynn taking a day's pleasure in this then lone andever sweet locality. We hear her swearing, as she was wont to do, perchance at the dim looking-glasses, her own house in Pall Mall, givenher by the king, having been filled up, for the comedian, entirely, ceiling and all, with looking-glass. How bold and pretty she looked inher undress! Even Pepys--no very sound moralist, though a vasthypocrite--tells us: Nelly, 'all unready' was 'very pretty, prettier farthan 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 wascalled, might, since she held long a great sway over Charles's fancy, besuffered to scamper about Ham House--where her merry laugh perhapsscandalised the now Saintly Duchess of Lauderdale, --just to impose onthe world; for Nell was regarded as the Protestant champion of thecourt, in opposition to her French rival, the Duchess of Portsmouth. 

Let us suppose that she has been at Ham House, and is gone off to PallMall again, where she can see her painted face in every turn. The kinghas departed, and Killigrew, who, at all events, is loyal, and thetrue-hearted Duke of Richmond, all are away to London. In yonsanctimonious-looking closet, next to the duchess's bed-chamber, with herpsalter and her prayer-book on her desk, which is fixed to her greatchair, and that very cane which still hangs there serving as her supportwhen she comes forth from that closet, murmur and wrangle the componentparts of that which was never mentioned without fear--the Cabal. Theconspirators dare not trust themselves in the gallery: there is tapestrythere, and we all know what coverts there are for eaves-droppers andspiders in tapestried walls: then the great Cardinal spiders do so clickthere, are so like the death-watch, that Villiers, who is inveteratelysuperstitious, will not abide there. The hall, with its enclosinggalleries, and the buttery near, are manifestly unsafe. So they heard, nay crouch, mutter, and concoct that fearful treachery which, as far astheir country is concerned, has been a thing apart in our annals, in 'myLady's' closet. Englishmen are turbulent, ambitious, unscrupulous; butthe craft of Maitland, Duke of Lauderdale--the subtlety of Ashley, seemhardly conceivable either in a Scot or Southron. 

These meetings had their natural consequence. One leaves Lauderdale, Arlington, Ashley, and Clifford, to their fate. But the career ofVilliers inspires more interest. He seemed born for better things. Likemany men of genius, he was so credulous that the faith he pinned on oneHeydon, an astrologer, at this time, perhaps buoyed him up with falsehopes. Be it as it may, his plots now tended to open insurrection. In1666, a proclamation had been issued for his apprehension--he havingthen absconded. On this occasion he was saved by the act of one whom hehad injured grossly--his wife. She managed to outride theserjeant-at-arms, and to warn him of his danger. She had borne hisinfidelities, after the fashion of the day, as a matter of course:jealousy was then an impertinence--constancy, a chimera; and herhusband, whatever his conduct, had ever treated her with kindness ofmanner; he had that charm, that attribute of his family, in perfection, and it had fascinated Mary Fairfax. 

He fled, and played for a year successfully the pranks of his youth. Atlast, worn out, he talked of giving himself up to justice. 'Mr. Fenn, atthe table, says that he hath been taken by the watch two or three timesof late, at unseasonable hours, but so disguised they did not know him;and when I come home, by and by, Mr. Lowther tells me that the Duke ofBuckingham 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, thathe would come to him as soon as he dined. ' So Pepys states. 

Whilst in the Tower--to which he was again committed--Buckingham'spardon was solicited by Lady Castlemaine; on which account the king wasvery angry with her; called her a meddling 'jade;' she calling him'fool, ' and saying if he was not a fool he never would suffer his bestsubjects to be imprisoned--referring to Buckingham. And not only did sheask his liberty, but the restitution of his places. No wonder there wasdiscontent when such things were done, and public affairs were in such astate. We must again quote the graphic, terse language of Pepys:--'Itwas computed that the Parliament had given the king for this war only, besides all prizes, and besides the £200, 000 which he was to spend ofhis own revenue, to guard the sea, above £5, 000, 000, and odd £100, 000;which is a most prodigious sum. Sir H. Cholmly, as a true Englishgentleman, do decry the king's expenses of his privy purse, which inKing James's time did not rise to above £5, 000 a year, and in KingCharles's to £10, 000, do now cost us above £100, 000, besides the greatcharge of the monarchy, as the Duke of York has £100, 000 of it, andother limbs of the royal family. '

In consequence of Lady Castlemaine's intervention, Villiers was restoredto liberty--a strange instance, as Pepys remarks, of the 'fool's play'of the age. Buckingham was now as presuming as ever: he had a theatre ofhis own, and he soon showed his usual arrogance by beating HenryKilligrew on the stage, and taking away his coat and sword; all very'innocently' done, according to Pepys. In July he appeared in his placein the House of Lords, as 'brisk as ever, ' and sat in his robes, 'which, ' says Pepys, 'is a monstrous thing that a man should beproclaimed against, and put in the Tower, and released without anytrial, and yet not restored to his places. '

We next find the duke intrusted with a mission to France, in concertwith Halifax and Arlington. In the year 1680, he was threatened with animpeachment, in which, with his usual skill, he managed to exculpatehimself by blaming Lord Arlington. The House of Commons passed a votefor his removal; and he entered the ranks of the opposition. 

But this career of public meanness and private profligacy was drawing toa close. Alcibiades no longer--his frame wasted by vice--his spiritsbroken by pecuniary difficulties--Buckingham's importance visibly sankaway. 'He remained, at last, ' to borrow the words of Hume, 'as incapableof doing hurt as he had ever been little desirous of doing good tomankind. ' His fortune had now dwindled down to £300 a year in land; hesold Wallingford House, and removed into the City. 

And now the fruits of his adversity, not, we hope, too late, began toappear. Like Lord Rochester, who had ordered all his immoral works to beburnt, Buckingham now wished to retrieve the past. In 1685 he wrote thereligious works which form so striking a contrast with his otherproductions. 

That he had been up to the very time of his ruin perfectly impervious toremorse, dead also to shame, is amply manifested by his conduct soonafter his duel with the Earl of Shrewsbury. 

Sir George Etherege had brought out a new play at the Duke of York'sTheatre. It was called, 'She Would if she Could. ' Plays in those daysbegan at what we now consider our luncheon hour. Though Pepys arrived atthe theatre on this occasion at two o'clock--his wife having gonebefore--about a thousand people had then been put back from the pit. Atlast, seeing his wife in the eighteen-penny-box, Samuel 'made shift' toget there and there saw, 'but lord!' (his own words are inimitable) 'howdull, and how silly the play, there being nothing in the world good init, and few people pleased in it. The king was there; but I sat mightilybehind, and could see but little, and hear not at all. The play beingdone, I went into the pit to look for my wife, it being dark andraining, but could not find her; and so staid, going between the twodoors and through the pit an hour and a half, I think, after the playwas done; the people staying there till the rain was over, and to talkto one another. And among the rest, here was the Duke of Buckinghamto-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 mightilyfind fault with the actors, that they were out of humour, and had nottheir parts perfect, and that Harris did do nothing, nor could so muchas sing a ketch in it; and so was mightily concerned, while all the restdid, through the whole pit, blame the play as a silly, dull thing, though there was something very roguish and witty; but the design of theplay, and end, mighty insipid. '

Buckingham had held out to his Puritan friends the hope of hisconversion for some years; and when they attempted to convert him, hehad appointed a time for them to finish their work. They kept theirpromise, and discovered him in the most profligate society. It wasindeed impossible to know in what directions his fancies might take him, when we find him believing in the predictions of a poor fellow in awretched lodging near Tower Hill, who, having cast his nativity, assuredthe duke he would be king. 

He had continued for years to live with the Countess of Shrewsbury, andtwo months after her husband's death, had taken her to his home. Then, at last, the Duchess of Buckingham indignantly observed, that she andthe countess could not possibly live together. 'So I thought, madam, 'was the reply. 'I have therefore ordered your coach to take you to yourfather's. ' It has been asserted that Dr. Sprat, the duke's chaplain, actually married him to Lady Shrewsbury, and that his legal wife wasthenceforth styled 'The Duchess-dowager. '

He retreated with his mistress to Claverdon, near Windsor, situated onthe summit of a hill which is washed by the Thames. It is a noblebuilding, with a great terrace in front, under which are twenty-sixniches, in which Buckingham had intended to place twenty-six statues aslarge as life; and in the middle is an alcove with stairs. Here he livedwith the infamous countess, by whom he had a son, whom he styled Earl ofCoventry, (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 madeto Buckingham by the Princess of Orange, during an interview, when hestopped at the Hague, between her and the Duke. He was tryingdiplomatically to convince her of the affection of England for theStates. 'We do not, ' he said, 'use Holland like a mistress, we love heras a wife. ' '_Vraiment je crois que vous nous aimez comme vous aimez lavôtre_, ' was the sharp and clever answer. 

On the death of Charles II. , in 1685, Buckingham retired to the smallremnant of his Yorkshire estates. His debts were now set down at the sumof £140, 000. They were liquidated by the sale of his estates. He tookkindly to a country life, to the surprise of his old comrade inpleasure, Etherege. 'I have heard the news, ' that wit cried, alluding tothis change, 'with no less astonishment than if I had been told that thePope had begun to wear a periwig and had turned beau in theseventy-fourth year of his age!'

Father Petre and Father Fitzgerald were sent by James II. To convert theduke to Popery. The following anecdote is told of their conference withthe dying sinner:--'We deny, ' said the Jesuit Petre, 'that any one canbe saved out of our Church. Your grace allows that our people may besaved. '--'No, ' said the duke, 'I make no doubt you will all be damned toa man!' 'Sir, ' said the father, 'I cannot argue with a person so void ofall charity. '--'I did not expect, my reverend father, ' said the duke, 'such a reproach from you, whose whole reasoning was founded on the verysame instance of want of charity to yourself. '

Buckingham's death took place at Helmsby, in Yorkshire, and theimmediate cause was an ague and fever, owing to having sat down on thewet grass after fox-hunting. Pope has given the following forcible, butinaccurate account of his last hours, and the place in which they werepassed:--

 'In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung, The floors of plaster 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 bower 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 hislast in Kirby Moorside, in a house which had once been the best in theplace. Brian Fairfax, who loved this brilliant reprobate, has left theonly authentic account on record of his last hours. 

The night previous to the duke's death Fairfax had received a messagefrom him desiring him to prepare a bed for him in his house, BishopHill, in York. The next day, however, Fairfax was sent for to hismaster, whom he found dying. He was speechless, but gave the afflictedservant an earnest look of recognition. 

The Earl of Arran, son of the Duke of Hamilton, and a gentleman of theneighbourhood, stood by his bedside. He had then received the HolyCommunion from a neighbouring clergyman of the Established Church. Whenthe minister came it is said that he inquired of the duke what religionhe professed. 'It is, ' replied the dying man, 'an insignificantquestion, for I have been a shame and a disgrace to all religions: ifyou can do me any good, pray do. ' When a Popish priest had beenmentioned to him, he answered vehemently, 'No, no!'

He was in a very low state when Lord Arran had found him. But thoughthat nobleman saw death in his looks, the duke said he 'felt so well atheart that he knew he could be in no danger. '

He appeared to have had inflammation in the bowels, which ended inmortification. He begged of Lord Arran to stay with him. The house seemsto have been in a most miserable condition, for in a letter from LordArran to Dr. Sprat, he says, 'I confess it made my heart bleed to seethe Duke of Buckingham in so pitiful a place, and so bad a condition, and what made it worse, he was not at all sensible of it, for he thoughtin a day or two he should be well; and when we reminded him of hiscondition, he said it was not as we apprehended. So I sent for a worthygentleman, Mr. Gibson, to be assistant to me in this work; so we jointlyrepresented his condition to him, who I saw was at first very uneasy;but I think we should not have discharged the duties of honest men if wehad suffered him to go out of this world without desiring him to preparefor death. ' The duke joined heartily in the beautiful prayers for thedying, of our Church, and yet there was a sort of selfishness andindifference to others manifest even at the last. 

'Mr. Gibson, ' writes Lord Arran, 'asked him if he had made a will, or ifhe would declare who was to be his heir? but to the first, he answeredhe 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 thathad any relation to him, but his answer always was, "No. " I did fullyrepresent my lady duchess' condition to him, but nothing that was saidto him could make him come to any point. '

In this 'retired corner, ' as Lord Arran terms it, did the former wit andbeau, the once brave and fine cavalier, the reckless plotter inafter-life, end his existence. His body was removed to Helmsby Castle, there to wait the duchess' pleasure, being meantime embalmed. Not onefarthing could his steward produce to defray his burial. His George andblue ribbon were sent to the King James, with an account of his death. 

In Kirby Moorside the following entry in the register of burialsrecords the event, which is so replete with a singular retributivejustice--so constituted to impress and sadden the mind:--

 'Georges Villus Lord dooke of Buckingham. '

He left scarcely a friend to mourn his life; for to no man had he beentrue. He died on the 16th of April according to some accounts; accordingto others, on the third of that month, 1687, in the sixty-first year ofhis age. His body, after being embalmed, was deposited in the familyvault in Henry VII. 's chapel. [7] He left no children, and his title wastherefore extinct. The Duchess of Buckingham, of whom Brian Fairfaxremarks, 'that if she had none of the vanities, she had none of thevices of the court, ' survived him several years. She died in 1705, atthe age of sixty-six, and was buried in the vault of the Villiers'family, in the chapel of Henry VII. 

Such was the extinction of all the magnificence and intellectualascendency that at one time centred in the great and gifted family ofVilliers. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Dryden. ]

[Footnote 2: The day after the battle at Kingston, the Duke's estateswere confiscated. (8th July, 1648. )--Nichols's History ofLeicestershire, iii. 213; who also says that the Duke offered marriageto one of the daughters of Cromwell, but was refused. He went abroad in1648, but returned with Charles II. To Scotland in 1650, and againescaped to France after the battle of Worcester, 1651. The sale of thepictures would seem to have commenced during his first exile. ]

[Footnote 3: Sir George Villiers's second wife was Mary, daughter ofAntony Beaumont, Esq. , of Glenfield, (Nichols's Leicestershire, iii. 193, ) who was son of Wm. Beaumont, Esq. , of Cole Orton. She afterwardswas married successively to Sir Wm. Rayner and Sir Thomas Compton, andwas created Countess of Buckingham in 1618. ]

[Footnote 4: This incident is taken from Madame Dunois' Memoirs, part i. P. 86. ]

[Footnote 5: The duke became Master of the Horse in 1688; he paid£20, 000 to the Duke of Albemarle for the post. ]

[Footnote 6: The duel with the Earl of Shrewsbury took place 17thJanuary, 1667-8. ]

[Footnote 7: Brian Fairfax states, that at his death (the Duke ofBuckingham's) he charged his debts on his estate, leaving much more thanenough to cover them. By the register of Westminster Abbey it appearsthat he was buried in Henry VII. 's Chapel, 7th June, 1687. ]

 COUNT DE GRAMMONT, ST. EVREMOND, AND LORD ROCHESTER. 

 De Grammont's Choice. --His Influence with Turenne. --The Church or the Army?--An Adventure at Lyons. --A brilliant Idea. --De Grammont's Generosity. --A Horse 'for the Cards. '--Knight-Cicisbeism. --De Grammont's first Love. --His Witty Attacks on Mazarin. --Anne Lucie de la Mothe Houdancourt. --Beset with Snares. --De Grammont's Visits to England. --Charles II. --The Court of Charles II. --Introduction of Country-dances. --Norman Peculiarities. --St. Evremond, the Handsome Norman. --The most Beautiful Woman in Europe. --Hortense Mancini's Adventures. --Madame Mazarin's House at Chelsea. --Anecdote of Lord Dorset. --Lord Rochester in his Zenith. --His Courage and Wit. --Rochester's Pranks in the City. --Credulity, Past and Present. --'Dr. Bendo, ' and La Belle Jennings. --La Triste Heritière. --Elizabeth, Countess of Rochester. --Retribution and Reformation. --Conversion. --Beaux without Wit. --Little Jermyn. --An Incomparable Beauty. --Anthony Hamilton, De Grammont's Biographer. --The Three Courts. --'La Belle Hamilton. '--Sir Peter Lely's Portrait of her. --The Household Deity of Whitehall. --Who shall have the Calèche?--A Chaplain in Livery. --De Grammont's Last Hours. --What might he not have been?

It has been observed by a French critic, that the Mémoires de Grammontafford the truest specimens of French character in our language. To thisit may be added, that the subject of that animated narrative was mostcompletely French in principle, in intelligence, in wit that hesitatedat nothing, in spirits that were never daunted, and in that incessantactivity which is characteristic of his countrymen. Grammont, it wassaid, 'slept neither night nor day;' his life was one scene of incessantexcitement. 

His father, supposed to have been the natural son of Henry the Great, ofFrance, did not suppress that fact, but desired to publish it: for themorals of his time were so depraved, that it was thought to be morehonourable to be the illegitimate son of a king than the lawful child oflowlier parents. Born in the Castle of Semeac, on the banks of theGaronne, the fame of two fair ancestresses, Corisande and Menadame, hadentitled the family of De Grammont to expect in each successive memberan inheritance of beauty. Wit, courage, good nature, a charming address, and boundless assurance, were the heritage of Philibert de Grammont. Beauty was not in his possession; good nature, a more popular quality, he had in abundance:

 'His wit to scandal never stooping, His mirth ne'er to buffoonery drooping. '

As Philibert grew up, the two aristocratic professions of France werepresented for his choice: the army, or the church. Neither of thesevocations constitutes now the ambition of the high-born in France: thechurch, to a certain extent, retains its _prestige_, but the army, eversince officers have risen from the ranks, does not comprise the sameclass of men as in England. In the reign of Louis XIII. , when DeGrammont lived it was otherwise. All political power was vested in thechurch. Richelieu was, to all purposes, the ruler of France, thedictator of Europe; and, with regard to the church, great men, at thehead of military affairs, were daily proving to the world, how muchintelligence could effect with a small numerical power. Young men tookone course or another: the sway of the cabinet, on the one hand, temptedthem to the church; the brilliant exploits of Turenne, and of Condé, onthe other, led them to the camp. It was merely the difference of dressbetween the two that constituted the distinction: the soldier might beas pious as the priest, the priest was sure to be as worldly as thesoldier; the soldier might have ecclesiastical preferment; the priestsometimes turned out to fight. 

Philibert de Grammont chose to be a soldier. He was styled the Chevalierde Grammont, according to custom, his father being still living. Hefought under Turenne, at the siege of Trino. The army in which he servedwas beleaguering that city when the gay youth from the banks of theGaronne joined it, to aid it not so much by his valour as by the fun, the raillery, the off-hand anecdote, the ready, hearty companionshipwhich lightened the soldier's life in the trenches: adieu toimpatience, to despair, even to gravity. The very generals could notmaintain their seriousness when the light-hearted De Grammont uttered arepartee--

 'Sworn enemy to all long speeches, Lively and brilliant, frank and free, Author of many a repartee: Remember, over all, that he Was not renowned for storming breaches. '

Where he came, all was sunshine, yet there breathed not a colder, graverman than the Calvinist Turenne: modest, serious, somewhat hard, he gavethe young nobility who served under him no quarter in theirshortcomings; but a word, a look, from De Grammont could make him, _malgrê lui_, unbend. The gay chevalier's white charger's prancing, itsgallant rider foremost in every peril, were not forgotten inafter-times, when De Grammont, in extreme old age, chatted over theachievements and pleasures of his youth. 

Amongst those who courted his society in Turenne's army was Matta, asoldier of simple manners, hard habits, and handsome person, joined to acandid, honest nature. He soon persuaded De Grammont to share hisquarters, and there they gave splendid entertainments, which, Frenchman-like, De Grammont paid for out of the successes of thegaming-tables. But chances were against them; the two officers were atthe mercy of their _maitre d'hôtel_, who asked for money. One day, whenDe Grammont came home sooner than usual, he found Matta fast asleep. Whilst De Grammont stood looking at him, he awoke, and burst into aviolent fit of laughter. 

'What is the matter?' cried the chevalier. 

'Faith, chevalier, ' answered Matta, 'I was dreaming that we had sentaway our _maitre d'hôtel_, and were resolved to live like our neighboursfor the rest of the campaign. '

'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 Iwas in at Lyons, four days before I came here? Come, I will tell you allabout it. '

'Begin a little farther back, ' cried Matta, 'and tell me about themanner in which you first paid your respects to Cardinal Richelieu. Layaside your pranks as a child, your genealogy, and all your ancestorstogether; you cannot know anything about them. '

'Well, ' replied De Grammont, 'it was my father's own fault that he wasnot Henry IV. 's son: see what the Grammonts have lost by thiscrossed-grained fellow! Faith, we might have walked before the Counts deVendôme at this very moment. '

Then he went on to relate how he had been sent to Pau, to the college, to be brought up to the church, with an old servant to act both as hisvalet and his guardian. How his head was too full of gaming to learnLatin. 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 brotherto be polished, and went to court in the character of an abbé. 'Ah, Matta, you know the kind of dress then in vogue. No, I would not changemy dress, but I consented to draw over it a cassock. I had the finesthead 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 helplaughing at the parti-coloured costume, sacerdotal above, soldier-likebelow; but the cardinal was greatly offended--not with the absence ofdecorum, but with the dangerous wit, that could laugh in public at thecowl and shaven crown, points which constituted the greatest portion ofRichelieu's sanctity. 

De Grammont's brother, however, thus addressed the Chevalier:--'Well, mylittle parson, ' said he, as they went home, 'you have acted your part toperfection; but now you must choose your career. If you like to stick tothe church, you will possess great revenues, and nothing to do; if youchoose to go into the army, you will risk your arm or your leg, but intime you may be a major-general with a wooden leg and a glass eye, thespectacle of an indifferent, ungrateful court. Make your choice. '

The choice, Philibert went on to relate, was made. For the good of hissoul, he renounced the church, but for his own advantage, he kept hisabbacy. This was not difficult in days when secular abbés were common;nothing would induce him to change his resolution of being a soldier. Meantime he was perfecting his accomplishments as a fine gentleman, oneof the requisites for which was a knowledge of all sorts of games. Nomatter that his mother was miserable at his decision. Had her son beenan abbé, she thought he would have become a saint: nevertheless, when hereturned home, with the air of a courtier and a man of the world, boy ashe was, and the very impersonation of what might then be termed _lajeune France_, she was so enchanted with him that she consented to hisgoing to the wars, attended again by Brinon, his valet, equerry, andMentor in one. Next in De Grammont's narrative came his adventure atLyons, where he spent the 200 louis his mother had given Brinon for him, in play, and very nearly broke the poor old servant's heart; where hehad duped a horse-dealer; and he ended by proposing plans, similarly_honourable_, to be adopted for their present emergencies. 

The first step was to go to head-quarters, to dine with a certain Countde Cameran, a Savoyard, and invite him to supper. Here Matta interposed. 'Are you mad?' he exclaimed. 'Invite him to supper! we have neithermoney nor credit; we are ruined; and to save us you intend to give asupper!'

'Stupid fellow!' cried De Grammont. 'Cameran plays at quinze: so do I:we want money. He has more than he knows what to do with: we give asupper, he pays for it. However, ' he added, 'it is necessary to takecertain precautions. You command the Guards: when night comes on, orderyour _Sergent-de-place_ to have fifteen or twenty men under arms, andlet them lay themselves flat on the ground between this andhead-quarters. Most likely we shall win this stupid fellow's money. Nowthe Piedmontese are suspicious, and he commands the Horse. Now, youknow, Matta, you cannot hold your tongue, and are very likely to let outsome joke that will vex him. Supposing he takes it into his head that heis being cheated? He has always eight or ten horsemen: we must beprepared. '

'Embrace me!' cried Matta, 'embrace me! for thou art unparalleled. Ithought 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 offoot 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 wasasked to supper. He came. Nevertheless, in the midst of the affair, whenDe Cameran was losing as fast as he could, Matta's conscience touchedhim: he awoke from a deep sleep, heard the dice shaking, saw the poorSavoyard losing, and advised him to play no more. 

'Don't you know, Count, you _cannot_ win?'

'Why?' asked the Count. 

'Why, faith, because we are cheating you, ' was the reply. 

The Chevalier turned round impatiently, 'Sieur Matta, ' he cried, 'do yousuppose it can be any amusement to Monsieur le Comte to be plagued withyour ill-timed jests? For my part, I am so weary of the game, that Iswear by Jupiter I can scarcely play any more. ' Nothing is moredistasteful to a losing gamester than a hint of leaving off; so theCount entreated the Chevalier to continue, and assured him that'Monsieur Matta might say what he pleased, for it did not give him theleast uneasiness to continue. '

The Chevalier allowed the Count to play upon credit, and that act ofcourtesy was taken very kindly: the dupe lost 1, 500 pistoles, which hepaid the next morning, when Matta was sharply reprimanded for hisinterference. 

'Faith, ' he answered, 'it was a point of conscience with me; besides, itwould have given me pleasure to have seen his Horse engaged with myInfantry, if he had taken anything amiss. '

The sum thus gained set the spendthrifts up; and De Grammont satisfiedhis conscience by giving it away, to a certain extent, in charity. It issingular to perceive in the history of this celebrated man that moraltaint of character which the French have never lost: this total absenceof right reasoning on all points of conduct, is coupled in our Gallicneighbours with the greatest natural benevolence, with a generosity onlykept back by poverty, with impulsive, impressionable dispositions, thatrequire the guidance of a sound Protestant faith to elevate and correctthem. 

The Chevalier hastened, it is related, to find out distressed comrades, officers who had lost their baggage, or who had been ruined by gaming;or soldiers who had been disabled in the trenches; and his manner ofrelieving them was as graceful and as delicate as the bounty hedistributed was welcome. He was the darling of the army. The poorsoldier knew him personally, and adored him; the general was sure tomeet him in the scenes of action, and to seek his company in those ofsecurity. 

And, having thus retrieved his finances, the gay-hearted Chevalier used, henceforth, to make De Cameran go halves with him in all games in whichthe odds were in his own favour. Even the staid Calvinist, Turenne, whohad not then renounced, as he did in after-life, the Protestant faith, delighted in the off-hand merriment of the Chevalier. It was towards theend of the siege of Trino, that De Grammont went to visit that generalin some new quarters, where Turenne received him, surrounded by fifteenor twenty officers. According to the custom of the day, cards wereintroduced, and the general asked the Chevalier to play. 

'Sir, ' returned the young soldier, 'my tutor taught me that when a mangoes to see his friends it is neither prudent to leave his own moneybehind him nor civil to take theirs. '

'Well, ' answered Turenne, 'I can tell you you will find neither muchmoney nor deep play among us; but that it cannot be said that we allowedyou to go off without playing, suppose we each of us stake a horse. '

De Grammont agreed, and, lucky as ever, won from the officers somefifteen or sixteen horses, by way of a joke; but seeing several facespale, he said, 'Gentlemen, I should be sorry to see you go away fromyour general's quarters on foot; it will do very well if you all send meto-morrow your horses, except one, which I give for the cards. '

The _valet-de-chambre_ thought he was jesting. 'I am serious, ' criedthe Chevalier. '_Parole d'honneur_ I give a horse for the cards; andwhat's more, take which you please, only don't take mine. '

'Faith, ' said Turenne, pleased with the novelty of the affair, 'I don'tbelieve a horse was ever before given for the cards. '

Young people, and indeed old people, can perhaps hardly remember thetime when, even in England, money used to be put under the candlesticks'for the cards, ' as it was said, but in fact for the servants, whowaited. Winner or loser, the tax was to be paid, and this custom ofvails was also prevalent in France. 

Trino at last surrendered, and the two friends rushed from theircampaigning life to enjoy the gaieties of Turin, at that time the centreof pleasure; and resolved to perfect their characters as militaryheroes--by falling in love, if respectably, well; if disreputably, welltoo, 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 oftalent and spirit, worthy of her descent, and had certain otherqualities which constituted a point of resemblance between her and herfather; she was, like him, more fascinating than respectable. 

The customs of Turin were rather Italian than French. At that timeevery lady had her professed lover, who wore the liveries of hismistress, bore her arms, and sometimes assumed her very name. Theoffice of the lover was, never to quit his lady in public, and neverto approach her in private: to be on all occasions her esquire. In thetournament her chosen knight-cicisbeo came forth with his coat, hishousings, his very lance distinguished with the cyphers and colours ofher who had condescended to invest him with her preference. It was theremnant of chivalry that authorized this custom; but of chivalrydemoralized--chivalry denuded of her purity, her respect, the chivalryof corrupted Italy, not of that which, perhaps, fallaciously, weassign to the earlier ages. 

Grammont and Matta enlisted themselves at once in the service of twobeauties. Grammont chose for the queen of beauty, who was to 'raininfluence' upon him, Mademoiselle de St. Germain, who was in the verybloom of youth. She was French, and, probably, an ancestress of thatall-accomplished Comte de St. Germain, whose exploits so dazzledsuccessive European courts, and the fullest account of whom, in all itsbrilliant colours, yet tinged with mystery, is given in the Memoirs ofMaria Antoinette, by the Marquise d'Adhémar, her lady of the bed-chamber. 

The lovely object of De Grammont's 'first love' was a radiant brunettebelle, who took no pains to set off by art the charms of nature. She hadsome defects: her black and sparkling eyes were small; her forehead, byno means 'as pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow, ' was not fair, neither were her hands; neither had she small feet--but her formgenerally was perfect; her elbows had a peculiar elegance in them; andin old times to hold the elbow out well, and yet not to stick it out, was a point of early discipline. Then her glossy black hair set off asuperb neck and shoulders; and, moreover, she was gay, full of mirth, life, complaisance, perfect in all the acts of politeness, andinvariable in her gracious and graceful bearing. 

Matta admired her; but De Grammont ordered him to attach himself to theMarquise de Senantes, a married beauty of the court; and Matta, in fullfaith that all Grammont said and did was sure to succeed, obeyed hisfriend. The Chevalier had fallen in love with Mademoiselle de St. Germain at first sight, and instantly arrayed himself in her colour, which was green, whilst Matta wore blue, in compliment to the marquise;and they entered the next day upon duty, at La Venerie, where theDuchess of Savoy gave a grand entertainment. De Grammont, with hisnative tact and unscrupulous mendacity, played his part to perfection;but his comrade, Matta, committed a hundred solecisms. The very secondtime he honoured the marquise with his attentions, he treated her as ifshe were his humble servant: when he pressed her hand, it was a pressurethat almost made her scream. When he ought to have ridden by the side ofher coach, he set off, on seeing a hare start from her form; then hetalked to her of partridges when he should have been laying himself ather feet. Both these affairs ended as might have been expected. Mademoiselle de St. Germain was diverted by Grammont, yet he could nottouch her heart. Her aim was to marry; his was merely to attach himselfto a reigning beauty. They parted without regret; and he left the thenremote court of Turin for the gayer scenes of Paris and Versailles. Herehe became as celebrated for his alertness in play as for his readinessin repartee; as noted for his intrigues, as he afterwards was for hisbravery. 

Those were stirring days in France. Anne of Austria, then in hermaturity, was governed by Mazarin, the most artful of ministers, anItalian to the very heart's core, with a love of amassing wealthengrafted in his supple nature that amounted to a monomania. The wholeaim of his life was gain. Though gaming was at its height, Mazarin neverplayed for amusement; he played to enrich himself; and when he played, he cheated. 

The Chevalier de Grammont was now rich, and Mazarin worshipped the rich. He was witty; and his wit soon procured him admission into the cliquewhom the wily Mazarin collected around him in Paris. Whatever were DeGrammont's faults, he soon perceived those of Mazarin; he detected, andhe detested, the wily, grasping, serpent-like attributes of the Italian;he attacked him on every occasion on which a 'wit combat' was possible:he gracefully showed Mazarin off in his true colours. With ease heannihilated him, metaphorically, at his own table. Yet De Grammont hadsomething to atone for: he had been the adherent and companion in armsof Condé; he had followed that hero to Sens, to Nordlingen, to Fribourg, and had returned to his allegiance to the young king, Louis XIV. , onlybecause he wished to visit the court at Paris. Mazarin's policy, however, was that of pardon and peace--of duplicity and treachery--andthe Chevalier seemed to be forgiven on his return to Paris, even by Anneof Austria. Nevertheless, De Grammont never lost his independence; andhe could boast in after-life that he owed the two great cardinals whohad governed France nothing that they could have refused. It was truethat Richelieu had left him his abbacy; but he could not refuse it toone of De Grammont's rank. From Mazarin he had gained nothing exceptwhat he had won at play. 

After Mazarin's death the Chevalier intended to secure the favour of theking, Louis XIV. , to whom, as he rejoiced to find, court alone was nowto be paid. He had now somewhat rectified his distinctions between rightand wrong, and was resolved to have no regard for favour unlesssupported by merit; he determined to make himself beloved by thecourtiers of Louis, and feared by the ministers; to dare to undertakeanything to do good, and to engage in nothing at the expense ofinnocence. He still continued to be eminently successful in play, ofwhich he did not perceive the evil, nor allow the wickedness; but he wasunfortunate in love, in which he was equally unscrupulous and more rashthan at the gaming-table. 

Among the maids of honour of Anne of Austria was a young lady named AnneLucie de la Mothe Houdancourt. Louis, though not long married, showedsome symptoms of admiration for this _débutante_ in the wicked ways ofthe court. 

Gay, radiant in the bloom of youth and innocence, the story of thisyoung girl presents an instance of the unhappiness which, without guilt, the sins of others bring upon even the virtuous. The queen-dowager, Anneof Austria, was living at St. Germains when Mademoiselle de la MotheHoudancourt was received into her household. The Duchess de Noailles, atthat time _Grande Maitresse_, exercised a vigilant and kindly rule overthe maids of honour; nevertheless, she could not prevent their beingliable to the attentions of Louis: she forbade him however to loiter, orindeed even to be seen in the room appropriated to the young damselsunder her charge; and when attracted by the beauty of Annie Lucie de laMothe, Louis was obliged to speak to her through a hole behind a clockwhich stood in a corridor. 

Annie Lucie, notwithstanding this apparent encouragement of the king'saddresses, was perfectly indifferent to his admiration. She was secretlyattached to the Marquis de Richelieu, who had, or pretended to have, honourable intentions towards her. Everything was tried, but tried invain, to induce the poor girl to give up all her predilections for thesake of a guilty distinction--that of being the king's mistress: evenher _mother_ reproached her with her coldness. A family council washeld, in hopes of convincing her of her wilfulness, and Annie Lucie wasbitterly reproached by her female relatives; but her heart still clungto the faithless Marquis de Richelieu, who, however, when he saw that aroyal lover was his rival, meanly withdrew. 

Her fall seemed inevitable; but the firmness of Anne of Austria savedher from her ruin. That queen insisted on her being sent away; and sheresisted even the entreaties of the queen, her daughter-in-law, and thewife of Louis XIV. ; who, for some reasons not explained, entreated thatthe young lady might remain at the court. Anne was sent away in a sortof disgrace to the convent of Chaïllot, which was then considered to bequite out of Paris, and sufficiently secluded to protect her fromvisitors. According to another account, a letter full of reproaches, which she wrote to the Marquis de Richelieu upbraiding him for hisdesertion, had been intercepted. 

It was to this young lady that De Grammont, who was then, in the verycentre of the court, 'the type of fashion and the mould of form, 'attached himself to her as an admirer who could condescend to honourwith his attentions those whom the king pursued. The once gay girl wasthus beset with snares: on one side was the king, whose disgustingpreference was shown when in her presence by sighs and sentiment; on theother, De Grammont, whose attentions to her were importunate, but failedto convince her that he was in love; on the other was the time-serving, heartless De Richelieu, whom her reason condemned, but whom her heartcherished. She soon showed her distrust and dislike of De Grammont: shetreated him with contempt; she threatened him with exposure, yet hewould not desist: then she complained of him to the king. It was thenthat he perceived that though love could equalize conditions, it couldnot act in the same way between rivals. He was commanded to leave thecourt. Paris, therefore, Versailles, Fontainbleau, and St. Germains wereclosed against this gay Chevalier; and how could he live elsewhere?Whither could he go? Strange to say, he had a vast fancy to behold theman who, stained with the crime of regicide, and sprung from the people, was receiving magnificent embassies from continental nations, whilstCharles II. Was seeking security in his exile from the power of Spain inthe Low Countries. He was eager to see the Protector, Cromwell. ButCromwell, though in the height of his fame when beheld by DeGrammont--though feared at home and abroad--was little calculated to winsuffrages from a mere man of pleasure like De Grammont. The court, thecity, the country, were in his days gloomy, discontented, joyless: aproscribed nobility was the sure cause of the thin though fewfestivities of the now lugubrious gallery of Whitehall. Puritanism drovethe old jovial churchmen into retreat, and dispelled every lingeringvestige of ancient hospitality: long graces and long sermons, sanctimonious manners, and grim, sad faces, and sad-coloured dresseswere not much to De Grammont's taste; he returned to France, anddeclared that he had gained no advantage from his travels. Nevertheless, either from choice or necessity, he made another trial of the damps andfogs of England. [8]

When he again visited our country, Charles II. Had been two years seatedon the throne of his father. Everything was changed, and the Britishcourt was in its fullest splendour; whilst the rejoicings of the peopleof England at the Restoration were still resounding through the land. 

If one could include royal personages in the rather gay than worthycategory of the 'wits and beaux of society, ' Charles II. Should figureat their head. He was the most agreeable companion, and the worst kingimaginable. In the first place he was, as it were, a citizen of theworld: tossed about by fortune from his early boyhood; a witness at thetender age of twelve of the battle of Edge Hill, where the celebratedHarvey had charge of him and of his brother. That inauspiciouscommencement of a wandering life had perhaps been amongst the least ofhis early trials. The fiercest was his long residence as a sort of royalprisoner in Scotland. A travelled, humbled man, he came back to Englandwith a full knowledge of men and manners, in the prime of his life, with spirits unbroken by adversity, with a heart unsoured by that 'sternnurse, ' with a gaiety that was always kindly, never uncourteous, evermore French than English; far more natural did he appear as the son ofHenrietta Maria than as the offspring of the thoughtful Charles. 

In person, too, the king was then agreeable, though rather what theFrench would call _distingué_ than dignified; he was, however, tall, andsomewhat elegant, with a long French face, which in his boyhood wasplump and full about the lower part of the cheeks, but now began to sinkinto that well-known, lean, dark, flexible countenance, in which we donot, however, recognize the gaiety of the man whose very name bringswith it associations of gaiety, politeness, good company, and all theattributes of a first-rate wit, except the almost inevitable ill-nature. There is in the physiognomy of Charles II. That melancholy which isoften observable in the faces of those who are mere men of pleasure. 

De Grammont found himself completely in his own sphere at Whitehall, where the habits were far more French than English. Along that statelyMall, overshadowed with umbrageous trees, which retains--and it is to behoped ever will retain--the old name of the 'Birdcage Walk, ' one canpicture to oneself the king walking so fast that no one can keep up withhim; yet stopping from time to time to chat with some acquaintances. Heis walking to Duck Island, which is full of his favourite water-fowl, and of which he has given St. Evremond the government. How pleasant ishis talk to those who attend him as he walks along; how well the qualityof good-nature is shown in his love of dumb animals: how completely heis a boy still, even in that brown wig of many curls, and with theGeorge and Garter on his breast! Boy, indeed, for he is followed by alitter of young spaniels: a little brindled greyhound frisks beside him;it is for that he is ridiculed by the '_psalm_' sung at the Calves' HeadClub: these favourites were cherished to his death. 

 'His dogs would sit in council boards Like judges in their seats: We question much which had most sense, The master or the curs. '

Then what capital stories Charles would tell, as he unbent at nightamid the faithful, though profligate, companions of his exile! He toldhis anecdotes, it is true, over and over again, yet they were alwaysembellished with some fresh touch--like the repetition of a song whichhas been encored on the stage. Whether from his inimitable art, or fromhis royalty, we leave others to guess, but his stories bore repetitionagain and again: they were amusing, and even novel to the very last. 

To this seducing court did De Grammont now come. It was a delightfulexchange from the endless ceremonies and punctilios of the region overwhich Louis XIV. Presided. Wherever Charles was, his palace appeared toresemble a large hospitable house--sometimes town, sometimes country--inwhich every one did as he liked; and where distinctions of rank werekept up as a matter of convenience, but were only valued on that score. 

In other respects, Charles had modelled his court very much on the planof that of Louis XIV. , which he had admired for its gaiety and spirit. Corneille, Racine, Molière, Boileau, were encouraged by _le GrandMonarque_. Wycherley and Dryden were attracted by Charles to celebratethe festivities, and to amuse the great and the gay. In various pointsDe Grammont found a resemblance. The queen-consort, Catherine ofBraganza, was as complacent to her husband's vices as the queen ofLouis. These royal ladies were merely first sultanas, and had no right, it was thought, to feel jealousy, or to resent neglect. Each returningsabbath saw Whitehall lighted up, and heard the tabors sound for a_branle_, (Anglicised 'brawl'). This was a dance which mixed upeverybody, and called a brawl, from the foot being shaken to a quicktime. Gaily did his Majesty perform it, leading to the hot exercise AnneHyde, Duchess of York, stout and homely, and leaving Lady Castlemaine tohis son, the Duke of Monmouth. Then Charles, with ready grace, wouldbegin the coranto, taking a single lady in this dance along the gallery. Lords and ladies one after another followed, and 'very noble, ' writesPepys, 'and great pleasure it was to see. ' Next came the country dances, introduced by Mary, Countess of Buckingham, the grandmother of thegraceful duke who is moving along the gallery;--and she invented thoseonce popular dances in order to introduce, with less chance of failure, her rustic country cousins, who could not easily be taught to carrythemselves well in the brawl, or to step out gracefully in the coranto, both of which dances required practice and time. In all these dances theking shines the most, and dances much better than his brother the Dukeof York. 

In these gay scenes De Grammont met with the most fashionable belles ofthe court: fortunately for him they all spoke French tolerably; and hequickly made himself welcome amongst even the few--and few indeed therewere--who plumed themselves upon untainted reputations. Hitherto thoseFrench noblemen who had presented themselves in England had been poorand absurd. The court had been thronged with a troop of impertinentParisian coxcombs, who had pretended to despise everything English, andwho treated the natives as if they were foreigners in their own country. De Grammont, on the contrary, was familiar with every one: he ate, hedrank, he lived, in short, according to the custom of the country thathospitably received him, and accorded him the more respect, because theyhad been insulted by others. 

He now introduced the _petits soupers_, which have never been understoodanywhere so well as in France, and which are even there dying out tomake way for the less social and more expensive dinner; but, perhaps, hewould even here have been unsuccessful, had it not been for the societyand advice of the famous St. Evremond, who at this time was exiled inFrance, and took refuge in England. 

This celebrated and accomplished man had some points of resemblance withDe Grammont. Like him, he had been originally intended for the church;like him he had turned to the military profession; he was an ensignbefore he was full sixteen; and had a company of foot given him afterserving two or three campaigns. Like De Grammont, he owed the facilitiesof his early career to his being the descendant of an ancient andhonourable family. St. Evremond was 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, atthe same period, served under the great Condé; both were pre-eminent, not only in literature, but in games of chance. St. Evremond was famousat the University of Caen, in which he studied, for his fencing; and'St. Evremond's pass' was well known to swordsmen of his time;--bothwere gay and satirical; neither of them pretended to rigid morals; butboth were accounted men of honour among their fellow-men of pleasure. They were graceful, kind, generous. 

In person St. Evremond had the advantage, being a Norman--a race whichcombines the handsomest traits of an English countenance with its blondhair, blue eyes, and fair skin. Neither does the slight tinge of theGallic race detract from the attractions of a true, well-born Norman, bred up in that province which is called the Court-end of France, andpolished in the capital. Your Norman is hardy, and fond of field-sports:like the Englishman, he is usually fearless; generous, but, unlike theEnglish, somewhat crafty. You may know him by the fresh colour, thepeculiar blue eye, long and large; by his joyousness and look of health, gathered up in his own marshy country, for the Norman is well fed, andlives on the produce of rich pasture-land, with cheapness and plentyaround him. And St. Evremond was one of the handsomest specimens of thisfine locality (so mixed up as it is with _us_); and his blue eyessparkled with humour; his beautifully-turned mouth was all sweetness;and his noble forehead, the whiteness of which was set off by thick darkeyebrows, was expressive of his great intelligence, until a wen grewbetween his eyebrows, and so changed all the expression of his face thatthe Duchess of Mazarin used to call him the 'Old Satyr. ' St. Evremondwas also Norman in other respects: he called himself a thorough RomanCatholic, yet he despised the superstitions of his church, and preparedhimself for death without them. When asked by an ecclesiastic sentexpressly from the court of Florence to attend his death-bed, if he'would be reconciled, ' he answered, 'With all my heart; I would fain bereconciled to my stomach, which no longer performs its usualfunctions. ' And his talk, we are told, during the fortnight thatpreceded his death, was not regret for a life we should, in seriousness, call misspent, but because partridges and pheasants no longer suited hiscondition, and he was obliged to be reduced to boiled meats. No one, however, could tell what might also be passing in his heart. We cannotalways judge of a life, any more than of a drama, by its last scene; butthis is certain, that in an age of blasphemy St. Evremond could notendure to hear religion insulted by ridicule. 'Common decency, ' saidthis man of the world, 'and a due regard to our fellow-creatures, wouldnot permit it. ' He did not, it seems, refer his displeasure to a highersource--to the presence of the Omniscient, --who claims from us all notalone the tribute of our poor frail hearts in serious moments, but thedeep reverence of every thought in the hours of careless pleasure. 

It was now St. Evremond who taught De Grammont to collect around him thewits of that court, so rich in attractions, so poor in honour andmorality. The object of St. Evremond's devotion, though he had, at theæra of the Restoration, passed his fiftieth year, was Hortense Mancini, once the richest heiress, and still the most beautiful woman in Europe, and a niece, on her mother's side, of Cardinal Mazarin. Hortense hadbeen educated, after the age of six, in France. She was Italian in heraccomplishments, in her reckless, wild disposition, opposed to that ofthe French, who are generally calculating and wary, even in their vices:she was Italian in the style of her surpassing beauty, and French to thecore in her principles. Hortense, at the age of thirteen, had beenmarried to Armand Duc de Meilleraye and Mayenne, who had fallen sodesperately in love with this beautiful child, that he declared 'if hedid not marry her he should die in three months. ' Cardinal Mazarin, although he had destined his niece Mary to this alliance, gave hisconsent on condition that the duke should take the name of Mazarin. Thecardinal died a year after this marriage, leaving his niece Hortense theenormous fortune of £1, 625, 000; yet she died in the greatestdifficulties, and her corpse was seized by her creditors. 

The Duc de Mayenne proved to be a fanatic, who used to waken his wifein the dead of the night to hear his visions; who forbade his child tobe nursed on fast-days; and who believed himself to be inspired. Aftersix years of wretchedness poor Hortense petitioned for a separation anda division of property. She quitted her husband's home and took refugefirst in a nunnery, where she showed her unbelief, or her irreverence, by mixing ink with holy-water, that the poor nuns might black theirfaces when they crossed themselves; or, in concert with Madame deCourcelles, another handsome married woman, she used to walk through thedormitories in the dead of night, with a number of little dogs barkingat their heels; then she filled two great chests that were over thedormitories with water, which ran over, and, penetrating through thechinks of the floor, wet the holy sisters in their beds. At length allthis sorry gaiety was stopped by a decree that Hortense was to return tothe Palais Mazarin; and to remain there until the suit for a separationshould be decided. That the result should be favourable was doubtful:therefore, one fine night in June, 1667, Hortense escaped. She dressedherself in male attire, and, attended by a female servant, managed toget through the gate at Paris, and to enter a carriage. Then she fled toSwitzerland; and, had not her flight been shared by the Chevalier deRohan, one of the handsomest men in France, one could hardly have blamedan escape from a half-lunatic husband. She was only twenty-eight when, after various adventures, she came in all her unimpaired beauty toEngland. Charles was captivated by her charms, and, touched by hermisfortunes, he settled on her a pension of £4, 000 a year, and gave herrooms in St. James's. Waller sang her praise:--

 'When through the world fair Mazarine had run, Bright as her fellow-traveller, the sun: Hither at length the Roman eagle flies, As the last triumph of her conquering eyes. '

If Hortense failed to carry off from the Duchess of Portsmouth--then thestar of Whitehall--the heart of Charles, she found, at all events, inSt. Evremond, one of those French, platonic, life-long friends, who, asChateaubriand worshipped Madame Récamier, adored to the last the exiledniece of Mazarin. Every day, when in her old age and his, the warmth oflove had subsided into the serener affection of pitying, and yetadmiring friendship, St. Evremond was seen, a little old man in a blackcoif, carried along Pall Mall in a sedan chair, to the apartment ofMadame Mazarin, in St. James's. He always took with him a pound ofbutter, made in his own little dairy, for her breakfast. When DeGrammont was installed at the court of Charles, Hortense was, however, in her prime. Her house at Chelsea, then a country village, was famedfor its society and its varied pleasures. St. Evremond has so welldescribed its attractions that his words should be literally given. 'Freedom and discretion are equally to be found there. Every one is mademore at home than in his own house, and treated with more respect thanat court. It is true that there are frequent disputes there, but theyare those of knowledge and not of anger. There is play there, but it isinconsiderable, and only practised for its amusement. You discover in nocountenance the fear of losing, nor concern for what is lost. Some areso disinterested that they are reproached for expressing joy when theylose, and regret when they win. Play is followed by the most excellentrepasts in the world. There you will find whatever delicacy is broughtfrom France, and whatever is curious from the Indies. Even the commonestmeats have the rarest relish imparted to them. There is neither a plentywhich gives a notion of extravagance, nor a frugality that discoverspenury or meanness. '

What an assemblage it must have been! Here lolls Charles, LordBuckhurst, afterwards Lord Dorset, the laziest, in matters of businessor court advancement--the boldest, in point of frolic and pleasure, ofall the wits and beaux of his time. His youth had been full of adventureand of dissipation. 'I know not how it is, ' said Wilmot, Lord Rochester, 'but my Lord Dorset can do anything, and is never to blame. ' He had, intruth, a heart; he could bear to hear others praised; he despised thearts of courtiers; he befriended the unhappy; he was the most engagingof men in manners, the most loveable and accomplished of human beings;at once poet, philanthropist, and wit; he was also possessed ofchivalric notions, and of daring courage. 

Like his royal master, Lord Dorset had travelled; and when made agentleman of the bedchamber to Charles II. , he was not unlike hissovereign in other traits; so full of gaiety, so high-bred, so lax, socourteous, so convivial, that no supper was complete without him: nocircle 'the right thing, ' unless Buckhurst, as he was long called, wasthere to pass the bottle round, and to keep every one in good-humour. Yet, he had misspent a youth in reckless immorality, and had even beenin Newgate on a charge, a doubtful charge it is true, of highway robberyand murder, but had been found guilty of manslaughter only. He was againmixed up in a disgraceful affair with Sir Charles Sedley. When broughtbefore Sir Robert Hyde, then Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, his namehaving been mentioned, the judge inquired whether that was the Buckhurstlately tried for robbery? and when told it was, he asked him whether hehad so soon forgotten his deliverance at that time: and whether it wouldnot better become him to have been at his prayers begging God'sforgiveness than to come into such courses again?

The reproof took effect, and Buckhurst became what was then esteemed asteady man; he volunteered and fought gallantly in the fleet under JamesDuke of York: and he completed his reform, to all outward show, bymarrying Lady Falmouth. [9] Buckhurst, in society, the most good-temperedof men, was thus referred to by Prior, in his poetical epistle toFleetwood Sheppard:--

 'When crowding folks, with strange ill faces, Were making legs, and begging places: And some with patents, some with merit, Tired out my good Lord Dorset's spirit. '

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. '

Still more celebrated as a beau and wit of his time, was John Wilmot, Lord Rochester. He was the son of Lord Wilmot, the cavalier who soloyally attended Charles II. After the Battle of Worcester; and, as, theoffspring of that royalist, was greeted by Lord Clarendon, thenChancellor of the University of Oxford, when he took his degree asMaster of Arts, with a kiss. [10] The young nobleman then travelled, according to custom; and then most unhappily for himself and for others, whom he corrupted by his example, he presented himself at the court ofCharles II. He was at this time a youth of eighteen, and one of thehandsomest persons of his age. The face of Buckhurst was hard and plain;that of De Grammont had little to redeem it but its varyingintelligence; but the countenance of the young Earl of Rochester wasperfectly symmetrical: it was of a long oval, with large, thoughtful, sleepy eyes; the eyebrows arched and high above them; the brow, thoughconcealed by the curls of the now modest wig, was high and smooth; thenose, delicately shaped, somewhat aquiline; the mouth full, butperfectly beautiful, was set off by a round and well-formed chin. Suchwas Lord Rochester in his zenith; and as he came forward on stateoccasions, his false light curls hanging down on his shoulders--acambric kerchief loosely tied, so as to let the ends, worked in point, fall gracefully down: his scarlet gown in folds over a suit of lightsteel armour--for men had become carpet knights then, and the coat ofmail worn by the brave cavaliers was now less warlike, and was mixed upwith robes, ruffles, and rich hose--and when in this guise he appearedat Whitehall, all admired; and Charles was enchanted with thesimplicity, the intelligence, and modesty of one who was then aningenuous youth, with good aspirations, and a staid and decorousdemeanour. 

Woe to Lady Rochester--woe to the mother who trusted her son's innocencein that vitiated court! Lord Rochester forms one of the many instanceswe daily behold, that it is those most tenderly cared for, who oftenfall most deeply, as well as most early, into temptation. He soon lostevery trace of virtue--of principle, even of deference to receivednotions of propriety. For a while there seemed hopes that he would notwholly fall: courage was his inheritance, and he distinguished himselfin 1665, when as a volunteer, he went in quest of the Dutch East Indiafleet, and served with heroic gallantry under Lord Sandwich. And when hereturned to court, there was a partial improvement in his conduct. Heeven looked back upon his former indiscretions with horror: he had nowshared in the realities of life: he had grasped a high and honourableambition; but he soon fell away--soon became almost a castaway. 'Forfive years, ' he told Bishop Burnet, when on his death-bed, 'I was neversober. ' His reputation as a wit must rest, in the present day, chieflyupon productions which have long since been condemned as unreadable. Strange to say, when not under the influence of wine, he was a constantstudent of classical authors, perhaps the worst reading for a man of histendency: all that was satirical and impure attracting him most. Boileau, among French writers, and Cowley among the English, were hisfavourite authors. He also read many books of physic; for long beforethirty his constitution was so broken by his life, that he turned hisattention to remedies, and to medical treatment; and it is remarkablehow many men of dissolute lives take up the same sort of reading, in thevain hope of repairing a course of dissolute living. As a writer, hisstyle was at once forcible and lively; as a companion, he was wildlyvivacious: madly, perilously, did he outrage decency, insult virtue, profane religion. Charles II. Liked him on first acquaintance, forRochester was a man of the most finished and fascinating manners; but atlength there came a coolness, and the witty courtier was banished fromWhitehall. Unhappily for himself, he was recalled, and commanded to waitin London until his majesty should choose to readmit him into hispresence. 

Disguises and practical jokes were the fashion of the day. The use ofthe mask, which was put down by proclamation soon after the accession ofQueen Anne, favoured a series of pranks with which Lord Rochester, during the period of his living concealed in London, diverted himself. The success of his scheme was perfect. He established himself, since hecould not go to Whitehall, in the City. 'His first design, ' De Grammontrelates, 'was only to be initiated into the mysteries of those fortunateand happy inhabitants; that is to say, by changing his name and dress, to gain admittance to their feasts and entertainments.... As he was ableto adapt himself to all capacities and humours, he soon deeplyinsinuated himself into the esteem of the substantial wealthy aldermen, and into the affections of their more delicate, magnificent, and tenderladies; he made one in all their feasts and at all their assemblies; andwhilst in the company of the husbands, he declaimed against the faultsand mistakes of government; he joined their wives in railing against theprofligacy of the court ladies, and in inveighing against the king'smistresses: he agreed with them, that the industrious poor were to payfor these cursed extravagances; that the City beauties were not inferiorto those at the other end of the town, ... After which, to outdo theirmurmurings, he said, that he wondered Whitehall was not yet consumed byfire from heaven, since such rakes as Rochester, Killigrew, and Sidneywere suffered there. '

This conduct endeared him so much to the City, and made him so welcomeat their clubs, that at last he grew sick of their cramming, and endlessinvitations. 

He now tried a new sphere of action; and instead of returning, as hemight have done, to the court, retreated into the most obscure cornersof the metropolis; and again changing his name and dress, gave himselfout as a German doctor named Bendo, who professed to find outinscrutable secrets, and to apply infallible remedies; to know, byastrology, all the past, and to foretell the future. 

If the reign of Charles was justly deemed an age of high civilization, it was also one of extreme credulity. Unbelief in religion went hand inhand with blind faith in astrology and witchcraft; in omens, divinations, and prophecies: neither let us too strongly despise, inthese their foibles, our ancestors. They had many excuses for theirsuperstitions; and for their fears, false as their hopes, and equallygroundless. The circulation of knowledge was limited: the publicjournals, that part of the press to which we now owe inexpressiblegratitude for its general accuracy, its enlarged views, its purity, itsinformation, was then a meagre statement of dry facts: an announcement, not a commentary. 'The Flying Post, ' the 'Daily Courant, ' the names ofwhich may be supposed to imply speed, never reached lone country placestill weeks after they had been printed on their one duodecimo sheet ofthin coarse paper. Religion, too, just emerging into glorious light fromthe darkness of popery, had still her superstitions; and the mantle thatpriestcraft had contrived to throw over her exquisite, radiant, andsimple form, was not then wholly and finally withdrawn. Romanism stillhovered in the form of credulity. 

But now, with shame be it spoken, in the full noonday genial splendourof our Reformed Church, with newspapers, the leading articles of whichrise to a level with our greatest didactic writers, and are competenteven to form the mind as well as to amuse the leisure hours of the youngreaders: with every species of direct communication, we yet hold tofallacies from which the credulous in Charles's time would have shrunkin dismay and disgust. Table-turning, spirit-rapping, _clairvoyance_, Swedenborgianism, and all that family of follies, would have been fartoo strong for the faith of those who counted upon dreams as theirguide, or looked up to the heavenly planets with a belief, partlysuperstitious, partly reverential, for their guidance; and in a dim andflickering faith trusted to their _stars_. 

'Dr. Bendo, ' therefore, as Rochester was called--handsome, witty, unscrupulous, and perfectly acquainted with the then small circle of thecourt--was soon noted for his wonderful revelations. Chamber-women, waiting-maids, and shop-girls were his first customers: but, very soon, gay spinsters from the court came in their hoods and masks to ascertainwith anxious faces, their fortunes; whilst the cunning, sarcastic 'Dr. Bendo, ' noted in his diary all the intrigues which were confided to himby these lovely clients. La Belle Jennings, the sister of Sarah Duchessof Marlborough, was among his disciples; she took with her the beautifulMiss Price, and, disguising themselves as orange girls, these youngladies set off in a hackney-coach to visit Dr. Bendo; but when withinhalf a street of the supposed fortune-teller's, were prevented by theinterruption of a dissolute courtier named Brounker. 

'Everything by turns and nothing long. ' When Lord Rochester was tired ofbeing an astrologer, he used to roam about the streets as a beggar; thenhe kept a footman who knew the Court well, and used to dress him up in ared coat, supply him with a musket, like a sentinel, and send him towatch at the doors of all the fine ladies, to find out their goings on:afterwards, Lord Rochester would retire to the country, and write libelson these fair victims, and, one day, offered to present the king withone of his lampoons; but being tipsy, gave Charles, instead, one writtenupon himself. 

At this juncture we read with sorrow Bishop Burnet's forcibledescription of his career:--

'He seems to have freed himself from all impressions of virtue orreligion, of honour or good nature.... He had but one maxim, to which headhered firmly, that he has to do everything, and deny himself innothing that might maintain his greatness. He was unhappily made fordrunkenness, for he had drunk all his friends dead, and was able tosubdue two or three sets of drunkards one after another; so it scarceever appeared that he was disordered after the greatest drinking: anhour or two of sleep carried all off so entirely, that no sign of themremained.... This had a terrible conclusion. '

Like many other men, Rochester might have been saved by being kept farfrom the scene of temptation. Whilst he remained in the country he wastolerably sober, perhaps steady. When he approached Brentford on hisroute to London, his old propensities came upon him. 

When scarcely out of his boyhood he carried off a young heiress, Elizabeth Mallett, whom De Grammont calls _La triste heritière_: andtriste, indeed, she naturally was. Possessed of a fortune of £2500 ayear, this young lady was marked out by Charles II. As a victim for theprofligate Rochester. But the reckless young wit chose to take his ownway of managing the matter. One night, after supping at Whitehall withMiss Stuart, the young Elizabeth was returning home with hergrandfather, Lord Haly, when their coach was suddenly stopped nearCharing Cross by a number of bravos, both on horseback and on foot--the'Roaring Boys and Mohawks, ' who were not extinct even in Addison's time. They lifted the affrighted girl out of the carriage, and placed her inone which had six horses; they then set off for Uxbridge, and wereovertaken; but the outrage ended in marriage, and Elizabeth became theunhappy, neglected Countess of Rochester. Yet she loved him--perhaps inignorance of all that was going on whilst _she_ stayed with her fourchildren at home. 

'If, ' she writes to him, 'I could have been troubled at anything, when Ihad the happiness of receiving a letter from you, I should be so, because you did not name a time when I might hope to see you, theuncertainty of which very much afflicts me.... Lay your commands upon mewhat I am to do, and though it be to forget my children, and the longhope I have lived in of seeing you, yet will I endeavour to obey you; orin the memory only torment myself, without giving you the trouble ofputting you in mind that there lives a creature as

 'Your faithful, humble servant. '

And he, in reply: 'I went away (to Rochester) like a rascal, withouttaking leave, dear wife. It is an unpolished way of proceeding, which amodest man ought to be ashamed of. I have left you a prey to your ownimaginations amongst my relations, the worst of damnations. But therewill come an hour of deliverance, till when, may my mother be mercifulunto you! So I commit you to what I shall ensue, woman to woman, wife tomother, in hopes of a future appearance in glory.... 

'Pray write as often as you have leisure, to your

 'ROCHESTER. '

To his son, he writes: 'You are now grown big enough to be a man, ifyou can be wise enough; and the way to be truly wise is to serve God, learn your book, and observe the instructions of your parents first, andnext your tutor, to whom I have entirely resigned you for this sevenyears; and according as you employ that time, you are to be happy orunhappy for ever. I have so good an opinion of you, that I am glad tothink you will never deceive me. Dear child, learn your book and beobedient, and you will see what a father I shall be to you. You shallwant no pleasure while you are good, and that you may be good are myconstant prayers. '

Lord Rochester had not attained the age of thirty, when he wasmercifully awakened to a sense of his guilt here, his peril hereafter. It seemed to many that his very nature was so warped that penitence inits true sense could never come to him; but the mercy of God isunfathomable; He judges not as man judges; He forgives, as man knows nothow to forgive. 

 'God, our kind Master, merciful as just, Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust: He marks the dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame; He 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 aspecial Providence, as well as of that of a retribution, even in thislife. 

The retribution came in the form of an early but certain decay; of asuffering so stern, so composed of mental and bodily anguish, that neverwas man called to repentance by a voice so distinct as Rochester. Thereformation was sent through the instrumentality of one who had been asinner like himself, who had sinned _with_ him; an unfortunate lady, who, in her last hours, had been visited, reclaimed, consoled by BishopBurnet. Of this, Lord Rochester had heard. He was then, to allappearance, recovering from his last sickness. He sent for Burnet, whodevoted to him one evening every week of that solemn winter when thesoul of the penitent sought reconciliation and peace. 

The conversion was not instantaneous; it was gradual, penetrating, effective, sincere. Those who wish to gratify curiosity concerning thedeath-bed of one who had so notoriously sinned, will read Burnet'saccount of Rochester's illness and death with deep interest; and nothingis so interesting as a death-bed. Those who delight in works of nervousthought, and elevated sentiments, will read it too, and arise from theperusal gratified. Those, however, who are true, contrite Christianswill go still farther; they will own that few works so intensely touchthe holiest and highest feelings; few so absorb the heart; few sogreatly show the vanity of life; the unspeakable value of purifyingfaith. 'It is a book which the critic, ' says Doctor Johnson, 'may readfor its elegance, the philosopher for its arguments, the saint for itspiety. '

Whilst deeply lamenting his own sins, Lord Rochester became anxious toredeem his former associates from theirs. 

'When Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, '[11] writes William Thomas, in amanuscript preserved in the British Museum, 'lay on his death-bed, Mr. Fanshawe came to visit him, with an intention to stay about a week withhim. Mr. Fanshawe, sitting by the bedside, perceived his lordshippraying to God, through Jesus Christ, and acquainted Dr. Radcliffe, whoattended my Lord Rochester in this illness and was then in the house, with what he had heard, and told him that my lord was certainlydelirious, for to his knowledge, he said, he believed neither in God norin Jesus Christ. The doctor, who had often heard him pray in the samemanner, proposed to Mr. Fanshawe to go up to his lordship to be furthersatisfied touching this affair. When they came to his room the doctortold my lord what Mr. Fanshawe said, upon which his lordship addressedhimself to Mr. Fanshawe to this effect: "Sir, it is true, you and I havebeen very bad and profane together, and then I was of the opinion youmention. But now I am quite of another mind, and happy am I that I amso. I am very sensible how miserable I was whilst of another opinion. Sir, you may assure yourself that there is a Judge and a future state;"and so entered into a very handsome discourse concerning the lastjudgment, future state &c. , and concluded with a serious and patheticexhortation to Mr. Fanshawe to enter into another course of life; addingthat he (Mr. F. ) knew him to be his friend; that he never was more sothan at this time; and "sir, " said he, "to use a Scripture expression, Iam not mad, but speak the words of truth and soberness. " Upon this Mr. Fanshawe trembled, and went immediately a-foot to Woodstock, and therehired a horse to Oxford, and thence took coach to London. '

There were other butterflies in that gay court; beaux without wit;remorseless rakes, incapable of one noble thought or high pursuit; andamongst the most foolish and fashionable of these was Henry Jermyn, LordDover. As the nephew of Henry Jermyn, Lord St. Albans, this youngsimpleton was ushered into a court life with the most favourableauspices. Jermyn Street (built in 1667) recalls to us the residence ofLord St. Albans, the supposed husband of Henrietta Maria. It was alsothe centre of fashion when Henry Jermyn the younger was launched intoits unholy sphere. Near Eagle Passage lived at that time La BelleStuart, Duchess of Richmond; next door to her Henry Savile, Rochester'sfriend. The locality has since been purified by worthier associations:Sir Isaac Newton lived for a time in Jermyn Street, and Gray lodgedthere. 

It was, however, in De Grammont's time, the scene of all the variousgallantries which were going on. Henry Jermyn was supported by thewealth of his uncle, that uncle who, whilst Charles II. Was starving atBrussels, had kept a lavish table in Paris: little Jermyn, as theyounger Jermyn was called, owed much indeed to his fortune, which hadprocured him great _éclat_ at the Dutch court. His head was large; hisfeatures small; his legs short; his physiognomy was not positivelydisagreeable, but he was affected and trifling, and his wit consisted inexpressions learnt by rote, which supplied him either with raillery orwith compliments. 

This petty, inferior being had attracted the regard of the PrincessRoyal--afterwards Princess of Orange--the daughter of Charles I. Thenthe Countess of Castlemaine--afterwards Duchess of Cleveland--becameinfatuated with him; he captivated also the lovely Mrs. Hyde, alanguishing beauty, whom Sir Peter Lely has depicted in all her sleepyattractions, with her ringlets falling lightly over her snowy foreheadand down to her shoulders. This lady was, at the time when Jermyn cameto England, recently married to the son of the great Clarendon. She felldesperately in love with this unworthy being: but, happily for herpeace, he preferred the honour (or dishonour) of being the favourite ofLady Castlemaine, and Mrs. Hyde escaped the disgrace she, perhaps, merited. 

De Grammont appears absolutely to have hated Jermyn; not because he wasimmoral, impertinent, and contemptible, but because it was Jermyn'sboast that no woman, good or bad, could resist him. Yet, in respect totheir unprincipled life, Jermyn and De Grammont had much in common. TheChevalier was at this time an admirer of the foolish beauty, JaneMiddleton; one of the loveliest women of a court where it was impossibleto turn without seeing loveliness. 

Mrs. Middleton was the daughter of Sir Roger Needham, and she has beendescribed, even by the grave Evelyn, as a 'famous, and, indeed, incomparable beauty. ' A coquette, she was, however, the friend ofintellectual men; and it was probably at the house of St. Evremond thatthe Count first saw her. Her figure was good, she was fair and delicate;and she had so great a desire, Count Hamilton relates, to 'appearmagnificently, that she was ambitious to vie with those of the greatestfortunes, though unable to support the expense. '

Letters and presents now flew about. Perfumed gloves, pocketlooking-glasses, elegant boxes, apricot paste, essences, and other smallwares arrived weekly from Paris; English jewellery still had thepreference, and was liberally bestowed; yet Mrs. Middleton, affected andsomewhat precise, accepted the gifts but did not seem to encourage thegiver. 

The Count de Grammont, piqued, was beginning to turn his attention toMiss Warmestre, one of the queen's maids of honour, a lively brunette, and a contrast to the languid Mrs. Middleton; when, happily for him, abeauty appeared on the scene, and attracted him, by higher qualitiesthan mere looks, to a real, fervent, and honourable attachment. 

Amongst the few respected families of that period was that of Sir GeorgeHamilton, the fourth son of James, Earl of Abercorn, and of Mary, grand-daughter of Walter, eleventh Earl of Ormond. Sir George haddistinguished himself during the Civil Wars: on the death of Charles I. He had retired to France, but returned, after the Restoration, toLondon, with a large family, all intelligent and beautiful. 

From their relationship to the Ormond family, the Hamiltons were sooninstalled in the first circles of fashion. The Duke of Ormond's sons hadbeen in exile with the king; they now added to the lustre of the courtafter his return. The Earl of Arran, the second, was a beau of the trueCavalier order; clever at games, more especially at tennis, the king'sfavourite diversion; he touched the guitar well; and made love _adlibitum_. Lord Ossory, his elder brother, had less vivacity but moreintellect, and possessed a liberal, honest nature, and an heroiccharacter. 

All the good qualities of these two young noblemen seem to have beenunited in Anthony Hamilton, of whom De Grammont gives the followingcharacter:--'The elder of the Hamiltons, their cousin, was the man who, of all the court, dressed best; he was well made in his person, andpossessed those happy talents which lead to fortune, and procure successin love: he was a most assiduous courtier, had the most lively wit, themost polished manners, and the most punctual attention to his masterimaginable; no person danced better, nor was any one a more generallover--a merit of some account in a court entirely devoted to love andgallantry. It is not at all surprising that, with these qualities, hesucceeded my Lord Falmouth in the king's favour. '

The fascinating person thus described was born in Ireland: he hadalready experienced some vicissitudes, which were renewed at theRevolution of 1688, when he fled to France--the country in which he hadspent his youth--and died at St. Germains, in 1720, aged seventy-four. His poetry and his fairy tales are forgotten; but his 'Memoirs of theCount de Grammont' is a work which combines the vivacity of a Frenchwriter with the truth of an English historian. 

Ormond Yard, St. James's Square, was the London residence of the Duke ofOrmond: the garden wall of Ormond House took up the greater part of YorkStreet: the Hamilton family had a commodious house in the same courtlyneighbourhood; and the cousins mingled continually. Here persons of thegreatest distinction constantly met; and here the 'Chevalier deGrammont, ' as he was still called, was received in a manner suitable tohis rank and style; and soon regretted that he had passed so much timein other places; for, after he once knew the charming Hamiltons, hewished 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 queen's, in the same palace; andthat of Henrietta Maria, the Queen-Mother, as she was styled, atSomerset House. Charles's was pre-eminent in immorality, and in thedaily outrage of all decency; that of the unworthy widow of Charles I. Was just bordering on impropriety; that of Katherine of Braganza wasstill decorous, though not irreproachable. Pepys, in his Diary, has thispassage:--'Visited Mrs. Ferrers, and stayed talking with her a goodwhile, there being a little, proud, ugly, talking lady there, that wasmuch crying up the queene-mother's court at Somerset House, above ourqueen's; there being before her no allowance of laughing and mirth thatis at the other's; and, indeed, it is observed that the greatest courtnow-a-days is there. Thence to Whitehall, where I carried my wife to seethe queene in her presence-chamber; and the maydes of honour and theyoung Duke of Monmouth, playing at cards. '

Queen Katherine, notwithstanding that the first words she was ever knownto say in English were '_You lie!_' was one of the gentlest of beings. Pepys describes her as having a modest, innocent look, among all thedemireps with whom she was forced to associate. Again we turn to Pepys, an anecdote of whose is characteristic of poor Katherine's submissive, uncomplaining nature:--

'With Creed, to the King's Head ordinary;... And a pretty gentleman inour company, who confirms my Lady Castlemaine's being gone from court, but knows not the reason; he told us of one wipe the queene, a littlewhile ago, did give her, when she came in and found the queene under thedresser's hands, and had been so long. "I wonder your Majesty, " saysshe, "can have the patience to sit so long a-dressing?"--"I have so muchreason to use patience, " says the queene, "that I can very well bearwith it. "'

It was in the court of this injured queen that De Grammont went oneevening to Mrs. Middleton's house: there was a ball that night, andamongst the dancers was the loveliest creature that De Grammont had everseen. His eyes were riveted on this fair form; he had heard, but nevertill then seen her, whom all the world consented to call 'La BelleHamilton, ' and his heart instantly echoed the expression. From this timehe forgot Mrs. Middleton, and despised Miss Warmestre: 'he found, ' hesaid, that he 'had seen nothing at court till this instant. '

'Miss Hamilton, ' he himself tells us, 'was at the happy age when thecharms of the fair sex begin to bloom; she had the finest shape, theloveliest neck, and most beautiful arms in the world; she was majesticand graceful in all her movements; and she was the original after whichall the ladies copied in their taste and air of dress. Her forehead wasopen, white, and smooth; her hair was well set, and fell with ease intothat natural order which it is so difficult to imitate. Her complexionwas possessed of a certain freshness, not to be equalled by borrowedcolours; her eyes were not large, but they were lively, and capable ofexpressing whatever she pleased. '[12] So far for her person; but DeGrammont was, it seems, weary of external charms: it was theintellectual superiority that riveted his feelings, whilst hisconnoisseurship in beauty was satisfied that he had never yet seen anyone so perfect. 

[Illustration: DE GRAMMONT'S MEETING WITH LA BELLE HAMILTON. ]

'Her mind, ' he says, 'was a proper companion for such a form: she didnot endeavour to shine in conversation by those sprightly sallies whichonly puzzle, and with still greater care she avoided that affectedsolemnity in her discourses which produces stupidity; but without anyeagerness to talk, she just said what she ought, and no more. She hadan admirable discernment in distinguishing between solid and false wit;and far from making an ostentatious display of her abilities, she wasreserved, though very just in her decisions. Her sentiments were alwaysnoble, and even lofty to the highest extent, when there was occasion;nevertheless, she was less prepossessed with her own merit than isusually the case with those who have so much. Formed as we havedescribed, she could not fail of commanding love; but so far was shefrom courting it, that she was scrupulously nice with respect to thosewhose merit might entitle them to form any pretensions to her. '

Born in 1641, Elizabeth--for such was the Christian name of this lovelyand admirable woman--was scarcely in her twentieth year when she firstappeared at Whitehall. Sir Peter Lely was at that time painting theBeauties of the Court, and had done full justice to the intellectual andyet innocent face that riveted De Grammont. He had depicted her with herrich dark hair, of which a tendril or two fell on her ivory forehead, adorned at the back with large pearls, under which a gauze-like texturewas gathered up, falling over the fair shoulders like a veil: a fullcorsage, bound by a light band either of ribbon or of gold lace, confining, with a large jewel or button, the sleeve on the shoulder, disguised somewhat the exquisite shape. A frill of fine cambric set off, whilst in whiteness it scarce rivalled, the shoulder and neck. 

The features of this exquisite face are accurately described by DeGrammont, as Sir Peter has painted them. 'The mouth does not smile, butseems ready to break out into a smile. Nothing is sleepy, but everythingis soft, sweet, and innocent in that face so beautiful and so beloved. '

Whilst the colours were fresh on Lely's palettes, James Duke of York, that profligate who aped the saint, saw it, and henceforth paid hiscourt to the original, but was repelled with fearless _hauteur_. Thedissolute nobles of the court followed his example, even to the'lady-killer' Jermyn, but in vain. Unhappily for La Belle Hamilton, shebecame sensible to the attractions of De Grammont, whom she eventuallymarried. 

Miss Hamilton, intelligent as she was, lent herself to the fashion ofthe day, and delighted in practical jokes and tricks. At the splendidmasquerade given by the queen she continued to plague her cousin, LadyMuskerry; to confuse and expose a stupid court beauty, a Miss Blaque;and at the same time to produce on the Count de Grammont a still morepowerful effect than even her charms had done. Her success inhoaxing--which we should now think both perilous and indelicate--seemsto have only riveted the chain, which was drawn around him morestrongly. 

His friend, or rather his foe, St. Evremond, tried in vain to discouragethe Chevalier from his new passion. The former tutor was, it appeared, jealous of its influence, and hurt that De Grammont was now seldom athis house. 

De Grammont's answer to his remonstrances was very characteristic. 'Mypoor philosopher, ' he cried, 'you understand Latin well--you can makegood verses--you are acquainted with the nature of the stars in thefirmament--but you are wholly ignorant of the luminaries in theterrestrial globe. '

He then announced his intention to persevere, notwithstanding all theobstacles which attached to the suit of a man without either fortune orcharacter, who had been exiled from his own country, and whose chiefmode of livelihood was dependent on the gaming-table. 

One can scarcely read of the infatuation of La Belle Hamilton without asigh. During a period of six years their marriage was in contemplationonly; and De Grammont seems to have trifled inexcusably with thefeelings of this once gay and ever lovely girl. It was not for want ofmeans that De Grammont thus delayed the fulfilment of his engagement. Charles II. , inexcusably lavish, gave him a pension of 1500 Jacobuses:it was to be paid to him until he should be restored to the favour ofhis own king. The fact was that De Grammont contributed to the pleasuresof the court, and pleasure was the household deity of Whitehall. Sometimes, in those days of careless gaiety, there were promenades inSpring Gardens, or the Mall; sometimes the court beauties sallied forthon horseback; at other times there were shows on the river, which thenwashed the very foundations of Whitehall. There in the summer evenings, when it was too hot and dusty to walk, old Thames might be seen coveredwith little boats, filled with court and city beauties, attending theroyal barges; collations, music, and fireworks completed the scene, andDe Grammont always contrived some surprise--some gallant show: once aconcert of vocal and instrumental music, which he had privately broughtfrom Paris, struck up unexpectedly: another time a collation broughtfrom the gay capital surpassed that supplied by the king. Then theChevalier, finding that coaches with glass windows, lately introduced, displeased the ladies, because their charms were only partially seen inthem, sent for the most elegant and superb _calèche_ ever seen: it cameafter a month's journey, and was presented by De Grammont to the king. It was a royal present in price, for it had cost two thousand livres. The famous dispute between Lady Castlemaine and Miss Stuart, afterwardsDuchess of Richmond, arose about this _calèche_. The Queen and theDuchess of York appeared first in it in Hyde Park, which had thenrecently been fenced in with brick. Lady Castlemaine thought that the_calèche_ showed off a fine figure better than the coach; Miss Stuartwas of the same opinion. Both these grown-up babies wished to have thecoach on the same day, but Miss Stuart prevailed. 

The Queen condescended to laugh at the quarrels of these two foolishwomen, and complimented the Chevalier de Grammont on his present. 'Buthow is it, ' she asked, 'that you do not even keep a footman, and thatone of the common runners in the street lights you home with a link?'

'Madame, ' he answered, 'the Chevalier de Grammont hates pomp: mylink-boy is faithful and brave. ' Then he told the Queen that he saw shewas unacquainted with the nation of link-boys, and related how that hehad, at one time, had one hundred and sixty around his chair at night, and people had asked 'whose funeral it was? As for the parade of coachesand footmen, ' he added, 'I despise it. I have sometimes had five or six_valets-de-chambre_, without a single footman in livery except mychaplain. '

'How!' cried the Queen, laughing, 'a chaplain in livery? surely he wasnot a priest. '

'_Pardon_, Madame, a priest, and the best dancer in the world of theBiscayan gig. '

'Chevalier, ' said the king, 'tell us the history of your chaplainPoussatin. '

Then De Grammont related how, when he was with the great Condé, afterthe campaign of Catalonia, he had seen among a company of Catalans, apriest in a little black jacket, skipping and frisking: how Condé wascharmed, and how they recognized in him a Frenchman, and how he offeredhimself to De Grammont for his chaplain. De Grammont had not much need, he said, for a chaplain in his house, but he took the priest, who hadafterwards the honour of dancing before Anne of Austria, in Paris. 

Suitor after suitor interfered with De Grammont's at last honourableaddress to La Belle Hamilton. At length an incident occurred which hadvery nearly separated them for ever. Philibert de Grammont was recalledto Paris by Louis XIV. He forgot, Frenchman-like, all his engagements toMiss Hamilton, and hurried off. He had reached Dover, when her twobrothers rode up after him. 'Chevalier de Grammont, ' they said, 'haveyou forgotten nothing in London?'

'I beg your pardon, ' he answered, 'I forgot to marry your sister. ' It issaid that this story suggested to Molière the idea of _Le Mariageforcé_. They were, however, married. 

In 1669 La Belle Hamilton, after giving birth to a child, went to residein France. Charles II. , who thought she would pass for a handsome womanin France, recommended her to his sister, Henrietta Duchess of Orleans, and begged her to be kind to her. 

Henceforth the Chevalier De Grammont and his wife figured at Versailles, where the Countess de Grammont was appointed _Dame du Palais_. Hercareer was less brilliant than in England. The French ladies deemed herhaughty and old, and even termed her _une Anglaise insupportable_. 

She had certainly too much virtue, and perhaps too much beauty still, for the Parisian ladies of fashion at that period to admire her. 

She endeavoured in vain, to reclaim her libertine husband, and to callhim to a sense of his situation when he was on his death-bed. LouisXIV. Sent the Marquis de Dangeau to convert him, and to talk to him on asubject little thought of by De Grammont--the world to come. After theMarquis had been talking for some time, De Grammont turned to his wifeand said, 'Countess, if you don't look to it, Dangeau will juggle youout of my conversion. ' St. Evremond said he would gladly die to go offwith so successful a bon-mot. 

He became however, in time, serious, if not devout or penitent. Ninon del'Enclos having written to St. Evremond that the Count de Grammont hadnot only recovered but had become devout, St. Evremond answered her inthese words:--

'I have learned with a great deal of pleasure that the Count de Grammonthas recovered his former health, and acquired a new devotion. Hitherto Ihave been contented with being a plain honest man; but I must dosomething more: and I only wait for your example to become a devotee. You live in a country where people have wonderful advantages of savingtheir souls: there, vice is almost as opposite to the mode as virtue;sinning passes for ill-breeding, and shocks decency and good-manners, asmuch as religion. Formerly it was enough to be wicked, now one must be ascoundrel withal to be damned in France. '

A report having been circulated that De Grammont was dead, St. Evremondexpressed deep regret. The report was contradicted by Ninon de l'Enclos. The Chevalier was then eighty-six years of age; 'nevertheless he was, 'Ninon says, 'so young, that I think him as lively as when he hated sickpeople, and loved them after they had recovered their health;' a traitvery descriptive of a man whose good-nature was always on the surface, but whose selfishness was deep as that of most wits and beaux, who arespoiled by the world, and who, in return, distrust and deceive thespoilers. With this long life of eighty-six years, endowed as DeGrammont was with elasticity of spirits, good fortune, considerabletalent, an excellent position, a wit that never ceased to flow in aclear current; with all these advantages, what might he not have been tosociety, had his energy been well applied, his wit innocent, his talentsemployed worthily, and his heart as sure to stand muster as his manners?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: M. De Grammont visited England during the Protectorate. Hissecond visit, after being forbidden the court by Louis XIV. , was in1662. ]

[Footnote 9: The Earl of Dorset married Elizabeth, widow of CharlesBerkeley, Earl of Falmouth, and daughter of Hervey Bagot, Esq. , of PipeHall, Warwickshire, who died without issue. He married, 7th March, 1684-5, Lady Mary Compton, daughter of James Earl of Northampton. ]

[Footnote 10: Lord Rochester succeeded to the Earldom in 1659. It wascreated by Charles II. In 1652, at Paris. ]

[Footnote 11: Mr. William Thomas, the writer of this statement, heard itfrom Dr. Radcliffe at the table of Speaker Harley, (afterwards Earl ofOxford, ) 16th June, 1702. ]

[Footnote 12: See De Grammont's Memoirs. ]

 BEAU FIELDING. 

 On Wits and Beaux. --Scotland Yard in Charles II. 's day. --Orlando of 'The Tatler. '--Beau Fielding, Justice of the Peace. --Adonis in Search of a Wife. --The Sham Widow. --Ways and Means. --Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine. --Quarrels with the King. --The Beau's Second Marriage. --The Last Days of Fops and Beaux. 

Let us be wise, boys, here's a fool coming, said a sensible man, whenhe saw Beau Nash's splendid carriage draw up to the door. Is a beau afool? Is a sharper a fool? Was Bonaparte a fool? If you reply 'no' tothe last two questions, you must give the same answer to the first. Abeau is a fox, but not a fool--a very clever fellow, who, knowing theweakness of his brothers and sisters in the world, takes advantage ofit to make himself a fame and a fortune. Nash, the son of aglass-merchant--Brummell, the hopeful of a small shopkeeper--becamethe intimates of princes, dukes, and fashionables; were petty kings ofVanity Fair, and were honoured by their subjects. In the kingdom ofthe blind, the one-eyed man is king; in the realm of folly, thesharper is a monarch. The only proviso is, that the cheat come notwithin the jurisdiction of the law. Such a cheat is the beau or dandy, or fine gentleman, who imposes on his public by his clothes andappearance. _Bonâ-fide_ monarchs have done as much: Louis XIV. Wonhimself the title of Le Grand Monarque by his manners, his dress, andhis vanity. Fielding, Nash, and Brummell did nothing more. It is not aquestion whether such roads to eminence be contemptible or not, butwhether their adoption in one station of life be more so than inanother. Was Brummell a whit more contemptible than 'Wales?' Or isJohn Thomas, the pride and glory of the 'Domestics' Free-and-Easy, 'whose whiskers, figure, face, and manner are all superb, one atom moreridiculous than your recognized beau? I trow not. What right, then, has your beau to a place among wits? I fancy Chesterfield would bemuch disgusted at seeing his name side by side with that of Nash inthis volume; yet Chesterfield had no objection, when at Bath, to dohomage to the king of that city, and may have prided himself onexchanging pinches from diamond-set snuff-boxes with that superbgold-laced dignitary in the Pump-room. Certainly, people who thoughtlittle of Philip Dormer Stanhope, thought a great deal of theglass-merchant's reprobate son when he was in power, and submittedwithout a murmur to his impertinences. The fact is, that the beaux andthe wits are more intimately connected than the latter would care toown: the wits have all been, or aspired to be, beaux, and beaux havehad their fair share of wit; both lived for the same purpose--to shinein society: both used the same means--coats and bon-mots. The onlydistinction is, that the garments of the beaux were better, and theirsayings not so good as those of the wits; while the conversation ofthe wits was better, and their apparel not so striking as those of thebeaux. So, my Lord Chesterfield, who prided yourself quite as much onbeing a fine gentleman as on being a fine wit, you cannot complain atyour proximity to Mr. Nash and others who _were_ fine gentlemen, andwould have been fine wits if they could. 

Robert Fielding was, perhaps, the least of the beaux; but then, to makeup 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 isnot to be despised. You may be sure he did not think he was, for was henot made the subject of two papers in 'The Tatler, ' and what more couldsuch a man desire?

His father was a Suffolk squire, claiming relationship with the Earls ofDenbigh, and therefore, with the Hapsburgs, from whom the Beau and theEmperors of Austria had the common honour of being descended. Perhapsneither of them had sufficient sense to be proud of the greatestintellectual ornament of their race, the author of 'Tom Jones;' but asour hero was dead before the humourist was born, it is not fair toconjecture what he might have thought on the subject. 

It does not appear that very much is known of this great gem of the raceof Hapsburg. He had the misfortune to be very handsome, and the folly tothink that his face would be his fortune: it certainly stood him in goodstead at times, but it also brought him into a lamentable dilemma. 

His father was not rich, and sent his son to the Temple to study lawswhich he was only fitted to break. The young Adonis had sense enough tosee that destiny did not beckon him to fame in the gloom of a musty lawcourt, and removed a little further up to the Thames, and the morefashionable region of Scotland Yard. Here, where now Z 300 repairs toreport his investigations to a Commissioner, the young dandies ofCharles II. 's day strutted in gay doublets, swore hasty oaths of choiceinvention, smoked the true Tobago from huge pipe-bowls, and ogled thefair but not too bashful dames who passed to and fro in their chariots. The court took its name from the royalties of Scotland, who, when theyvisited the South, were there lodged, as being conveniently near toWhitehall Palace. It is odd enough that the three architects, InigoJones, Vanbrugh, and Wren, all lived in this yard. 

It was not to be supposed that a man who could so well appreciate ahandsome face and well-cut doublet as Charles II. Should long overlookhis neighbour, Mr. Robert Fielding, and in due course the Beau, who hadno other diploma, found himself in the honourable position of a justiceof the peace. 

The emoluments of this office enabled Orlando, as 'The Tatler' callshim, to shine forth in all his glory. With an enviable indifference tothe future, he launched out into an expenditure which alone would havemade him popular in a country where the heaviest purse makes thegreatest gentleman. His lacqueys were arrayed in the brightest yellowcoats with black sashes--the Hapsburg colours. He had a carriage, ofcourse, but, like Sheridan's, it was hired, though drawn by his ownhorses. This carriage was described as being shaped like a sea-shell;and 'the Tatler' calls it 'an open tumbril of less size than ordinary, to show the largeness of his limbs and the grandeur of his personage tothe best advantage. ' The said limbs were Fielding's especial pride: hegloried in the strength of his leg and arm; and when he walked down thestreet, he was followed by an admiring crowd, whom he treated with asmuch haughtiness as if he had been the emperor himself, instead of hiscousin five hundred times removed. He used his strength to good or badpurpose, and was a redoubted fighter and bully, though good-naturedwithal. In the Mall, as he strutted, he was the cynosure of all femaleeyes. His dress had all the elegance of which the graceful costume ofthat period was capable, though Fielding did not, like Brummell, understand the delicacy of a quiet, but studied style. Those weresimpler, somewhat more honest days. It was not necessary for a man tocloak his vices, nor be ashamed of his cloak. The beau then-a-day openlyand arrogantly gloried in the grandeur of his attire; and bragging was apart of his character. Fielding was made by his tailor; Brummell madehis tailor: the only point in common to both was that neither of thempaid the tailor's bill. 

The fine gentleman, under the Stuarts, was fine only in his lace and hisvelvet doublet; his language was coarse, his manners coarser, his vicesthe coarsest of all. No wonder when the king himself could get so drunkwith Sedley and Buckhurst as to be unable to give an audience appointedfor; and when the chief fun of his two companions was to divestthemselves of all the habiliments which civilization has had the illtaste to make necessary, and in that state run about the streets. 

'Orlando' wore the finest ruffles and the heaviest sword; his wig wascombed to perfection; and in his pocket he carried a little comb withwhich to arrange it from time to time, even as the dandy of to-day pullsout his whiskers or curls his moustache. Such a man could not be passedover; and accordingly he numbered half the officers and gallants of thetown among his intimates. He drank, swore, and swaggered, and the snobsof the day proclaimed him a 'complete gentleman. '

His impudence, however, was not always tolerated. In the playhouses ofthe day, it was the fashion for some of the spectators to stand upon thestage, and the places in that position were chiefly occupied by younggallants. The ladies came most in masques: but this did not preventMaster Fielding from making his remarks very freely, and in no veryrefined strain to them. The modest damsels, whom Pope has described, 'The fair sat pouting at the courtier's play, And not a mask went unimproved away: The modest fan was lifted up no more, And virgins smiled at what they blushed before, '

were not too coy to be pleased with the fops' attentions, and replied inlike strain. The players were unheeded; the audience laughed at theimprovised and natural wit, when carefully prepared dialogues failed tofix their attention. The actors were disgusted, and, in spite of MasterFielding's herculean strength, kicked him off the stage, with a warningnot to come again. 

The _rôle_ of a beau is expensive to keep up; and our justice of thepeace could not, like Nash, double his income by gaming. He soon gotdeeply into debt, as every celebrated dresser has done. The old story, not new even in those days, was enacted and the brilliant Adonis had tokeep watch and ward against tailors and bailiffs. On one occasion theyhad nearly caught him; but his legs being lengthy, he gave them fairsport as far as St. James's Palace, where the officers on guard rushedout to save their pet, and drove off the myrmidons of the law at thepoint of the sword. 

But debts do not pay themselves, nor die, and Orlando with all hisstrength and prowess could not long keep off the constable. Evil daysgloomed at no very great distance before him, and the fear of asponging-house and debtors' prison compelled him to turn his handsomeperson to account. Had he not broken a hundred hearts already? had henot charmed a thousand pairs of beaming eyes? was there not one owner ofone pair who was also possessed of a pretty fortune? Who should have thehonour of being the wife of such an Adonis? who, indeed, but she whocould pay highest for it; and who could pay with a handsome income but awell-dowered widow? A widow it must be--a widow it should be. Nobleindeed was the sentiment which inspired this great man to sacrificehimself on the altar of Hymen for the good of his creditors. Ye youngmen in the Guards, who do this kind of thing every day--that is, every day that you can meet with a widow with the properqualifications--take warning by the lamentable history of Mr. RobertFielding, and never trust to 'third parties. '

[Illustration: BEAU FIELDING AND THE SHAM WIDOW. ]

A widow was found, fat, fair, and forty--and oh!--charm greater far thanall the rest--with a fortune of sixty thousand pounds; this was a Mrs. Deleau, who lived at Whaddon in Surrey, and at Copthall-court in London. Nothing could be more charming; and the only obstacle was the absence ofall acquaintance between the parties--for, of course, it was impossiblefor any widow, whatever her attractions, to be insensible to those ofRobert Fielding. Under these circumstances, the Beau looked about for anagent, and found one in the person of a Mrs. Villars, hairdresser to thewidow. He offered this person a handsome douceur in case of success, andshe was to undertake that the lady should meet the gentleman in the mostunpremeditated manner. Various schemes were resorted to: with the_alias_, for he was not above an _alias_, of Major-General Villars, theBeau called at the widow's country house, and was permitted to see thegardens. At a window he espied a lady, whom he took to be the object ofhis pursuit--bowed to her majestically, and went away, persuaded he musthave made an impression. But, whether the widow was wiser than wearersof weeds have the reputation of being, or whether the agent had reallyno power in the matter, the meeting never came on. 

The hairdresser naturally grew anxious, the douceur was too good to belost, and as the widow could not be had, some one must be supplied inher place. 

One day while the Beau was sitting in his splendid 'night-gown, ' as themorning-dress of gentlemen was then called, two ladies were ushered intohis august presence. He had been warned of this visit, and was preparedto receive the yielding widow. The one, of course, was the hairdresser, the other a young, pretty, and _apparently_ modest creature, who blushedmuch--though with some difficulty--at the trying position in which shefound herself. The Beau, delighted, did his best to reassure her. Heflung himself at her feet, swore, with oaths more fashionable thandelicate, that she was the only woman he ever loved, and prevailed onthe widow so far as to induce her to 'call again to-morrow. '

Of course she came, and Adonis was in heaven. He wrote little poems toher--for, as a gallant, he could of course make verses--serenaded herthrough an Italian donna, invited her to suppers, at which thedelicacies of the season were served without regard to the purveyor'saccount, and to which, coy as she was, she consented to come, andclenched the engagement with a ring, on which was the motto, 'TibiSoli. ' Nay, the Beau had been educated, and had some knowledge of 'thetongues, ' so that he added to these attentions the further one of a songor two translated from the Greek. The widow ought to have been pleased, and was. One thing only she stipulated, namely, that the marriage shouldbe private, lest her relations should forbid the banns. 

Having brought her so far, it was not likely that the fortune-hunterwould stick at such a mere trifle, and accordingly an entertainment wasgot up at the Beau's own rooms, a supper suitable to the rank and wealthof the widow, provided by some obligingly credulous tradesman; a priestfound--for, be it premised, our hero had changed so much of his religionas he had to change in the reign of James II. , when Romanism was notonly fashionable, but a sure road to fortune--and the mutually satisfiedcouple swore to love, honour, and obey one another till death themshould part. 

The next morning, however, the widow left the gentleman's lodgings, onthe pretext that it was injudicious for her friends to know of theirunion at present, and continued to visit her sposo and sup somewhatamply at his chambers from time to time. We can imagine the anxietyOrlando now felt for a cheque book at the heiress's bankers, and themany insinuations he may have delicately made, touching ways and means. We can fancy the artful excuses with which these hints were put aside byhis attached wife. But the dupe was still in happy ignorance of thetrick played on him, and for a time such ignorance was bliss. It musthave been trying to him to be called on by Mrs. Villars for the promiseddouceur, but he consoled himself with the pleasures of hope. 

Unfortunately, however, he had formed the acquaintance of a woman of avery different reputation to the real Mrs. Deleau, and the intimacywhich ensued was fatal to him. 

When Charles II. Was wandering abroad, he was joined, among others, by aMr. And Mrs. Palmer. The husband was a stanch old Romanist, with thequalities which usually accompanied that faith in those days--littlerespect for morality, and a good deal of bigotry. In later days he wasone of the victims suspected of the Titus Oates plot, but escaped, andeventually died in Wales, in 1705, after having been James II. 'sambassador to Rome. This, in a few words, is the history of that RogerPalmer, afterwards Lord Castlemaine, who by some is said to have soldhis wife--not at Smithfield, but at Whitehall--to his Majesty KingCharles II. , for the sum of one peerage--an Irish one, taken onconsideration: by others, is alleged to have been so indignant with theking as to have remained for some time far from court; and so disgustedwith his elevation to the peerage as scarcely to assume his title; andthis last is the most authenticated version of the matter. 

Mrs. Palmer belonged to one of the oldest families in England, andtraced her descent to Pagan de Villiers, in the days of William Rufus, and a good deal farther among the nobles of Normandy. She was thedaughter of William, second Viscount Grandison, and rejoiced in theappropriate name of Barbara, for she _could_ be savage occasionally. Shewas very beautiful, and very wicked, and soon became Charles's mistress. On the Restoration she joined the king in England, and when the poorneglected queen came over was foisted upon her as a bedchamber-woman, inspite of all the objections of that ill used wife. It was necessary tothis end that she should be the wife of a peer; and her husband acceptedthe title of Earl of Castlemaine, well knowing to what he owed it. Pepys, who admired Lady Castlemaine more than any woman in England, describes the husband and wife meeting at Whitehall with a coldceremonial bow: yet the husband _was_ there. A quarrel between the two, strangely enough on the score of religion, her ladyship insisting thather child should be christened by a Protestant clergyman, while hislordship insisted on the ceremony being performed by a Romish priest, brought about a separation, and from that time Lady Castlemaine, lodgedin Whitehall, began her empire over the king of England. That man, 'whonever said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one, ' was the slave ofthis imperious and most impudent of women. She forced him to settle onher an immense fortune, much of which she squandered at thebasset-table, often staking a thousand pounds at a time, and sometimeslosing fifteen thousand pounds a-night. 

Nor did her wickedness end here. We have some pity for one, who, like LaVallière, could be attracted by the attentions of a handsome, fascinating prince: we pity though we blame. But Lady Castlemaine wasvicious to the very marrow: not content with a king's favour, shecourted herself the young gallant of the town. Quarrels ensued betweenCharles and his mistress, in which the latter invariably came offvictorious, owing to her indomitable temper; and the scenes recorded byDe Grammont--when she threatened to burn down Whitehall, and tear herchildren in pieces--are too disgraceful for insertion. She forced thereprobate monarch to consent to all her extortionate demands: rifled thenation'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 moreserious difference, which was only patched up by a patent of the Duchyof Cleveland. The Duchess of Cleveland was even worse than the Countessof Castlemaine. Abandoned in time by Charles, and detested by all peopleof any decent feeling, she consoled herself for the loss of a real kingby taking up with a stage one. Hart and Goodman, the actors, weresuccessively her cavalieri; the former had been a captain in the army;the latter a student at Cambridge. Both were men of the coarsest mindsand most depraved lives. Goodman, in after-years was so reduced that, finding, as Sheridan advised his son to do, a pair of pistols handy, ahorse saddled, and Hounslow Heath not a hundred miles distance, he tookto the pleasant and profitable pastime of which Dick Turpin is thepatron saint. He was all but hanged for his daring robberies, butunfortunately not quite so. He lived to suffer such indigence, that heand another rascal had but one under-garment between them, and enteredinto a compact that one should lie in bed while the other wore thearticle in question. Naturally enough the two fell out in time, and theend of Goodman--sad misnomer--was worse than his beginning: such was thegallant whom the imperious Duchess of Cleveland vouchsafed to honour. 

The life of the once beautiful Barbara Villiers grew daily more and moredepraved: at the age of thirty she retired to Paris, shunned anddisgraced. After numerous intrigues abroad and at home, she put thecrowning point to her follies by falling in love with the handsomeFielding, when she herself numbered sixty-five summers. 

Whether the Beau still thought of fortune, or whether having once triedmatrimony, he was so enchanted with it as to make it his cacoëthes, doesnot appear: the legend explains not for what reason he married theantiquated beauty only three weeks after he had been united to thesupposed widow. For a time he wavered between the two, but that time wasshort: the widow discovered his second marriage, claimed him, and in sodoing revealed the well-kept secret that she was not a widow; indeed, not even the relict of John Deleau, Esq. , of Whaddon, but a wretchedadventurer of the name of Mary Wadsworth, who had shared with Mrs. Villars the plunder of the trick. The Beau tried to preserve hisdignity, and throw over his duper, but in vain. The first wife reportedthe state of affairs to the second: and the duchess, who had beenshamefully treated by Master Fielding, was only too glad of anopportunity to get rid of him. She offered Mary Wadsworth a pension of£100 a year, and a sum of £200 in ready money, to prove the previousmarriage. The case came on, and Beau Fielding had the honour of playinga part in a famous state trial. 

With his usual impudence he undertook to defend himself at the OldBailey, and hatched up some old story to prove that the first wife wasmarried at the time of their union to one Brady; but the plea fell tothe ground, and the fine gentleman was sentenced to be burned in thehand. His interest in certain quarters saved him this ignominiouspunishment which would, doubtless, have spoiled a limb of which he wasparticularly proud. He was pardoned: the real widow married a far morehonourable gentleman, in spite of the unenviable notoriety she hadacquired; the sham one was somehow quieted, and the duchess died somefour years later, the more peacefully for being rid of her tyrannicalmate. 

Thus ended a petty scandal of the day, in which all the parties were sodisreputable that no one could feel any sympathy for a single one ofthem. How the dupe himself ended is not known. The last days of fops andbeaux are never glorious. Brummell died in slovenly penury; Nash incontempt. Fielding lapsed into the dimmest obscurity; and as far asevidence goes, there is as little certainty about his death as of thatof the Wandering Jew. Let us hope that he is not still alive: though hisfriends seemed to have cared little whether he were so or not, to judgefrom a couple of verses written by one of them:--

 'If Fielding is dead, And rests under this 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. 

 The Origin of Clubs. --The Establishment of Coffee-houses. --The October Club. --The Beef-steak Club. --Of certain other Clubs. --The Kit-kat Club. --The Romance of the Bowl. --The Toasts of the Kit-kat. --The Members of the Kit-kat. --A good Wit, and a bad Architect. --'Well-natured Garth. '--The Poets of the Kit-kat. --Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax. --Chancellor Somers. --Charles Sackville, Lord Dorset. --Less celebrated Wits. 

I suppose that, long before the building of Babel, man discovered thathe was an associative animal, with the universal motto, '_L'union c'estla force_;' and that association, to be of any use, requires talk. Ahistory of celebrated associations, from the building society justmentioned down to the thousands which are represented by an office, asecretary, and a brass-plate, in the present day, would give a curiousscheme of the natural tendencies of man; while the story of theirfailures--and how many have not failed, sooner or later!--would be apretty moral lesson to your anthropolaters who Babelize now-a-days, andbelieve there is nothing which a company with capital cannot achieve. Iwonder what object there is, that two men can possibly agree indesiring, and which it takes more than one to attain, for which anassociation of some kind has not been formed at some time or other, since first the swarthy savage learned that it was necessary to unite tokill the lion which infested the neighbourhood! Alack for human nature!I fear by far the larger proportion of the objects of associations wouldbe found rather evil than good, and, certes, nearly all of them might beranged under two heads, according as the passions of hate or desirefound a common object in several hearts. Gain on the onehand--destruction on the other--have been the chief motives of clubbingin all time. 

A delightful exception is to be found, though--to wit, in associationsfor the purpose of talking. I do not refer to parliaments andphilosophical academies, but to those companies which have been formedfor the sole purpose of mutual entertainment by interchange of thought. 

Now, will any kind reader oblige me with a derivation 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 ideaand in existence. Dean Trench points this out, and, noting the fact thatno other nation (he might have excepted the Chinese) has any word toexpress this kind of association, he has, with very pardonable naturalpride, but unpardonably bad logic, inferred that the English are themost sociable people in the world. The contrary is true; nay, _was_true, even in the days of Addison, Swift, Steele--even in the days ofJohnson, Walpole, Selwyn; ay, at all time since we have been a nation. The fact is, we are not the most sociable, but the most associativerace; and the establishment of clubs is a proof of it. We cannot, andnever could, talk freely, comfortably, and generally, without a companyfor talking. Conversation has always been with us as much a business asrailroad-making, or what not. It has always demanded certainaccessories, certain condiments, certain stimulants to work it up to theproper pitch. 'We all know' we are the cleverest and wittiest peopleunder the sun; but then our wit has been stereotyped. France has no 'JoeMiller;' for a bon-mot there, however good, is only appreciatedhistorically. Our wit is printed, not spoken; our best wits behind aninkhorn have sometimes been the veriest logs in society. On theContinent clubs were not called for, because society itself was thearena of conversation. In this country, on the other hand, a man couldonly chat when at his ease; could only be at his ease among those whoagreed with him on the main points of religion and politics, and eventhen wanted the aid of a bottle to make him comfortable. Our want ofsociability was the cause of our clubbing, and therefore the word 'club'is purely English. 

This was never so much the case as after the Restoration. Religion andpolitics never ran higher than when a monarch, who is said to have dieda papist because he had no religion at all during his life, was broughtback to supplant a furious puritanical Protectorate. Then, indeed, itwas difficult for men of opposite parties to meet without bickering; andsociety demanded separate meeting-places for those who differed. Theorigin of clubs in this country is to be traced to two causes--thevehemence of religious and political partisanship, and the establishmentof coffee-houses. These certainly gave the first idea of clubbery. Thetaverns which preceded them had given the English a zest for public lifein a small way. 'The Mermaid' was, virtually, a club of wits long beforethe first real club was opened, and, like the clubs of the eighteenthcentury, it had its presiding geniuses in Shakespeare and Rare Ben. 

The coffee-houses introduced somewhat more refinement and lessexclusiveness. The oldest of these was the 'Grecian. ' 'One Constantine, a Grecian, ' advertised in 'The Intelligencer' of January 23rd, 1664-5, that 'the right coffee bery or chocolate, ' might be had of him 'as cheapand as good as is anywhere to be had for money, ' and soon after began tosell the said 'coffee bery' in small cups at his own establishment inDevereux Court, Strand. Some two years later we have news of 'Will's, 'the most famous, perhaps, of the coffee-houses. Here Dryden held forthwith pedantic vanity: and here was laid the first germ of that criticalacumen which has since become a distinguishing feature in Englishliterature. Then, in the City, one Garraway, of Exchange Alley, firstsold 'tea in leaf and drink, made according to the directions of themost knowing, and travellers into those eastern countries;' and thusestablished the well-known 'Garraway's, ' whither, in Defoe's day, 'foreign banquiers' and even ministers resorted, to drink the saidbeverage. 'Robin's, ' 'Jonathan's, ' and many another, were all openedabout this time, and the rage for coffee-house life became generalthroughout the country. 

In these places the company was of course of all classes and colours;but, as the conversation was general, there was naturally at first agood deal of squabbling, till, for the sake of peace and comfort, a manchose his place of resort according to his political principles; and alittle later there were regular Whig and Tory coffee-houses. Thus, inAnne's day, 'The Cocoa-nut, ' in St. James's Street, was reserved forJacobites, while none but Whigs frequented 'The St James's. ' Still therewas not sufficient exclusiveness; and as early as in Charles II. 's reignmen of peculiar opinions began to appropriate certain coffee-houses atcertain hours, and to exclude from them all but approved members. Hencethe origin of clubs. 

The October Club was one of the earliest, being composed of some hundredand fifty rank Tories, chiefly country members of Parliament. They metat the 'Bell, ' in King Street, Westminster, that street in which Spenserstarved, and Dryden's brother kept a grocer's shop. A portrait of QueenAnne, by Dahl, hung in the club-room. This and the Kit-kat, the greatWhig club, were chiefly reserved for politics; but the fashion ofclubbing having once come in, it was soon followed by people of allfancies. No reader of the 'Spectator' can fail to remember the ridiculeto which this was turned by descriptions of imaginary clubs for whichthe qualifications were absurd, and 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 EverlastingClub, the Sighing Club, the Amorous Club, and others, could only havebeen suggested by real clubs almost as ridiculous. The names, too, werealmost as fantastical as those of the taverns in the previous century, which counted 'The Devil, ' and 'The Heaven and Hell, ' among theirnumbers. Many derived their titles from the standing dishes preferred atsupper, the Beef-steak and the Kit-kat (a sort of mutton-pie), forinstance. 

The Beef-steak Club, still in existence, was one of the most famousestablished in Anne's reign. It had at that time less of a politicalthan a jovial character. Nothing but that excellent British fare, fromwhich it took its name, was, at first, served at the supper-table. Itwas an assemblage of wits of every station, and very jovial were theysupposed to be when the juicy dish had been discussed. Early in thecentury, Estcourt, the actor, was made provider to this club, and wore agolden gridiron as a badge of office, and is thus alluded to in Dr. King's 'Art of Cookery' (1709):--

 'He that of honour, wit, and mirth partakes, May be a fit companion o'er beef-stakes; His name may be to future times enrolled In Estcourt's book, whose gridiron's framed of gold. '

Estcourt was one of the best mimics of the day, and a keen satirist toboot; in fact he seems to have owed much of his success on the stage tohis power of imitation, for while his own manner was inferior, he couldat pleasure copy exactly that of any celebrated actor. He _would_ be aplayer. At fifteen he ran away from home, and joining a strollingcompany, acted Roxana in woman's clothes: his friends pursued him, and, changing his dress for that of a girl of the time, he tried to escapethem, but in vain. The histrionic youth was captured, and boundapprentice in London town; the 'seven long years' of which did not curehim of the itch for acting. But he was too good a wit for the stage, andamused himself, though not always his audience, by interspersing hispart with his own remarks. The great took him by the hand, and oldMarlborough especially patronized him: he wrote a burlesque of theItalian operas then beginning to be in vogue; and died in 1712-13. Estcourt was not the only actor belonging to the Beef-steak, nor eventhe only one who had concealed his sex under emergency; Peg Woffington, who had made as good a boy as he had done a girl, was afterwards amember of this club. 

In later years the beef-steak was cooked in a room at the top of CoventGarden Theatre, and counted many a celebrated wit among those who sataround its cheery dish. Wilkes the blasphemer, Churchill, and LordSandwich, were all members of it at the same time. Of the last, Walpolegives us information in 1763 at the time of Wilkes's duel with Martin inHyde Park. He tells us that at the Beef-steak Club Lord Sandwich talkedso profusely, 'that he drove harlequins out of the company. ' To thehonour of the club be it added, that his lordship was driven out afterthe harlequins, and finally expelled: it is sincerely to be hoped thatWilkes was sent after his lordship. This club is now represented by oneheld behind the Lyceum, with the thoroughly British motto, 'Beef andLiberty:' the name was happily chosen and therefore imitated. In thereign of George II. We meet with a 'Rump-steak, or Liberty Club;' andsomehow steaks and liberty seem to be the two ideas most intimatelyassociated in the Britannic mind. Can any one explain it?

Other clubs there were under Anne, --political, critical, andhilarious--but the palm is undoubtedly carried off by the gloriousKit-kat. 

It is not every eating-house that is immortalized by a Pope, thoughTennyson has sung 'The Cock' with its 'plump head-waiter, ' who, by theway, was mightily offended by the Laureate's verses--or pretended to beso--and thought it 'a great liberty of Mr. ----, Mr. ----, what is hisname? to put respectable private characters into his books. ' Pope, orsome say Arbuthnot, explained the etymology of this club's extraordinarytitle:--

 'Whence deathless 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 a hap-hazard, and retained becauseit was singular, but as it has given a poet a theme, and a painter aname for pictures of a peculiar size, its etymology has becomeimportant. Some say that the pastry cook in Shire Lane, at whose houseit was held, was named Christopher Katt. Some one or other was certainlycelebrated 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 eveningnourishment for many a celebrated noble profligate of the day. Thesupposed sign of the Cat and Fiddle (Kitt), gave another solution, butafter all, Pope's may be satisfactorily received. 

The Kit-kat was, _par excellence_, the Whig Club of Queen Anne's time:it was established at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and wasthen composed of thirty-nine members, among whom were the Dukes ofMarlborough, Devonshire, Grafton, Richmond, and Somerset. In later daysit numbered the greatest wits of the age, of whom anon. 

This club was celebrated more than any for its _toasts_. 

Now, if men must drink--and sure the vine was given us for use, I do notsay for abuse--they had better make it an occasion of friendlyintercourse; nothing can be more degraded than the solitarysanctimonious toping in which certain of our northern brethren are knownto indulge. They had better give to the quaffing of that rich gift, sentto be a medicine for the mind, to raise us above the perpetualcontemplation of worldly ills, as much of romance and elegance aspossible. It is the opener of the heart, the awakener of nobler feelingsof 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 thatthe Greeks made a god of Bacchus, that the Hindu worshipped the mellowSoma, 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 goblet wasreally wreathed with flowers; and even the German student, dirty anddrunken as he may be, removes half the stain from his orgies with therich harmony of his songs, and the hearty good-fellowship of his toasts. We drink still, perhaps we shall always drink till the end of time, butall the romance of the bowl is gone; the last trace of its beauty wentwith the frigid abandonment of the toast. 

There was some excuse for wine when it brought out that now forgottenexpression of good-will. Many a feud was reconciled in the clinking ofglasses; just as many another was begun when the cup was drained toodeeply. The first quarter of the last century saw the end of all thesocial glories of the wassail in this country, and though men drank asmuch fifty years later, all its poetry and romance had then disappeared. 

It was still, however, the custom at that period to call on the name ofsome fair maiden, and sing her praises over the cup as it passed. It wasa point of honour for all the company to join the health. Some beautiesbecame celebrated for the number of their toasts; some even standingtoasts among certain sets. In the Kit-kat Club the custom was carriedout by rule, and every member was compelled to name a beauty, whoseclaims to the honour were then discussed, and if her name was approved, a separate bowl was consecrated to her, and verses to her honourengraved on it. Some of the most celebrated toasts had even theirportraits hung in the club-room, and it was no slight distinction to bethe favourite of the Kit-kat. When only eight years old, Lady MaryWortley Montagu enjoyed this privilege. Her father, the Lord Dorchester, afterwards Evelyn, Duke of Kingston, in a fit of caprice, proposed 'thepretty little child' as his toast. The other members, who had never seenher, objected; the Peer sent for her, and there could no longer be anyquestion. The forward little girl was handed from knee to knee, petted, probably, by Addison, Congreve, Vanbrugh, Garth, and many another famouswit. Another celebrated toast of the Kit-kat, mentioned by Walpole, wasLady Molyneux, who, he says, died smoking a pipe. 

This club was no less celebrated for its portraits than for the ladiesit honoured. They, the portraits, were all painted by Kneller, and allof one size, which thence got the name of Kit-kat; they were hung roundthe club-room. Jacob Tonson, the publisher, was secretary to the club. 

Defoe tells us the Kit-kat held the first rank among the clubs of theearly part of the last century, and certainly the names of its memberscomprise as many wits as we could expect to find collected in onesociety. 

Addison must have been past forty when he became a member of theKit-kat. His 'Cato' had won him the general applause of the Whig party, who could not allow so fine a writer to slip from among them. He hadlong, too, played the courtier, and was 'quite a gentleman. ' A placeamong the exclusives of the Kit-kat was only the just reward of suchattainments, and he had it. I shall not be asked to give a notice of aman so universally known, and one who ranks rather with the humoriststhan the wits. It will suffice to say, that it was not till _after_ thepublication of the 'Spectator, ' and some time after, that he joined oursociety. 

Congreve I have chosen out of this set for a separate life, for this manhappens to present a very average sample of all their peculiarities. Congreve was a literary man, a poet, a wit, a beau, and--what unhappilyis quite as much to the purpose--a profligate. The only point he, therefore, wanted in common with most of the members, was a title; butfew of the titled members combined as many good and bad qualities of theKit-kat kind as did William Congreve. 

Another dramatist, whose name seems to be inseparable from Congreve's, was that mixture of bad and good taste--Vanbrugh. The author of 'TheRelapse, ' the most licentious play ever acted;--the builder of Blenheim, the ugliest house ever erected, was a man of good family, and Walpolecounts him among those who 'wrote genteel comedy, because they lived inthe best company. ' We doubt the logic of this; but if it hold, how is itthat Van wrote plays which the best company, even at that age, condemned, and neither good nor bad company can read in the present daywithout being shocked? If the conversation of the Kit-kat was anythinglike that in this member's comedies, it must have been highly edifying. However, I have no doubt Vanbrugh passed for a gentleman, whatever hisconversation, and he was certainly a wit, and apparently somewhat lesslicentious in his morals than the rest. Yet what Pope said of hisliterature may be said, too, of some acts of his life:--

 'How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit. '

And his quarrel with 'Queen Sarah' of Marlborough, though the duchesswas by no means the most agreeable woman in the world to deal with, isnot much to Van's honour. When the nation voted half a million to buildthat hideous mass of stone, the irregular and unsightly piling of whichcaused Walpole to say that the architect 'had emptied quarries, ratherthan built houses, ' and Dr. Evans to write this epitaph for thebuilder--

 'Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he Laid many a heavy load on thee, '

Sarah haggled over 'seven-pence halfpenny a bushel;' Van retorted bycalling her 'stupid and troublesome, ' and 'that wicked woman ofMarlborough, ' and after the Duke's death, wrote that the Duke had lefther 'twelve thousand pounds a-year to keep herself clean and go to law. 'Whether she employed any portion of it on the former object we do notpretend to say, but she certainly spent as much as a miser could onlitigation, Van himself being one of the unfortunates she attacked inthis way. 

The events of Vanbrugh's life were varied. He began life in the army, but in 1697 gave the stage 'The Relapse. ' It was sufficientlysuccessful to induce him to follow it up with the 'Provoked Wife, ' oneof the wittiest pieces produced in those days. Charles, Earl ofCarlisle, Deputy Earl Marshal, for whom he built Castle Howard, madehim Clarencieux King-at-arms in 1704, and he was knighted by GeorgeI. , 9th of September, 1714. In 1705 he joined Congreve in themanagement of the Haymarket, which he himself built. George I. Madehim Comptroller-general of the royal works. He had even an experienceof the Bastille, where he was confined for sketching fortifications inFrance. He died in 1726, with the reputation of a good wit, and a badarchitect. His conversation was, certainly, as light as his buildingswere heavy. 

Another member, almost as well known in his day, was Sir Samuel Garth, the physician, 'well-natured Garth, ' as Pope called him. He won his fameby his satire on the apothecaries in the shape of a poem called 'TheDispensary. ' When delivering the funeral oration over Dryden's body, which had been so long unburied that its odour began to be disagreeable, he mounted a tub, the top of which fell through and left the doctor inrather an awkward position. He gained admission to the Kit-kat inconsequence of a vehement eulogy on King William which he had introducedinto his Harveian oration in 1697. [13] It was Garth, too, whoextemporized most of the verses which were inscribed on thetoasting-glasses of their club, so that he may, _par excellence_, beconsidered the Kit-kat poet. He was the physician and friend ofMarlborough, with whose sword he was knighted by George I. , who made himhis physician 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 everlived, 'without knowing it. ' He certainly had no affectation of piety, and if charitable and good-natured acts could take a man to heaven, hedeserved to go there. He had his doubts about faith, and is said to havedied a Romanist. This he did in 1719, and the poor and the Kit-kat mustboth have felt his loss. He was perhaps more of a wit than a poet, although he has been classed at times with Gray and Prior; he canscarcely take the same rank as other verse-making doctors, such asAkenside, 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 heran a match in the Mall with the Duke of Grafton, and beat him. He wasfond, too, of a hard frost, and had a regular speech to introduce onthat subject: 'Yes, sir, 'fore Gad, very fine weather, sir--verywholesome weather, sir--kills trees, sir--very good for man, sir. '

Old Marlborough had another intimate friend at the club, who wasprobably one of its earliest members. This was Arthur Maynwaring, apoet, too, in a way, but more celebrated at this time for his _liaison_with Mrs. Oldfield, the famous but disreputable actress, with whom hefell in love when he was forty years old, and whom he instructed in theniceties of elocution, making her rehearse her parts to him in private. Maynwaring was born in 1668, educated at Oxford, and destined for thebar, for which he studied. He began life as a vehement Jacobite, andeven supported that party in sundry pieces; but like some others, he waseasily converted, when, on coming to town, he found it more fashionableto be a Whig. He held two or three posts under the Government, whosecause he now espoused: had the honour of the dedication of 'The Tatler'to him by Steele, and died suddenly in 1712. He divided his fortunebetween his sister and his mistress, Mrs. Oldfield, and his son by thelatter. Mrs. Oldfield must have grown rich in her sinful career, for shecould 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 wayof acknowledgment. 

Poetising seems to have been as much a polite accomplishment of that ageas letter-writing was of a later, and a smattering of science is of thepresent day. Gentlemen tried to be poets, and poets gentlemen. Theconsequence was, that both made fools of themselves. Among thepoetasters who belonged to the Kit-kat, we must mention Walsh, a countrygentleman, member of Parliament, and very tolerable scholar. He dabbledin odes, elegies, epitaphs, and all that small fry of the muse which wasthen so plentiful. He wrote critical essays on Virgil, in which he triedto make out that the shepherds in the days of the Roman poet were verywell-bred gentlemen of good education! He was a devoted admirer andfriend of Dryden, and he encouraged Pope in his earlier career so kindlythat the little viper actually praised him! Walsh died somewhere about1709 in middle life. 

We have not nearly done with the poets of the Kit-kat. A still smallerone than Walsh was Stepney, who, like Garth, had begun life as a violentTory and turned coat when he found his interest lay the other way. Hewas well repaid, for from 1692 to 1706 he was sent on no less than eightdiplomatic missions, chiefly to German courts. He owed this prefermentto the good luck of having been a schoolfellow of Charles Montagu, afterwards Earl of Halifax. He died about 1707, and had as grand amonument and epitaph in Westminster Abbey as if he had been a Milton orDryden. 

When you meet a dog trotting along the road, you naturally expect thathis master is not far off. In the same way, where you find a poet, stillmore a poetaster, there you may feel certain you will light upon apatron. The Kit-kat was made up of Mæcenases and their humble servants;and in the same club with Addison, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and the minorpoets, we are not at all surprised to find Sir Robert Walpole, the Dukeof Somerset, Halifax, and Somers. 

Halifax was, _par excellence_, the Mæcenas of his day, and Popedescribed him admirably in the character of Bufo:--

 'Proud as Apollo, on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill; _Fed with soft dedication_ all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. '

The dedications poured in thickly. Steele, Tickell, Philips, Smith, anda crowd of lesser lights, raised my lord each one on a higher pinnacle;and in return the powerful minister was not forgetful of the douceurwhich well-tuned verses were accustomed to receive. He himself had triedto be a poet, and in 1703 wrote verses for the toasting-cups of theKit-kat. His lines to a Dowager Countess of ----, are good enough tomake us surprised that he never wrote any better. Take a specimen:--

 'Fair Queen of Fop-land in her royal style; Fop-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 Mæcenas who paid for his dedications was sure to be well spoken of, and Halifax has been made out a wit and a poet, as well as a cleverstatesman. Halifax got his earldom and the garter from George I. , anddied, after enjoying them less than a year, in 1715. 

Chancellor Somers, with whom Halifax was associated in the impeachmentcase in 1701, was a far better man in every respect. His was probablythe purest character among those of all the members of the Kit-kat. Hewas the son of a Worcester attorney, and born in 1652. He was educatedat Trinity, Oxford, and rose purely by merit, distinguishing himself atthe bar and on the bench, unwearied in his application to business, andan exact and upright judge. At school he was a terribly good boy, keeping to his book in play-hours. Throughout life his habits weresimple and regular, and his character unblemished. He slept but little, and in later years had a reader to attend him at waking. With suchhabits he can scarcely have been a constant attender at the club; and ashe died a bachelor, it would be curious to learn what ladies he selectedfor his toasts. In his latter years his mind was weakened, and he diedin 1716 of apoplexy. Walpole calls him 'one of those divine men who, like a chapel in a palace, remained unprofaned, while all the rest istyranny, corruption, and folly. '

A huge stout figure rolls in now to join the toasters in Shire Lane. Inthe puffy, once handsome face, there are signs of age, for its owner ispast sixty; yet he is dressed in superb fashion; and in an hour or so, when the bottle has been diligently circulated, his wit will be brighterand keener than that of any young man present. I do not say it will berepeatable, for the talker belongs to a past age, even coarser than thatof the Kit-kat. He is Charles Sackville, [14] famous as a companion ofthe merriest and most disreputable of the Stuarts, famous--or, rather, infamous--for his mistress, Nell Gwynn, famous for his verses, for hispatronage of poets, and for his wild frolics in early life, when LordBuckhurst. 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 sing the ballad which he is said to have written onthe eve of the naval engagement between the Duke of York and AdmiralOpdam, which begins--

 'To all you ladies now on land We men at sea indite. '

With a fine classical taste and a courageous spirit, he had in earlydays been guilty of as much iniquity as any of Charles's profligatecourt. He was one of a band of young libertines who robbed and murdereda poor tanner on the high-road, and were acquitted, less on account ofthe poor excuse they dished up for this act than of their rank andfashion. Such fine gentlemen could not be hanged for the sake of a mereworkman in those days--no! no! Yet he does not seem to have repented ofthis transaction, for soon after he was engaged with Sedley and Ogle ina series of most indecent acts at the Cock Tavern in Bow-street, whereSedley, in 'birthday attire, ' made a blasphemous oration from thebalcony of the house. In later years he was the pride of the poets:Dryden and Prior, Wycherley, Hudibras, and Rymer, were all encouraged byhim, and repaid him with praises. Pope and Dr. King were no lessbountiful in their eulogies of this Mæcenas. His conversation was somuch appreciated that gloomy William III. Chose him as his companion, asmerry Charles had done before. The famous Irish ballad, which my UncleToby was always humming, 'Lillibullero bullen-a-lah, ' but which Percyattributes to the Marquis of Wharton, another member of the Kit-kat, wassaid to have been written by Buckhurst. He retained his wit to the last;and Congreve, who visited him when he was dying, said, 'Faith, hestutters more wit than other people have in their best health. ' He diedat Bath in 1706. 

Buckhurst does not complete the list of conspicuous members of thisclub, but the remainder were less celebrated for their wit. There wasthe Duke of Kingston, the father of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu;Granville, who imitated Waller, and attempted to make his 'Myra' ascelebrated as the court-poet's Saccharissa, who, by the way, was themother of the Earl of Sunderland; the Duke of Devonshire, whom Walpolecalls 'a patriot among the men, a gallant among the ladies, ' and whofounded Chatsworth; and other noblemen, chiefly belonging to the latterpart of the seventeenth century, and all devoted to William III. , thoughthey had been bred at the courts of Charles and James. 

With such an array of wits, poets, statesmen, and gallants, it caneasily be believed that to be the toast of the Kit-kat was no slighthonour; to be a member of it a still greater one; and to be one of itsmost distinguished, as Congreve was, the greatest. Let us now see whattitle this conceited beau and poet had to that position. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: The Kit-kat club was not founded till 1703. ]

[Footnote 14: For some notice of Lord Dorset, see p. 61. ]

 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 

 When and where was he born?--The Middle Temple. --Congreve finds his Vocation. --Verses to Queen Mary. --The Tennis-court Theatre. --Congreve abandons the Drama. --Jeremy Collier. --The Immorality of the Stage. --Very improper Things. --Congreve's Writings. --Jeremy's 'Short Views. '--Rival Theatres. --Dryden's Funeral. --A Tub-Preacher. --Horoscopic Predictions. --Dryden's Solicitude for his Son. --Congreve's Ambition. --Anecdote of Voltaire and Congreve. --The Profession of Mæcenas. --Congreve's Private Life. --'Malbrook's' Daughter. --Congreve's Death and Burial. 

When 'Queen Sarah' of Marlborough read the silly epitaph whichHenrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, had written and had engraved on themonument she set up to Congreve, she said, with one of the true Blenheimsneers, 'I know not what _happiness_ she might have in his company, butI am sure it was no _honour_, ' alluding to her daughter's eulogisticphrases. 

Queen Sarah was right, as she often was when condemnation was calledfor: and however amusing a companion the dramatist may have been, he wasnot a man to respect, for he had not only the common vices of his age, but added to them a foppish vanity, toadyism, and fine gentlemanism (tocoin a most necessary word), which we scarcely expect to meet with in aman who sets up for a satirist. 

It is the fate of greatness to have falsehoods told of it, and ofnothing in connection with it more so than of its origin. If theconverse be true, Congreve ought to have been a great man, for the placeand time of his birth are both subjects of dispute. Oh! happy Gifford!or happy Croker! why did you not--perhaps you did--go to work to set theworld right on this matter--you, to whom a date discovered is thehighest palm (no pun intended, I assure you) of glory, and who wouldrather Shakespere had never written 'Hamlet, ' or Homer the 'Iliad, ' thanthat some miserable little forgotten scrap which decided a year or aplace should have been consigned to flames before it fell into yourhands? Why did you not bring the thunder of your abuse and thepop-gunnery of your satire to bear upon the question, 'How, when, andwhere was William Congreve born?'

It was Lady Morgan, I think, who first 'saw the light' (that is, if shewas born in the day-time) in the Irish Channel. If it had been only someone more celebrated, we should have had by this time a series ofphilosophical, geographical, and ethnological pamphlets to prove thatshe was English or Irish, according to the fancies or prejudices of thewriters. It was certainly a very Irish thing to do, which is oneargument for the Milesians, and again it was done in the Irish Channel, which is another and a stronger one; and altogether we are not inclinedto go into forty-five pages of recondite facts and fine-drawn arguments, mingled with the most vehement abuse of anybody who ever before wrote onthe subject, to prove that this country had the honour of producing herladyship--the Wild Irish Girl. We freely give her up to the sisterisland. But not so William Congreve, though we are equally indifferentto the honour in his case. 

The one party, then, assert that he was born in this country, the otherthat he breathed his first air in the Emerald Isle. Whichever be thetrue state of the case, we, as Englishmen, prefer to agree in thecommonly received opinion that he came into this wicked world at thevillage of Bardsea, or Bardsey, not far from Leeds in the county ofYork. Let the Bardseyans immediately erect a statue to his honour, ifthey have been remiss enough to neglect him heretofore. 

But our difficulties are not ended, for there is a similar doubt aboutthe year of his birth. His earliest biographer assures us he was born in1672, and others that he was baptized three years before, in 1669. Sucha proceeding might well be taken as a proof of his Hibernian extraction, and accordingly we find Malone supporting the earlier date, producing, of course, a certificate of baptism to support himself; and as we havea 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 issatisfactorily answered by his earliest biographer, who informs us thathe was of a very ancient family, being 'the only surviving son ofWilliam Congreve, Esq. (who was second son to Richard Congreve, Esq. , ofCongreve and Stretton in that county), ' to wit, Yorkshire. Congreve_père_ held a military command, which took him to Ireland soon after thedramatist's birth, and thus young William had the incomparable advantageof being educated at Kilkenny, and afterwards at Trinity, Dublin, the'silent sister, ' as it is commonly called at our universities. 

At the age of nineteen, this youth sought the classic shades of theMiddle Temple, of which he was entered a student, but by the honourablesociety of which he was never called to the bar; but whether this wasfrom a disinclination to study 'Coke upon Lyttleton, ' or from anincapacity to digest the requisite number of dinners, the devouring ofwhich qualify a young gentleman to address an enlightened British jury, we have no authority for deciding. He was certainly not the first, northe last, young Templar who has quitted special pleading on a crusade tothe heights of Parnassus, and he began early to try the nib of his penand the colour of his ink in a novel. Eheu! how many a novel has issuedfrom the dull, dirty chambers of that same Temple! The waters of theThames just there seem to have been augmented by a mingled flow ofsewage and Helicon, though the former is undoubtedly in the greaterproportion. This novel, called 'Incognita; or, Love and DutyReconciled, ' seems to have been--for I confess that I have not read morethan a chapter of it, and hope I never may be forced to do so--greatrubbish, with good store of villains and ruffians, love-sick maidens whotune their lutes--always conveniently at hand--and love-sick gallantswho run their foes through the body with the greatest imaginable ease. It was, in fact, such a novel as James might have written, had he liveda century and a half ago. It brought its author but little fame, andaccordingly he turned his attention to another branch of literature, andin 1693 produced 'The Old Bachelor, ' a play of which Dryden, his friend, had so high an opinion that he called it the 'best first-play he hadever read. ' However, before being put on the stage it was submitted toDryden, and by him and others prepared for representation, so that itwas well fathered. It was successful enough, and Congreve thus found hisvocation. In his dedication--a regular piece of flummery of those days, for which authors were often well paid, either in cash or interest--heacknowledges a debt of gratitude to Lord Halifax, who appears to havetaken the young man by the hand. 

The young Templar could do nothing better now than write another play. Play-making was as fashionable an amusement in those days of Old Drury, the only patented theatre then, as novel-writing is in 1860; and whenthe young ensign, Vanbrugh, could write comedies and take the directionof a theatre, it was no derogation to the dignity of the Staffordshiresquire's grandson to do as much. Accordingly, in the following year hebrought out a better comedy, 'The Double Dealer, ' with a prologue whichwas spoken by the famous Anne Bracegirdle. She must have been eightyyears old when Horace Walpole wrote of her to that other Horace--Mann:'Tell Mr. Chute that his friend Bracegirdle breakfasted with me thismorning. As she went out and wanted her clogs, she turned to me andsaid: "I remember at the playhouse they used to call, Mrs. Oldfield'schair! Mrs. Barry's clogs! and Mrs. Bracegirdle's pattens!"' These threeladies were all buried in Westminster Abbey, and, except Mrs. Cibber, the most beautiful and most sinful of them all--though they were none ofthem spotless--are the only actresses whose ashes and memories arehallowed by the place, for we can scarcely say that they do _it_ muchhonour. 

The success of 'The Double Dealer, ' was at first moderate, although thathighly respectable woman, Queen Mary, honoured it with her augustpresence, which forthwith called up verses of the old adulatory style, though with less point and neatness than those addressed to the VirginQueen:

 'Wit is again the care of majesty, '

said the poet, and

 'Thus flourished wit in our forefathers' age, And thus the Roman and Athenian stage. Whose wit is best, we'll not presume to tell, But this we know, our audience will excell; For never was in Rome, nor Athens seen So fair a circle, and so bright a queen. '

But this was not enough, for when Her Majesty departed for another realmin the same year, Congreve put her into a highly eulogistic pastoral, under the name of Pastora, and made some compliments on her, which wereconsidered the finest strokes of poetry and flattery combined, that anage of addresses and eulogies could produce. 

 'As lofty pines o'ertop the lowly steed, So did her graceful height all nymphs exceed, To which excelling height she bore a mind Humble as osiers, bending to the wind. 

 * * * * *

 I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn, And sable clouds her chalkie cliffs adorn. '

This play was dedicated to Lord Halifax, of whom we have spoken, and whocontinued to be Congreve's patron. 

The fame of the young man was now made; but in the following year it wasdestined to shine out more brilliantly still. Old Betterton--one of thebest Hamlets that ever trod the stage, and of whom Booth declared thatwhen he was playing the Ghost to his Hamlet, his look of surprise andhorror was so natural, that Booth could not for some minutes recoverhimself--was now a veteran in his sixtieth year. For forty years he hadwalked the boards, and made a fortune for the patentees of Drury. It wasvery shabby of them, therefore, to give some of his best parts toyounger actors. Betterton was disgusted, and determined to set up forhimself, to which end he managed to procure another patent, turned theQueen's Court in Portugal Row, Lincoln's Inn, into a theatre, and openedit on the 30th of April, 1695. The building had been before used as atheatre in the days of the Merry Monarch, and Tom Killegrew had actedhere some twenty years before; but it had again become a 'tennis-quatreof the lesser sort, ' says Cibber, and the new theatre was not verygrand in fabric. But Betterton drew to it all the best actors andactresses of his former company; and Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Bracegirdleremained true to the old man. Congreve, to his honour, espoused the samecause, and the theatre opened with his play of 'Love for Love, ' whichwas more successful than either of the former. The veteran himself spokethe prologue, and fair Bracegirdle the epilogue, in which the poet thusalluded to their change of stage:

 '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 hope for future grace: I beg it---- And some here know I have 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 olderhouse, if it had not been for the rapidity with which Vanbrugh andCibber, who wrote for Old Drury, managed to concoct their pieces; whileCongreve was a slower, though perhaps better, writer. 'Love for Love'was hereafter a favourite of Betterton's, and when in 1709, a yearbefore his death, the company gave the old man--then in ill health, poorcircumstances, and bad spirits--a benefit, he chose this play, andhimself, though more than seventy, acted the part of Valentine, supported by Mrs. Bracegirdle as Angelina, and Mrs. Barry as Frail. 

The young dramatist with all his success, was not satisfied with hisfame, and resolved to show the world that he had as much poetry as witin him. This he failed to do; and, like better writers, injured his ownfame, by not being contented with what he had. Congreve--the wit, thedandy, the man about town--took it into his head to write a tragedy. In1697 'The Mourning Bride' was acted at the Tennis Court Theatre. Theauthor was wise enough to return to his former muse, and some time afterproduced his best piece, so some think, 'The Way of the World, ' whichwas also performed by Betterton's company; but, alas! foroverwriting--that cacoëthes of imprudent men--it was almost hissed offthe stage. Whether this was owing to a weariness of Congreve's style, or whether at the time of its first appearance Collier's attacks, ofwhich anon, had already disgusted the public with the obscenity andimmorality of this writer, I do not know: but, whatever the cause, theconsequence was that Mr. William Congreve, in a fit of pique, made uphis mind never to write another piece for the stage--a wise resolution, perhaps--and to turn fine gentleman instead. With the exception ofcomposing a masque called the 'Judgment of Paris, ' and an opera'Gemele, ' which was never performed, he kept this resolution veryhonestly; and so Mr. William Congreve's career as a playwright ends atthe early age of thirty. 

But though he abandoned the drama, he was not allowed to retire inpeace. There was a certain worthy, but peppery little man, who, though aJacobite and a clergyman, was stanch and true, and as superior incharacter--even, indeed, in vigour of writing--to Congreve, as Somerswas to every man of his age. This very Jeremy Collier, to whom we owe itthat there is any English drama fit to be acted before our sisters andwives in the present day. Jeremy, the peppery, purged the stage in asuccession of Jeremiads. 

Born in 1650, educated at Cambridge as a poor scholar, ordained at theage of twenty-six, presented three years later with the living ofAmpton, near Bury St. Edmunds, Jeremy had two qualities to recommend himto Englishmen--respectability and pluck. In an age when the clergy wereas bad as the blackest sheep in their flocks, Jeremy was distinguishedby purity of life; in an age when the only safety lay in adopting theprinciples of the Vicar of Bray, Jeremy was a Nonjuror, and of thisnothing could cure him. The Revolution of 1688 was scarcely effected, when the fiery little partizan published a pamphlet, which was rewardedby a residence of some months in Newgate, _not_ in capacity of chaplain. But he was scarcely let out, when again went his furious pen, and forfour years he continued to assail the new government, till his handswere shackled and his mouth closed in the prison of 'The Gate-house. 'Now, see the character of the man. He was liberated upon giving bail, but had no sooner reflected on this liberation than he came to theconclusion that it was wrong, by offering security, to recognize theauthority of magistrates appointed by a usurper, as he held William tobe, and voluntarily surrendered himself to his judges. Of course he wasagain committed, but this time to the King's Bench, and would doubtlessin a few years have made the tour of the London prisons, if his enemieshad not been tired of trying him. Once more at liberty, he passed thenext three years in retirement. 

After 1693, Jeremy Collier's name was not brought before the public till1696, when he publicly absolved Sir John Friend and Sir William Perkins, at their execution, for being concerned in a plot to assassinate KingWilliam. His 'Essays on Moral Subjects' were published in 1697; 2ndvol. , 1705; 3rd vol. , 1709. But the only way to put out a firebrand likethis is to let it alone, and Jeremy, being, no longer persecuted, began, at last, to think the game was grown stupid, and gave it up. He was awell-meaning man, however, and as long as he had the luxury of agrievance, would injure no one. 

He found one now in the immorality of his age, and if he had leftpolitics to themselves from the first, he might have done much more goodthan he did. Against the vices of a court and courtly circles it wasuseless to start a crusade single-handed; but his quaint clever penmight yet dress out a powerful Jeremiad against those who encouraged thelicentiousness of the people. Jeremy was no Puritan, for he was aNonjuror and a Jacobite, and we may, therefore, believe that the causewas a good one, when we find him adopting precisely the same line as thePuritans had done before him. In 1698 he published, to the disgust ofall Drury and Lincoln's Inn, his 'Short View of the Immorality andProfaneness of the English Stage, together with the Sense of Antiquityupon this Argument. '

While the King of Naples is supplying his ancient Venuses with gowns, and putting his Mars and Hercules into pantaloons, there are--such arethe varieties of opinion--respectable men in this country who call Paulde Kock the greatest moral writer of his age, and who would yet like tosee 'The Relapse, ' 'Love for Love, ' and the choice specimens ofWycherley, Farquhar, and even of Beaumont and Fletcher, acted at thePrincess's and the Haymarket in the year of grace 1860. I am not writing'A Short View' of this or any other moral subject; but this I mustsay--the effect of a sight or sound on a human being's silly littlepassions must of necessity be relative. Staid people read 'Don Juan, 'Lewis's 'Monk, ' the plays of Congreve, and any or all of thepublications of Holywell Street, without more than disgust at theirobscenity and admiration for their beauties. But could we be pardonedfor putting these works into the hands of 'sweet seventeen, ' or makingChristmas presents of them to our boys? Ignorance of evil is, to acertain extent, virtue: let boys be boys in purity of mind as long asthey can: let the unrefined 'great unwashed' be treated also much in thesame way as young people. I maintain that to a coarse mind all improperideas, however beautifully clothed, suggest only sensual thoughts--nay, the very modesty of the garments makes them the more insidious--the moredangerous. I would rather give my boy Jonson, Massinger, or Beaumont andFletcher, whose very improper things 'are called by their proper 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 itlong since, and, except in indelicate 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 refined than inthose of Queen Anne, it was found impossible to put the old drama on thestage without considerable weeding. Indeed I doubt if even the liberalupholder of Paul de Kock would call Congreve a moral writer; but Iconfess I am not a competent judge, for _risum teneatis_, my critics, Ihave not read his works since I was a boy, and what is more, I have nointention of reading them. I well remember getting into my hands a largethick volume, adorned with miserable woodcuts, and bearing on its backthe title 'Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar. ' I devoured itat first with the same avidity with which one might welcome abottle-imp, who at the hour of one's dulness turned up out of the carpetand offered you delights new and old for nothing but a tether on yoursoul: and with a like horror, boy though I was, I recoiled from it whenany better moment came. It seemed to me, when I read this book, as iflife were too rotten for any belief, a nest of sharpers, adulterers, cut-throats, and prostitutes. There was none--as far as I remember--ofthat amiable weakness, of that better sentiment, which in Ben Jonson orMassinger reconcile us to human nature. If truth be a test of genius, itmust be a proof of true poetry, that man is not made uglier than he is. Nay, his very ugliness loses its intensity and palls upon our diseasedtastes, for want of some goodness, some purity and honesty to relieveit. I will not say that there is none of this in Congreve. I only know, that my recollection of his plays is like that of a vile nightmare, which I would not for anything have return to me. I have read, since, books as bad, perhaps worse in some respects, but I have found theredemption here and there. I would no more place Shandy in any boy'shands than Congreve and Farquhar; and yet I can read Tristram again andagain with delight; for amid all that is bad there stand out Trim andToby, pure specimens of the best side of human nature, coming home to usand telling us that the world is not all bad. There may be such touchesin 'Love for Love, ' or 'The Way of the World'--I know not and care not. To my remembrance Congreve is but a horrible nightmare, and may thefates forbid I should be forced to go through his plays again. 

Perhaps, then, Jeremy was not far wrong, when he attacked thesespecimens of the drama with an unrelenting Nemesis; but he was beforehis age. It was less the obvious coarseness of these productions withwhich he found fault than their demoralizing tendency in a directionwhich we should now, perhaps, consider innocuous. Certainly the Jeremiadoverdid it, and like a swift, but not straight bowler at cricket, hesent balls which no wicket-keeper could stop, and which, therefore, wereharmless to the batter. He did not want boldness. He attacked Dryden, now close upon his grave: Congreve, a young man; Vanbrugh, Cibber, Farquhar, and the rest, all alive, all in the zenith of their fame, andall as popular as writers could be. It was as much as if a man shouldstand up to-day and denounce Dickens and Thackeray, with the exceptionthat well-meaning people went along with Jeremy, whereas very few woulddo more than smile at the zeal of any one who tilted against our modernpets. Jeremy, no doubt, was bold, but he wanted tact, and so gave hisenemy occasion to blaspheme. He made out cases where there were none, and let alone what we moderns should denounce. So Congreve took up thecudgels against him with much wit and much coarseness, and the twofought out the battle in many a pamphlet and many a letter. But Jeremywas not to be beaten. His 'Short View' was followed by 'A Defence of theShort View, ' a 'Second Defence of the Short View, ' 'A Farther ShortView, ' and, in short, a number of 'Short Views, ' which had been bettermerged into one 'Long Sight. ' Jeremy grew coarse and bitter; Congrevecoarser and bitterer; and the whole controversy made a pretty chapterfor the 'Quarrels of Authors. ' But the Jeremiad triumphed in the longrun, because, if its method was bad, its cause was good, and asucceeding generation voted Congreve immoral. Enough of Jeremy. We owehim a tribute for his pluck, and though no one reads him in the presentday, we may be thankful to him for having led the way to a better stateof things. [15]

Congreve defended himself in eight letters addressed to Mr. Moyle, andwe can only say of them, that, if anything, they are yet coarser thanthe plays he would excuse. 

The works of the young Templar, and his connection with Betterton, introduced him to all the writers and wits of his day. He and Vanbrugh, though rivals, were fellow-workers, and our glorious Haymarket Theatre, which has gone on at times when Drury and Covent Garden have been indespair, owes its origin to their confederacy. But Vanbrugh's theatrewas on the site of the present Opera House, and _the_ Haymarket was setup as a rival concern. Vanbrugh's was built in 1705, and met the usualfate of theatres, being burnt down some eighty-four years after. It iscurious enough that this house, destined for the 'legitimatedrama'--often a very illegitimate performance--was opened by an operaset to _Italian_ music, so that 'Her Majesty's' has not much departedfrom the original cast of the place. 

Perhaps Congreve's best friend was Dryden. This man's life and death arepretty well known, and even his funeral has been described time andagain. But Corinna--as she was styled--gave of the latter an accountwhich has been called romantic, and much discredited. There is a deal ofcharacteristic humour in her story of the funeral, and as it has longbeen lost sight of, it may not be unpalatable here: Dryden died onMay-day, 1701, and Lord Halifax[16] undertook to give his body a_private_ funeral in Westminster Abbey. 

'On the Saturday following, ' writes Corinna, 'the Company came. TheCorps was put into a Velvet Hearse, and eighteen Mourning Coaches filledwith Company attending. When, just before they began to move, LordJeffreys, with some of his rakish Companions, coming by, in Wine, ask'dwhose Funeral? And being told; "What!" cries he, "shall Dryden, thegreatest Honour and Ornament of the Nation, be buried after this privateManner? No, Gentlemen! let all that lov'd Mr. Dryden, and honour hisMemory, alight, and join with me in gaining my Lady's Consent, to let mehave the Honour of his Interment, which shall be after another mannerthan this, and I will bestow £1000 on a Monument in the Abbey for him. "The Gentlemen in the Coaches, not knowing of the Bishop of Rochester'sFavour, nor of Lord Halifax's generous Design (these two noble Spiritshaving, out of Respect to the Family, enjoin'd Lady Elsabeth and her Sonto keep their Favour concealed to the World, and let it pass for her ownExpense), readily came out of the Coaches, and attended Lord Jeffreys upto the Lady's Bedside, who was then sick. He repeated the purport ofwhat he had before said, but she absolutely refusing, he fell on hisknees, vowing never to rise till his request was granted. The rest ofthe Company, by his Desire, kneeled also; she being naturally of atimorous Disposition, and then under a sudden surprise, fainted away. Assoon as she recover'd her Speech, she cry'd, "No, no!" "Enoughgentlemen, " reply'd he (rising briskly), "My Lady is very good, shesays, Go, go!" She repeated her former Words with all her Strength, butalas in vain! her feeble voice was lost in their Acclamations of Joy!and Lord Jeffreys order'd the Hearseman to carry the Corps to Russell's, an undertaker in Cheapside, and leave it there, till he sent orders forthe Embalment, which, he added, should be after the Royal Manner. HisDirections were obey'd, the Company dispersed, and Lady Elsabeth and Mr. Charles remained Inconsolable. Next Morning Mr. Charles waited on LordHalifax, &c. , to excuse his Mother and self, by relating 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, theChoir attending, an Anthem ready set, and himself waiting for someHours, without any Corps to bury. Russell, after three days' Expectanceof Orders for Embalment, without receiving any, waits on Lord Jeffreys, who, pretending Ignorance of the Matter, turn'd it off with anill-natured Jest, saying, "Those who observed the orders of a drunkenFrolick, deserved no better; that he remembered nothing at all of it, and he might do what he pleased with the Corps. " On this Mr. Russellwaits on Lady Elsabeth and Mr. Dryden; but alas, it was not in theirpower to answer. The season was very hot, the Deceas'd had liv'd highand fast; and being corpulent, and abounding with gross Humours, grewvery offensive. The Undertaker, in short, threaten'd to bring home theCorps, and set it before the Door. It cannot be easily imagin'd whatgrief, shame, and confusion seized this unhappy Family. They begged aDay's Respite, which was granted. Mr. Charles wrote a very handsomeLetter to Lord Jeffreys, who returned it with this cool Answer, "He knewnothing of the Matter, and would be troubled no more about it. " He thenaddressed the Lord Halifax and Bishop of Rochester, who were both toojustly tho' unhappily incensed, to do anything in it. In this extreamDistress, Dr. Garth, a man who entirely lov'd Mr. Dryden, and was withala Man of Generosity and great Humanity, sends for the Corps to theCollege of Physicians in Warwick Lane, and proposed a Funeral bySubscription, to which himself set a most noble example. Mr. Wycherley, and several others, among whom must not be forgotten Henry Cromwell, Esq. , Captain Gibbons, and Mr. Christopher Metcalfe, Mr. Dryden'sApothecary and intimate Friend (since a Collegiate Physician), who withmany others contributed most largely to the Subscription; and at last aDay, about three weeks after his Decease, was appointed for theInterment at the Abbey. Dr. Garth pronounced a fine Latin Oration overthe Corps at the College; but the Audience being numerous, and the Roomlarge, it was requisite the Orator should be elevated, that he might beheard. But as it unluckily happen'd there was nothing at hand but an oldBeer-Barrel, which the Doctor with much good-nature mounted; and in themidst of his Oration, beating Time to the Accent with his Foot, the Headbroke in, and his Feet sunk to the Bottom, which occasioned themalicious Report of his Enemies, "That he was turned a Tub-Preacher. "However, he finished the Oration with a superior grace and genius, tothe loud Acclamations of Mirth, which inspir'd the mix'd or ratherMob-Auditors. The Procession began to move, a numerous Train of Coachesattended the Hearse: But, good God! in what Disorder can only beexpress'd by a Sixpenny Pamphlet, soon after published, entitled"Dryden's Funeral. " At last the Corps arrived at the Abbey, which wasall unlighted. No Organ played, no Anthem sung; only two of the Singingboys preceded the Corps, who sung an Ode of Horace, with each a smallcandle in their Hand. The Butchers and other Mob broke in like a Deluge, so that only about eight or ten Gentlemen could gain Admission, andthose forced to cut the Way with their drawn Swords. The Coffin in thisDisorder was let down into Chaucer's Grave, with as much confusion, andas little Ceremony, as was possible; every one glad to save themselvesfrom the Gentlemen's Swords, or the Clubs of the Mob. When the Funeralwas over, Mr. Charles sent a Challenge to Lord Jeffreys, who refusing toanswer it, he sent several others, and went often himself, but couldneither get a Letter deliver'd, nor Admittance to speak to him, that heresolved, since his Lordship refused to answer him like a Gentleman, hewould watch an Opportunity to meet him, and fight off hand, tho' withall the Rules of Honour; which his Lordship hearing, left the Town, andMr. Charles could never have the satisfaction to meet him, tho' hesought it till his death with the utmost Application. '

Dryden was, perhaps, the last man of learning that believed inastrology; though an eminent English author, now living, and celebratedfor the variety of his acquirements, has been known to procure thecasting of horoscopes, and to consult a noted 'astrologer, ' who givesopinions for a small sum. The coincidences of prophecy are not moreremarkable than those of star-telling; and Dryden and the author I havereferred to were probably both captivated into belief by some fatuitousrealization of their horoscopic predictions. Nor can we altogether blametheir credulity, when we see biology, table-turning, rapping, and allthe family of imposture, taken up seriously in our own time. 

On the birth of his son Charles, Dryden immediately cast his horoscope. The following account of Dryden's paternal solicitude for his son, andits result, may be taken as embellished, if not apocryphal. Evil hour, indeed--Jupiter, Venus, and the Sun were all 'under the earth;' Mars andSaturn were in square: eight, or a multiple of it, would be fatal to thechild--the square foretold it. In his eighth, his twenty-fourth, or histhirty-second year, he was certain to die, though he might possiblylinger on to the age of thirty-four. The stars did all they could tokeep up their reputation. When the boy was eight years old he nearlylost his life by being buried under a heap of stones out of an old wall, knocked down by a stag and hounds in a hunt. But the stars were not tobe beaten, and though the child recovered, went in for the game a secondtime in his twenty-third year, when he fell, in a fit of giddiness, froma tower, and, to use Lady Elsabeth's words, was 'mash'd to a mummy. 'Still the battle was not over, and the mummy returned in due course toits human form, though considerably disfigured. Mars and Saturn werenaturally disgusted at his recovery, and resolved to finish thedisobedient youth. As we have seen, he in vain sought his fate at thehand of Jeffreys; but we must conclude that the offended constellationstook Neptune in partnership, for in due course the youth met with awatery grave. 

After abandoning the drama, Congreve appears to have come out in thelight of an independent gentleman. He was already sufficientlyintroduced into literary society; Pope, Steele, Swift, and Addison werenot only his friends but his admirers, and we can well believe thattheir admiration was considerable, when we find the one dedicating his'Miscellany, ' the other his translation of the 'Iliad, ' to a man who wasqualified neither by rank nor fortune to play Mæcenas. 

At what time he was admitted to the Kit-kat I am not in a position tostate, but it must have been after 1715, and by that time he was amiddle-aged man, his fame was long since achieved; and whatever might bethought of his works and his controversy with Collier, he was recognisedas one of the literary stars at a period when the great courted theclever, and wit was a passport to any society. Congreve had plenty ofthat, and probably at the Kit-kat was the life of the party whenVanbrugh was away or Addison in a graver mood. Untroubled by conscience, he could launch out on any subject whatever; and his early life, spentin that species of so-called gaiety which was then the routine of everyyoung man of the world, gave him ample experience to draw upon. ButCongreve's ambition was greater than his talents. No man so little knewhis real value, or so grossly asserted one which he had not. Gay, handsome, and in good circumstances, he aspired to be, not Congreve thepoet, not Congreve the wit, not Congreve the man of mind, but simplyCongreve the fine gentleman. Such humility would be charming if it werenot absurd. It is a vice of scribes to seek a character for which theyhave little claim. Moore loved to be thought a diner-out rather than apoet; even Byron affected the fast man when he might have been contentwith the name of 'genius;' but Congreve went farther, and was ashamed ofbeing poet, dramatist, genius, or what you will. An anecdote of him, told by Voltaire, who may have been an 'awfu' liar, ' but had notemptation to invent in such a case as this, is so consistent with whatwe 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 abrother dramatist of such celebrity as the author of 'The Way of theWorld. ' He expected to find a man of a keen satirical mind, who wouldjoin him in a laugh against humanity. He visited Congreve, and naturallybegan to talk of his works. The fine gentleman spoke of them as triflesutterly beneath his notice, and told him, with an affectation whichperhaps was sincere, that he wished to be visited as a gentleman, not asan author. One can imagine the disgust of his brother dramatist. Voltaire replied, that had Mr. Congreve been nothing more than agentleman, he should not have taken the trouble to call on him, andtherewith retired with an expression of merited contempt. 

It is only in the present day that authorship is looked upon as aprofession, though it has long been one. It is amusing to listen to thesneers of men who never wrote a book, or who, having written, havegained thereby some more valuable advantage than the publisher's cheque. The men who talk with horror of writing for money, are glad enough iftheir works introduce them to the notice of the influential, and aidthem in procuring a place. In the same way, Congreve was not at allashamed of fulsome dedications, which brought him the favour of thegreat. Yet we may ask, if, the labourer being worthy of his hire, andthe labour of the brain being the highest, finest, and most exhaustingthat can be, the man who straight-forwardly and without affectationtakes guineas from his publisher, is not honester than he who countsupon an indirect reward for his toil? Fortunately, the question isalmost settled by the example of the first writers of the present day;but there are still people who think that one should sit down to ayear's--ay, ten years'--hard mental work, and expect no return but fame. Whether such objectors have always private means to return to, orwhether they have never known what it is to write a book, we do not careto examine, but they are to be found in large numbers among theeducated; and indeed, to this present day, it is held by some among theupper classes to be utterly derogatory to write for money. 

Whether this was the feeling in Congreve's day or not is not now thequestion. Those were glorious days for an author, who did not mindplaying the sycophant a little. Instead of having to trudge from door todoor in Paternoster Row, humbly requesting an interview, which is notalways granted--instead of sending that heavy parcel of MS. , which costsyou a fortune for postage, to publisher after publisher, till it is sooften 'returned with thanks' that you hate the very sight of it, theyoung author of those days had a much easier and more comfortable partto play. An introduction to an influential man in town, who again wouldintroduce you to a patron, was all that was necessary. The profession ofMæcenas was then as recognized and established as that of doctor orlawyer. A man of money could always buy brains; and most noblemenconsidered an author to be as necessary a part of his establishment asthe footmen who ushered them into my lord's presence. A fulsomededication in the largest type was all that he asked: and if a writerwere sufficiently profuse in his adulation, he might dine at Mæcenas'stable, drink his sack and canary without stint, and apply to him forcash whenever he found his pockets empty. Nor was this all: if a writerwere sufficiently successful in his works to reflect honour on hispatron, he was eagerly courted by others of the noble profession. He wasoffered, if not hard cash, as good an equivalent, in the shape of acomfortable government sinecure; and if this was not to be had, he wassometimes even lodged and boarded by his obliged dedicatee. In this wayhe was introduced into the highest society; and if he had wit enough tosupport the character, he soon found himself _facile princeps_ in acircle of the highest nobility in the land. Thus it is that in the clubsof the day we find title and wealth mingling with wit and genius; andthe writer who had begun life by a cringing dedication, was now rewardedby the devotion and assiduity of the men he had once flattered. WhenSteele, Swift, Addison, Pope, and Congreve were the kings of their sets, it was time for authors to look and talk big. Eheu! those happy days aregone!

Our dramatist, therefore, soon discovered that a good play was the keyto a good place, and the Whigs took care that he should have it. Oddlyenough, when the Tories came in they did not turn him out. Perhaps theywanted to gain him over to themselves; perhaps, like the Vicar of Bray, he did not mind turning his coat once or twice in a life-time. Howeverthis may be, he managed to keep his appointment without offending hisown party; and when the latter returned to power, he even induced themto give him a comfortable little sinecure, which went by the name ofSecretary to the Island of Jamaica, and raised the income from hisappointments to £1200 a year. 

From this period he was little before the public. He could afford now toindulge his natural indolence and selfishness. His private life wasperhaps not worse than that of the majority of his contemporaries. Hehad his intrigues, his mistresses, the same love of wine, and the sameaddiction to gluttony. He had the reputation of a wit, and with wits hepassed his time, sufficiently easy in his circumstances to feel nodamping to his spirits in the cares of this life. The Island of Jamaicaprobably gave him no further trouble than that of signing a few papersfrom time to time, and giving a receipt for his salary. His life, therefore, presents no very remarkable feature, and he is henceforthknown more on account of his friends than for aught he may himself havedone. The best of these friends was Walter Moyle, the scholar, whotranslated parts of Lucian and Xenophon, and was pretty well known as aclassic. He was a Cornish man of independent means, and it was to himthat Congreve addressed the letters in which he attempted to defendhimself from the attacks of Collier. 

It was not to be expected that a wit and a poet should go through lifewithout a platonic, and accordingly we find our man not only attached, but devoted to a lady of great distinction. This was no other thanHenrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, the daughter of 'Malbrook' himself, and of the famous 'Queen Sarah. ' Henrietta was the eldest daughter, andthere was no son to inherit the prowess of Churchill and the parsimonyof his wife. The nation--to which, by the way, the Marlboroughs werenever grateful--would not allow the title of their pet warrior to becomeextinct, and a special Act of Parliament gave to the eldest daughter thehonours of the duchy. [17] The two Duchesses of Marlborough hated eachother cordially. Sarah's temper was probably the main cause of theirbickering; but there is never a feud between parent and child in whichboth are not more or less blameable. 

The Duchess Henrietta conceived a violent fancy for the wit and poet, and whatever her husband, Lord Godolphin, may have thought of it, theconnection ripened into a most intimate friendship, so much so thatCongreve made the duchess not only his executrix, but the sole residuarylegatee of all his property. [18] His will gives us some insight into thetoadying character of the man. Only four near relations are mentioned aslegatees, and only £540 is divided among them; whereas, after leaving£200 to Mrs. Bracegirdle, the actress; £100, 'and all my apparel andlinnen of all sorts' to a Mrs. Rooke, he divides the rest between hisfriends of the nobility, Lords Cobham and Shannon, the Duchess ofNewcastle, Lady Mary Godolphin, Colonel Churchill (who receives 'twentypounds, together with my gold-headed cane'), and, lastly, 'to the poorof the parish, ' the magnificent sum of _ten pounds_. 'Blessed are thosewho give to the rich;' these words must surely have expressed thesentiment of the worldly Congreve. 

However, Congreve got something in return from the Duchess Henrietta, which he might not have received from 'the poor of the parish, ' to wit, a monument, and an inscription on it written by her own hand. I havealready said what 'Queen Sarah' thought of the latter, and, for therest, those who care to read the nonsense on the walls of WestminsterAbbey can decide for themselves as to the honour the poet received fromhis titled friend. 

The latter days of William Congreve were passed in wit and gout: thewine, which warmed the one, probably brought on the latter. After acourse of ass's milk, which does not seem to have done him much good, the ex-dramatist retired to Bath, a very fashionable place for departinglife in, under easy and elegant circumstances. But he not only drank ofthe springs beloved of King Bladud, of apocryphal memory, but even wentso far as to imbibe the snail-water, which was then the last species ofquack cure in vogue. This, probably, despatched him. But it is only justto that disagreeable little reptile that infests our gardens, and whoseslime was supposed to possess peculiarly strengthening properties, tostate that his death was materially hastened by being overturned whendriving in his chariot. He was close upon sixty, had long been blindfrom cataracts in his eyes, and as he was no longer either useful orornamental to the world in general, he could perhaps be spared. He diedsoon after this accident in January, 1729. He had the sense to die at atime when Westminster Abbey, being regarded as a mausoleum, was open toreceive the corpse of any one who had a little distinguished himself, and even of some who had no distinction whatever. He was buried therewith great pomp, and his dear duchess set up his monument. So much forhis body. What became of the soul of a dissolute, vain, witty, andunprincipled man, is no concern of ours. _Requiescat in pace_, if thereis any peace for those who are buried in Westminster Abbey. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: Dryden, in the Preface to his Fables, acknowledged thatCollier 'had, in many points, taxed him justly. ']

[Footnote 16: Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax. Lord Halifax was born in1661, and died in 1715. He was called 'Mouse Montagu. ']

[Footnote 17: See Burke's 'Peerage. ']

[Footnote 18: The Duchess of Marlborough received £10, 000 by Mr. Congreve's will. ]

 BEAU NASH. 

 The King of Bath. --Nash at Oxford. --'My Boy Dick. '--Offers of Knighthood. --Doing Penance at York. --Days of Folly. --A very Romantic Story. --Sickness and Civilization. --Nash descends upon Bath. --Nash's Chef-d'oeuvre. --The Ball. --Improvements in the Pump-room, &c. --A Public Benefactor. --Life at Bath in Nash's time. --A Compact with the Duke of Beaufort. --Gaming at Bath. --Anecdotes of Nash. --'Miss Sylvia. '--A Generous Act. --Nash's Sun setting. --A Panegyric. --Nash's Funeral. --His Characteristics. 

There is nothing new under the sun, said Walpole, by way of a veryoriginal remark. 'No, ' whispered George Selwyn, 'nor under the grandson, either. '

Mankind, as a body, has proved its silliness in a thousand ways, but innone, perhaps, so ludicrously as in its respect for a man's coat. He isnot always a fool that knows the value of dress; and some of the wisestand greatest of men have been dandies of the first water. King Solomonwas one, and Alexander the Great was another; but there never was a moredespotic monarch, nor one more humbly obeyed by his subjects, than theKing of Bath, and he won his dominions by the cut of his coat. But asHercules was killed by a dress-shirt, so the beaux of the modern worldhave generally ruined themselves by their wardrobes, and brought remorseto their hearts, or contempt from the very people who once worshippedthem. The husband of Mrs. Damer, who appeared in a new suit twice a-day, and whose wardrobe sold for £15, 000, blew his brains out at acoffee-house. Beau Fielding, Beau Nash, and Beau Brummell all expiatedtheir contemptible vanity in obscure old age of want and misery. As theworld is full of folly, the history of a fool is as good a mirror tohold up to it as another; but in the case of Beau Nash the only questionis, whether he or his subjects were the greater fools. So now for apicture of as much folly as could well be crammed into that hot basin inthe Somersetshire hills, of which more anon. 

It is a hard thing for a man not to have had a father--harder still, like poor Savage, to have one whom he cannot get hold of; but perhaps itis hardest of all, when you have a father, and that parent a veryrespectable man, to be told that you never had one. This was Nash'scase, and his father was so little known, and so seldom mentioned, thatthe splendid Beau was thought almost to have dropped from the clouds, ready dressed and powdered. He dropped in reality from anything but aheavenly place--the shipping town of Swansea: so that Wales can claimthe honour of having produced the finest beau of his age. 

Old Nash was, perhaps, a better gentleman than his son; but with farless pretension. He was a partner in a glass-manufactory. The Beau, inafter-years, often got rallied on the inferiority of his origin, and theleast obnoxious answer he ever made was to Sarah of Marlborough, as rudea creature as himself, who told him he was ashamed of his parentage. 'No, madam, ' replied the King of Bath, 'I seldom mention my father, incompany, not because I have any reason to be ashamed of him, but becausehe has some reason to be ashamed of me. ' Nash, though a fop and a fool, was not a bad-hearted man, as we shall see. And if there were no otherredeeming 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 didthe want of it, and did his best to remove the odious distinctions whichpride would have kept up in his dominions. In fact, King Nash may bethanked for having, by his energy in this respect, introduced intosociety the first elements of that middle class which is found alone inEngland. 

Old Nash--whose wife, by the way, was niece to that Colonel Poyer whodefended Pembroke Castle in the days of the first Revolution--was one ofthose silly men who want to make gentlemen of their sons, rather thangood men. He had his wish. His son Richard was a very fine gentleman, nodoubt; but, unfortunately, the same circumstances that raised him tothat much coveted position, also made him a gambler and a profligate. Oh! foolish papas, when will you learn that a Christian snob is worthten thousand irreligious gentlemen? When will you be content to bring upyour boys for heaven rather than for the brilliant world? Nash, senior, sent his son first to school and then to Oxford, to be made a gentlemanof. Richard was entered at Jesus College, the haunt of the Welsh. In myday, this quiet little place was celebrated for little more than thehumble poverty of its members, one-third of whom rejoiced in thecognomen of Jones. They were not renowned for cleanliness, and it was astanding joke with us silly boys, to ask at the door for 'that Mr. Joneswho had a tooth-brush. ' If the college had the same character then, Nashmust have astonished its dons, and we are not surprised that in hisfirst year they thought it better to get rid of him. 

His father could ill afford to keep him at Oxford, and fondly hoped hewould distinguish himself. 'My boy Dick' did so at the very outset, byan offer of marriage to one of those charming sylphs of that academicalcity, who are always on the look-out for credulous undergraduates. Theaffair was discovered, and Master Richard, who was not seventeen, wasremoved from the University. [19] Whether he ever, in after-life, madeanother offer, I know not, but there is no doubt that he _ought_ to havebeen married, and that the connections he formed in later years were farmore disreputable than his first love affairs. 

The worthy glass manufacturer, having failed to make his son a gentlemanin one way, took the best step to make him a blackguard, and, in spiteof the wild inclinations he had already evinced, bought him a commissionin the army. In this new position the incipient Beau did everything buthis duty; dressed superbly, but would not be in time for parade, spentmore money than he had, but did not obey orders; and finally, though notexpelled from the army, he found it convenient to sell his commission, and return home, after spending the proceeds. 

Papa was now disgusted, and sent the young Hopeless to shift forhimself. What could a well-disposed, handsome youth do to keep body and, not soul, but clothes together? He had but one talent, and that was fordress. Alas, for our degenerate days! When we are pitched upon our ownbottoms, we must work; and that is a highly ungentlemanly thing to do. But in the beginning of the last century, such a degrading resource wasquite unnecessary. There were always at hand plenty of establishmentswhere a youth could obtain the necessary funds to pay his tailor, iffortune favoured him; and if not, he could follow the fashion of theday, and take to what the Japanese call 'the happy Despatch. ' Nashprobably suspected that he had no brains to blow out, and he determinedthe more resolutely to make fortune his mistress. He went to thegaming-table, and turned his one guinea into ten, and his ten into ahundred, and was soon blazing about in gold lace, and a new sword, thevery delight of dandies. 

He had entered his name, by way of excuse, at the Temple, and we canquite believe that he ate all the requisite dinners, though it is not socertain that he paid for them. He soon found that a fine coat is not sovery far beneath a good brain in worldly estimation, and when, on theaccession of William the Third, the Templars, according to the oldcustom, gave his Majesty a banquet, Nash, as a promising Beau, wasselected to manage the establishment. It was his first experience of theduties of an M. C. , and he conducted himself so ably on this occasionthat the king even offered to make a knight of him. Probably MasterRichard thought of his empty purse, for he replied with some of thatassurance which afterwards stood him in such good stead, 'Please yourmajesty, if you intend to make me a knight, I wish I may be one of yourpoor knights of Windsor, and then I shall have a fortune, at least ableto support my title. ' William did not see the force of this argument, and Mr. Nash remained Mr. Nash till the day of his death. He had anotherchance of the title, however, in days when he could have bettermaintained it, but again he refused. Queen Anne once asked him why hedeclined knighthood. He replied: 'There is Sir William Read, themountebank, who has just been knighted, and I should have to call him"brother. "' The honour was, in fact, rather a cheap one in those days, and who knows whether a man who had done such signal service to hiscountry did not look forward to a peerage? Worse men than even Beau Nashhave had it. 

Well, Nash could afford to defy royalty, for he was to be himself amonarch of all he surveyed, and a good deal more; but before we followhim to Bath, let us give the devil his due--which, by the way, hegenerally gets--and tell a pair of tales in the Beau's favour. 

Imprimis, his accounts at the Temple were £10 deficient. Now I don'tmean that Nash was not as great a liar as most of his craft, but thetruth of this tale rests on the authority of the 'Spectator, ' thoughNash took delight in repeating it. 

'Come hither, young man, ' said the Benchers, coolly: 'Whereunto thisdeficit?'

'Pri'thee, good masters, ' quoth Nash, 'that £10 was spent on making aman happy. '

'A man happy, young sir, pri'thee explain. '

'Odds donners, ' quoth Nash, 'the fellow said in my hearing that his wifeand bairns were starving, and £10 would make him the happiest man _subsole_, and on such an occasion as His Majesty's accession, could Irefuse it him?'

Nash was, proverbially more generous than just. He would not pay a debtif he could help it, but would give the very amount to the first friendthat begged it. There was much ostentation in this, but then my friendNash _was_ ostentatious. One friend bothered him day and night for £20that was owing to him, and he could not get it. Knowing his debtor'scharacter, he hit, at last, on a happy expedient, and sent a friend to_borrow_ the money, 'to relieve his urgent necessities. ' Out came thebank note, before the story of distress was finished. The friend carriedit to the creditor, and when the latter again met Nash, he ought to havemade him a pretty compliment on his honesty. 

Perhaps the King of Bath would not have tolerated in any one else thejuvenile frolics he delighted in after-years to relate of his own earlydays. When at a loss for cash, he would do anything, but work, for afifty pound note, and having, in one of his trips, lost all his moneyat York, the Beau undertook to 'do penance' at the minster door for thatsum. He accordingly arrayed himself--not in sackcloth and ashes--but inan able-bodied blanket, and nothing else, and took his stand at theporch, just at the hour when the dean would be going in to read service. 'He, ho, ' cried that dignitary, who knew him, 'Mr. Nash inmasquerade?'--'Only a Yorkshire penance, Mr. Dean, ' quoth the reprobate;'for keeping bad company, too, ' pointing therewith to the friends whohad come to see the sport. 

This might be tolerated, but when in the eighteenth century a young manemulates the hardiness of Godiva, without her merciful heart, we may notthink quite so well of him. Mr. Richard Nash, Beau Extraordinary to theKingdom of Bath, once rode through a village in that costume of whicheven our first parent was rather ashamed, and that, too, on the back ofa cow! The wager was, I believe, considerable. A young Englishman didsomething more respectable, yet quite as extraordinary, at Paris, not ahundred years ago, for a small bet. He was one of the stoutest, thickest-built men possible, yet being but eighteen, had neither whiskernor moustache to masculate his clear English complexion. At the MaisonDorée one night he offered to ride in the Champs Elysées in a lady'shabit, and not be mistaken for a man. A friend undertook to dress him, and went all over Paris to hire a habit that would fit his round figure. It was hopeless for a time, but at last a good-sized body was found, andadded thereto, an ample skirt. Félix dressed his hair with _mainte_plats and a _net_. He looked perfect, but in coming out of thehairdresser's to get into his fly, unconsciously pulled up his skirt anddisplayed a sturdy pair of well-trousered legs. A crowd--there is alwaysa ready crowd in Paris--was waiting, and the laugh was general. Thishero reached the horse-dealer's--'mounted, ' and rode down the Champs. 'Avery fine woman that, ' said a Frenchman in the promenade, 'but what aback she has!' It was in the return bet to this that a now well-knowndiplomat drove a goat-chaise and six down the same fashionable resort, with a monkey, dressed as a footman, in the back seat. The days of follydid not, apparently end with Beau Nash. 

There is a long lacuna in the history of this worthy's life, which mayhave been filled up by a residence in a spunging-house, or by atemporary appointment as billiard-marker; but the heroic Beau accountedfor his disappearance at this time in a much more romantic manner. Heused to relate that he was once asked to dinner on board of a man-of-warunder orders for the Mediterranean, and that such was the affection theofficers entertained for him, that, having made him drunk--no difficultmatter--they weighed anchor, set sail, and carried the successor of KingBladud away to the wars. Having gone so far, Nash was not the man toneglect an opportunity for imaginary valour. He therefore continued torelate, that, in the apocryphal vessel, he was once engaged in a yetmore apocryphal encounter, and wounded in the leg. This was a little toomuch for the good Bathonians to believe, but Nash silenced their doubts. On one occasion, a lady who was present when he was telling this story, expressed her incredulity. 

'I protest, madam, ' cried the Beau, lifting his leg up, 'it is true, andif I cannot be believed, your ladyship may, if you please, receivefurther information and feel the ball in my leg. '

Wherever Nash may have passed the intervening years, may be aninteresting speculation for a German professor, but is of little momentto us. We find him again, at the age of thirty, taking first stepstowards the complete subjugation of the kingdom he afterwards ruled. 

There is, among the hills of Somersetshire, a huge basin formed by theriver Avon, and conveniently supplied with a natural gush of hot water, which can be turned on at any time for the cleansing of diseased bodies. This hollow presents many curious anomalies; though sought for centuriesfor the sake of health, it is one of the most unhealthily-situatedplaces in the kingdom; here the body and the pocket are alike cleanedout, but the spot itself has been noted for its dirtiness since the daysof King Bladud's wise pigs; here, again, the diseased flesh used to behealed, but the healthy soul within it speedily besickened: you came tocure gout and rheumatism, and caught in exchange dice-fever. 

The mention of those pigs reminds me that it would be a shamefulomission to speak of this city without giving the story of thatapocryphal British monarch, King Bladud. But let me be the oneexception; let me respect the good sense of the reader, and not insulthim by supposing him capable of believing a mythic jumble of kings andpigs and dirty marshes, which he will, if he cares to, find at fulllength in any 'Bath Guide'--price sixpence. 

But whatever be the case with respect to the Celtic sovereign, there is, I presume, no doubt, that the Romans were here, and probably thecenturians and tribunes cast the _alea_ in some pristine assembly-room, or wagged their plumes in some well-built Pump-room, with as much spiritof fashion as the full-bottomed-wig exquisites in the reign of KingNash. At any rate Bath has been in almost every age a common centre forhealth-seekers and gamesters--two antipodal races who always flocktogether--and if it has from time to time declined, it has only been fora period. Saxon churls and Norman lords were too sturdy to catch muchrheumatic gout; crusaders had better things to think of than theirimaginary ailments; good-health was in fashion under Plantagenets andTudors; doctors were not believed in; even empirics had to praise theirwares with much wit, and Morrison himself must have mounted a bank anddressed in Astleyian costume in order to find a customer; sack andsmall-beer were harmless, when homes were not comfortable enough to keepearl or churl by the fireside, and 'out-of-doors' was the properdrawing-room for a man: in short, sickness came in with civilization, indisposition with immoral habits, fevers with fine gentlemanliness, gout with greediness, and valetudinarianism--there _is_ no Anglo-Saxonword for that--with what we falsely call refinement. So, whatever Bathmay have been to pampered Romans, who over-ate themselves, it had littleimportance to the stout, healthy middle ages, and it was not till thereign of Charles II. That it began to look up. Doctors and touters--thetwo were often one in those days--thronged there, and fools were foundin plenty to follow them. At last the blessed countenance of portly Annesmiled on the pig styes of King Bladud. In 1703 she went to Bath, andfrom that time 'people of distinction' flocked there. The assemblage wasnot perhaps very brilliant or very refined. The visitors danced on thegreen, and played privately at hazard. A few sharpers found their waydown from London; and at last the Duke of Beaufort instituted an M. C. Inthe person of Captain Webster--Nash's predecessor--whose main act ofglory was in setting up gambling as a public amusement. It remained forNash to make the place what it afterwards was, when Chesterfield couldlounge in the Pump-room and take snuff with the Beau; when Sarah ofMarlborough, Lord and Lady Hervey, the Duke of Wharton, Congreve, andall the little-great of the day thronged thither rather to kill timewith less ceremony than in London, than to cure complaints more or lessimaginary. 

The doctors were only less numerous than the sharpers; the place wasstill uncivilized; the company smoked and lounged without etiquette, andplayed without honour: the place itself lacked all comfort, allelegance, and all cleanliness. 

Upon this delightful place, the avatár of the God of Etiquette, personified in Mr. Richard Nash, descended somewhere about the year1705, for the purpose of regenerating the barbarians. He alighted justat the moment that one of the doctors we have alluded to, in a fit ofdisgust at some slight on the part of the town, was threatening todestroy its reputation, or, as he politely expressed it, 'to throw atoad into the spring. ' The Bathonians were alarmed and in consternation, when young Nash, who must have already distinguished himself as amacaroni, stepped forward and offered to render the angry physicianimpotent. 'We'll charm his toad out again with music, ' quoth he. Heevidently thought very little of the watering-place, after his townexperiences, and prepared to treat it accordingly. He got up a band inthe Pump-room, brought thither in this manner the healthy as well as thesick, and soon raised the renown of Bath as a resort for gaiety as wellas for mineral waters. In a word, he displayed a surprising talent forsetting everything and everybody to rights, and was, therefore, soonelected, by tacit voting, the King of Bath. 

He rapidly proved his qualifications for the position. First he securedhis Orphean harmony by collecting a band-subscription, which gave twoguineas a-piece to six performers; then he engaged an official pumperfor the Pump-room; and lastly, finding that the bathers still gatheredunder a booth to drink their tea and talk their scandal, he induced oneHarrison to build assembly-rooms, guaranteeing him three guineas a weekto be raised by subscription. 

All this demanded a vast amount of impudence on Mr. Nash's part, andthis he possessed to a liberal extent. The subscriptions flowed inregularly, and Nash felt his power increase with his responsibility. So, then, our minor monarch resolved to be despotic, and in a short timelaid down laws for the guests, which they obeyed most obsequiously. Nashhad not much wit, though a great deal of assurance, but these laws werehis _chef-d'oeuvre_. Witness some of them:--

1. 'That a visit of ceremony at first coming and another at going away, are all that are expected or desired by ladies of quality andfashion--except impertinents. 

4. 'That no person takes it ill that any one goes to another's play orbreakfast, and not theirs--except captious nature. 

5. 'That no gentleman give his ticket for the balls to any butgentlewomen. N. B. --Unless he has none of his acquaintance. 

6. 'That gentlemen crowding before the ladies at the ball, show illmanners; and that none do so for the future--except such as respectnobody but themselves. 

9. 'That the younger ladies take notice how many eyes observe them. N. B. --This does not extend to the _Have-at-alls_. 

10. 'That all whisperers of lies and scandal be taken for theirauthors. '

Really this law of Nash's must have been repealed some time or other atBath. Still more that which follows:--

11. 'That repeaters of such lies and scandal be 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 thatshows Nash in the light of an observer of society; but, query, whetherany frequenter of Bath would not have devised as good?

The dances of those days must have been somewhat tedious. They beganwith a series of minuets, in which, of course, only one couple danced ata time, the most distinguished opening the ball. These solemnperformances lasted about two hours, and we can easily imagine that therest of the company were delighted when the country dances, whichincluded everybody, began. The ball opened at six; the country dancesbegan at eight: at nine there was a lull for the gentlemen to offertheir partners tea; in due course the dances were resumed, and at elevenNash held up his hand to the musicians, and under no circumstances wasthe ball allowed to continue after that hour. Nash well knew the valueof early hours to invalids, and he would not destroy the healingreputation of Bath for the sake of a little more pleasure. On oneoccasion the Princess Amelia implored him to allow one dance more. Thedespot replied, that his laws were those of Lycurgus, and could not beabrogated for any one. By this we see that the M. C. Was already anautocrat in his kingdom. 

Nor is it to be supposed that his majesty's laws were confined to suchmerely professional arrangements. Not a bit of it; in a very short timehis impudence gave him undenied right of interference with the coats andgowns, the habits and manners, even the daily actions of his subjects, for so the visitors at Bath were compelled to become. _Si parviscomponere magna recibit_, we may admit that the rise of Nash and that ofNapoleon were owing to similar causes. The French emperor found Francein a state of disorder, with which sensible people were growing more andmore disgusted; he offered to restore order and propriety; the Frenchhailed him, and gladly submitted to his early decrees; then, when he hadgot them into the habit of obedience, he could make what laws he liked, and use his power without fear of opposition. The Bath emperor followedthe same course, and it may be asked whether it does not demand as greatan amount of courage, assurance, perseverance, and administrative powerto subdue several hundreds of English ladies and gentlemen as to risesupreme above some millions of French republicans. Yet Nash experiencedless opposition than Napoleon; Nash reigned longer, and had no infernalmachine prepared to blow him up. 

Everybody was delighted with the improvements in the Pump-room, theballs, the promenades, the chairmen--the _Rouge_ ruffians of the mimickingdom--whom he reduced to submission, and therefore nobody complainedwhen Emperor Nash went further, and made war upon the white aprons ofthe ladies and the boots of the gentlemen. The society was in fact in avery barbarous condition at the time, and people who came for pleasureliked to be at ease. Thus ladies lounged into the balls in theirriding-hoods or morning dresses, gentlemen in boots, with their pipes intheir mouths. Such atrocities were intolerable to the late frequenter ofLondon society, and in his imperious arrogance, the new monarch usedactually to pull off the white aprons of ladies who entered theassembly-rooms with that _dégagé_ article, and throw them upon the backseats. Like the French emperor, again, he treated high and low in thesame manner, and when the Duchess of Queensberry appeared in an apron, coolly pulled it off, and told her it was only fit for a maid-servant. Her grace made no resistance. 

The men were not so submissive; but the M. C. Turned them into ridicule, and whenever a gentleman appeared at the assembly-rooms in boots, wouldwalk up to him, and in a loud voice remark, 'Sir, I think you haveforgot your horse. ' To complete his triumph, he put the offenders into asong called 'Trentinella's Invitation to the Assembly. '

 'Come, one and all, To Hoyden Hall, For there's the assembly this night: None but proud fools, Mind manners and rules; We 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 sufficientcoarseness to suit the taste of the time, in which the practice ofwearing boots was satirized. 

His next onslaught was upon that of carrying swords; and in this respectNash became a public benefactor, for in those days, though Chesterfieldwas the writer on etiquette, people were not well-bred enough to keeptheir tempers, and rivals for a lady's hand at a minuet, or gamblers whodisputed over their cards, invariably settled the matter by an optionbetween suicide or murder under the polite name of duel. The M. C. Wiselysaw that these affairs would bring Bath in bad repute, and determined tosupplant the rapier by the less dangerous cane. In this he was for along time opposed, until a notorious torchlight duel between twogamblers, of whom one was run through the body, and the other, to showhis contrition, turned Quaker, brought his opponents to a sense of thedanger of a weapon always at hand; and henceforth the sword wasabolished. 

These points gained, the autocrat laid down rules for the employment ofthe visitors' time, and these, from setting the fashion to some, soonbecame a law to all. The first thing to be done was, sensibly enough, the _ostensible_ object of their residence in Bath, the use of thebaths. At an early hour four lusty chairmen waited on every lady tocarry her, wrapped in flannels, in

 'A little black box, just the size of a coffin, '

to one of the five baths. Here, on entering, an attendant placed besideher a floating tray, on which were set her handkerchief, bouquet, and_snuff-box_, for our great-great-grandmothers _did_ take snuff; and hereshe found her friends in the same bath of naturally hot water. It was, of course, a réunion for society on the plea of health; but the earlyhours and exercise secured the latter, whatever the baths may have done. A walk in the Pump-room, to the music of a tolerable band, was the nextmeasure; and there, of course, the gentlemen mingled with the ladies. Acoffee-house was ready to receive those of either sex; for that was atime when madame and miss lived a great deal in public, and Englishpeople were not ashamed of eating their breakfast in public company. These breakfasts were often enlivened by concerts paid for by the richand enjoyed by all. 

Supposing the peacocks now to be dressed out and to have their tailsspread to the best advantage, we next find some in the publicpromenades, others in the reading-rooms, the ladies having their clubsas well as the men; others riding; others, perchance, already gambling. Mankind and womankind then dined at a reasonable hour, and the evening'samusements began early. Nash insisted on this, knowing the value ofhealth to those, and they were many at that time, who sought Bath on itsaccount. The balls began at six, and took place every Tuesday andFriday, private balls filling up the vacant nights. About thecommencement of his reign, a theatre was built, and whatever it may havebeen, it afterwards became celebrated as the nursery of the Londonstage, and now, _O tempo passato!_ is almost abandoned. It is needlessto add that the gaming-tables were thronged in the evenings. 

It was at them that Nash made the money which sufficed to keep up hisstate, which was vulgarly regal. He drove about in a chariot, flamingwith heraldry, and drawn by six grays, with outriders, running footmen, and all the appendages which made an impression on the vulgar minds ofthe visitors of his kingdom. His dress was magnificent; his gold laceunlimited, his coats ever new; his hat alone was always of the samecolour--_white_; and as the emperor Alexander was distinguished by hispurple tunic and Brummell by his bow, Emperor Nash was known all Englandover by his white hat. 

It is due to the King of Bath to say that, however much he gained, healways played fair. He even patronized young players, and after fleecingthem, kindly advised them to play no more. When he found a man fixedupon ruining himself, he did his best to keep him from that suicidalact. This was the case with a young Oxonian, to whom he had lost money, and whom he invited to supper, in order to give him his parental advice. The fool would not take the Beau's counsel and 'came to grief. ' Evennoblemen sought his protection. The Duke of Beaufort entered on acompact with him to save his purse, if not his soul. He agreed to payNash ten thousand guineas, whenever he lost the same amount at asitting. It was a comfortable treaty for our Beau, who accordinglywatched his grace. Yet it must be said, to Nash's honour, that he oncesaved him from losing eleven thousand, when he had already lost eight, by reminding him of his compact. Such was play in those days! It is saidthat the duke had afterwards to pay the fine, from losing the stipulatedsum at Newmarket. 

He displayed as much honesty with the young Lord Townshend, who lost himhis whole fortune, his estate, and even his carriage and horses--whatmadmen are gamblers!--and actually cancelled the whole debt, oncondition my lord should pay him £5000 whenever he chose to claim it. ToNash's honour it must be said that he never came down upon the noblemanduring his life. He claimed the sum from his executors, who paidit. --'Honourable to both parties. '

But an end was put to the gaming at Bath and everywhere else--_except ina royal palace_, and Nash swore that, as he was a king, Bath came underthe head of the exceptions--by an Act of Parliament. Of course Nash andthe sharpers who frequented Bath--and their name was Legion--found meansto evade this law for a time, by the invention of new games. But thiscould 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 atime, and Nash soon discovered that a private table was more comfortablethan a public one. He entered into an arrangement with an old woman atBath, in virtue of which he was to receive a fourth share of theprofits. This was probably not the only 'hell'-keeping transaction ofhis life, and he had once before quashed an action against a cheat inconsideration of a handsome bonus; and, in fact, there is no saying whatamount 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. The man wasimmensely fond of money; he liked to show his gold-laced coat and superbnew waistcoat in the Grove, the Abbey Ground, and Bond Street, and to beknown as Le Grand Nash. But, on the other hand, he did not love moneyfor itself, and never hoarded it. It is, indeed, something to Nash'shonour, that he died poor. He delighted, in the poverty of his mind, todisplay his great thick-set person to the most advantage; he was as vainas any fop, without the affectation of that character, for he wasalways blunt and free-spoken, but, as long as he had enough to satisfyhis vanity, he cared nothing for mere wealth. He had generosity, thoughhe neglected the precept about the right hand and the left, and showedsome ostentation in his charities. When a poor ruined fellow at hiselbow saw him win at a throw £200, and murmured 'How happy that wouldmake me!' Nash tossed the money to him, and said, 'Go and be happythen. ' Probably the witless beau did not see the delicate satire impliedin his speech. It was only the triumph of a gamester. On other occasionshe collected subscriptions for poor curates, and so forth, in the samespirit, and did his best towards founding an hospital, which has sinceproved of great value to those afflicted with rheumatic gout. In thesame spirit, though himself a gamester, he often attempted to win youngand inexperienced boys, who came to toss away their money at the rooms, from seeking their own ruin; and, on the whole, there was some goodnessof heart in this gold-laced bear. 

That he was a bear there are anecdotes enough to show, and whether trueor not, they sufficiently prove what the reputation of the man must havebeen. Thus, when a lady, afflicted with a curvature of the spine, toldhim that 'She had come _straight_ from London that day, ' Nash repliedwith utter heartlessness, 'Then, ma'am, you've been damnably warpt onthe road. ' The lady had her revenge, however, for meeting the beau oneday in the Grove, as she toddled along with her dog, and beingimpudently asked by him if she knew the name of Tobit's dog, sheanswered quickly, 'Yes, sir, his name was Nash, and a most impudent doghe was too. '

It is due to Nash to state that he made many attempts to put an end tothe perpetual system of scandal, which from some hidden cause seemsalways to be connected with mineral springs; but as he did not banishthe old maids, of course he failed. Of the young ladies and theirreputation he took a kind of paternal care, and in that day they seem tohave needed it, for even at nineteen, those who had any money to lose, staked it at the tables with as much gusto as the wrinkled, puckered, greedy-eyed 'single woman, ' of a certain or uncertain age. Nashprotected and cautioned them, and even gave them the advantage of hisown unlimited experience. Witness, for instance, the care he took of'Miss Sylvia, ' a lovely heiress who brought her face and her fortune toenslave some and enrich others of the loungers of Bath. She had aterrible love of hazard, and very little prudence, so that Nash's goodoffices were much needed in the case. The young lady soon became thestanding toast at all the clubs and suppers, and lovers of her, or herducats, crowded round her; but though at that time she might have made abrilliant match, she chose, as young women will do, to fix heraffections upon one of the worst men in Bath, who, naturally enough, didnot return them. When this individual, as a climax to his misadventures, was clapt into prison, the devoted young creature gave the greater partof her fortune in order to pay off his debts, and falling into disreputefrom this act of generosity, which was, of course, interpreted after aworldly fashion, she seems to have lost her honour with her fame, andthe fair Sylvia took a position which could not be creditable to her. Atlast the poor girl, weary of slights, and overcome with shame, took hersilk sash and hanged herself. The terrible event made a ninehours'--_not_ nine days'--sensation in Bath, which was too busy withmains and aces to care about the fate of one who had long sunk out ofits circles. 

When Nash reached the zenith of his power, the adulation he received wassomewhat of a parody on the flattery of courtiers. True, he had hisbards from Grub Street who sang his praises, and he had letters to showfrom Sarah of Marlborough and others of that calibre, but his chiefworshippers were cooks, musicians, and even imprisoned highwaymen--oneof whom disclosed the secrets of the craft to him--who wrote himdedications, letters, poems, and what not. The good city of Bath set uphis statue, and did Newton and Pope[20] the great honour of playing'supporters' to him, which elicited from Chesterfield some well-knownlines:--

 'This statue placed the busts between Adds to the satire strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen, But Folly at full length. '

Meanwhile his private character was none of the best. He had in earlylife had one attachment, besides that unfortunate affair for which hisfriends had removed him from Oxford, and in that had behaved with greatmagnanimity. The young lady had honestly told him that he had a rival;the Beau sent for him, settled on her a fortune equal to that her fatherintended for her, and himself presented her to the favoured suitor. Now, however, he seems to have given up all thoughts of matrimony, and gavehimself up to mistresses, who cared more for his gold than for himself. It was an awkward conclusion to Nash's generous act in that one case, that before a year had passed, the bride ran away with her husband'sfootman; yet, though it disgusted him with ladies, it does not seem tohave cured him of his attachment to the sex in general. 

In the height of his glory Nash was never ashamed of receivingadulation. He was as fond of flattery as Le Grand Monarque--and he paidfor it too--whether it came from a prince or a chair-man. Every daybrought him some fresh meed of praise in prose or verse, and Nash wasalways delighted. 

But his sun was to set in time. His fortune went when gaming was putdown, for he had no other means of subsistence. Yet he lived on: he hadnot the good sense to die; and he reached the patriarchal age ofeighty-seven. In his old age he was not only garrulous, but bragging: hetold stories of his exploits, in which he, Mr. Richard Nash, came out asthe first swordsman, swimmer, leaper, and what not. But by this timepeople began to doubt Mr. Richard Nash's long-bow, and the yarns he spunwere 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 tosupplant him; made coarse, impertinent repartees to the visitors at thatcity, and in general raised up a dislike to himself. Yet, as othermonarchs have had their eulogists in sober mind, Nash had his in one ofthe most depraved; and Anstey, the low-minded author of 'The New BathGuide, ' panegyrized him a short time after his death in the followingverses:--

 'Yet here no confusion--no tumult is known; Fair order and beauty establish their throne; For order, and beauty, and just regulation, Support all the works of this ample creation. For this, in compassion to mortals below, The gods, their peculiar favour to show, Sent Hermes to Bath in the shape of a beau: That grandson of Atlas came down from above To bless all the regions of pleasure and love; To lead the fair nymph thro' the various maze, Bright beauty to marshal, his glory and praise; To govern, improve, and adorn the gay scene, By the Graces instructed, and Cyprian queen: As when in a garden delightful and gay, 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 in its order; The myrtle he ranges, the rose and the lily, With iris, and crocus, and daffa-down-dilly; Sweet peas and sweet oranges all he disposes, At once to regale both your eyes and your noses. Long reign'd the great Nash, this omnipotent lord, Respected by youth, and by parents ador'd; 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! he 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 deplor'd, him the nymph of the fount, 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, Who dissent from the doctrine of great Epicurus, That the spirit's immortal (as poets allow): In reward of his labours, his virtue and pains, He is footing it now in the Elysian plains, Indulged, as a token of Proserpine's favour, To preside at her balls in a cream-colour'd beaver. Then peace to his ashes--our grief be supprest, 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 tragical than that of hisLondon successor--Brummell. Nash, in his old age and poverty, hung aboutthe clubs and supper-tables, button-holed youngsters, who thought him abore, spun his long yarns, and tried to insist on obsolete fashions, when near the end of his life's century. 

The clergy took more care of him than the youngsters. They heard thatNash was an octogenarian, and likely to die in his sins, and resolved todo their best to shrive him. Worthy and well-meaning men accordinglywrote him long letters, in which there was a deal of warning, and therewas nothing which Nash dreaded so much. As long as there was immediatefear of death, he was pious and humble; the moment the fear had passed, he was jovial and indifferent again. His especial delight, to the last, seems to have been swearing against the doctors, whom he treated likethe individual in Anstey's 'Bath Guide, ' shying their medicines out ofwindow upon their own heads. But the wary old Beckoner called him in, indue time, with his broken, empty-chested voice; and Nash was forced toobey. Death claimed him--and much good it got of him--in 1761, at theage of eighty-seven: there are few beaux who lived so long. 

Thus ended a life, of which the moral lay, so to speak, out of it. Theworthies of Bath were true to the worship of Folly, whom Anstey so well, though indelicately, describes as there conceiving Fashion; and thoughNash, old, slovenly, disrespected, had long ceased to be either beau ormonarch, treated his huge unlovely corpse with the honour due to thegreat--or little. His funeral was as glorious as that of any hero, andfar more showy, though much less solemn, than the burial of Sir JohnMoore. Perhaps for a bit of prose flummery, by way of contrast toWolfe's lines on the latter event, there is little to equal the accountin a contemporary paper:--'Sorrow sate upon every face, and evenchildren lisped that their sovereign was no more. The awfulness of thesolemnity made the deepest impression on the minds of the distressedinhabitants. The peasant discontinued his toil, the ox rested from theplough, all nature seemed to sympathise with their loss, and the muffledbells rung a peal of bob-major. '

The Beau left little behind him, and that little not worth much, evenincluding his renown. Most of the presents which fools or flatterers hadmade him, had long since been sent _chèz ma tante_; a few trinkets andpictures, and a few books, which probably he had never read, constitutedhis little store. [21]

Bath and Tunbridge--for he had annexed that lesser kingdom to hisown--had reason to mourn him, for he had almost made them what theywere; but the country has not much cause to thank the upholder ofgaming, 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 aman. He did not drink, for instance; one glass of wine, and a moderatequantity of small beer, being his allowance for dinner. He was early inhis hours, and made others sensible in theirs. He was generous andcharitable when he had the money; and when he had not he took care tomake his subjects subscribe it. In a word, there have been worse men andgreater fools; and we may again ask whether those who obeyed andflattered him were not more contemptible than Beau Nash himself. 

So much for the powers of impudence and a fine coat!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: Warner ('History of Bath, ' p. 366), says, 'Nash wasremoved from Oxford by his friends. ']

[Footnote 20: A full-length statue of Nash was placed between busts ofNewton and Pope. ]

[Footnote 21: In the 'Annual Register, ' (vol. V. P. 37), it is statedthat a pension of ten guineas a month was paid to Nash during the latteryears of his life by the Corporation of Bath. ]

 PHILIP, DUKE OF WHARTON. 

 Wharton's Ancestors. --His Early Years. --Marriage at Sixteen. --Wharton takes leave of his Tutor. --The Young Marquis and the Old Pretender. --Frolics at Paris. --Zeal for the Orange Cause. --A Jacobite Hero. --The Trial of Atterbury. --Wharton's Defence of the Bishop. --Hypocritical Signs of Penitence. --Sir Robert Walpole duped. --Very Trying. --The Duke of Wharton's 'Whens. '--Military Glory at Gibraltar. --'Uncle Horace. '--Wharton to 'Uncle Horace. '--The Duke's Impudence. --High Treason. --Wharton's Ready Wit. --Last Extremities. --Sad Days in Paris. --His Last Journey to Spain. --His Death in a Bernardine Convent. 

If an illustration were wanted of that character unstable as water whichshall not excel, this duke would at once supply it: if we had to warngenius against self-indulgence--some clever boy againstextravagance--some poet against the bottle--this is the 'shockingexample' we should select: if we wished to show how the most splendidtalents, the greatest wealth, the most careful education, the mostunusual advantages, may all prove useless to a man who is too vain ortoo 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 mercurial, or life more unsettled than his;never, perhaps, were more changes crowded into a fewer number of years, more fame and infamy gathered into so short a space. Suffice it to saythat when Pope wanted a man to hold up to the scorn of the world, as asample of wasted abilities, it was Wharton that he chose, and his linesrise in grandeur in proportion to the vileness of the theme:

 'Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days, Whose ruling passion was a love of praise. Born with whate'er could win it from the wise, Women and fools must like him or he dies; Though raptured senates hung on all he spoke, The club must hail him master of the joke. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new? He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too. 

 * * * * *

 Thus with each gift of nature and of art, And wanting nothing but an honest heart; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt, And most contemptible, to shun contempt; His passion still, to covet general praise, 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 mankind; Too rash for thought, for action too refined. '

And then those memorable lines--

 'A tyrant to the wife his heart approved, A rebel to the very king he loved; He dies, sad outcast of each church and state; And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great. '

Though it may be doubted if the 'lust of praise' was the cause of hiseccentricities, so much as an utter restlessness and instability ofcharacter, Pope's description is sufficiently correct, and will prepareus for one of the most disappointing lives we could well have to read. 

Philip, Duke of Wharton, was one of those men of whom an Irishman wouldsay, that they were fortunate before they were born. His ancestorsbequeathed him a name that stood high in England for bravery andexcellence. The first of the house, Sir Thomas Wharton, had won hispeerage from Henry VIII. For routing some 15, 000 Scots with 500 men, andother gallant deeds. From his father the marquis he inherited much ofhis talents; but for the heroism of the former, he seems to havereceived it only in the extravagant form of foolhardiness. Walpoleremembered, but could not tell where, a ballad he wrote on beingarrested by the guard in St. James's Park, for singing the Jacobitesong, 'The King shall have his own again, ' and quotes two lines to showthat he was not ashamed of his own cowardice on the occasion:--

 'The duke he drew out half his sword, ---- the guard drew out the rest. '

At the siege of Gibraltar, where he took up arms against his own kingand country, he is said to have gone alone one night to the very wallsof the town, and challenged the outpost. They asked him who he was, andwhen he replied, openly enough, 'The Duke of Wharton, ' they actuallyallowed him to return without either firing on or capturing him. Thestory seems somewhat apocryphal, but it is quite possible that theEnglish soldiers may have refrained from violence to a well-knownmad-cap nobleman of their own nation. 

Philip, son of the Marquis of Wharton, at that time only a baron, wasborn in the last year but one of the seventeenth century, and came intothe world endowed with every quality which might have made a great man, if he had only added wisdom to them. His father wished to make him abrilliant statesman, and, to have a better chance of doing so, kept himat home, and had him educated under his own eye. He seems to have easilyand rapidly acquired a knowledge of classical languages; and his memorywas so good that when a boy of thirteen he could repeat the greater partof the 'Æneid' and of Horace by heart. His father's keen perception didnot allow him to stop at classics; and he wisely prepared him for thecareer to which he was destined by the study of history, ancient andmodern, and of English literature, and by teaching him, even at thatearly age, the art of thinking and writing on any given subject, byproposing themes for essays. There is certainly no surer mode ofdeveloping the reflective and reasoning powers of the mind; and the boyprogressed with a rapidity which was almost alarming. Oratory, too, wasof course cultivated, and to this end the young nobleman was made torecite before a small audience passages from Shakspeare, and evenspeeches which had been delivered in the House of Lords, and we may becertain he showed no bashfulness in this display. 

He was precocious beyond measure, and at sixteen was a man. His firstact of folly--or, perhaps, _he_ thought, of manhood--came off at thisearly age. He fell in love with the daughter of a Major-General Holmes;and though there is nothing extraordinary in that, for nine-tenths of ushave been love-mad at as early an age, he did what fortunately very fewdo in a first love affair, he married the adored one. Early marriagesare often extolled, and justly enough, as safeguards against profligatehabits, but this one seems to have had the contrary effect on youngPhilip. His wife was in every sense too good for him: he was madly inlove with her at first, but soon shamefully and openly faithless. Pope'sline--

 'A tyrant to the wife his heart approved, '

requires explanation here. It is said that she did not present herboy-husband with a son for three years after their marriage, and on thischild he set great value and great hopes. About that time he left hiswife in the country, intending to amuse himself in town, and ordered herto remain behind with the child. The poor deserted woman well knew whatwas the real object of this journey, and could not endure theseparation. In the hope of keeping her young husband out of harm, andnone the less because she loved him very tenderly, she followed him soonafter, taking the little Marquis of Malmsbury, as the young live branchwas called, with her. The duke was, of course, disgusted, but his angerwas turned into hatred, when the child, which he had hoped to make hisheir and successor, caught in town the small-pox, and died in infancy. He was furious with his wife, refused to see her for a long time, andtreated her with unrelenting coldness. 

The early marriage was much to the distaste of Philip's father, who hadbeen lately made a marquis, and who hoped to arrange a very grand'alliance' for his petted son. He was, in fact, so much grieved by it, that he was fool enough to die of it in 1715, and the marchionesssurvived him only about a year, being no less disgusted with thelicentiousness which she already discovered in her Young Hopeful. 

She did what she could to set him right, and the young married man wasshipped off with a tutor, a French Huguenot, who was to take him toGeneva to be educated as a Protestant and a Whig. The young scampdeclined to be either. He was taken, by way of seeing the world, to thepetty courts of Germany, and of course to that of Hanover, which hadkindly sent us the worst family that ever disgraced the English throne, and by the various princes and grand-dukes received with all the honoursdue to a young British nobleman. 

The tutor and his charge settled at last at Geneva, and my young lordamused himself with tormenting his strict guardian. Walpole tells usthat he once roused him out of bed only to borrow a pin. There is nodoubt that he led the worthy man a sad life of it; and to put a climaxto his conduct, ran away from him at last, leaving with him, by way ofhostage, a young bear-cub--probably quite as tame as himself--which hehad picked up somewhere, and grown very fond of--birds of a feather, seemingly--with a message, which showed more wit than good-nature, tothis effect:--'Being no longer able to bear with your ill-usage, I thinkproper to be gone from you; however, that you may not want company, Ihave left you the bear, as the most suitable companion in the world thatcould be picked out for you. '

The tutor had to console himself with a _tu quoque_, for the youngscapegrace had found his way to Lyons in October, 1716, and then did thevery thing his father's son should not have done. The Chevalier de St. George, the Old Pretender, James III. , or by whatever other _alias_ youprefer 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 atAvignon. Any adherent would, of course, be welcomed with open arms; andwhen the young marquis wrote to him to offer his allegiance, sendingwith his letter a fine entire horse as a peace offering, he was warmlyresponded to. A person of rank was at once despatched to bring the youthto the ex-regal court; he was welcomed with much enthusiasm, and theempty title of Duke of Northumberland at once, most kindly, conferred onhim. However, the young marquis does not seem to have _goûté_ theexile's court, for he stayed there one day only, and returning to Lyons, set off to enjoy himself at Paris. With much wit, no prudence, and aplentiful supply of money, which he threw about with the recklessness ofa boy just escaped from his tutor, he could not fail to succeed in thatcapital; and, accordingly, the English received him with open arms. Eventhe ambassador, Lord Stair, though he had heard rumours of his wilddoings, invited him repeatedly to dinner, and did his best, by adviceand warning, to keep him out of harm's way. Young Philip had a horror ofpreceptors, paid or gratuitous, and treated the plenipotentiary with thesame coolness as he had served the Huguenot tutor. When the former, praising the late marquis, expressed--by way of a slight hint--a hope'that he would follow so illustrious an example of fidelity to hisprince, and affection to his country, by treading in the same steps, 'the young scamp replied, cleverly enough, 'That he thanked hisexcellency for his good advice, and as his excellency had also a worthyand deserving father, he hoped he would likewise copy so bright anexample, and tread in all his steps;' the pertness of which waspertinent enough, for old Lord Stair had taken a disgraceful partagainst his sovereign in the massacre of Glencoe. 

His frolics at Paris were of the most reckless character for a youngnobleman. At the ambassador's own table he would occasionally send aservant to some one of the guests, to ask him to join in the OldChevalier's health, though it was almost treason at that time to mentionhis name even. And again, when the windows at the embassy had beenbroken by a young English Jacobite, who was forthwith committed to Fortl'Evêque, the hare-brained marquis proposed, out of revenge, to breakthem a second time, and only abandoned the project because he could getno one to join him in it. Lord Stair, however, had too much sense to beoffended at the follies of a boy of seventeen, even though that boy wasthe representative of a great English family; he, probably, thought itwould be better to recall him to his allegiance by kindness and advice, than, by resenting his behaviour, to drive him irrevocably to theopposite party; but he was doubtless considerably relieved when, afterleading a wild life in the capital of France, spending his moneylavishly, and doing precisely everything which a young English noblemanought not to do, my lord marquis took his departure in December, 1716. 

The political education he had received now made the unstable youthready and anxious to shine in the State; but being yet under age, hecould not, of course, take his seat in the House of Lords. Perhaps hewas conscious of his own wonderful abilities; perhaps, as Pope declares, he was thirsting for praise, and wished to display them; certainly hewas itching to become an orator, and as he could not sit in an EnglishParliament, he remembered that he had a peerage in Ireland, as Earl ofRathfernhame and Marquis of Catherlogh, and off he set to see if theMilesians would stand upon somewhat less ceremony. He was notdisappointed there. 'His brilliant parts, ' we are told by contemporarywriters, but rather, we should think, his reputation for wit andeccentricity, 'found favour in the eyes of Hibernian quicksilvers, andin spite of his years, he was admitted to the Irish House of Lords. '

When a friend had reproached him, before he left France, with infidelityto the principles so long espoused by his family, he is reported to havereplied, characteristically enough, that 'he had pawned his principlesto Gordon, the Chevalier's banker, for a considerable sum, and, till hecould repay him, he must be a Jacobite; but when that was done, he wouldagain return to the Whigs. ' It is as likely as not that he borrowed fromGordon on the strength of the Chevalier's favour, for though a marquisin his own right, he was even at this period always in want of cash; andon the other hand, the speech, exhibiting the grossest want of any senseof honour, is in thorough keeping with his after-life. But whether hepaid Gordon on his return to England--which is highly improbable--orwhether he had not honour enough to keep his compact--which is extremelylikely--there is no doubt that my lord marquis began, at this period, toqualify himself for the post of parish-weathercock to St. Stephens. 

His early defection to a man who, whether rightful heir or not, had thatof romance in his history which is even now sufficient to make our youngladies 'thorough Jacobites' at heart, was easily to be excused, on theplea of youth and high spirit. The same excuse does not explain hisrapid return to Whiggery--in which there is no romance at all--themoment he took his seat in the Irish House of Lords. There is only oneway to explain the zeal with which he now advocated the Orange cause:he must have been either a very designing knave, or a very unprincipledfool. As he gained nothing by the change but a dukedom for which he didnot care, and as he cared for little else that the government could givehim, we may acquit him of any very deep motives. On the other hand, hislife and some of his letters show that, with a vast amount of bravado, he was sufficiently a coward. When supplicated, he was always obstinate;when neglected, always supplicant. Now it required some courage in thosedays to be a Jacobite. Perhaps he cared for nothing but to astonish anddisgust everybody with the facility with which he could turn his coat, as a hippodromist does with the ease with which he changes his costume. He was a boy and a peer, and he would make pretty play of his position. He had considerable talents, and now, as he sat in the Irish House, devoted them entirely to the 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 both; and was no lessadmired, by the wits of those days, for his speeches, his arguments, andhis zeal, than for the utter disregard of public decency he displayed inhis vices. Such a promising youth, adhering to the government, meritedsome mark of its esteem, and accordingly, before attaining the age oftwenty-one, he was raised to a dukedom. Being of age, he took his seatin the English House of Lords, and had not been long there before heagain turned coat, and came out in the light of a Jacobite hero. It wasnow 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 doubtedif it would not have been successful. The 'Old Pretender' came too soon, the 'Young Pretender' too late. At the period of the first attempt, thepublic had had no time to contrast Stuarts and Guelphs: at that of thesecond, they had forgotten the one and grown accustomed to the other;but at the moment when our young duke appeared on the boards of thesenate, the vices of the Hanoverians were beginning to draw down on themthe contempt of the educated and the ridicule of the vulgar; andperhaps no moment could have been more favourable for advocating arestoration of the Stuarts. If Wharton had had as much energy andconsistency as he had talent and impudence, he might have done muchtowards that desirable, or undesirable end. 

The grand question at this time before the House was the trial ofAtterbury, Bishop of Rochester, demanded by Sir Robert Walpole. The manhad a spirit almost as restless as his defender. The son of a man whomight have been the original of the Vicar of Bray, he was very little ofa poet, less of a priest, but a great deal of a politician. He was bornin 1662, so that at this time he must have been nearly sixty years old. He had had by no means a hard life of it, for family interest, togetherwith eminent talents, procured him one appointment after another, tillhe reached the bench at the age of fifty-one, in the reign of Anne. Hehad already distinguished himself in several ways, most, perhaps, bycontroversies with Hoadly, and by sundry high-church motions. But afterhis elevation, he displayed his principles more boldly, refused to signthe Declaration of the Bishops, which was somewhat servilely made toassure George the First of the fidelity of the Established Church, suspended the curate of Gravesend for three years because he allowed theDutch to have a service performed in his church, and even, it is said, on the death of Anne, offered to proclaim King James III. , and head aprocession himself in his lawn sleeves. The end of this and othervagaries was, that in 1722, the Government sent him to the Tower, onsuspicion of being connected with a plot in favour of the Old Chevalier. The case excited no little attention, for it was long since a bishop hadbeen charged with high treason; it was added that his gaolers used himrudely; and, in short, public sympathy rather went along with him for atime. In March, 1723, a bill was presented to the Commons, for'inflicting certain pains and penalties' on Francis, Lord Bishop ofRochester, and it passed that House in April; but when carried up to theLords, a defence was resolved on. The bill was read a third time on May15th, and on that occasion the Duke of Wharton, then only twenty-fouryears old, rose and delivered a speech in favour of the bishop. Thisoration far more resembled that of a lawyer summing up the evidence thanof a parliamentary orator enlarging on the general issue. It wasremarkable for the clearness of its argument, the wonderful memory offacts it displayed, and the ease and rapidity with which it annihilatedthe testimony of various witnesses examined before the House. It wasmild and moderate, able and sufficient, but seems to have lacked all theenthusiasm we might expect from one who was afterwards so active apartisan of the Chevalier's cause. In short, striking as it was, itcannot be said to give the duke any claim to the title of a greatorator; it would rather prove that he might have made a first-ratelawyer. It shows, however, that had he chosen to apply himselfdiligently to politics, he might have turned out a great leader of theOpposition. 

Neither this speech nor the bishop's able defence saved him; and in thefollowing month he was banished the kingdom, and passed the rest of hisdays in Paris. 

Wharton, however, was not content with the House as an arena ofpolitical agitation. He was now old enough to have matured hisprinciples thoroughly, and he completely espoused the cause of theexiled family. He amused himself with agitating throughout the country, influencing elections, and seeking popularity by becoming a member ofthe Wax-chandlers' Company. It is a proof of his great abilities, soshamefully thrown away, that he now, during the course of eight months, issued a paper, called 'The True Briton, ' every Monday and Friday, written by himself, and containing varied and sensible arguments insupport of his opinions, if not displaying any vast amount of originalgenius. This paper, on the model of 'The Tatler, ' 'The Spectator, ' &c. , had a considerable sale, and attained no little celebrity, so that theDuke of Wharton acquired the reputation of a literary man as well as ofa political leader. 

But, whatever he might have been in either capacity, his disgracefullife soon destroyed all hope of success in them. He was now anacknowledged wit about town, and what was then almost a recognizedconcomitant of that character, an acknowledged profligate. He scatteredhis large fortune in the most reckless and foolish manner: thoughmarried, his moral conduct was as bad as that of any bachelor of theday: and such was his extravagance and open licentiousness, that, havingwasted a princely revenue, he was soon caught in the meshes of Chancery, which very sensibly vested his fortune in the hands of trustees, andcompelled him to be satisfied with an income of twelve hundred pounds ayear. 

The young rascal now showed hypocritical signs of penitence--he wasalways an adept in that line--and protested he would go abroad and livequietly, till his losses should be retrieved. There is little doubtthat, under this laudable design, he concealed one of attaching himselfcloser to the Chevalier party, and even espousing the faith of thatunfortunate prince, or pretender, whichever he may have been. He set offfor Vienna, leaving his wife behind to die, in April, 1726. He had longsince quarrelled with her, and treated her with cruel neglect, and ather death he was not likely to be much afflicted. It is said, that, after that event, a ducal family offered him a daughter and largefortune in marriage, and that the Duke of Wharton declined the offer, because the latter was to be tied up, and he could not conveniently tieup the former. However this may be, he remained a widower for a shorttime: we may be sure, not long. 

The hypocrisy of going abroad to retrench was not long undiscovered. Thefascinating scapegrace seems to have delighted in playing on thecredulity of others; and Walpole relates that, on the eve of the day onwhich he delivered his famous speech for Atterbury, he sought aninterview with the minister, Sir Robert Walpole, expressed greatcontrition at having espoused the bishop's cause hitherto, and adetermination to speak against him the following day. The minister wastaken in, and at the duke's request, supplied him with all the mainarguments, pro and con. The deceiver, having got these well into hisbrain--one of the most retentive--repaired to his London haunts, passedthe night in drinking, and the next day produced all the arguments hehad digested, _in the bishop's favour_. 

At Vienna he was well received, and carried out his private missionsuccessfully, but was too restless to stay in one place, and soon setoff for Madrid. Tired now of politics, he took a turn at love. He was apoet after a fashion, for the pieces he has left are not very good: hewas a fine gentleman, always spending more money than he had, and issaid to have been handsome. His portraits do not give us thisimpression: the features are not very regular; and though not coarse, are certainly _not_ refined. The mouth, somewhat sensual, is still muchfirmer than his character would lead us to expect; the nose sharp at thepoint, but cogitative at the nostrils; the eyes long but not large;while the raised brow has all that openness which he displayed in theindecency of his vices, but not in any honesty in his political career. In a word, the face is not attractive. Yet he is described as having hada brilliant complexion, a lively, varying expression, and a charm ofperson and manner that was quite irresistible. Whether on this account, or for his talents and wit, which were really shining, his new Julietfell as deeply in love with him as he with her. 

She was maid of honour--and a highly honourable maid--to the Queen ofSpain. The Irish regiments long employed in the Spanish service hadbecome more or less naturalized in that country, which accounts for thegreat number of thoroughly Milesian names still to be found there, someof them, as O'Donnell, owned by men of high distinction. Among otherofficers who had settled with their families in the Peninsula was aColonel O'Byrne, who, like most of his countrymen there, died penniless, leaving his widow with a pension and his daughter without a sixpence. Itcan well be imagined that an offer from an English duke was not to besneezed at by either Mrs. Or Miss O'Byrne; but there were some graveobstacles to the match. The duke was a Protestant. But what of that?--hehad never been encumbered with religion, nor even with a decentobservance of its institutions, for it is said that, when in England, athis country seat, he had, to show how little he cared forrespectability, made a point of having the hounds out on a Sundaymorning. He was not going to lose a pretty girl for the sake of a faithwith which he had got disgusted ever since his Huguenot tutor tried tomake him a sober Christian. He had turned coat in politics, and wouldnow try his weathercock capabilities at religion. Nothing like variety, so Romanist he became. 

But this was not all: his friends on the one hand objected to hismarrying a penniless girl, and hers, on the other, warned her of hisdisreputable character. But when two people have made up their minds tobe one, such trifles as these are of no consequence. A far more tryingobstacle was the absolute refusal of her Most Catholic Majesty to allowher maid of honour to marry the duke. 

It is a marvel that after the life of dissipation he had led, this manshould have retained the power of loving at all. But everything abouthim was extravagant, and now that he entertained a virtuous attachment, he was as wild in it as he had been reckless in less respectableconnections. He must have been sincere at the time, for the queen'srefusal 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, senthim a cheering message. The moment was not to be lost, and, in spite ofhis weak state, he hurried to court, threw himself at her Majesty'sfeet, and swore he must have his lady-love or die. Thus pressed, thequeen was forced to consent, but warned him that he would repent of it. The marriage took place, and the couple set off to Rome. 

Here the Chevalier again received him with open arms, and took theopportunity of displaying his imaginary sovereignty by bestowing on himthe Order of the Garter--a politeness the duke returned by wearing whilethere the no less unrecognised title of Duke of Northumberland, which'His Majesty' had formerly conferred on him. But James III. , though nosaint, had more respect for decent conduct than his father and uncle;the duke ran off into every species of excess, got into debt as usual--

 'When Wharton's just, and learns to pay his debts, And reputation dwells at Mother Brett's, * * * * *

 Then, Celia, shall my constant passion cease, And my poor suff'ring heart shall be at peace, '

says a satirical poem of the day, called 'The Duke of Wharton's_Whens_'--was faithless to the wife he had lately been dying for; andin short, such a thorough blackguard, that not even the Jacobites couldtolerate him, and they turned him out of the Holy City till he shouldlearn not to bring dishonour on the court of their fictitious sovereign. 

The duke was not the man to be much ashamed of himself, though his poorwife may now have begun to think her late mistress in the right, and hewas probably glad of an excuse for another change. At this time, 1727, the Spaniards were determined to wrest Gibraltar from its Englishdefenders, and were sending thither a powerful army under the command ofLos Torres. The Duke had tried many trades with more or less success, and now thought that a little military glory would tack on well to hishighly honourable biography. At any rate there was novelty in the din ofwar, and for novelty he would go anywhere. It mattered little that heshould fight against his own king and own countrymen: he was not halfblackguard enough yet, he may have thought; he had played traitor forsome time, he would now play rebel outright--the game _was_ worth thecandle. 

So what does my lord duke do but write a letter (like the Chinese behindtheir mud-walls, he was always bold enough when well secured under theprotection of the post, and was more absurd in ink even than in action)to the King of Spain, offering him his services as a volunteer against'Gib. ' Whether his Most Catholic Majesty thought him a traitor, amadman, or a devoted partisan of his own, does not appear, for withoutwaiting for an answer--waiting was always too dull work for Wharton--heand his wife set off for the camp before Gibraltar, introducedthemselves to the Conde in Command, were received with all thehonour--let us say honours--due to a duke--and established themselvescomfortably in the ranks of the enemy of England. But all the duke'shopes of prowess were blighted. He had good opportunities. The Conde delos Torres made him his aide-de-camp, and sent him daily into thetrenches to see how matters went on. When a defence of a certain Spanishoutwork was resolved upon, the duke, from his rank, was chosen for thecommand. Yet in the trenches he got no worse wound than a slight one onthe foot from a splinter of a shell, and this he afterwards made anexcuse for not fighting a duel with swords; and as to the outwork, theEnglish abandoned the attack, so that there was no glory to be found inthe defence. He soon grew weary of such inglorious and rather dirty workas visiting trenches before a stronghold; and well he might; for ifthere be one thing duller than another and less satisfactory, it must bedigging a hole out of which to kill your brother mortals; and thinkinghe should amuse himself better at the court, he set off for Madrid. Herethe king, by way of reward for his brilliant services in doing nothing, made him _colonel-aggregate_--whatever that may be--of an Irishregiment; a very poor aggregate, we should think. But my lord dukewanted something livelier than the command of a band of HispaniolizedMilesians; and having found the military career somewhat uninteresting, wished to return to that of politics. He remembered with gusto thefrolic life of the Holy City, and the political excitement in theChevalier's court, and sent off a letter to 'His Majesty James III. , 'expressing, like a rusticated Oxonian, his penitence for having been sonaughty the last time, and offering to come and be very good again. Itis to the praise of the Chevalier de St. George that he had worldlywisdom enough not to trust the gay penitent. He was tired, as everybodyelse was, of a man who could stick to nothing, and did not seem to careabout seeing him again. Accordingly, he replied in true kingly style, blaming him for having taken up arms against their common country, andtelling him in polite language--as a policeman does a riotousdrunkard--that he had better go home. The duke thought so too, was notat all offended at the letter, and set off, by way of returning towardshis Penates, for Paris, where he arrived in May, 1728. 

Horace Walpole--not _the_ Horace--but 'Uncle Horace, ' or 'old Horace, 'as he was called, was then ambassador to the court of the Tuileries. Mr. Walpole was one of the Houghton 'lot, ' a brother of the famous ministerSir Robert, and though less celebrated, almost as able in his line. Hehad distinguished himself in various diplomatic appointments, in Spain, at Hanover and the Hague, and having successfully tackled CardinalFleury, the successor of the Richelieus and Mazarins at Paris, he wasnow in high favour at home. In after years he was celebrated for hisduel with Chetwynd, who, when 'Uncle Horace' had in the House expresseda hope that the question might be carried, had exclaimed, 'I hope to seeyou hanged first!' 'You hope to see me hanged first, do you?' criedHorace, with all the ferocity of the Walpoles; and thereupon, seizinghim by the most prominent feature of his face, shook him violently. Thiswas matter enough for a brace of swords and coffee for four, and Mr. Chetwynd had to repent of his remark after being severely wounded. Inthose days our honourable House of Commons was as much an arena of wildbeasts as the American senate of to-day. 

To this minister our noble duke wrote a hypocritical letter, which, asit shows how the man _could_ write penitently, is worth transcribing. 

 'Lions, June 28, 1728. 

'Sir, --Your excellency will be surpris'd to receive a letter from me;but the clemency with which the government of England has treated me, which is in a great measure owing to your brother's regard to myfather's memory, makes me hope that you will give me leave to express mygratitude for it. 

'Since his present majesty's accession to the throne I have absolutelyrefused to be concerned with the Pretender or any of his affairs; andduring my stay in Italy have behaved myself in a manner that Dr. Peters, Mr. Godolphin, and Mr. Mills can declare to be consistent with my dutyto the present king. I was forc'd to go to Italy to get out of Spain, where, if my true design had been known, I should have been treated alittle severely. 

'I am coming to Paris to put myself entirely under your excellency'sprotection; and hope that Sir Robert Walpole's good-nature will prompthim to save a family which his generosity induced him to spare. If yourexcellency would permit me to wait upon you for an hour, I am certainyou would be convinc'd of the sincerity of my repentance for my formermadness, would become an advocate with his majesty to grant me his mostgracious pardon, which it is my comfort I shall never be required topurchase by any step unworthy of a man of honour. I do not intend, incase of the king's allowing me to pass the evening of my days under theshadow of his royal protection, to see England for some years, but shallremain in France or Germany, as my friends shall advise, and enjoycountry sports till all former stories are buried in oblivion. I beg ofyour excellency to let me receive your orders at Paris, which I willsend to your hostel to receive. The Dutchess of Wharton, who is with me, desires leave to wait on Mrs. Walpole, if you think proper. 

 'I am, &c. '

After this, the ambassador could do no less than receive him; but he wassomewhat disgusted when on leaving him the duke frankly toldhim--forgetting all about his penitent letter, probably, or too recklessto care for it--that he was going to dine with the Bishop ofRochester--Atterbury himself, then living in Paris--whose society wasinterdicted to any subject of King George. The duke, with his usualfolly, touched on other subjects equally dangerous, his visit to Rome, and his conversion to Romanism; and, in short, disgusted the cautiousMr. Walpole. There is something delightfully impudent about all theseacts of Wharton's; and had he only been a clown at Drury Lane instead ofan English nobleman, he must have been successful. As it is, when onereads of the petty hatred and humbug of those days, when liberty ofspeech was as unknown as any other liberty, one cannot but admire theimpudence of his Grace of Wharton, and wish that most dukes, withoutbeing as profligate, would be as free-spoken. 

With six hundred pounds in his pocket, our young Lothario now set uphouse at Rouen, with an establishment 'equal, ' say the old-schoolwriters, 'to his position, but not to his means. ' In other words, heundertook to live in a style for which he could not pay. Twelve hundreda year may be enough for a duke, as for any other man, but not for onewho considers a legion of servants a necessary appendage to hisposition. My lord duke, who was a good French scholar, soon found anample number of friends and acquaintances, and not being particularabout either, managed to get through his half-year's income in a fewweeks. Evil consequence: he was assailed by duns. French duns knownothing about forgiving debtors; 'your money first, and then my pardon, 'is their motto. My lord duke soon found this out. Still he had anincome, and could pay them all off in time. So he drank and was merry, till one fine day came a disagreeable piece of news, which startled himconsiderably. The government at home had heard of his doings, anddetermined to arraign him for high treason. 

He could expect little else, for had he not actually taken up armsagainst his sovereign?

Now Sir Robert Walpole was, no doubt, a vulgarian. He was not a man tolove or sympathise with; but he _was_ good-natured at bottom. Our'frolic grace' had reason to acknowledge this. He could not complain ofharshness in any measures taken against him, and he had certainly noclaim to consideration from the government he had treated so ill. YetSir 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 askpardon of the king, with a promise that it would be granted. For surethe Duke of Wharton's character was anomalous. The same man who had morethan once humiliated himself when unasked, who had written to Walpole'sbrother the letter we have read, would not now, when entreated to do so, write a few lines to that minister to ask mercy. Nay, when the gentlemanin question offered to be content even with a letter from the duke'svalet, he refused to allow the man to write. Some people may admire whatthey will believe to be firmness, but when we review the duke'scharacter and subsequent acts, we cannot attribute this refusal toanything but obstinate pride. The consequence of this folly was astoppage of supplies, for as he was accused of high treason, his estatewas of course sequestrated. He revenged himself by writing a paper whichwas published in 'Mist's Journal, ' and which, under the cover of aPersian tale, contained a species of libel on the government. 

His position was now far from enviable; and, assailed by duns, he hadno resource but to humble himself, not before those he had offended, butbefore the Chevalier, to whom he wrote in his distress, and who sent him£2, 000, which he soon frittered away in follies. This gone, the dukebegged and borrowed, for there are some people such fools that theywould rather lose a thousand pounds to a peer than give sixpence to apauper, and many a tale was told of the artful manner in which his gracemanaged to cozen his friends out of a louis or two. His ready witgenerally saved him. 

Thus on one occasion an Irish toady invited him to dinner: the duketalked of his wardrobe, then sadly defective; what suit should he wear?The Hibernian suggested black velvet. 'Could you recommend a tailor?''Certainly. ' Snip came, an expensive suit was ordered, put on, and thedinner taken. In due course the tailor called for his money. The dukewas not a bit at a loss, though he had but a few francs to his name. 'Honest man, ' quoth he, 'you mistake the matter entirely. Carry the billto Sir Peter; for know that whenever I consent to wear another man'slivery, my master pays for the clothes, ' and inasmuch as thedinner-giver was an Irishman, he did actually discharge the account. 

At other times he would give a sumptuous entertainment, and in one wayor another induce his guests to pay for it. He was only less adroit incoining excuses than Theodore Hook, and had he lived a century later, wemight have a volume full of anecdotes to give of his ways and no means. Meanwhile his unfortunate duchess was living on the charity of friends, while her lord and master, when he could get anyone to pay for a band, was serenading young ladies. Yet he was jealous enough of his wife attimes, and once sent a challenge to a Scotch nobleman, simply becausesome silly friend asked him if he had forbidden his wife to dance withthe lord. He went all the way to Flanders to meet his opponent; but, perhaps fortunately for the duke, Marshal Berwick arrested theScotchman, and the duel never came off. 

Whether he felt his end approaching, or whether he was sick of vilepleasures which he had recklessly pursued from the age of fifteen, henow, though only thirty years of age, retired for a time to a convent, and was looked on as a penitent and devotee. Penury, doubtless, curedhim in a measure, and poverty, the porter of the gates of heaven, warnedhim to look forward beyond a life he had so shamefully misused. But itwas 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 himselfof his colonelcy in Spain, and determined to set out to join hisregiment. The following letter from a friend who accompanied him willbest show what circumstances he was in:--

 'Paris, June 1, 1729. 

'Dear Sir, --I am just returned from the Gates of Death, to return youThanks for your last kind Letter of Accusations, which I am persuadedwas intended as a seasonable Help to my Recollection, at a Time that itwas necessary for me to send an Inquisitor General into my Conscience, to examine and settle all the Abuses that ever were committed in thatlittle Court of Equity; but I assure you, your long Letter did not layso 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 Hailupon us two in E---- Forest, and has left me much at a Loss which way toturn myself. The Pilot of the Ship I embarked in, who industriously ranupon every Rock, has at last split the Vessel, and so much of a sudden, that the whole Crew, I mean his Domesticks, are all left to swim fortheir Lives, without one friendly Plank to assist them to Shore. Inshort, he left me sick, in Debt, and without a Penny; but as I begin torecover, and have a little time to Think, I can't help consideringmyself, as one whisk'd up behind a Witch upon a Broomstick, and hurriedover Mountains and Dales through confus'd Woods and thorny Thickets, andwhen the Charm is ended, and the poor Wretch dropp'd in a Desart, he cangive no other Account of his enchanted Travels, but that he is muchfatigued in Body and Mind, his Cloaths torn, and worse in all otherCircumstances, without being of the least Service to himself or anybody else. But I will follow your Advice with an active Resolution, toretrieve my bad Fortune, and almost a Year miserably misspent. 

'But notwithstanding what I have suffered, and what my Brother Mad-manhas done to undo himself, and every body who was so unlucky to have theleast Concern with him, I could not but be movingly touch'd at soextraordinary a Vicissitude of Fortune, to see a great Man fallen fromthat shining Light, in which I beheld him in the House of Lords, to sucha Degree of Obscurity, that I have observ'd the meanest Commoner heredecline, and the Few he would sometimes fasten on, to be tired of hisCompany; for you know he is but a bad Orator in his Cups, and of late hehas been but seldom sober. 

'A week before he left Paris, he was so reduced, that he had not onesingle Crown at Command, and was forc'd to thrust in with anyAcquaintance for a Lodging; Walsh and I have had him by Turns, all toavoid a Crowd of Duns, which he had of all Sizes, from Fourteen hundredLivres to Four, who hunted him so close, that he was forced to retire tosome of the neighbouring Villages for Safety. I, sick as I was, hurriedabout Paris to raise Money, and to St. Germain's to get him Linen; Ibought him one Shirt and a Cravat, which with 500 Livres, his wholeStock, he and his Duchess, attended by one Servant, set out for Spain. All the News I have heard of them since is that a Day or two after, hesent for Captain Brierly, and two or three of his Domesticks, to followhim; but none but the Captain obey'd the Summons. Where they are now, Ican't tell, but fear they must be in great Distress by this Time, if hehas no other Supplies; and so ends my Melancholy Story. 

 'I am, &c. '

Still his good-humour did not desert him; he joked about their povertyon the road, and wrote an amusing account of their journey to a friend, winding up with the well-known lines:--

 'Be kind to my remains, and oh! defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend. '

His mind was as vigorous as ever, in spite of the waste of manydebauches; and when recommended to make a new translation of'Telemachus;' he actually devoted one whole day to the work; the next heforgot all about it. In the same manner he began a play on the story ofMary Queen of Scots, and Lady M. W. Montagu wrote an epilogue for it, but the piece never got beyond a few scenes. His genius, perhaps, wasnot for either poetry or the drama. His mind was a keen, clear one, better suited to argument and to grapple tough polemic subjects. Had hebut been a sober man, he might have been a fair, if not a great writer. The 'True Briton, ' with many faults of license, shows what hiscapabilities were. His absence of moral sense may be guessed from hispoem on the preaching of Atterbury, in which is a parallel almostblasphemous. 

At length he reached Bilboa and his regiment, and had to live on themeagre pay of eighteen pistoles a month. The Duke of Ormond, then anexile, took pity on his wife, and supported her for a time: sheafterwards rejoined her mother at Madrid. 

Meanwhile, the year 1730 brought about a salutary change in the duke'smorals. His health was fast giving way from the effects of diversexcesses; and there is nothing like bad health for purging a bad soul. The end of a misspent life was fast drawing near, and he could only keepit up by broth with eggs beaten up in it. He lost the use of his limbs, but not of his gaiety. In the mountains of Catalonia he met with amineral spring which did him some good; so much, in fact, that he wasable to rejoin his regiment for a time. A fresh attack sent him back tothe waters; but on his way he was so violently attacked that he wasforced to stop at a little village. Here he found himself without themeans of going farther, and in the worst state of health. The monks of aBernardine convent took pity on him and received him into their house. He grew worse and worse; and in a week died on the 31st of May, withouta friend to pity or attend him, among strangers, and at the early age ofthirty-two. 

Thus ended the life of one of the cleverest fools that ever disgracedour peerage. 

 LORD HERVEY. 

 George II. Arriving from Hanover. --His Meeting with the Queen. --Lady Suffolk. --Queen Caroline. --Sir Robert Walpole. --Lord Hervey. --A set of Fine Gentlemen. --An Eccentric Race. --Carr, Lord Hervey. --A Fragile Boy. --Description of George II. 's Family. --Anne Brett. --A Bitter Cup. --The Darling of the Family. --Evenings at St. James's. --Frederick, Prince of Wales. --Amelia Sophia Walmoden. --Poor Queen Caroline!--Nocturnal Diversions of Maids of Honour. --Neighbour George's Orange Chest. --Mary Lepel, Lady Hervey. --Rivalry. --Hervey's Intimacy with Lady Mary. --Relaxations of the Royal Household. --Bacon's Opinion of Twickenham. --A Visit to Pope's Villa. --The Little Nightingale. --The Essence of Small Talk. --Hervey's Affectation and Effeminacy. --Pope's Quarrel with Hervey and Lady Mary. --Hervey's Duel with Pulteney. --'The Death of Lord Hervey: a Drama. '--Queen Caroline's last Drawing-room. --Her Illness and Agony. --A Painful Scene. --The Truth discovered. --The Queen's Dying Bequests. --The King's Temper. --Archbishop Potter is sent for. --The Duty of Reconciliation. --The Death of Queen Caroline. --A Change in Hervey's Life. --Lord Hervey's Death. --Want of Christianity. --Memoirs of his Own Time. 

The village of Kensington was disturbed in its sweet repose one day, more than a century ago, by the rumbling of a ponderous coach and six, with four outriders and two equerries kicking up the dust; whilst asmall body of heavy dragoons rode solemnly after the huge vehicle. Itwaded, with inglorious struggles, through a deep mire of mud, betweenthe Palace and Hyde Park, until the cortège entered Kensington Park, asthe gardens were then called, and began to track the old road that ledto the red-brick structure to which William III. Had added a higherstory, built by Wren. There are two roads by which coaches couldapproach the house: 'one, ' as the famous John, Lord Hervey, wrote to hismother, 'so convex, the other so concave, that, by this extreme offaults, they agree in the common one of being, like the high road, impassable. ' The rumbling coach, with its plethoric steeds, toils slowlyon, and reaches the dismal pile, of which no association is so preciousas that of its having been the birthplace of our loved Victoria Regina. All around, as the emblazoned carriage impressively veers round into thegrand entrance, savours of William and Mary, of Anne, of Bishop Burnetand Harley, Atterbury and Bolingbroke. But those were pleasant dayscompared to those of the second George, whose return from Hanover inthis mountain of a coach is now described. 

The panting steeds are gracefully curbed by the state coachman in hisscarlet livery, with his cocked-hat and gray wig underneath it: now thehorses are foaming and reeking as if they had come from the world's endto Kensington, and yet they have only been to meet King George on hisentrance into London, which he has reached from Helvoetsluys, on his wayfrom Hanover, in time, as he expects, to spend his birthday among hisEnglish subjects. 

It is Sunday, and repose renders the retirement of Kensington and itsavenues and shades more sombre than ever. Suburban retirement is usuallyso. It is noon; and the inmates of Kensington Palace are just comingforth from the chapel in the palace. The coach is now stopping, and theequerries are at hand to offer their respectful assistance to thediminutive figure that, in full Field-marshal regimentals, a cocked-hatstuck crosswise on his head, a sword dangling even down to his heels, ungraciously heeds them not, but stepping down, as the great iron gatesare thrown open to receive him, looks neither like a king or agentleman. A thin, worn face, in which weakness and passion are at oncepictured; a form buttoned and padded up to the chin; high Hessian bootswithout a wrinkle; a sword and a swagger, no more constituting him themilitary character than the 'your majesty' from every lip can make apoor thing of clay a king. Such was George II. : brutal, even to hissubmissive wife. Stunted by nature, he was insignificant in form, as hewas petty in character; not a trace of royalty could be found in thatsilly, tempestuous physiognomy, with its hereditary small head: not anatom of it in his made-up, paltry little presence; still less in hisbearing, language, or qualities. 

The queen and her court have come from chapel, to meet the royalabsentee at the great gate: the consort, who was to his gracious majestylike 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 ofmanners, a composure, and a _savoir faire_ that causes one to regard heras mated, not matched to the little creature in that cocked-hat, whichhe does not take off even when she stands before him. The pair, nevertheless, embrace: it is a triennial ceremony performed when theking goes or returns from Hanover, but suffered to lapse at other times;but the condescension is too great: and Caroline ends, where she began:'gluing her lips to the ungracious hand held out to her in evidentill-humour. 

They turn, and walk through the court, then up the grand staircase, intothe queen's apartment. The king has been swearing all the way at Englandand the English, because he has been obliged to return from Hanover, where the German mode of life and new mistresses were more agreeable tohim than the English customs and an old wife. He displays, therefore, even on this supposed happy occasion, one of the worst outbreaks of hisinsufferable temper, of which the queen is the first victim. All thecompany 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 livelymanners and great good temper and good will--lent out like leasehold toall, till she saw what their friendship might bring, --are always usefulat these _tristes rencontres_. Mrs. Clayton is the amalgamatingsubstance between chemical agents which have, of themselves, nocohesion; she covers with address what is awkward; she smooths down withsomething pleasant what is rude; she turns off--and her office in thatrespect is no sinecure at that court--what is indecent, so as to keepthe small majority of the company who have respectable notions in goodhumour. To the right of Queen Caroline stands another of her majesty'shousehold, to whom the most deferential attention is paid by allpresent; nevertheless, she is queen of the court, but not the queen ofthe royal master of that court. It is Lady Suffolk, the mistress ofKing George II. , and long mistress of the robes to Queen Caroline. Sheis now past the bloom of youth, but her attractions are not in theirwane; but endured until she had attained her seventy-ninth year. Of amiddle height, well made, extremely fair, with very fine light hair, sheattracts regard from her sweet, fresh face, which had in it a comelinessindependent of regularity of feature. According to her invariablecustom, she is dressed with simplicity; her silky tresses are drawnsomewhat back from her snowy forehead, and fall in long tresses on hershoulders, not less transparently white. She wears a gown of rich silk, opening in front to display a chemisette of the most delicate cambric, which is scarcely less delicate than her skin. Her slender arms arewithout bracelets, and her taper fingers without rings. As she standsbehind the queen, holding her majesty's fan and gloves, she is obliged, from her deafness, to lean her fair face with its sunny hair first tothe right side, then to the left, with the helpless air of oneexceedingly deaf--for she had been afflicted with that infirmity forsome years: yet one cannot say whether her appealing looks, which seemto say, 'Enlighten me if you please, '--and the sort of softened mannerin which she accepts civilities which she scarcely comprehends do notenhance the wonderful charm which drew every one who knew her towardsthis frail, but passionless woman. 

[Illustration: SCENE BEFORE KENSINGTON PALACE--GEORGE II. AND QUEENCAROLINE. ]

The queen forms the centre of the group. Caroline, daughter of theMarquis of Brandenburgh-Anspach, notwithstanding her residence inEngland of many years, notwithstanding her having been, at the era atwhich this biography begins, ten years its queen--is still German inevery attribute. She retains, in her fair and comely face, traces ofhaving been handsome; but her skin is deeply scarred by the cruelsmall-pox. She is now at that time of life when Sir Robert Walpole eventhought it expedient to reconcile her to no longer being an object ofattraction to her royal consort. As a woman, she has ceased to beattractive to a man of the character of George II. ; but, as a queen, sheis still, as far as manners are concerned, incomparable. As she turns toaddress various members of the assembly, her style is full of sweetnessas well as of courtesy, yet on other occasions she is majesty itself. The tones of her voice, with its still foreign accent, are mostcaptivating; her eyes penetrate into every countenance on which theyrest. Her figure, plump and matronly, has lost much of its contour; butis well suited for her part. Majesty in women should be _embonpoint_. Her hands are beautifully white, and faultless in shape. The king alwaysadmired her bust; and it is, therefore, by royal command, tolerablyexposed. Her fair hair is upraised in full short curls over her brow:her dress is rich, and distinguished in that respect from that of theCountess of Suffolk. --'Her good Howard'--as she was wont to call her, when, before her elevation to the peerage, she was lady of thebedchamber to Caroline, had, when in that capacity, been often subjectedto servile offices, which the queen, though apologizing in the sweetestmanner, delighted to make her perform. 'My good Howard' having one dayplaced a handkerchief on the back of her royal mistress, the king, whohalf worshipped his intellectual wife, pulled it off in a passion, saying, 'Because you have an ugly neck yourself, you hide the queen's!'All, however, that evening was smooth as ice, and perhaps as cold also. The company are quickly dismissed, and the king, who has scarcely spokento the queen, retires to his closet, where he is attended by thesubservient Caroline, and by two other persons. 

Sir Robert Walpole, prime minister, has accompanied the king in hiscarriage, from the very entrance of London, where the famous statesmanmet him. He is now the privileged companion of their majesties, in theirseclusion for the rest of the evening. His cheerful face, in its fullevening disguise of wig and tie, his invariable good humour, his frankmanners, his wonderful sense, his views, more practical than elevated, sufficiently account for the influence which this celebrated ministerobtained over Queen Caroline, and the readiness of King George to submitto the tie. But Sir Robert's great source of ascendancy was his temper. Never was there in the annals of our country a minister so free ofaccess: so obliging in giving, so unoffending when he refused; soindulgent and kind to those dependent on him; so generous, so faithfulto his friends, so forgiving to his foes. This was his character underone phase: even his adherents sometimes blamed his easiness of temper;the impossibility in his nature to cherish the remembrance of a wrong, or even to be roused by an insult. But, whilst such were the amiabletraits of his character, history has its lists of accusations againsthim for corruption of the most shameless description. The end of thisveteran statesman's career is well known. The fraudulent contracts whichhe gave, the peculation and profusion of the secret service money, hisundue influence at elections, brought around his later life a storm, from which he retreated into the Upper House, when created Earl ofOrford. It was before this timely retirement from office that he burstforth in these words: 'I oppose nothing; give in to everything; am saidto do everything; and to answer for everything; and yet, God knows, Idare not do what I think is right. '

With his public capacity, however, we have not here to do: it is in hischaracter of a courtier that we view him following the queen and king. His round, complacent face, with his small glistening eyes, archedeyebrows, and with a mouth ready to break out aloud into a laugh, areall subdued into a respectful gravity as he listens to King Georgegrumbling at the necessity for his return home. No English cook coulddress a dinner; no English cook could select a dessert; no Englishcoachman could drive; nor English jockey ride; no Englishman--such werehis habitual taunts--knew how to come into a room; no Englishwomanunderstood how to dress herself. The men, he said, talked of nothing buttheir dull politics, and the women of nothing but their ugly clothes. Whereas, in Hanover, all these things were at perfection: men werepatterns of politeness and gallantry; women, of beauty, wit, andentertainment. His troops there were the bravest in the world; hismanufacturers the most ingenious; his people the happiest: in Hanover, in short, plenty reigned, riches flowed, arts flourished, magnificenceabounded, everything was in abundance that could make a prince great, ora people blessed. 

There was one standing behind the queen who listened to these outbreaksof the king's bilious temper, as he called it, with an apparentlyrespectful solicitude, but with the deepest disgust in his heart. Aslender, elegant figure, in a court suit, faultlessly and carefullyperfect in that costume, stands behind the queen's chair. It is LordHervey. His lofty forehead, his features, which have a refinement ofcharacter, his well-turned mouth, and full and dimpled chin, form hisclaims to that beauty which won the heart of the lovely Mary Lepel;whilst the somewhat thoughtful and pensive expression of hisphysiognomy, when in repose, indicated the sympathising, yet, at thesame time, satirical character of one who won the affections, perhapsunconsciously, of the amiable Princess Caroline, the favourite daughterof George II. 

A general air of languor, ill concealed by the most studied artifice ofcountenance, and even of posture, characterizes Lord Hervey. He wouldhave abhorred robustness; for he belonged to the clique then calledMaccaronis; a set of fine gentlemen, of whom the present world would notbe worthy, tricked out for show, fitted only to drive out fading majestyin a stage coach; exquisite in every personal appendage, too fine forthe common usages of society; _point-device_, not only in every curl andruffle, but in every attitude and step; men with full satin roses ontheir shining shoes; diamond tablet rings on their forefingers; withsnuff-boxes, the worth of which might almost purchase a farm; laceworked by the delicate fingers of some religious recluse of anancestress, and taken from an altar-cloth; old point-lace, dark ascoffee-water could make it; with embroidered waistcoats, wreathed inexquisite tambour-work round each capricious lappet and pocket; with cutsteel buttons that glistened beneath the courtly wax-lights: with theseand fifty other small but costly characteristics that established thereputation of an aspirant Maccaroni. Lord Hervey was, in truth, aneffeminate creature: too dainty to walk; too precious to commit hisframe to horseback; and prone to imitate the somewhat recluse habitswhich German rulers introduced within the court: he was disposed tocandle-light pleasures and cockney diversions; to Marybone and the Mall, and shrinking from the athletic and social recreations which, like somuch that was manly and English, were confined almost to the Englishsquire _pur et simple_ after the Hanoverian accession; when so muchdegeneracy 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 effeminacy of the Maccaroni, Lord Hervey was one of the fewwho united to intense _finery_ in every minute detail, an acute andcultivated intellect. To perfect a Maccaroni it was in truth advisable, if not essential, to unite some smattering of learning, a pretension towit, to his super-dandyism; to be the author of some personal squib, orthe translator of some classic. Queen Caroline was too cultivatedherself to suffer fools about her, and Lord Hervey was a man after herown taste; as a courtier he was essentially a fine gentleman; and, morethan that, he could be the most delightful companion, the most sensibleadviser, and the most winning friend in the court. His ill-health, whichhe carefully concealed, his fastidiousness, his ultra-delicacy ofhabits, formed an agreeable contrast to the coarse robustness of 'SirRobert, ' and constituted a relief after the society of the vulgar, strong-minded minister, who was born for the hustings and the House ofCommons rather than for the courtly drawing-room. 

John Lord Hervey, long vice-chamberlain to Queen Caroline, was, like SirRobert Walpole, descended from a commoner's family, one of those goodold squires who lived, as Sir Henry Wotton says, 'without lustre andwithout obscurity. ' The Duchess of Marlborough had procured theelevation of the Herveys of Ickworth to the peerage. She happened to beintimate with Sir Thomas Felton, the father of Mrs. Hervey, afterwardsLady Bristol, whose husband, at first created Lord Hervey, andafterwards Earl of Bristol, expressed his obligations by retaining ashis motto, when raised to the peerage, the words 'Je n'oublierayjàmais, ' in allusion to the service done him by the Duke and Duchess ofMarlborough. 

The Herveys had always been an eccentric race; and the classification of'men, women, and Herveys, ' by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, was not morewitty than true. There was in the whole race an eccentricity whichbordered on the ridiculous, but did not imply want of sense or oftalent. Indeed this third species, 'the Herveys, ' were more gifted thanthe generality of 'men and women. ' The father of Lord Hervey had been acountry gentleman of good fortune, living at Ickworth, near Bury inSuffolk, and representing the town in parliament, as his father hadbefore him, until raised to the peerage. Before that elevation he hadlived on in his own county, uniting the character of the English squire, in that fox-hunting county, with that of a perfect gentleman, a scholar, and a most admirable member of society. He was a poet, also, affectingthe style of Cowley, who wrote an elegy upon his uncle, William Hervey, an elegy compared to Milton's 'Lycidas' in imagery, music, andtenderness of thought. The shade of Cowley, whom Charles II. Pronounced, at his death, to be 'the best man in England, ' haunted this peer, thefirst Earl of Bristol. He aspired especially to the poet's _wit_; andthe ambition to be a wit flew like wildfire among his family, especiallyinfecting his two sons, Carr, the elder brother of the subject of thismemoir, and Lord Hervey. 

It would have been well could the Earl of Bristol have transmitted tohis sons his other qualities. He was pious, moral, affectionate, sincere; a consistent Whig of the old school, and, as such, disapprovingof Sir Robert Walpole, of the standing army, the corruptions, and thatdoctrine of expediency so unblushingly avowed by the ministers. 

Created Earl of Bristol in 1714, the heir-apparent to his titles andestates was the elder brother, by a former marriage, of John, LordHervey; the dissolute, clever, whimsical Carr, Lord Hervey. Pope, in oneof his satirical appeals to the _second_ Lord Hervey, speaks of hisfriendship with Carr, 'whose early death deprived the family' (ofHervey) 'of as much wit and honour as he left behind him in any part ofit. ' The _wit_ was a family attribute, but the _honour_ was dubious:Carr was as deistical as any Maccaroni of the day, and, perhaps, moredissolute than most: in one respect he has left behind him a celebritywhich may be as questionable as his wit, or his honour; he is reputed tobe the father of Horace Walpole, and if we accept presumptive evidenceof the fact, the statement is clearly borne out, for in his wit, hisindifference to religion, to say the least, his satirical turn, hislove of the world, and his contempt of all that was great and good, hestrongly resembles his reputed son; whilst the levity of Lady Walpole'scharacter, and Sir Robert's laxity and dissoluteness, do not furnish anyreasonable doubt to the statement made by Lady Louisa Stuart, in theintroduction to Lord Wharncliffe's 'Life of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. 'Carr, Lord Hervey, died early, and his half-brother succeeded him in histitle and expectations. 

John, Lord Hervey, was educated first at Westminster School, under Dr. Freind, the friend of Mrs. Montagu; thence he was removed to Clare Hall, Cambridge: he graduated as a nobleman, and became M. A. In 1715. 

At Cambridge Lord Hervey might have acquired some manly prowess; but hehad a mother who was as strange as the family into which she hadmarried, and who was passionately devoted to her son: she evinced heraffection by never letting him have a chance of being like other Englishboys. When his father was at Newmarket, Jack Hervey, as he was called, was to ride a race, to please his father; but his mother could not riskher dear boy's safety, and the race was won by a jockey. He was asprecious and as fragile as porcelain: the elder brother's death made theheir of the Herveys more valuable, more effeminate, and more controlledthan ever by his eccentric mother. A court was to be his hemisphere, andto that all his views, early in life, tended. He went to Hanover to payhis court to George I. : Carr had done the same, and had come backenchanted with George, the heir-presumptive, who made him one of thelords of the bedchamber. Jack Hervey also returned full of enthusiasmfor the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II. , and the Princess; andthat visit influenced his destiny. 

He now proposed making the grand tour, which comprised Paris, Germany, and Italy. But his mother again interfered: she wept, she exhorted, sheprevailed. Means were refused, and the stripling was recalled to hangabout the court, or to loiter at Ickworth, scribbling verses, andcausing his father uneasiness lest he should be too much of a poet, andtoo little of a public man. 

Such was his youth: disappointed by not obtaining a commission in theGuards, he led a desultory butterfly-like life; one day at Richmond withQueen Caroline, then Princess of Wales; another, at Pope's villa, atTwickenham; sometimes in the House of Commons, in which he succeeded hiselder brother as member for Bury; and, at the period when he has beendescribed as forming one of the quartett in Queen Caroline's closet atSt. James's, as vice-chamberlain to his partial and royal patroness. 

His early marriage with Mary Lepel, the beautiful maid of honour toQueen Caroline, insured his felicity, though it did not curb hispredilections for other ladies. 

Henceforth Lord Hervey lived all the year round in what were then calledlodgings, that is, apartments appropriated to the royal household, oreven to others, in St. James's, or at Richmond, or at Windsor. In orderfully to comprehend all the intimate relations which he had with thecourt, it is necessary to present the reader with some account of thefamily of George II. Five daughters had been the female issue of hismajesty's marriage with Queen Caroline. Three of these princesses, thethree elder ones, had lived, during the life of George I. , at St. James's with their grandfather; who, irritated by the differencesbetween him and his son, then Prince of Wales, adopted that measurerather as showing his authority than from any affection to the youngprincesses. It was, in truth, difficult to say which of these royalladies was the most unfortunate. 

Anne, the eldest, had shown her spirit early in life whilst residingwith George I. ; she had a proud, imperious nature, and her temper was, it must be owned, put to a severe test. The only time that George I. Didthe English the _honour_ of choosing one of the beauties of the nationfor his mistress, was during the last year of his reign. The object ofhis choice was Anne Brett, the eldest daughter of the infamous Countessof Macclesfield by her second husband. The neglect of Savage, the poet, her son, was merely one passage in the iniquitous life of LadyMacclesfield. Endowed with singular taste and judgment, consulted byColley Cibber on every new play he produced, the mother of Savage wasnot only wholly destitute of all virtue, but of all shame. One day, looking out of the window, she perceived a very handsome man assaultedby some bailiffs who were going to arrest him: she paid his debt, released, and married him. The hero of this story was Colonel Brett, thefather of Anne Brett. 

The child of such a mother was not likely to be evendecently-respectable; and Anne was proud of her disgraceful preeminenceand of her disgusting and royal lover. She was dark, and her flashingblack eyes resembled those of a Spanish beauty. Ten years after thedeath of George I. , she found a husband in Sir William Leman, ofNorthall, and was announced, on that occasion, as the half-sister ofRichard Savage. 

To the society of this woman, when at St. James's, as 'Mistress Brett, 'the three princesses were subjected: at the same time the Duchess ofKendal, the king's German mistress, occupied other lodgings at St. James's. 

Miss Brett was to be rewarded with the coronet of a countess for herdegradation, the king being absent on the occasion at Hanover; elated byher expectations, she took the liberty, during his majesty's absence, ofordering a door to be broken out of her apartment into the royal garden, where the princesses walked. The Princess Anne, not deigning toassociate with her, commanded that it should be forthwith closed. MissBrett imperiously reversed that order. In the midst of the affair, theking died suddenly, and Anne Brett's reign was over, and her influencesoon as much forgotten as if she had never existed. The Princess Annewas pining in the dulness of her royal home, when a marriage with thePrince of Orange, was proposed for the consideration of his parents. Itwas a miserable match as well as a miserable prospect, for the prince'srevenue amounted to no more than £12, 000 a year; and the state and pompto which the Princess Royal had been accustomed could not becontemplated on so small a fortune. It was still worse in point of thatpoor consideration, happiness. The Prince of Orange was both deformedand disgusting in his person, though his face was sensible inexpression; and if he inspired one idea more strongly than another whenhe appeared in his uniform and cocked hat, and spoke bad French, orworse English, it was that of seeing before one a dressed-up baboon. 

It was a bitter cup for the princess to drink, but she drank it: shereflected that it might be the only way of quitting a court where, incase of her father's death, she would be dependent on her brotherFrederick, or on that weak prince's strong-minded wife. So sheconsented, and took the dwarf; and that consent was regarded by agrateful people, and by all good courtiers, as a sacrifice for the sakeof Protestant principles, the House of Orange being, _par excellence_, at the head of the orthodox dynasties in Europe. A dowry of £80, 000 wasforthwith granted by an admiring Commons--just double what had ever beengiven before. That sum was happily lying in the exchequer, being thepurchase-money of some lands in St. Christopher's which had lately beensold; and King George was thankful to get rid of a daughter whosehaughtiness gave him trouble. In person, too, the princess royal was notvery ornamental to the Court. She was ill-made, with a propensity togrow fat; her complexion, otherwise very fine, was marked with thesmall-pox; she had, however, a lively, clean look--one of her chiefbeauties--and a certain royalty of manner. 

The Princess Amelia died, as the world thought, single, but consoledherself with various love flirtations. The Duke of Newcastle made loveto her, but her affections were centred on the Duke of Grafton, to whomshe was privately married, as is confidently asserted. 

The Princess Caroline was the darling of her family. Even the kingrelied on her truth. When there was any dispute, he used to say, 'Sendfor Caroline; she will tell us the right story. '

Her fate had its clouds. Amiable, gentle, of unbounded charity, withstrong affections, which were not suffered to flow in a legitimatechannel, she became devotedly attached to Lord Hervey: her heart wasbound up in him; his death drove her into a permanent retreat from theworld. No debasing connection existed between them; but it is misery, itis sin enough to love another woman's husband--and that sin, thatmisery, was the lot of the royal and otherwise virtuous Caroline. 

The Princess Mary, another victim to conventionalities, was united toFrederick, Landgrave of Hesse Cassel; a barbarian, from whom sheescaped, whenever she could, to come, with a bleeding heart, to herEnglish 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 Cumberland. 

Louisa became Queen of Denmark in 1746, after some years' marriage tothe Crown Prince. 'We are lucky, ' Horace Walpole writes on thatoccasion, 'in the death of kings. '

The two princesses who were still under the paternal roof werecontrasts. Caroline was a constant invalid, gentle, sincere, unambitious, devoted to her mother, whose death nearly killed her. Amelia affected popularity, and assumed the _esprit fort_--was fond ofmeddling in politics, and after the death of her mother, joined theBedford faction, in opposition to her father. But both these princesseswere outwardly submissive when Lord Hervey became the Queen'schamberlain. 

The evenings at St. James's were spent in the same way as those atKensington. 

Quadrille formed her majesty's pastime, and, whilst Lord Hervey playedpools of cribbage with the Princess Caroline and the maids of honour, the Duke of Cumberland amused himself and the Princess Amelia at'buffet. ' On Mondays and Fridays there were drawing-rooms held; andthese receptions took place, very wisely, in the evening. 

Beneath all the show of gaiety and the freezing ceremony of thosestately occasions, there was in that court as much misery as familydissensions, or, to speak accurately, family hatreds can engender. Endless jealousies, which seem to us as frivolous as they were rabid;and contentions, of which even the origin is still unexplained, had longsevered the queen from her eldest son. George II. Had always loved hismother: his affection for the unhappy Sophia Dorothea was one of thevery few traits of goodness in a character utterly vulgar, sensual, andentirely selfish. His son, Frederick, Prince of Wales, on the otherhand, hated his mother. He loved neither of his parents: but the queenhad the preeminence in his aversion. 

The king, during the year 1736, was at Hanover. His return wasannounced, but under circumstances of danger. A tremendous storm arosejust as he was prepared to embark at Helvoetsluys. All London was on thelook out, weather-cocks were watched; tides, winds, and moons formed theonly subjects of conversation; but no one of his majesty's subjects wasso demonstrative as the Prince of Wales, and his cheerfulness, and histriumph even, on the occasion, were of course resentfully heard of bythe queen. 

During the storm, when anxiety had almost amounted to fever, Lord Herveydined with Sir Robert Walpole. Their conversation naturally turned onthe state of affairs, prospectively. Sir Robert called the prince a'poor, weak, irresolute, false, lying, contemptible wretch. ' Lord Herveydid not defend him, but suggested that Frederick, in case of hisfather's death, might be more influenced by the queen than he hadhitherto been. 'Zounds, my lord!' interrupted Sir Robert, 'he would tearthe flesh off her bones with red-hot irons sooner! The distinctions sheshows to you, too, I believe, would not be forgotten. Then the notion hehas of his great riches, and the desire he has of fingering them, wouldmake him pinch her, and pinch her again, in order to make her buy herease, till she had not a groat left. '

What a picture of a heartless and selfish character! The next day thequeen sent for Lord Hervey, to ask him if he knew the particulars of agreat dinner which the prince had given to the lord mayor the previousday, whilst the whole country, and the court in particular, wastrembling for the safety of the king, his father. Lord Hervey told herthat the prince's speech at the dinner was the most ingratiating pieceof popularity ever heard; the healths, of course, as usual. 'Heavens!'cried the queen: 'popularity always makes me sick, but _Fritz's_popularity makes me vomit! I hear that yesterday, on the prince's sideof the House, they talked of the king's being cast away with the same_sang froid_ as you would talk of an overturn; and that my good sonstrutted about as if he had been already king. Did you mark the airswith which he came into my drawing-room in the morning? though he doesnot think fit to honour me with his presence, or _ennui_ me with hiswife's, of an evening? I felt something here in my throat that swelledand half-choked me. '

Poor Queen Caroline! with such a son, and such a husband, she must havebeen possessed of a more than usual share of German imperturbability tosustain her cheerfulness, writhing, as she often was, under the pangs ofa long-concealed disorder, of which eventually she died. Even on theoccasion 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 hermore than the king's admiration for Amelia Sophia Walmoden, who, afterthe death of Caroline, was created Countess of Yarmouth. Madame Walmodenhad been a reigning belle among the married women at Hanover, whenGeorge II. Visited that country in 1735. Not that her majesty'saffections were wounded; it was her pride that was hurt by the idea thatpeople would think that this Hanoverian lady had more influence than shehad. In other respects the king's absence was a relief: she had the_éclat_ of the regency; she had the comfort of having the hours whichher royal torment decreed were to be passed in amusing his dulness, toherself; she was free from his 'quotidian sallies of temper, which, ' asLord Hervey relates, 'let it be charged by what hand it would, usedalways to discharge its hottest fire, on some pretence or other, uponher. '

It is quite true that from the first dawn of his preference for MadameWalmoden, the king wrote circumstantial letters of fifty or sixty pagesto the queen, informing her of every stage of the affair; the queen, inreply, saying that she was only _one_ woman, and an old woman, andadding, 'that he might love _more and younger women_. ' In return, theking wrote, 'You must love the Walmoden, for she loves _you_;' a civilinsult, which he accompanied with so minute a description of his newfavourite, that the queen, had she been a painter, might have drawn herportrait at a hundred miles' distance. 

The queen, subservient as she seemed, felt the humiliation. Such was thedebased nature of George II. That he not only wrote letters unworthy ofa man to write, and unfit for a woman to read, to his wife, but hedesired her to show them to Sir Robert Walpole. He used to 'tag severalparagraphs, ' as Lord Hervey expresses it, with these words, '_Montrezceci, et consultez la-dessus de gros homme_, ' meaning Sir Robert. Butthis was only a portion of the disgusting disclosures made by the vulgarlicentious monarch to his too degraded consort. 

In the bitterness of her mortification the queen consulted Lord Herveyand Sir Robert as to the possibility of her losing her influence, shouldshe resent the king's delay in returning. They agreed, that her takingthe '_fière_ turn' would ruin her with her royal consort; Sir Robertadding, that if he had a mind to flatter her into her ruin, he mighttalk to her as if she were twenty-five, and try to make her imagine thatshe could bring the king back by the apprehension of losing heraffection. He said it was now too late in her life to try new methods;she must persist in the soothing, coaxing, submissive arts which hadbeen practised with success, and even press his majesty to bring thiswoman to England! 'He taught her, ' says Lord Hervey, 'this hard lessontill she _wept_. ' Nevertheless, the queen expressed her gratitude to theminister for his advice. 'My lord, ' said Walpole to Hervey, 'she laidher thanks on me so thick that I found I had gone too far, for I amnever so much afraid of her rebukes as of her commendations. '

Such was the state of affairs between this singular couple. Nevertheless, the queen, not from attachment to the king, but from thehorror she had of her son's reigning, felt such fears of the prince'ssucceeding to the throne as she could hardly express. He would, she wasconvinced, do all he could to ruin and injure her in case of hisaccession to the throne. 

The consolation of such a friend as Lord Hervey can easily be conceived, when he told her majesty that he had resolved, in case the king had beenlost at sea, to have retired from her service, in order to prevent anyjealousy or irritation that might arise from his supposed influence withher majesty. The queen stopped him short, and said, 'No, my lord, Ishould never have suffered that; you are one of the greatest pleasuresof my life. But did I love you less than I do, or less like to have youabout me, I should look upon the suffering you to be taken from me assuch a meanness and baseness that you should not have stirred an inchfrom 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 sheshould have begged Sir Robert Walpole on her knees not to have sent inhis resignation. 

The animosity of the Prince of Wales to Lord Hervey augmented, there canbe no doubt, his unnatural aversion to the queen, an aversion which heevinced early in life. There was a beautiful, giddy maid of honour, whoattracted not only the attention of Frederick, but the rival attentionsof other suitors, and among them, the most favoured was said to be LordHervey, notwithstanding that he had then been for some years the husbandof one of the loveliest ornaments of the court, the sensible andvirtuous Mary Lepel. Miss Vane became eventually the avowed favourite ofthe prince, and after giving birth to a son, who was christenedFitz-Frederick Vane, and who died in 1736, his unhappy mother died a fewmonths afterwards. It is melancholy to read a letter from Lady Hervey toMrs. Howard, portraying the frolic and levity of this once joyouscreature, among the other maids of honour; and her strictures show atonce the unrefined nature of the pranks in which they indulged, and heronce sobriety of demeanour. 

She speaks, on one occasion, in which, however, Miss Vane did not sharethe nocturnal diversion, of some of the maids of honour being out in thewinter all night in the gardens at Kensington--opening and rattling thewindows, and trying to frighten people out of their wits; and she givesMrs. Howard a hint that the queen ought to be informed of the way inwhich her young attendants amused themselves. After levities such asthese, it is not surprising to find poor Miss Vane writing to Mrs. Howard, with complaints that she was unjustly aspersed, and referring toher relatives, Lady Betty Nightingale and Lady Hewet, in testimony ofthe falsehood of reports which, unhappily, the event verified. 

The prince, however, never forgave Lord Hervey for being his rival withMiss Vane, nor his mother for her favours to Lord Hervey. In vain didthe queen endeavour to reconcile Fritz, as she called him, to hisfather;--nothing could be done in a case where the one was all doggedselfishness; and where the other, the idol of the opposition party, asthe prince had ever been, so _legère de tête_ as to swallow all theadulation offered to him, and to believe himself a demigod. 'The queen'sdread of a rival, ' Horace Walpole remarks, 'was a feminine weakness: thebehaviour of her eldest son was a real thorn. ' Some time before hismarriage to a princess who was supposed to augment his hatred of hismother, Frederick of Wales had contemplated an act of disobedience. Soonafter his arrival in England, Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, hearingthat he was in want of money, had sent to offer him her granddaughter, Lady Diana Spencer, with a fortune of £100, 000. The prince accepted theyoung lady, and a day was fixed for his marriage in the duchess's lodgeat the Great Park, Windsor. But Sir Robert Walpole, getting intelligenceof the plot, the nuptials were stopped. The duchess never forgave eitherWalpole or the royal family, and took an early opportunity of insultingthe latter. When the Prince of Orange came over to marry the PrincessRoyal, a sort of boarded gallery was erected from the windows of thegreat drawing-room of the palace, and was constructed so as to cross thegarden to the Lutheran chapel in the Friary, where the duchess lived. The Prince of Orange being ill, went to Bath, and the marriage wasdelayed for some weeks. Meantime the widows of Marlborough House weredarkened by the gallery. 'I wonder, ' cried the old duchess, 'when myneighbour George will take away his orange-chest!' The structure, withits pent-house roof, really resembling an orange-chest. 

Mary Lepel, Lady Hervey, whose attractions, great as they were, provedinsufficient to rivet the exclusive admiration of the accomplishedHervey, had become his wife in 1720, some time before her husband hadbeen completely enthralled with the gilded prison doors of a court. Shewas endowed with that intellectual beauty calculated to attract a man oftalent: she was highly educated, of great talent; possessed of _savoirfaire_, infinite good temper, and a strict sense of duty. She alsoderived from her father, Brigadier Lepel, who was of an ancient familyin Sark, a considerable fortune. Good and correct as she was, LadyHervey viewed with a fashionable composure the various intimacies formedduring the course of their married life by his lordship. 

The fact is, that the aim of both was not so much to insure theirdomestic felicity as to gratify their ambition. Probably they weredisappointed in both these aims--certainly in one of them; talented, indefatigable, popular, lively, and courteous, Lord Hervey, in the Houseof Commons, advocated in vain, in brilliant orations, the measures ofWalpole. Twelve years, fourteen years elapsed, and he was left in thesomewhat subordinate position of vice-chamberlain, in spite of that highorder of talents which he possessed, and which would have been displayedto advantage in a graver scene. The fact has been explained: the queencould not do without him; she confided in him; her daughter loved him;and his influence in that court was too powerful for Walpole to dispensewith an aid so valuable to his own plans. Some episodes in a life thusfrittered away, until, too late, promotion came, alleviated hisexistence, and gave his wife only a passing uneasiness, if even indeedthey imparted a pang. 

One of these was his dangerous passion for Miss Vane; another, hisplatonic attachment to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. 

Whilst he lived on the terms with his wife which is described even bythe French as being a '_Ménage de Paris_, ' Lord Hervey, found in anotherquarter the sympathies which, as a husband, he was too well-bred torequire. It is probable that he always admired his wife more than anyother person, for she had qualities that were quite congenial to thetastes of a wit and a beau in those times. Lady Hervey was not onlysingularly captivating, young, gay, and handsome; but a complete modelalso of the polished, courteous, high-bred woman of fashion. Her mannersare said by Lady Louisa Stuart to have 'had a foreign tinge, which somecalled affected; but they were gentle, easy, and altogether exquisitelypleasing. ' She was in secret a Jacobite--and resembled in that respectmost of the fine ladies in Great Britain. Whiggery and Walpolism werevulgar: it was _haut ton_ to take offence when James II. Wasanathematized, and quite good taste to hint that some people wished wellto the Chevalier's attempts: and this way of speaking owed its fashionprobably to Frederick of Wales, whose interest in Flora Macdonald, andwhose concern for the exiled family, were among the few amiable traitsof his disposition. Perhaps they arose from a wish to plague hisparents, rather than from a greatness of character foreign to thisprince. 

Lady Hervey was in the bloom of youth, Lady Mary in the zenith of herage, when they became rivals: Lady Mary had once excited the jealousy ofQueen Caroline when Princess of Wales. 

'How becomingly Lady Mary is dressed to-night, ' whispered George II. Tohis wife, whom he had called up from the card-table to impart to herthat important conviction. 'Lady Mary always dresses well, ' was the coldand curt reply. 

Lord Hervey had been married about seven years when Lady Mary WortleyMontagu re-appeared at the court of Queen Caroline, after her longresidence in Turkey. Lord Hervey was thirty-three years of age; LadyMary was verging on forty. She was still a pretty woman, with a piquant, neat-featured face; which does not seem to have done any justice to amind at once masculine and sensitive, nor to a heart capable ofbenevolence--capable of strong attachments, and of bitter hatred. 

Like Lady Hervey, she lived with her husband on well-bred terms: thereexisted no quarrel between them; no avowed ground of coldness; it wasthe icy boundary of frozen feeling that severed them; the sure andlasting though polite destroyer of all bonds, indifference. Lady Marywas full of repartee, of poetry, of anecdote, and was not averse toadmiration; but she was essentially a woman of common sense, of viewsenlarged by travel, and of ostensibly good principles. A woman ofdelicacy was not to be found in those days, any more than otherproductions of the nineteenth century: a telegraphic message would havebeen almost as startling to a courtly ear as the refusal of a fine ladyto suffer a _double entendre_. Lady Mary was above all scruples, andLord Hervey, who had lived too long with George II. And his queen tohave the moral sense in her perfection, liked her all the better for hercourage--her merry, indelicate jokes, and her putting things down bytheir right names, on which Lady Mary plumed herself: she was what theyterm in the north of England, 'Emancipated. ' They formed an oldacquaintance with a confidential, if not a tender friendship; and thattheir intimacy was unpleasant to Lady Hervey was proved by herrefusal--when, after the grave had closed over Lord Hervey, late inlife, Lady Mary ill, and broken down by age, returned to die inEngland--to resume an acquaintance which had been a painful one to her. 

Lord Hervey was a martyr to illness of an epileptic character; and LadyMary gave him her sympathy. She was somewhat of a doctor--and beingolder than her friend, may have had the art of soothing sufferings, which were the worse because they were concealed. Whilst he writhed inpain, he was obliged to give vent to his agony by alleging that anattack of cramp bent him double: yet he lived by rule--a rule harder toadhere to than that of the most conscientious homoeopath in thepresent day. In the midst of court gaieties and the duties of office, hethus wrote to Dr. Cheyne:--

... 'To let you know that I continue one of your most pious votaries, and to tell you the method I am in. In the first place, I never takewine nor malt drink, nor any liquid but water and milk-tea; in the next, I eat no meat but the whitest, youngest, and tenderest, nine times inten nothing but chicken, and never more than the quantity of a small oneat a meal. I seldom eat any supper, but if any, nothing absolutely butbread and water; two days in the week I eat no flesh; my breakfast isdry biscuit, not sweet, and green tea; I have left off butter asbilious; I eat no salt, nor any sauce but bread-sauce. '

Among the most cherished relaxations of the royal household were visitsto Twickenham, whilst the court was at Richmond. The River Thames, whichhas borne on its waves so much misery in olden times--which was thehighway from the Star-chamber to the tower--which has been belaboured inour days with so much wealth, and sullied with so much impurity; thatriver, whose current is one hour rich as the stream of a gold river, thenext hour, foul as the pestilent churchyard, --was then, especiallybetween Richmond and Teddington, a glassy, placid stream, reflecting onits margin the chestnut-trees of stately Ham, and the reeds and wildflowers which grew undisturbed in the fertile meadows of Petersham. 

Lord Hervey, with the ladies of the court, Mrs. Howard as theirchaperon, delighted in being wafted to that village, so rich in nameswhich give to Twickenham undying associations with the departed great. Sometimes the effeminate valetudinarian, Hervey, was content to attendthe Princess Caroline to Marble Hill only, a villa residence built byGeorge II. For Mrs. Howard, and often referred to in the correspondenceof that period. Sometimes the royal barge, with its rowers in scarletjackets, was seen conveying the gay party; ladies in slouched hats, pointed over fair brows in front, with a fold of sarsenet round them, terminated in a long bow and ends behind--with deep falling mantles overdresses never cognizant of crinoline: gentlemen, with cocked-hats, theirbag-wigs and ties appearing behind; and beneath their puce-colouredcoats, delicate silk tights and gossamer stockings were visible, as theytrod the mossy lawn of the Palace Gardens at Richmond, or, followed by atiny greyhound, prepared for the lazy pleasures of the day. 

Sometimes the visit was private; the sickly Princess Caroline had afancy to make one of the group who are bound to Pope's villa. Twickenham, where that great little man had, since 1715, establishedhimself, was pronounced by Lord Bacon to be the finest place in theworld for study. 'Let Twitnam Park, ' he wrote to his steward, ThomasBushell, 'which I sold in my younger days, be purchased, if possible, for a residence for such deserving persons to study in, (since Iexperimentally found the situation of that place much convenient for thetrial of my philosophical conclusions)--expressed in a paper sealed, tothe trust--which I myself had put in practice and settled the same byact of parliament, if the vicissitudes of fortune had not intervened andprevented me. '

Twickenham continued, long after Bacon had penned this injunction, to bethe retreat of the poet, the statesman, the scholar; the haven where theretired actress, and broken novelist found peace; the abode of HenryFielding, who lived in one of the back-streets; the temporary refuge, from the world of London, of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and the life-longhome of Pope. 

Let us picture to ourselves a visit from the princess to Pope'svilla:--As the barge, following the gentle bendings of the river, nearsTwickenham, a richer green, a summer brightness, indicates it isapproaching that spot of which even Bishop Warburton says that 'thebeauty of the owner's poetic genius appeared to as much advantage in thedisposition of these romantic materials as in any of his best-contrivedpoems. ' And the loved toil which formed the quincunx, which perforatedand extended the grotto until it extended across the road to a garden onthe opposite side--the toil which showed the gentler parts of Pope'sbetter nature--has been respected, and its effects preserved. Theenamelled lawn, green as no other grass save that by the Thames side isgreen, was swept until late years by the light boughs of the famedwillow. Every memorial of the bard was treasured by the gracious handsinto which, after 1744, the classic spot fell--those of Sir WilliamStanhope. 

In the subterranean passage this verse appears; adulatory it must beconfessed:--

 'The humble roof, the garden's scanty line, Ill 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 was not soabundant, nor indeed so much wanted in Pope's time as in our own. Let uspicture to ourselves the poet as a host. 

As the barge is moored close to the low steps which lead up from theriver 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 light it up, as does a rushlightin a cavern--by that twisted figure with its emaciated legs--by thelarge, sensible mouth, the pointed, marked, well-defined nose--by thewig, or hair pushed off in masses from the broad forehead and fallingbehind in tresses--by the dress, that loose, single-breasted blackcoat--by the cambric band and plaited shirt, without a frill, but fineand white, for the poor poet has taken infinite pains that day inself-adornment--by the delicate ruffle on that large thin hand, andstill more by the clear, most musical voice which is heard welcoming hisroyal and noble guests, as he stands bowing low to the PrincessCaroline, and bending to kiss hands--by that voice which gained him moreespecially the name of the little nightingale--is Pope at oncerecognized, and Pope in the perfection of his days, in the very zenithof his fame. 

One would gladly have been a sprite to listen from some twig of thatthen stripling willow which the poet had planted with his own hand, totalk of those who chatted for a while under its shade, before they wentin-doors to an elegant dinner at the usual hour of twelve. Howdelightful to hear, unseen, the repartees of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who comes down, it is natural to conclude, from her villa near to thatof Pope. How fine a study might one not draw of the fine gentleman andthe wit in Lord Hervey, as he is commanded by the gentle PrincessCaroline to sit on her right hand; but his heart is across the table, with Lady Mary! How amusing to observe the dainty but not sumptuousrepast contrived with Pope's exquisite taste, but regulated by hishabitual economy--for his late father, a worthy Jacobite hatter, erst inthe Strand, disdained to invest the fortune he had amassed, from theextensive sale of cocked-hats, in the Funds, over which an Hanoverianstranger ruled; but had lived on his capital of £20, 000 (as spendthriftsdo, without either moral, religious, or political reasons), as long asit lasted him; yet _he_ was no spendthrift. Let us look, therefore, witha liberal eye, noting, as we stand, how that fortune, in league withnature, who made the poet crooked, had maimed two of his fingers, suchtime as, passing a bridge, the poor little poet was overturned into theriver, and he would have been drowned, had not the postilion broken thecoach window and dragged the tiny body through the aperture. We mark, however, that he generally contrives to hide this defect, as he wouldfain have hidden every other, from the lynx eyes of Lady Mary, who knowshim, however, thoroughly, and reads every line of that poor little heartof his, enamoured of her as it was. 

[Illustration: POPE AT HIS VILLA--DISTINGUISHED VISITORS. ]

Then the conversation! How gladly would we catch here some drops of whatmust have been the very essence of small-talk, and small-talk is theonly thing fit for early dinners! Our host is noted for his easyaddress, his engaging manners, his delicacy, politeness, and a certaintact he had of showing every guest that he was welcome in the choicestexpressions and most elegant terms. Then Lady Mary! how brilliant is herslightest turn! how she banters Pope--how she gives _double entendre_for _double entendre_ to Hervey! How sensible, yet how gay is all shesays; how bright, how cutting, yet how polished is the _équivoque_ ofthe witty, high-bred Hervey! He is happy that day--away from the coarse, passionate king, whom he hated with a hatred that burns itself out inhis lordship's 'Memoirs;' away from the somewhat exacting and pitiablequeen; away from the hated Pelham, and the rival Grafton. 

And conversation never flags when all, more or less, are congenial; whenall are well-informed, well-bred and resolved to please. Yet there is acanker in that whole assembly; that canker is a want of confidence; noone trusts the other; Lady Mary's encouragement of Hervey surprises andshocks the Princess Caroline, who loves him secretly; Hervey'sattentions to the queen of letters scandalizes Pope, who soon afterwardsmakes a declaration to Lady Mary. Pope writhes under a lash just heldover him by Lady Mary's hand. Hervey feels that the poet, though allsuavity, is ready to demolish him at any moment, if he can; and the onlyreally happy and complacent person of the whole party is, perhaps, Pope's old mother, who sits in the room next to that occupied fordinner, industriously spinning. 

This happy state of things came, however, as is often the case, in closeintimacies, to a painful conclusion. There was too little reality, toolittle earnestness of feeling, for the friendship between Pope and LadyMary, including Lord Hervey, to last long. His lordship had hisaffectations, and his effeminate nicety was proverbial. One day beingasked at dinner if he would take some beef, he is reported to haveanswered, 'Beef? oh no! faugh! don't you know I never eat beef, nor_horse_, nor curry, nor any of those things?' Poor man! it was probablya pleasant way of turning off what he may have deemed an assault on adigestion that could hardly conquer any solid food. This affectationoffended Lady Mary, whose _mot_, that there were three species, 'Men, women, and Herveys'--implies a perfect perception of the eccentricitieseven of her gifted friend, Lord Hervey, whose mother's friend she hadbeen, and the object of whose admiration she undoubtedly was. 

Pope, who was the most irritable of men, never forgot or forgave eventhe most trifling offence. Lady Bolingbroke truly said of him that heplayed the politician about cabbages and salads, and everybody agreesthat he could hardly tolerate the wit that was more successful than hisown. It was about the year 1725, that he began to hate Lord Hervey withsuch a hatred as only he could feel; it was unmitigated by a singletouch of generosity or of compassion. Pope afterwards owned that hisacquaintance with Lady Mary and with Hervey was discontinued, merelybecause they had too much wit for him. Towards the latter end of 1732, 'The Imitation of the Second Satire of the First Book of Horace, 'appeared, and in it Pope attacked Lady Mary with the grossest and mostindecent couplet ever printed: she was called Sappho, and Hervey, LordFanny; and all the world knew the characters at once. 

In retaliation for this satire, appeared 'Verses to the Imitator ofHorace;' said to have been the joint production of Lord Hervey and LadyMary. This was followed by a piece entitled 'Letter from a Nobleman atHampton Court to a Doctor of Divinity. ' To this composition Lord Hervey, its sole author, added these lines, by way, as it seems, of extenuation. 

Pope's first reply was in a prose letter, on which Dr. Johnson haspassed a condemnation. 'It exhibits, ' he says, 'nothing but tediousmalignity. ' But he was partial to the Herveys, Thomas and Henry Hervey, Lord Hervey'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 andpeculiarity of Hervey are handed down in calm, cruel irony, and polishedverses, to posterity. The verses are almost too disgusting to berevived in an age which disclaims scurrility. After the most personalrancorous invective, he thus writes of Lord Hervey's conversation:--

 His wit all see-saw between this and _that_-- Now high, now low--now _master_ up, now _miss_-- And he himself one vile antithesis. 

 * * * * *

 Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, 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. Beauty that shocks you, facts that none can trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that bites the dust. '

'It is impossible, ' Mr. Croker thinks, 'not to admire, however we maycondemn, the art by which acknowledged wit, beauty, and gentlemanners--the queen's favour--and even a valetudinary diet, aretravestied into the most odious offences. '

Pope, in two lines, pointed to the intimacy between Lady Mary and LordHervey:--

 'Once, and but once, this heedless youth was hit, And liked that dangerous thing, a female wit. '

Nevertheless, he _afterwards_ pretended that the name _Sappho_ was notapplied to Lady Mary, but to women in general; and acted with a degreeof mean prevarication which greatly added to the amount of his offence. 

The quarrel with Pope was not the only attack which Lord Hervey had toencounter. Among the most zealous of his foes was Pulteney, afterwardsLord Bath, the rival of Sir Robert Walpole, and the confederate withBolingbroke in opposing that minister. The 'Craftsman, ' contained anattack on Pulteney, written, with great ability, by Hervey. It provokeda _Reply_ from Pulteney. In this composition he spoke of Hervey as 'athing below contempt, ' and ridiculed his personal appearance in thegrossest terms. A duel was the result, the parties meeting behindArlington House, in Piccadilly, where Mr. Pulteney had the satisfactionof almost running Lord Hervey through with his sword. Luckily the poorman slipped down, so the blow was evaded, and the seconds interfered:Mr. Pulteney then embraced Lord Hervey, and expressing his regret fortheir quarrel, declared that he would never again, either in speech orwriting, attack his lordship. Lord Hervey only bowed, in silence; andthus they parted. 

The queen having observed what an alteration in the palace Lord Hervey'sdeath would cause, he said he could guess how it would be, and heproduced 'The Death of Lord Hervey; or, a Morning at Court; a Drama:'the idea being taken it is thought, from Swift's verses on his owndeath, of which Hervey might have seen a surreptitious copy. Thefollowing scene will give some idea of the plot and structure of thisamusing little piece. The part allotted to the Princess Caroline is inunison with the idea prevalent of her attachment to Lord Hervey:--

ACT I. 

 SCENE: _The Queen's Gallery. The time, nine in the morning. _

 _Enter the_ QUEEN, PRINCESS EMILY, PRINCESS CAROLINE, _followed by_ LORD LIFFORD, _and_ MRS. PURCEL. 

 _Queen. _ Mon Dieu, quelle chaleur! en vérité on étouffe. Pray open a little those windows. 

 _Lord Lifford. _ Hasa your Majesty heara de news?

 _Queen. _ What news, my dear Lord?

 _Lord Lifford. _ Dat my Lord Hervey, as he was coming last night to _tone_, was rob and murdered by highwaymen and tron in a ditch. 

 _Princess Caroline. _ Eh! grand Dieu!

 _Queen_ [_striking her hand upon her knee. _] Comment est-il véritablement mort? Purcel, my angel, shall I not have a little breakfast?

 _Mrs. Purcel. _ 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! my Lord Lifford, dites-nous un peu comment cela est arrivé. 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 à grand galoppe à Londres, and after dat a waggoner take up the body and put it in his cart. 

 _Queen. _ [_to_ PRINCESS EMILY. ] Are you not ashamed, Amalie, to laugh?

 _Princess Emily. _ I only laughed at the cart, mamma. 

 _Queen. _ Oh! that is a very fade plaisanterie. 

 _Princess Emily. _ But if I may say it, mamma, I am not very sorry. 

 _Queen. _ Oh! fie donc! Eh bien! my Lord Lifford! My God! where is this chocolate, Purcel?

As Mr. Croker remarks, Queen Caroline's breakfast-table, and herparentheses, reminds one of the card-table conversation of Swift:--

 'The Dean's dead: (pray what are trumps?) Then Lord have mercy on his soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole. ) Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall; (I wish I knew what king to call. )'

Fragile as was Lord Hervey's constitution, it was his lot to witness thedeath-bed of the queen, for whose amusement he had penned the jeud'esprit just quoted, in which there was, perhaps, as much truth as wit. 

The wretched Queen Caroline had, during fourteen years, concealed fromevery one, except Lady Sundon, an incurable disorder, that of hernia. InNovember (1737) she was attacked with what we should now call Englishcholera. Dr. Tessier, her house-physician, was called in, and gave herDaffey's elixir, which was not likely to afford any relief to thedeep-seated cause of her sufferings. She held a drawing-room that nightfor the last time, and played at cards, even cheerfully. At length shewhispered to Lord Hervey, 'I am not able to entertain people. ' 'Forheaven's sake, madam, ' was the reply, 'go to your room: would to heaventhe king would leave off talking of the Dragon of Wantley, and releaseyou!' The Dragon of Wantley was a burlesque on the Italian opera, byHenry Carey, and was the theme of the fashionable world. 

The next day the queen was in fearful agony, very hot, and willing totake anything proposed. Still she did not, even to Lord Hervey, avow thereal cause of her illness. None of the most learned court physicians, neither Mead nor Wilmot, were called in. Lord Hervey sat by the queen'sbed-side, and tried to soothe her, whilst the Princess Caroline joined inbegging him to give her mother something to relieve her agony. Atlength, in utter ignorance of the case, it was proposed to give her somesnakeroot, a stimulant, and, at the same time, Sir Walter Raleigh'scordial; so singular was it thus to find that great mind stillinfluencing a court. It was that very medicine which was administered byQueen Anne of Denmark, however, to Prince Henry; that medicine whichRaleigh said, 'would cure him, or any other, of a disease, except incase of poison. '

However, Ranby, house-surgeon to the king, and a favourite of LordHervey's, assuring him that a cordial with this name or that name wasmere quackery, some usquebaugh was given instead, but was rejected bythe queen soon afterwards. At last Raleigh's cordial was administered, but also rejected about an hour afterwards. Her fever, after takingRaleigh's cordial, was so much increased, that she was ordered instantlyto be bled. 

Then, even, the queen never disclosed the fact that could alone dictatethe course to be pursued. George II. , with more feeling than judgment, slept on the outside of the queen's bed all that night; so that theunhappy invalid could get no rest, nor change her position, not daringto irritate the king's temper. 

The next day the queen said touchingly to her gentle, affectionatedaughter, herself in declining health, 'Poor Caroline! you are very ill, too: we shall soon meet again in another place. '

Meantime, though the queen declared to every one that she was surenothing could save her, it was resolved to hold a _levée_. The foreignministers were to come to court, and the king, in the midst of his realgrief, did not forget to send word to his pages to be sure to have hislast new ruffles sewed on the shirt he was to put on that day; a triflewhich often, as Lord Hervey remarks, shows more of the real characterthan events of importance, from which one frequently knows no more of aperson's state of mind than one does of his natural gait from hisdancing. 

Lady Sundon was, meantime, ill at Bath, so that the queen's secretrested alone in her own heart. 'I have an ill, ' she said, one evening, to her daughter Caroline, 'that nobody knows of. ' Still, neither theprincess nor Lord Hervey could guess at the full meaning of that sadassertion. 

The famous Sir Hans Sloane was then called in; but no remedy exceptlarge and repeated bleedings were suggested, and blisters were put onher legs. There seems to have been no means left untried by the facultyto hasten the catastrophe--thus working in the dark. 

The king now sat up with her whom he had so cruelly wounded in everynice feeling. On being asked, by Lord Hervey, what was to be done incase the Prince of Wales should come to inquire after the queen, heanswered in the following terms, worthy of his ancestry--worthy ofhimself. It is difficult to say which was the most painful scene, thatin the chamber where the queen lay in agony, or without, where thecurse of family dissensions came like a ghoul to hover near the bed ofdeath, and to gloat over the royal corpse. This was the royaldictum:--'If the puppy should, in one of his impertinent airs of dutyand affection, dare to come to St. James's, I order you to go to thescoundrel, and tell him I wonder at his impudence for daring to comehere; that he has my orders already, and knows my pleasure, and bid himgo about his business; for his poor mother is not in a condition to seehim act his false, whining, cringing tricks now, nor am I in a humour tobear with his impertinence; and bid him trouble me with no moremessages, but get out of my house. '

In the evening, whilst Lord Hervey sat at tea in the queen's outerapartment with the Duke of Cumberland, a page came to the duke to speakto the prince in the passage. It was to prefer a request to see hismother. This message was conveyed by Lord Hervey to the king, whosereply 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 hiskneeling down in the dirt before the mob to kiss her hand at the coachdoor when she came home from Hampton Court to see the Princess, thoughhe had not spoken one word to her during her whole visit. I always hatedthe rascal, but now I hate him worse than ever. He wants to come andinsult his poor dying mother; but she shall not see him: you have heardher, and all my daughters have heard her, very often this year atHampton 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 sensesshe was sure she should never desire it. No, no! he shall not come andact any of his silly plays here. '

In the afternoon the queen said to the king, she wondered the _Griff_, anickname she gave to the prince, had not sent to inquire after her yet;it would be so like one of his _paroitres_. 'Sooner or later, ' sheadded, 'I am sure we shall be plagued with some message of that sort, because he will think it will have a good air in the world to ask to seeme; and, perhaps, hopes I shall be fool enough to let him come, and givehim the pleasure of seeing the last breath go out of my body, by whichmeans he would have the joy of knowing I was dead five minutes soonerthan he could know it in Pall Mall. '

She afterwards declared that nothing would induce her to see him exceptthe king's absolute commands. 'Therefore, if I grow worse, ' she said, 'and should I be weak enough to talk of seeing him, I beg you, sir, toconclude that I doat--or rave. '

The king, who had long since guessed at the queen's disease, urged hernow to permit him to name it to her physicians. She begged him not to doso; and for the first time, and the last, the unhappy woman spokepeevishly and warmly. Then Ranby, the house-surgeon, who had by thistime discovered the truth, said, 'There is no more time to be lost; yourmajesty has concealed the truth too long: I beg another surgeon may becalled in immediately. '

The queen, who had, in her passion, started up in her bed, lay downagain, turned her head on the other side, and, as the king told LordHervey, 'shed the only tear he ever saw her shed whilst she was ill. '

At length, too late, other and more sensible means were resorted to: butthe queen's strength was failing fast. It must have been a strange scenein that chamber of death. Much as the king really grieved for thequeen's state, he was still sufficiently collected to grieve also lestRichmond Lodge, which was settled on the queen, should go to the hated_Griff_:[22] and he actually sent Lord Hervey to the lord chancellor toinquire about that point. It was decided that the queen could make awill, so the king informed her of his inquiries, in order to set hermind at ease, and to assure her it was impossible that the prince couldin any way benefit pecuniarily from her death. The Princess Emily nowsat up with her mother. The king went to bed. The Princess Carolineslept on a couch in the antechamber, and Lord Hervey lay on a mattresson the floor at the foot of the Princess Caroline's couch. 

On the following day (four after the first attack) mortification cameon, and the weeping Princess Caroline and Lord Hervey were informed thatthe queen could not hold out many hours. Hervey was ordered towithdraw. The king, the Duke of Cumberland, and the queen's fourdaughters alone remained, the queen begging them not to leave her untilshe expired; yet her life was prolonged many days. 

When alone with her family, she took from her finger a ruby ring, whichhad been placed on it at the time of the coronation, and gave it to theking. 'This is the last thing, ' she said, 'I have to give you; naked Icame to you, and naked I go from you; I had everything I ever possessedfrom you, and to you whatever I have I return. ' She then asked for herkeys, and gave them to the king. To the Princess Caroline she intrustedthe care of her younger sisters; to the Duke of Cumberland, that ofkeeping up the credit of the family. 'Attempt nothing against yourbrother, and endeavour to mortify him by showing superior merit, ' shesaid to him. She advised the king to marry again; he heard her in sobs, and with much difficulty got out this sentence: '_Non, j'aurai desmaitresses_' To which the queen made no other reply than '_Ah, mon Dieu!cela n'empêche pas. _' 'I know, ' says Lord Hervey, in his Memoirs, 'thatthis episode will hardly be credited, but it is literally true. '

She then fancied she could sleep. The king kissed her, and wept overher; yet when she asked for her watch, which hung near the chimney, thatshe might give him the seal to take care of, his brutal temper brokeforth. In the midst of his tears he called out, in a loud voice, 'Let italone! _mon Dieu!_ the queen has such strange fancies; who should meddlewith your seal? It is as safe there as in my pocket. '

The queen then thought she could sleep, and, in fact, sank to rest. Shefelt refreshed on awakening and said, 'I wish it was over; it is only areprieve to make me suffer a little longer; I cannot recover, but mynasty heart will not break yet. ' She had an impression that she shoulddie on a Wednesday: she had, she said, been born on a Wednesday, marriedon a Wednesday, crowned on a Wednesday, her first child was born on aWednesday, 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. Ihave nothing to say to you but to recommend the king, my children, andthe kingdom to your care. '

Lord Hervey, when the minister retired, asked him what he thought of thequeen's state. 

'My lord, ' was the reply, 'she is as much dead as if she was in hercoffin; 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 toinquire after the health of his dying mother, the queen became uneasylest he should hear the true state of her case, asking 'if no one wouldsend those ravens, ' meaning the prince's attendants, out of the house. 'They were only, ' she said, 'watching her death, and would gladly tearher to pieces whilst she was alive. ' Whilst thus she spoke of her son'scourtiers, that son was sitting up all night in his house in Pall Mall, and saying, when any messenger came in from St. James's, 'Well, sure, weshall soon have good news, she cannot hold out much longer. ' And theprincesses were writing letters to prevent the Princess Royal fromcoming to England, where she was certain to meet with brutal unkindnessfrom her father, who could not endure to be put to any expense. Orderswere, indeed, sent to stop her if she set out. She came, however, onpretence of taking the Bath waters; but George II. , furious at herdisobedience, obliged her to go direct to and from Bath withoutstopping, and never forgave her. 

Notwithstanding her predictions, the queen survived the fatal Wednesday. Until this time no prelate had been called in to pray by her majesty, nor to administer the Holy Communion and as people about the court beganto be scandalized by this omission, Sir Robert Walpole advised that theArchbishop of Canterbury should be sent for: his opinion was couched inthe following terms, characteristic at once of the man, the times, andthe court:--

'Pray, madam, ' he said to the Princess Emily, 'let this farce be played;the archbishop will act it very well. You may bid him be as short as youwill: it will do the queen no hurt, no more than any good; and it willsatisfy all the wise and good fools, who will call us atheists if wedon't pretend to be as great fools as they are. '

Unhappily, Lord Hervey, who relates this anecdote, was himself anunbeliever; yet the scoffing tone adopted by Sir Robert seems to haveshocked even him. 

In consequence of this advice, Archbishop Potter prayed by the queenmorning and evening, the king always quitting the room when his graceentered it. Her children, however, knelt by her bedside. Still thewhisperers who censured were unsatisfied--the concession was thrownaway. Why did not the queen receive the communion? Was it, as the worldbelieved, either 'that she had reasoned herself into a very low and coldassent to Christianity?' or 'that she was heterodox?' or 'that thearchbishop refused to administer the sacrament until she should bereconciled to her son?' Even Lord Hervey, who rarely left theantechamber, has only by his silence proved that she did _not_ take thecommunion. That antechamber was crowded with persons who, as the prelateleft the chamber of death, crowded around, eagerly asking, 'Has thequeen received?' 'Her majesty, ' was the evasive reply, 'is in a heavenlydisposition:' the public were thus deceived. Among those who were nearthe queen at this solemn hour was Dr. Butler, author of the 'Analogy. 'He had been made clerk of the closet, and became, after the queen'sdeath, Bishop of Bristol. He was in a remote living in Durham, when thequeen, remembering that it was long since she had heard of him, askedthe Archbishop of York 'whether Dr. Butler was dead?'--'No, madam, 'replied that prelate (Dr. Blackburn), 'but he is buried;' upon which shehad sent for him to court. Yet he was not courageous enough, it seems, to speak to her of her son and of the duty of reconciliation; whethershe ever sent the prince any message or not is uncertain; Lord Hervey issilent on that point, so that it is to be feared that LordChesterfield's line--

 'And, unforgiving, unforgiven, dies!'

had but too sure a foundation in fact; so that Pope's sarcastic verses--

 'Hang the sad verse on Carolina's urn, And hail her passage to the realms of rest; All _parts performed_ and _all_ her children blest, '

may have been but too just, though cruelly bitter. The queen lingeredtill the 20th of November. During that interval of agony her consort wasperpetually boasting to every one of her virtues, her sense, herpatience, her softness, her delicacy; and ending with the praise, '_Comme elle soutenoit sa dignité avec grace, avec politesse, avecdouceur!_' Nevertheless he scarcely ever went into her room. Lord Herveystates that he did, even in this moving situation, _snub_ her forsomething or other she did or said. One morning, as she lay with hereyes fixed on a point in the air, as people sometimes do when they wantto keep their thoughts from wandering, the king coarsely told her 'shelooked like a calf which had just had its throat cut. ' He expected herto die in state. Then, with all his bursts of tenderness he alwaysmingled his own praises, hinting that though she was a good wife he knewhe had deserved a good one, and remarking, when he extolled herunderstanding, that he did not 'think it the worse for her having kepthim company so many years. ' To all this Lord Hervey listened with, doubtless, well-concealed disgust; for cabals were even then forming forthe future influence that might or might not be obtained. 

The queen's life, meantime, was softly ebbing away in this atmosphere ofselfishness, brutality, and unbelief. One evening she asked Dr. Tessierimpatiently how long her state might continue. 

'Your Majesty, ' was the reply, 'will soon be released. '

'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, thefearful death-rattle in the throat was heard. Mrs. Purcell, her chiefand old attendant, gave the alarm: the Princess Caroline and Lord Herveywere sent for; but the princess was too late, her mother had expiredbefore she arrived. All the dying queen said was, 'I have now got anasthma; open the window:' then she added, '_Pray!_' That was her lastword. As the Princess Emily began to read some prayers, the suffererbreathed her last sigh. The Princess Caroline held a looking-glass toher lips, and finding there was no damp on it, said, ''Tis over!' Yetshe shed not one tear upon the arrival of that event, the prospect ofwhich had cost her so many heartrending sobs. 

The king kissed the lifeless face and hands of his often-injured wife, and then retired to his own apartment, ordering that a page should situp with him for that and several other nights, for his Majesty wasafraid of apparitions, and feared to be 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 Hervey's life, as to court, waschanged. He was afterwards made lord privy seal, and had consequently toenter the political world, with the disadvantage of knowing that muchwas expected from a man of so high a reputation for wit and learning. Hewas violently opposed by Pelham, Duke of Newcastle, who had been adverseto his entering the ministry, and since, with Walpole's favour, it wasimpossible to injure him by fair means, it was resolved to oppose LordHervey by foul ones. One evening, when he was to speak, a party offashionable Amazons, with two duchesses--her grace of Queensberry andher grace of Ancaster--at their head, stormed the House of Lords anddisturbed the debate with noisy laughter and sneers. Poor Lord Herveywas completely daunted, and spoke miserably. After Sir Robert Walpole'sfall Lord Hervey retired. The following letter from him to Lady MaryWortley Montagu fully describes his position and circumstances:--

'I must now, ' he writes to her, 'since you take so friendly a part inwhat concerns me, give you a short account of my natural and politicalhealth; and when I say I am still alive, and still privy seal, it is allI can say for the pleasure of one or the honour of the other; for sinceLord Orford's retiring, as I am too proud to offer my service andfriendship where I am not sure they will be accepted of, and tooinconsiderable to have those advances made to me (though I never forgotor failed to return any obligation I ever received), so I remain asillustrious a nothing in this office as ever filled it since it waserected. There is one benefit, however, I enjoy from this loss of mycourt interest, which is, that all those flies which were buzzing aboutme in the summer sunshine and full ripeness of that interest, have alldeserted its autumnal decay, and from thinking my natural death not faroff, and my political demise already over, have all forgot the death-bedof the one and the coffin of the other. '

Again he wrote to her a characteristic letter:--

'I have been confined these three weeks by a fever, which is a sort ofannual tax my detestable constitution pays to our detestable climate atthe return of every spring; it is now much abated, though not quite goneoff. '

He was long a helpless invalid; and on the 8th of August, 1743, hisshort, unprofitable, brilliant, unhappy life was closed. He died atIckworth, attended and deplored by his wife, who had ever held asecondary part in the heart of the great wit and beau of the court ofGeorge II. After his death his son George returned to Lady Mary all theletters she had written to his father: the packet was sealed: anassurance was at the same time given that they had not been read. Inacknowledging this act of attention, Lady Mary wrote that she couldalmost regret that he had not glanced his eye over a correspondencewhich might have shown him what so young a man might perhaps be inclinedto doubt--'the possibility of a long and steady friendship subsistingbetween two persons of different sexes without the least mixture oflove. '

Nevertheless some expressions of Lord Hervey's seem to have bordered onthe tender style, when writing to Lady Mary in such terms as these. Shehad complained that she was too old to inspire a passion (a sort ofchallenge for a compliment), on which he wrote: 'I should think anybodya great fool that said he liked spring better than summer, merelybecause it is further from autumn, or that they loved green fruit betterthan ripe only because it was further from being rotten. I ever did, andbelieve ever shall, like woman best--

 '"Just in the noon of life--those golden days, When the mind ripens ere the form decays. "'

Certainly this looks very unlike a pure Platonic, and it is not to bewondered at that Lady Hervey refused to call on Lady Mary, when, longafter Lord Hervey's death, that fascinating woman returned to England. Awit, a courtier at the very fount of all politeness, Lord Hervey wantedthe genuine source of all social qualities--Christianity. That moralrefrigerator which checks the kindly current of neighbourly kindness, and which prevents all genial feeling from expanding, produced its usualeffect--misanthropy. Lord Hervey's lines, in his 'Satire after themanner 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 'tis acted well. '

Lord Hervey left in the possession of his family a manuscript work, consisting of memoirs of his own time, written in his own autograph, which was clean and legible. This work, which has furnished many of theanecdotes connected with his court life in the foregoing pages, was longguarded from the eye of any but the Hervey family, owing to aninjunction given in his will by Augustus, third Earl of Bristol, LordHervey's son, that it should not see the light until after the death ofhis Majesty George III. It was not therefore published until 1848, whenthey were edited by Mr. Croker. They are referred to both by HoraceWalpole, who had heard of them, if he had not seen them, and by LordHailes, as affording the most intimate portraiture of a court that hasever been presented to the English people. Such a delineation as LordHervey has left ought to cause a sentiment of thankfulness in everyBritish heart for not being exposed to such influences, to such examplesas he gives, in the present day, when goodness, affection, purity, benevolence, are the household deities of the court of our beloved, inestimable Queen Victoria. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 22: Prince Frederick. ]

 PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, FOURTH EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. 

 The King of Table Wits. --Early Years. --Hervey's Description of his Person. --Resolutions and Pursuits. --Study of Oratory. --The Duties of an Ambassador. --King George II. 's Opinion of his Chroniclers. --Life in the Country. --Melusina, Countess of Walsingham. --George II. And his Father's Will. --Dissolving Views. --Madame du Bouchet. --The Broad-Bottomed Administration. --Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland in Time of Peril. --Reformation of the Calendar. --Chesterfield House. --Exclusiveness. --Recommending 'Johnson's Dictionary. '--'Old Samuel, ' to Chesterfield. --Defensive Pride. --The Glass of Fashion. --Lord Scarborough's Friendship for Chesterfield. --The Death of Chesterfield's Son. --His Interest in his Grandsons. --'I must go and Rehearse my Funeral. '--Chesterfield's Will. --What is a Friend?--Les Manières Nobles. --Letters to his Son. 

The subject of this memoir may be thought by some rather the modeller ofwits than the original of that class; the great critic and judge ofmanners rather than the delight of the dinner-table: but we are told tothe contrary by one who loved him not. Lord Hervey says of LordChesterfield that he was 'allowed by everybody to have more conversableentertaining table-wit than any man of his time; his propensity toridicule, in which he indulged himself with infinite humour and nodistinction; and his inexhaustible spirits, and no discretion; made himsought and feared--liked and not loved--by most of his acquaintance. '

This formidable personage was born in London on the 2nd day ofSeptember, 1694. It was remarkable that the father of a man sovivacious, should have been of a morose temper; all the wit and spiritof intrigue displayed by him remind us of the frail Lady Chesterfield, in the time of Charles II. [23]--that lady who was looked on as a martyrbecause her husband was jealous of her: 'a prodigy, ' says De Grammont, 'in the city of London, ' where indulgent critics endeavoured to excusehis lordship on account of his bad education, and mothers vowed thatnone of their sons should ever set foot in Italy, lest they should'bring back with them that infamous custom of laying restraint on theirwives. '

Even Horace Walpole cites Chesterfield as the 'witty earl:' apropos toan anecdote which he relates of an Italian lady, who said that she wasonly four-and-twenty; 'I suppose, ' said Lord Chesterfield, 'she meansfour-and-twenty stone. '

By his father the future wit, historian, and orator was utterlyneglected; but his grandmother, the Marchioness of Halifax, supplied tohim the place of both parents, his mother--her daughter, Lady ElizabethSaville--having died in his childhood. At the age of eighteen, Chesterfield, then Lord Stanhope, was entered at Trinity Hall, Cambridge. It was one of the features of his character to fall at onceinto the tone of the society into which he happened to be thrown. Onecan hardly imagine his being 'an absolute pedant, ' but such was, actually, his own account of himself:--'When I talked my best, I quotedHorace; when I aimed at being facetious, I quoted Martial; and when Ihad a mind to be a fine gentleman, I talked Ovid. I was convinced thatnone but the ancients had common sense; that the classics containedeverything that was either necessary, useful, or ornamental to men; andI was not even without thoughts of wearing the toga virilis of theRomans, instead of the vulgar and illiberal dress of the moderns. '

Thus, again, when in Paris, he caught the manners, as he had acquiredthe language, of the Parisians. 'I shall not give you my opinion of theFrench, because I am very often taken for one of them, and several havepaid me the highest compliment they think it in their power tobestow--which is, "Sir, you are just like ourselves. " I shall only tellyou that I am insolent; I talk a great deal; I am very loud andperemptory; I sing and dance as I walk along; and, above all, I spend animmense sum in hair-powder, feathers, and white gloves. '

Although he entered Parliament before he had attained the legal age, and was expected to make a great figure in that assembly, LordChesterfield preferred the reputation of a wit and a beau to any otherdistinction. 'Call it vanity, if you will, ' he wrote in after-life tohis son, 'and possibly it was so; but my great object was to make everyman and every woman love me. I often succeeded: but why? by taking greatpains. '

According to Lord Hervey's account he often even sacrificed his interestto his vanity. The description given of Lord Chesterfield by one asbitter as himself implies, indeed, that great pains were requisite tocounterbalance the defects of nature. Wilkes, one of the ugliest men ofhis time, used to say, that with an hour's start he would carry off theaffections of any woman from the handsomest man breathing. LordChesterfield, according to Lord Hervey, required to be still longer inadvance of a rival. 

'With a person, ' Hervey writes, 'as disagreeable, as it was possible fora human figure to be without being deformed, he affected following manywomen of the first beauty and the most in fashion. He was very short, disproportioned, thick and clumsily made; had a broad, rough-featured, ugly face, with black teeth, and a head big enough for a Polyphemus. OneBen Ashurst, who said a few good things, though admired for many, toldLord Chesterfield once, that he was like a stunted giant--which was ahumorous idea and really apposite. '

Notwithstanding that Chesterfield, when young, injured both soul andbody by pleasure and dissipation, he always found time for seriousstudy: when he could not have it otherwise, he took it out of his sleep. How late soever he went to bed, he resolved always to rise early; andthis resolution he adhered to so faithfully, that at the age offifty-eight he could declare that for more than forty years he had neverbeen in bed at nine o'clock in the morning, but had generally been upbefore eight. He had the good sense, in this respect, not to exaggerateeven this homely virtue. He did not rise with the dawn, as many earlyrisers pride themselves in doing, putting all the engagements ofordinary life out of their usual beat, just as if the clocks had beenset two hours forward. The man in ordinary society, who rises at four inthis country, and goes to bed at nine, is a social and family nuisance. Strong good sense characterized Chesterfield's early pursuits. Desultoryreading he abhorred. He looked on it as one of the resources of age, butas injurious to the young in the extreme. 'Throw away, ' thus he writesto his son, 'none of your time upon those trivial, futile books, published by idle necessitous authors for the amusement of idle andignorant readers. '

Even in those days such books 'swarm and buzz about one:' 'flap themaway, ' says Chesterfield, 'they have no sting. ' The earl directed thewhole force of his mind to oratory, and became the finest speaker of histime. Writing to Sir Horace Mann, about the Hanoverian debate (in 1743, Dec. 15), Walpole praising the speeches of Lords Halifax and Sandwich, adds, 'I was there, and heard Lord Chesterfield make the finest orationI 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 was forming an acquaintancewith the Hon. George Berkeley, the youngest son of the second Earl ofBerkeley, and remarkable rather as being the second husband of LadySuffolk, the favourite of George II. , than from any merits or demeritsof his own. 

This early intimacy probably brought Lord Chesterfield into the closefriendship which afterwards subsisted between him and Lady Suffolk, towhom many of his letters are addressed. 

His first public capacity was a diplomatic appointment: he afterwardsattained to the rank of an ambassador, whose duty it is, according to awitticism of Sir Henry Wotton's '_to lie_ abroad for the good of hiscountry;' and no man was in this respect more competent to fulfil theserequirements than Chesterfield. Hating both wine and tobacco, he hadsmoked and drunk at Cambridge, 'to be in the fashion;' he gamed at theHague, on the same principle; and, unhappily, gaming became a habit anda passion. Yet never did he indulge it when acting, afterwards, in aministerial capacity. Neither when Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, or asUnder-secretary of State, did he allow a gaming-table in his house. Onthe very night that he resigned office he went to _White's_. 

The Hague was then a charming residence: among others who, frompolitical motives, were living there, were John Duke of Marlborough andQueen Sarah, both of whom paid Chesterfield marked attention. Naturallyindustrious, with a ready insight into character--a perfect master inthat art which bids us keep one's thoughts close, and our countenancesopen, Chesterfield was admirably fitted for diplomacy. A master ofmodern languages and of history, he soon began to like business. When inEngland, he had been accused of having 'a need of a certain proportionof talk in a day:' 'that, ' he wrote to Lady Suffolk, 'is now changedinto a need of such a proportion of writing in a day. '

In 1728 he was promoted: being sent as ambassador to the Hague, where hewas popular, and where he believed his stay would be beneficial both tosoul and body, there being 'fewer temptations, and fewer opportunitiesto sin, ' as he wrote to Lady Suffolk, 'than in England. ' Here his dayspassed, he asserted, in doing the king's business, very ill--and his ownstill worse:--sitting down daily to dinner with fourteen or fifteenpeople; whilst at five the pleasures of the evening began with a loungeon the Voorhoot, a public walk planted by Charles V. :--then, either avery bad French play, or a '_reprise quadrille_, ' with three ladies, theyoungest of them fifty, and the chance of losing, perhaps, three florins(besides one's time)--lasted till ten o'clock; at which time 'HisExcellency' went home, 'reflecting with satisfaction on the innocentamusements of a well-spent day, that left nothing behind them, ' andretired to bed at eleven, 'with the testimony of a good conscience. '

All, however, of Chesterfield's time was not passed in this serenedissipation. He began to compose 'The History of the Reign of GeorgeII. ' at this period. About only half a dozen chapters were written. Theintention was not confined to Chesterfield: Carteret and Bolingbrokeentertained a similar design, which was completed by neither. When thesubject was broached before George II. , he thus expressed himself; andhis remarks are the more amusing as they were addressed to Lord Hervey, who was, at that very moment, making his notes for that bitter chronicleof his majesty's reign, which has been ushered into the world by thelate Wilson Croker--'They will all three, ' said King George II. , 'haveabout as much truth in them as the _Mille et Une Nuits_. Not but I shalllike to read Bolingbroke's, who of all those rascals and knaves thathave been lying against me these ten years has certainly the best parts, and the most knowledge. He is a scoundrel, but he is a scoundrel of ahigher class than Chesterfield. Chesterfield is a little, tea-tablescoundrel, that tells little womanish lies to make quarrels in families:and tries to make women lose their reputations, and make their husbandsbeat them, without any object but to give himself airs; as if anybodycould believe a woman could like a dwarf baboon. '

Lord Hervey gave the preference to Bolingbroke; stating as his reason, that 'though Lord Bolingbroke had no idea of wit, his satire was keenerthan any one's. Lord Chesterfield, on the other hand, would have a greatdeal of wit in them; but, in every page you see he intended to be witty:every paragraph would be an epigram. _Polish_, he declared, would be hisbane;' and Lord Hervey was perfectly right. 

In 1732 Lord Chesterfield was obliged to retire from his embassy on theplea of ill-health, but probably, from some political cause. He was inthe opposition against Sir Robert Walpole in the Excise Bill; and feltthe displeasure of that all-powerful minister by being dismissed fromhis office of High Steward. 

Being badly received at court he now lived in the country; sometimes atBuxton, where his father drank the waters, where he had his recreations, when not persecuted by two young brothers. Sir William Stanhope and JohnStanhope, one of whom performed 'tolerably ill upon a broken hautboy, and the other something worse upon a cracked flute. ' There he won threehalf-crowns from the curate of the place, and a shilling from 'GafferFoxeley' at a cock-match. Sometimes he sought relaxation in Scarborough, where fashionable beaux 'danced with the pretty ladies all night, ' andhundreds of Yorkshire country bumpkins 'played the inferior parts; and, as it were, only tumble, whilst the others dance upon the high ropes ofgallantry. ' Scarborough was full of Jacobites: the popular feeling wasthen all rife against Sir Robert Walpole's excise scheme. LordChesterfield thus wittily satirized that famous measure:--

'The people of this town are, at present, in great consternation upon areport they have heard from London, which, if true, they think will ruinthem. They are informed, that considering the vast consumption of thesewaters, there is a design laid of _excising_ them next session; and, moreover, that as bathing in the sea is become the general practice ofboth sexes, and as the kings of England have always been allowed to bemasters of the seas, every person so bathing shall be gauged, and pay somuch per foot square, as their cubical bulk amounts to. '

In 1733, Lord Chesterfield married Melusina, the supposed niece, but, infact, the daughter of the Duchess of Kendal, the mistress of George I. This lady was presumed to be a great heiress, from the dominion whichher mother had over the king. Melusina had been created (for life)Baroness of Aldborough, county Suffolk, and Countess of Walsingham, county Norfolk, nine years previous to her marriage. 

Her father being George I. , as Horace Walpole terms him, 'rather a goodsort of man than a shining king, ' and her mother 'being no genius, 'there was probably no great attraction about Lady Walsingham, except herexpected dowry. 

During her girlhood Melusina resided in the apartments at St. James's--opening into the garden; and here Horace Walpole describes hisseeing George I. , in the rooms appropriated to the Duchess of Kendal, next to those of Melusina Schulemberg, or, as she was then called, theCountess of Walsingham. The Duchess of Kendal was then very 'lean andill-favoured. ' 'Just before her, ' says Horace, 'stood a tall, elderlyman, rather pale, of an aspect rather good-natured than august: in adark tie-wig, a plain coat, waistcoat, and breeches of snuff-colouredcloth, with stockings of the same colour, and a blue riband over all. That was George I. '

[Illustration: A ROYAL ROBBER. ]

The Duchess of Kendal had been maid of honour to the ElectressSophia, the mother of George I. And the daughter of Elizabeth ofBohemia. The duchess was always frightful; so much so that one night theelectress, who had acquired a little English, said to Mrs. Howard, afterwards Lady Suffolk, --glancing at Mademoiselle Schulemberg--'Look atthat _mawkin_, and think of her being my son's passion!'

The duchess, however, like all the Hanoverians, knew how to profit byroyal preference. She took bribes:--she had a settlement of £3, 000 ayear. But her daughter was eventually disappointed of the expectedbequest from her father, the king. [24]

In the apartments at St. James's Lord Chesterfield for some time lived, when he was not engaged in office abroad; and there he dissipated largesums in play. It was here, too, that Queen Caroline, the wife of GeorgeII. , detected the intimacy that existed between Chesterfield and LadySuffolk. There was an obscure window in Queen Caroline's apartments, which looked into a dark passage, lighted only by a single lamp atnight. One Twelfth Night Lord Chesterfield, having won a large sum atcards, deposited it with Lady Suffolk, thinking it not safe to carry ithome at night. He was watched, and his intimacy with the mistress ofGeorge II. Thereupon inferred. Thenceforth he could obtain no courtinfluence; and, in desperation, he went into the opposition. 

On the death of George I. , a singular scene, with which LordChesterfield's interests were connected, occurred in the Privy Council. Dr Wake, Archbishop of Canterbury, produced the king's will, anddelivered it to his successor, expecting that it would be opened andread in the council; what was his consternation, when his Majesty, without saying a word, put it into his pocket, and stalked out of theroom with real German imperturbability! Neither the astounded prelatenor the subservient council ventured to utter a word. The will was nevermore heard of: and rumour declared that it was burnt. The contents, ofcourse, never transpired; and the legacy of £40, 000, said to have beenleft to the Duchess of Kendal, was never more spoken of, until LordChesterfield, in 1733, married the Countess of Walsingham. In 1743, itis said, he claimed the legacy--in right of his wife--the Duchess ofKendal being then dead: and was 'quieted' with £20, 000, and got, asHorace Walpole observes, nothing from the duchess--'except his wife. '

The only excuse that was urged to extenuate this act on the part ofGeorge II. , was that his royal father had burned two wills which hadbeen made in his favour. These were supposed to be the wills of the Dukeand Duchess of Zell and of the Electress Sophia. There was not evencommon honesty in the house of Hanover at that period. 

Disappointed in his wife's fortune, Lord Chesterfield seems to havecared very little for the disappointed heiress. Their union waschildless. His opinion of marriage appears very much to have coincidedwith that of the world of malcontents who rush, in the present day, tothe court of Judge Cresswell, with 'dissolving views. ' On one occasionhe writes thus: 'I have at last done the best office that can be done tomost married people; that is, I have fixed the separation between mybrother and his wife, and the definitive treaty of peace will beproclaimed in about a fortnight. '

Horace Walpole related the following anecdote of Sir William Stanhope(Chesterfield's brother) and his lady, whom he calls 'a fond couple. 'After their return from Paris, when they arrived at Lord Chesterfield'shouse at Blackheath, Sir William, who had, like his brother, a cutting, polite wit, that was probably expressed with the 'allowed simper' ofLord Chesterfield, got out of the chaise and said, with a low bow, 'Madame, I hope I shall never see your face again. ' She replied, 'Sir, Iwill take care that you never shall;' and so they parted. 

There was little probability of Lord Chesterfield's participating indomestic felicity, when neither his heart nor his fancy were engaged inthe union which he had formed. The lady to whom he was really attached, and by whom he had a son, resided in the Netherlands: she passed by thename of Madame du Bouchet, and survived both Lord Chesterfield and herson. A permanent provision was made for her, and a sum of five hundredpounds bequeathed to her, with these words: 'as a small reparation forthe injury I did her. ' 'Certainly, ' adds Lord Mahon, in his Memoir ofhis illustrious ancestor, 'a small one. '

For some time Lord Chesterfield remained in England, and his letters aredated from Bath, from Tonbridge, from Blackheath. He had, in 1726, beenelevated to the House of Lords upon the death of his father. In thatassembly his great eloquence is thus well described by hisbiographer:--[25]

'Lord Chesterfield's eloquence, the fruit of much study, was lesscharacterized by force and compass than by elegance and perspicuity, andespecially by good taste and urbanity, and a vein of delicate ironywhich, while it sometimes inflicted severe strokes, never passed thelimits of decency and propriety. It was that of a man who, in the unionof wit and good sense with politeness, had not a competitor. Thesequalities were matured by the advantage which he assiduously sought andobtained, of a familiar acquaintance with almost all the eminent witsand writers of his time, many of whom had been the ornaments of apreceding age of literature, while others were destined to become thoseof a later period. '

The accession of George II. , to whose court Lord Chesterfield had beenattached for many years, brought him no political preferment. The courthad, however, its attractions even for one who owed his polish to thebelles of Paris, and who was almost always, in taste and manners, moreforeign than English. Henrietta, Lady Pomfret, the daughter and heiressof John, Lord Jeffreys, the son of Judge Jeffreys, was at that time theleader of fashion. 

Six daughters, one of them, Lady Sophia, surpassingly lovely recalledthe perfections of that ancestress, Arabella Fermor whose charms Popehas so exquisitely touched in the 'Rape of the Lock. ' Lady Sophia becameeventually the wife of Lord Carteret, the minister, whose talents andthe charms of whose eloquence constituted him a sort of rival toChesterfield. With all his abilities, Lord Chesterfield may be said tohave failed both as a courtier and as a political character, as far aspermanent influence in any ministry was concerned, until in 1744, whenwhat was called the 'Broad-bottomed administration' was formed, when hewas admitted into the cabinet. In the following year, however, he went, for the last time, to Holland, as ambassador, and succeeded beyond theexpectations of his party in the purposes of his embassy. He took leaveof the States-General just before the battle of Fontenoy, and hastenedto Ireland, where he had been nominated Lord-Lieutenant previous to hisjourney to Holland. He remained in that country only a year; but longenough to prove how liberal were his views--how kindly the dispositionsof his heart. 

Only a few years before Lord Chesterfield's arrival in Dublin, the Dukeof Shrewsbury had given as a reason for accepting the vice-regency ofthat country, (of which King James I. Had said, there was 'more ado'than with any of his dominions, ) 'that it was a place where a man hadbusiness enough to keep him from falling asleep, and not enough to keephim awake. '

Chesterfield, however, was not of that opinion. He did more in one yearthan the duke would have accomplished in five. He began by instituting aprinciple of impartial justice. Formerly, Protestants had alone beenemployed as 'managers;' the Lieutenant was to see with Protestant eyes, to hear with Protestant ears. 

'I have determined to proscribe no set of persons whatever, ' saysChesterfield, 'and determined to be governed by none. Had the Papistsmade any attempt to put themselves above the law, I should have takengood care to have quelled them again. It was said my lenity to thePapists had wrought no alteration either in their religious or theirpolitical sentiments. I did not expect that it would: but surely thatwas no reason for cruelty towards them. '

Often by a timely jest Chesterfield conveyed a hint, or even shrouded areproof. One of the ultra-zealous informed him that his coachman was aPapist, and went every Sunday to mass. 'Does he indeed? I will take carehe never drives me there, ' was Chesterfield's cool reply. 

It was at this critical period, when the Hanoverian dynasty was shakenalmost to its downfall by the insurrection in Scotland of 1745, thatIreland was imperilled: 'With a weak or wavering, or a fierce andheadlong Lord-Lieutenant--with a Grafton or a Strafford, ' remarks LordMahon, 'there would soon have been a simultaneous rising in the EmeraldIsle. ' But Chesterfield's energy, his lenity, his wise and justadministration saved the Irish from being excited into rebellion by theemissaries of Charles Edward, or slaughtered, when conquered, by the'Butcher, ' and his tiger-like dragoons. When all was over, and that sadpage of history in which the deaths of so many faithful adherents of theexiled family are recorded, had been held up to the gaze of bleedingCaledonia, Chesterfield recommended mild measures, and advised theestablishment of schools in the Highlands; but the age was toonarrow-minded to adopt his views. In January, 1748, Chesterfield retiredfrom public life. 'Could I do any good, ' he wrote to a friend, 'I wouldsacrifice some more quiet to it; but convinced as I am that I can donone, I will indulge my ease, and preserve my character. I have gonethrough pleasures while my constitution and my spirits would allow me. Business succeeded them; and I have now gone through every part of itwithout liking it at all the better for being acquainted with it. Likemany other things, it is most admired by those who know it least.... Ihave been behind the scenes both of pleasure and business; I have seenall the coarse pulleys and dirty ropes which exhibit and move all thegaudy machines; and I have seen and smelt the tallow candles whichilluminate the whole decoration, to the astonishment and admiration ofthe ignorant multitude.... My horse, my books, and my friends willdivide my time pretty equally. '

He still interested himself in what was useful; and carried a Bill inthe House of Lords for the Reformation of the Calendar, in 1751. Itseems a small matter for so great a mind as his to accomplish, but itwas an achievement of infinite difficulty. Many statesmen had shrunkfrom the undertaking; and even Chesterfield found it essential toprepare the public, by writing in some periodical papers on the subject. Nevertheless the vulgar outcry was vehement: 'Give us back the elevendays we have been robbed of!' cried the mob at a general election. WhenBradley was dying, the common people ascribed his sufferings to ajudgment for the part he had taken in that 'impious transaction, ' thealteration of the calendar. But they were not less _bornés_ in theirnotions than the Duke of Newcastle, then prime minister. Upon LordChesterfield giving him notice of his Bill, that bustling premier, whohad been in a hurry for forty years, who never 'walked but always ran, 'greatly alarmed, begged Chesterfield not to stir matters that had beenlong quiet; adding, that he did not like 'new-fangled things. ' He was, as we have seen, overruled, and henceforth the New Style was adopted;and no special calamity has fallen on the nation, as was expected, inconsequence. Nevertheless, after Chesterfield had made his speech in theHouse of Lords, and when every one had complimented him on the clearnessof his explanation--'God knows, ' he wrote to his son, 'I had not evenattempted to explain the Bill to them; I might as soon have talkedCeltic or Sclavonic to them as astronomy. They would have understood itfull as well. ' So much for the 'Lords' in those days!

After his _furore_ for politics had subsided, Chesterfield returned tohis ancient passion for play. We must linger a little over the stillbrilliant period of his middle life, whilst his hearing was spared;whilst his wit remained, and the charming manners on which he had formeda science, continued; and before we see him in the mournful decline of alife wholly given to the world. 

He had now established himself in Chesterfield House. Hitherto hisprogenitors had been satisfied with Bloomsbury Square, in which the LordChesterfield mentioned by De Grammont resided; but the accomplishedChesterfield chose a site near Audley Street, which had been built onwhat was called Mr. Audley's land, lying between Great Brook Field andthe 'Shoulder of Mutton Field. ' And near this locality with the elegantname, Chesterfield chose his spot, for which he had to wrangle and fightwith the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, who asked an exorbitant sumfor the ground. Isaac Ware, the editor of 'Palladio, ' was the architectto whom the erection of this handsome residence was intrusted. Happilyit is still untouched by any _renovating_ hand. Chesterfield's favouriteapartments, looking on the most spacious private garden in London, arejust as they were in his time; one especially, which he termed the'finest room in London, ' was furnished and decorated by him. 'Thewalls, ' says a writer in the 'Quarterly Review, ' 'are covered half wayup with rich and classical stores of literature; above the cases are inclose series the portraits of eminent authors, French and English, withmost of whom he had conversed; over these, and immediately under themassive cornice, extend all round in foot-long capitals the Horatianlines:--

 'Nunc . Veterum . Libris . Nunc . Somno . Et . Inertibus . Horis. Lucen . Solicter . Jucunda . Oblivia . Vitea. 

'On the mantel-pieces and cabinets stand busts of old orators, interspersed with voluptuous vases and bronzes, antique or Italian, andairy statuettes in marble or alabaster of nude or semi-nude operanymphs. '

What Chesterfield called the 'cannonical pillars' of the house werecolumns brought from Cannons, near Edgeware, the seat of the Duke ofChandos. The antechamber of Chesterfield House has been erroneouslystated as the room in which Johnson waited the great lord's pleasure. That state of endurance was probably passed by 'Old Samuel' inBloomsbury. 

In this stately abode--one of the few, the very few, that seem to hold_noblesse_ apart in our levelling metropolis--Chesterfield held hisassemblies of all that London, or indeed England, Paris, the Hague, orVienna, could furnish of what was polite and charming. Those were dayswhen the stream of society did not, as now, flow freely, mingling withthe grace of aristocracy the acquirements of hard-working professors;there was then a strong line of demarcation; it had not been broken downin the same way as now, when people of rank and wealth live in rows, instead of inhabiting hotels set apart. Paris has sustained a similarrevolution, since her gardens were built over, and their green shades, delicious, in the centre of that hot city, are seen no more. In the veryFaubourg St. Germain, the grand old hotels are rapidly disappearing, andwith them something of the exclusiveness of the higher orders. LordChesterfield, however, triumphantly pointing to the fruits of his tasteand distribution of his wealth, witnessed, in his library atChesterfield House, the events which time produced. He heard of thedeath of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, and of her bequest to him oftwenty thousand pounds, and her best and largest brilliant diamond ring, 'out of the great regard she had for his merit, and the infiniteobligations she had received from him. ' He witnessed the change ofsociety and of politics which occurred when George II. Expired, and theEarl of Bute, calling himself a descendant of the house of Stuart, 'andhumble enough to be proud of it, ' having quitted the isle of Bute, whichLord Chesterfield calls 'but a little south of Nova Zembla, ' tookpossession, not only of the affections, but even of the senses of theyoung king, George III. , who, assisted by the widowed Princess of Wales(supposed to be attached to Lord Bute), was 'lugged out of theseraglio, ' and 'placed upon the throne. '

Chesterfield lived to have the honour of having the plan of 'Johnson'sDictionary' inscribed to him, and the dishonour of neglecting the greatauthor. Johnson, indeed, denied the truth of the story which gainedgeneral belief, in which it was asserted that he had taken a disgust atbeing kept waiting in the earl's antechamber, the reason being assignedthat his lordship 'had company with him;' when at last the door opened, and forth came Colley Cibber. Then Johnson--so report said--indignant, not only for having been kept waiting but also for _whom_, went away, itwas affirmed, in disgust; but this was solemnly denied by the doctor, who assured Boswell that his wrath proceeded from continual neglect onthe part of Chesterfield. 

Whilst the Dictionary was in progress, Chesterfield seemed to forget theexistence of him, whom, together with the other literary men, heaffected 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 reallywish to benefit others can always discover where they lodge. The days ofpatronage were then expiring, but they had not quite ceased, and adedication was always to be in some way paid for. 

When the publication of the Dictionary drew near, Lord Chesterfieldflattered himself that, in spite of all his neglect, the greatcompliment of having so vast an undertaking dedicated to him would stillbe 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 language: 'I will not only obey him, ' he said, 'as my dictator, like an old Roman, but like a modern Roman, willimplicitly believe in him as my pope. '

Johnson, however, was not to be propitiated by those 'honeyed words. ' Hewrote a letter couched in what he called 'civil terms, ' to Chesterfield, from which we extract the following passages:

'When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, Iwas overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of youraddress; and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself_vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre_--that I might obtain that regardfor which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance solittle encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me tocontinue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in publick, I hadexhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholarcan possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased tohave his all neglected, be it ever so little. 

'Seven years, my lord, have now past, since I waited in your outwardroom, or was repulsed from your door, during which time I have beenpushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless tocomplain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publicationwithout one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smileof favour: such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patronbefore.... Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on aman who is struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reachedground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleasedto take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has beendelayed till I am indifferent and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitaryand cannot impart it; till I am known and do not want it. I hope it isno very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit hasbeen received, or to be unwilling that the publick should consider me asowing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do formyself. '

The conduct of Johnson, on this occasion, was approved by most manlyminds, except that of his publisher, Mr. Robert Dodsley; Dr. Adams, afriend of Dodsley, said he was sorry that Johnson had written thatcelebrated letter (a very model of polite contempt). Dodsley said he wassorry too, for he had a property in the Dictionary, to which hislordship's patronage might be useful. He then said that LordChesterfield had shown him the letter. 'I should have thought, ' saidAdams, 'that Lord Chesterfield would have concealed it. ' 'Pooh!' criedDodsley, 'do you think a letter from Johnson could hurt LordChesterfield? not at all, sir. It lay on his table, where any one mightsee it. He read it to me; said, "this man has great powers, " pointed outthe severest passages, and said, "how well they were expressed. "' Theart of dissimulation, in which Chesterfield was perfect, imposed on Mr. Dodsley. 

Dr. Adams expostulated with the doctor, and said Lord Chesterfielddeclared he would part with the best servant he had, if he had knownthat he had turned away a man who was '_always_ welcome. ' Then Adamsinsisted on Lord Chesterfield's affability, and easiness of access toliterary men. But the sturdy Johnson replied, 'Sir, that is not LordChesterfield; he is the proudest man existing. ' 'I think, ' Adamsrejoined, 'I know one that is prouder; you, by your own account, are theprouder of the two. ' 'But mine, ' Johnson answered, with one of his happyturns, 'was defensive pride. ' 'This man, ' he afterwards said, referringto Chesterfield, 'I thought had been a lord among wits, but I find he isonly a wit among lords. '

In revenge, Chesterfield in his Letters depicted Johnson, it is said, inthe character of the 'respectable Hottentot. ' Amongst other things, heobserved of the Hottentot, 'he throws his meat anywhere but down histhroat. ' This being remarked to Johnson, who was by no means pleased atbeing immortalized as the Hottentot--'Sir, ' he answered, 'LordChesterfield never saw me eat in his life. '

[Illustration: DR. JOHNSON AT LORD CHESTERFIELD'S. ]

Such are the leading points of this famous and lasting controversy. Itis amusing to know that Lord Chesterfield was not always precise as todirections to his letters. He once directed to Lord Pembroke, who wasalways swimming 'To the Earl of Pembroke, in the Thames, over againstWhitehall. This, as Horace Walpole remarks, was sure of finding himwithin a certain fathom. '

Lord Chesterfield was now admitted to be the very 'glass of fashion, 'though age, and, according to Lord Hervey, a hideous person, impeded hisbeing the 'mould of form. ' 'I don't know why, ' writes Horace Walpole, inthe dog-days, from Strawberry Hill, 'but people are always more anxiousabout their hay than their corn, or twenty other things that cost themmore: I suppose my Lord Chesterfield, or some such dictator, made itfashionable to care about one's hay. Nobody betrays solicitude aboutgetting in his rents. ' 'The prince of wits, ' as the same authority callshim--'his entrance into the world was announced by his bon-mots, and hisclosing lips dropped repartees that sparkled with his juvenile fire. '

No one, it was generally allowed, had such a force of table-wit as LordChesterfield; but while the 'Graces' were ever his theme, he indulgedhimself without distinction or consideration in numerous sallies. Hewas, therefore, at once sought and feared; liked but not loved; neithersex nor relationship, nor rank, nor friendship, nor obligation, norprofession, could shield his victim from what Lord Hervey calls, 'thosepointed, glittering weapons, that seemed to shine only to a stander-by, but cut deep into those they touched. '

He cherished 'a voracious appetite for abuse;' fell upon every one thatcame in his way, and thus treated each one of his companions at theexpense of the other. To him Hervey, who had probably often smarted, applied the lines of Boileau--

 'Mais c'est un petit fou qui se croit tout permis, Et qui pour un bon mot va perdre vingt amis. '

Horace Walpole (a more lenient judge of Chesterfield's merits) observesthat 'Chesterfield took no less pains to be the phoenix of finegentlemen, than Tully did to qualify himself as an orator. Bothsucceeded: Tully immortalized his name; Chesterfield's reign lasted alittle longer than that of a fashionable beauty. ' It was, perhaps, because, as Dr. Johnson said, all Lord Chesterfield's witty sayings werepuns, that even his brilliant wit failed to please, although it amused, and surprised its hearers. 

Notwithstanding the contemptuous description of Lord Chesterfield'spersonal appearance by Lord Hervey, his portraits represent a handsome, though hard countenance, well-marked features, and his figure and airappear to have been elegant. With his commanding talents, his wonderfulbrilliancy and fluency of conversation, he would perhaps sometimes havebeen even tedious, had it not been for his invariable cheerfulness. Hewas always, as Lord Hervey says, 'present' in his company. Amongst thefew friends who really loved this thorough man of the world, was LordScarborough, yet no two characters were more opposite. Lord Scarboroughhad judgment, without wit: Chesterfield wit, and no judgment; LordScarborough had honesty and principle; Lord Chesterfield had neither. Everybody liked the one, but did not care for his company. Everyonedisliked the other, but wished for his company. The fact was, Scarborough was 'splendid and absent. ' Chesterfield 'cheerful andpresent:' wit, grace, attention to what is passing, the surface, as itwere, of a highly-cultured mind, produced a fascination with which allthe honour and respectability in the Court of George II. Could notcompete. 

In the earlier part of Chesterfield's career, Pope, Bolingbroke, Hervey, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and, in fact, all that could add to thepleasures of the then early dinner-table, illumined Chesterfield Houseby their wit and gaiety. Yet in the midst of this exciting life, LordChesterfield found time to devote to the improvement of his natural son, Philip Stanhope, a great portion of his leisure. His celebrated Lettersto that son did not, however, appear during the earl's life; nor werethey in any way the source of his popularity as a wit, which was due tohis merits in that line alone. 

The youth to whom these letters, so useful and yet so objectionable, were addressed, was intended for a diplomatist. He was the very reverseof his father: learned, sensible, and dry; but utterly wanting in thegraces, and devoid of eloquence. As an orator, therefore, he failed; asa man of society, he must also have failed; and his death, in 1768, someyears before that of his father, left that father desolate, anddisappointed. Philip Stanhope had attained the rank of envoy to Dresden, where he expired. 

During the five years in which Chesterfield dragged out a mournful lifeafter this event, he made the painful discovery that his son had marriedwithout confiding that step to the father to whom he owed so much. Thismust have been almost as trying as the awkward, ungraceful deportment ofhim whom he mourned. The world now left Chesterfield ere he had left theworld. He and his contemporary Lord Tyrawley were now old and infirm. 'The fact is, ' Chesterfield wittily said, 'Tyrawley and I have been deadthese two years, but we don't choose to have it known. '

'The Bath, ' he wrote to his friend Dayrolles, 'did me more good than Ithought anything could do me; but all that good does not amount to whatbuilders call half-repairs, and only keeps up the shattered fabric alittle longer than it would have stood without them; but take my wordfor it, it will stand but a very little while longer. I am now in mygrand climacteric, and shall not complete it. Fontenelle's last words ata hundred and three were, _Je souffre d'être. _ deaf and infirm as I am, I can with truth say the same thing at sixty-three. In my mind it isonly the strength of our passions, and the weakness of our reason, thatmakes us so fond of life; but when the former subside and give way tothe latter, we grow weary of being, and willing to withdraw. I do notrecommend this train of serious reflections to you, nor ought you toadopt them.... You have children to educate and provide for, you haveall your senses, and can enjoy all the comforts both of domestic andsocial life. I am in every sense _isolé_, and have wound up all mybottoms; I may now walk off quietly, without missing nor being missed. '

The kindness of his nature, corrupted as it was by a life whollyworldly, and but little illumined in its course by religion, shone nowin his care of his two grandsons, the offspring of his lost son, and oftheir mother, Eugenia Stanhope. To her he thus wrote:--

'The last time I had the pleasure of seeing you, I was so taken up inplaying with the boys, that I forgot their more important affairs. Howsoon would you have them placed at school? When I know your pleasure asto that, I will send to Monsieur Perny, to prepare everything for theirreception. In the mean time, I beg that you will equip them thoroughlywith clothes, linen, &c. , all good, but plain; and give me the amount, which I will pay; for I do not intend, from this time forwards, the twoboys should cost you one shilling. '

He lived, latterly, much at Blackheath, in the house which, being builton Crown land, has finally become the Ranger's lodge; but which stillsometimes goes by the name of Chesterfield House. Here he spent largesums, especially on pictures, and cultivated Cantelupe melons; and here, as he grew older, and became permanently afflicted with deafness, hischief companion was a useful friend, Solomon Dayrolles--one of thoseindebted hangers-on whom it was an almost invariable custom to find, atthat period, in great houses--and perhaps too frequently in our own day. 

Dayrolles, who was employed in the embassy under Lord Sandwich at theHague, had always, to borrow Horace Walpole's ill-natured expression, 'been a led-captain to the Dukes of Richmond and Grafton, used to besent to auctions for them, and to walk in the parks with theirdaughters, and once went dry-nurse in Holland with them. He hasbelonged, too, a good deal to my Lord Chesterfield, to whom I believe heowes this new honour, "that of being minister at the Hague, " as he hadbefore made him black-rod in Ireland, and gave the ingenious reason thathe had a black face. ' But the great 'dictator' in the empire ofpoliteness was now in a slow but sure decline. Not long before hisdeath he was visited by Monsieur Suard, a French gentleman, who wasanxious to see '_l'homme le plus aimable, le plus poli et le plusspirituel 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 muchenjoy listening. I am not, ' he added, 'so philosophic as my friend thePresident de Montesquieu, who says, "I know how to be blind, but I donot yet know how to be deaf. "' 'We shortened our visit, ' says M. Suard, 'lest we should fatigue the earl. ' 'I do not detain you, ' saidChesterfield, 'for I must go and rehearse my funeral. ' It was thus thathe styled his daily drive through the streets of London. 

Lord Chesterfield's wonderful memory continued till his latest hour. Ashe lay, gasping in the last agonies of extreme debility, his friend, Mr. Dayrolles, called in to see him half an hour before he expired. Thepoliteness which had become part of his very nature did not desert thedying earl. He managed to say, in a low voice, to his valet, 'GiveDayrolles a chair. ' This little trait greatly struck the famous Dr. Warren, who was at the bedside of this brilliant and wonderful man. Hedied on the 24th of March, 1773, in the 79th year of his age. 

The preamble to a codicil (Feb. 11, 1773) contains the followingstriking sentences, written when the intellect was impressed with thesolemnity of that solemn change which comes alike to the unreflectingand to the heart stricken, 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 posthumous ones displayed at my funeral, and therefore desire to be 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 chapelin South Audley Street, but it was afterwards removed to the familyburial-place in Shelford Church, Nottinghamshire. 

In his will he left legacies to his servants. [26] 'I consider them, ' hesaid, 'as unfortunate friends; my equals by nature, and my inferiorsonly in the difference of our fortunes. ' There was something lofty inthe mind that prompted that sentence. 

His estates reverted to a distant kinsman, descended from a younger sonof the first earl; and it is remarkable, on looking through the Peerageof Great Britain, to perceive how often this has been the case in a raceremarkable for the absence of virtue. Interested marriages, vicioushabits, perhaps account for the fact; but retributive justice, though itbe presumptuous to trace its course, is everywhere. 

He had so great a horror in his last days of gambling, that inbequeathing his possessions to his heir, as he expected, and godson, Philip Stanhope, he inserts this clause:--

 'In case my said godson, Philip Stanhope, shall at any time hereinafter keep, or be concerned in keeping of, any race-horses, or pack of hounds, or reside one night at Newmarket, that infamous seminary of iniquity and ill-manners, during the course of the 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 he, my said godson, shall forfeit and pay, out of my estate, the sum of £5, 000 to and for the use of the Dean and Chapter of Westminster. '

When we say that Lord Chesterfield was a man who had _no friend_, we sumup his character in those few words. Just after his death a small butdistinguished party of men dined together at Topham Beauclerk's. Therewas Sir Joshua Reynolds; Sir William Jones, the orientalist; BennetLangton; Steevens; Boswell; Johnson. The conversation turned on Garrick, who, Johnson said, had friends, but no friend. Then Boswell asked, 'whatis a friend?' 'One who comforts and supports you, while others do not. ''Friendship, you know, sir, is the cordial drop to make the nauseousdraught of life go down. ' Then one of the company mentioned LordChesterfield as one who had no friend; and Boswell said: 'Garrick waspure gold, but beat out to thin leaf, Lord Chesterfield was tinsel. 'And, for once, Johnson did not contradict him. But not so do we judgeLord Chesterfield. He was a man who acted on false principles throughlife; and those principles gradually undermined everything that wasnoble and generous in character; just as those deep under-groundcurrents, noiseless in their course, work through fine-grained rock, andproduce a chasm. Everything with Chesterfield was self: for self, andself alone, were agreeable qualities to be assumed; for self, was thecountry to be served, because that country protects and serves us: forself, were friends to be sought and cherished, as useful auxiliaries, orpleasant accessories: in the very core of the cankered heart, thatadvocated this corrupting doctrine of expediency, lay unbelief; thatworm which never died in the hearts of so many illustrious men of thatperiod--the refrigerator of the feelings. 

One only gentle and genuine sentiment possessed Lord Chesterfield, andthat was his love for his son. Yet in this affection the worldly manmight be seen in mournful colours. He did not seek to render his songood; his sole desire was to see him successful: every lesson that hetaught him, in those matchless Letters which have carried downChesterfield's fame to us when his other productions have virtuallyexpired, exposes a code of dissimulation which Philip Stanhope, in hismarriage, turned upon the father to whom he owed so much care andadvancement. These Letters are, in fact, a complete exposition of LordChesterfield's character and views of life. No other man could havewritten them; no other man have conceived the notion of existence beingone great effort to deceive, as well as to excel, and of society formingone gigantic lie. It is true they were addressed to one who was to enterthe 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 we mustremember that the age in which they were written was one of lax notions, especially among men of rank, who regarded all women accessible, eitherfrom indiscretion or inferiority of rank, as fair game, and actedaccordingly. But whilst we agree with one of Johnson's bitterestsentences as to the immorality of Chesterfield's letters, we disagreewith his styling his code of manners the manners of a dancing-master. Chesterfield was in himself a perfect instance of what he calls _lesmanières nobles_; and this even Johnson allowed. 

'Talking of Chesterfield, ' Johnson said, 'his manner was exquisitelyelegant, and he had more knowledge than I expected. ' Boswell: 'Did youfind, sir, his conversation to be of a superior sort?'--Johnson: 'Sir, in the conversation which I had with him, I had the best right tosuperiority, for it was upon philology and literature. '

It was well remarked how extraordinary a thing it was that a man wholoved 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 thustutored his son; and intended to show the son an honest man ineverything else, but practising his father's maxims upon him, andcheating him. 

'It should be so contrived, ' Johnson remarked, referring to Foote'splan, 'that the father should be the _only_ sufferer by the son'svillany, and thus there would be poetical justice. ' 'Take out theimmorality, ' he added, on another occasion, 'and the book(Chesterfield's Letters to his Son) should be put into the hands ofevery young gentleman. '

We are inclined to differ, and to confess to a moral taint throughoutthe whole of the Letters; and even had the immorality been expunged, thefalse motives, the deep, invariable advocacy of principles ofexpediency, would have poisoned what otherwise might be of effectualbenefit to the minor virtues of polite society. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: The Countess of Chesterfield here alluded to was thesecond wife of Philip, second Earl of Chesterfield. Philip Dormer, fourth Earl, was grandson of the second Earl by his third wife. ]

[Footnote 24: In the 'Annual Register, ' for 1774, p. 20, it is statedthat as George I. Had left Lady Walsingham a legacy which his successordid not think proper to deliver, the Earl of Chesterfield was determinedto recover it by a suit in Chancery, had not his Majesty, on questioningthe Lord Chancellor on the subject, and being answered that he couldgive no opinion extrajudicially, thought proper to fulfil the bequest. ]

[Footnote 25: Lord Mahon, now Earl of Stanhope, if not the mosteloquent, one of the most honest historians of our time. ]

[Footnote 26: Two years' wages were left to the servants. ]

 THE ABBÉ SCARRON. 

 An Eastern Allegory. --Who comes Here?--A Mad Freak and its Consequences. --Making an Abbé of him. --The May-Fair of Paris. --Scarron's Lament to Pellisson. --The Office of the Queen's Patient. --'Give me a Simple Benefice. '--Scarron's Description of Himself. --Improvidence and Servility. --The Society at Scarron's. --The Witty Conversation. --Francoise D'Aubigné's Début. --The Sad Story of La Belle Indienne. --Matrimonial Considerations. --'Scarron's Wife will live for ever. '--Petits Soupers. --Scarron's last Moments. --A Lesson for Gay and Grave. 

There is an Indian or Chinese legend, I forget which, from which Mrs. Shelley may have taken her hideous idea of Frankenstein. We are told inthis allegory that, after fashioning some thousands of men after themost approved model, endowing them with all that is noble, generous, admirable, and loveable in man or woman, the eastern Prometheus grewweary in his work, stretched his hand for the beer-can, and draining ittoo deeply, lapsed presently into a state of what Germans call'other-man-ness. '--There is a simpler Anglo-Saxon term for thiscondition, but I spare you. The eastern Prometheus went on seriouslywith his work, and still produced the same perfect models, faultlessalike in brain and leg. But when it came to the delicate finish, whenthe last touches were to be made, his hand shook a little, and the moredelicate members went awry. It was thus that instead of the power ofseeing every colour properly, one man came out with a pair of opticswhich turned everything to green, and this verdancy probably transmitteditself to the intelligence. Another, to continue the allegory, whosetympanum had slipped a little under the unsteady fingers of theman-maker, heard everything in a wrong sense, and his life wasmiserable, because, if you sang his praises, he believed you wereridiculing him, and if you heaped abuse upon him, he thought you weretelling lies of him. 

But as Prometheus Orientalis grew more jovial, it seems to have comeinto his head to make mistakes on purpose. 'I'll have a friend to laughwith, ' quoth he; and when warned by an attendant Yaksha, or demon, thatmen 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 wascompleting, and holding up his little doll, cried, 'Here is one who willlaugh at everything!'

I must now add what the legend neglects to tell. The model laughersucceeded well enough in his own reign, but he could not beget a largefamily. The laughers who never weep, the real clowns of life, who donot, when the curtain drops, retire, after an infinitesimal allowance of'cordial, ' to a half-starved, complaining family, with brats that clinground his parti-coloured stockings, and cry to him--not for jokes--butfor bread, these laughers, I say, are few and far between. You should, therefore, be doubly grateful to me for introducing to you now one ofthe most famous of them; one who with all right and title to belugubrious, was the merriest man of his age. 

On Shrove Tuesday, in the year 1638, the good city of Mans was in astate of great excitement: the carnival was at its height, and everybodyhad gone mad for one day before turning pious for the long, dull fortydays of Lent. The market-place was filled with maskers in quaintcostumes, each wilder and more extravagant than the last. Here weremagicians with high peaked hats covered with cabalistic signs, hereEastern sultans of the medieval model, with very fierce looks and verylarge scimitars: here Amadis de Gaul with a wagging plume a yard high, here Pantagruel, here harlequins, here Huguenots ten times morelugubrious than the despised sectaries they mocked, here Cæsar andPompey in trunk hose and Roman helmets, and a mass of other notabilitieswho were great favourites in that day, appeared. 

But who comes here? What is the meaning of these roars of laughter thatgreet the last mask who runs into the market-place? Why do all the womenand children hurry together, calling up one another, and shouting withdelight? What is this thing? Is it some new species of bird, thuscovered with feathers and down? In a few minutes the little figure issurrounded by a crowd of boys and women, who begin to pluck him of hisborrowed plumes, while he chatters to them like a magpie, whistles likea song-bird, croaks like a raven, or in his natural character showers amass of funny nonsense on them, till their laughter makes their sidesache. The little wretch is literally covered with small feathers fromhead to foot, and even his face is not to be recognized. The women pluckhim behind and before; he dances round and tries to evade their fingers. This is impossible; he breaks away, runs down the market pursued by ashouting crowd, is again surrounded, and again subjected to a pluckingprocess. The bird must be stripped; he must be discovered. Little bylittle his back is bared, and little by little is seen a black jerkin, black stockings, and, wonder upon wonder! the bands of a canon. Now theyhave cleared his face of its plumage, and a cry of disgust and shamehails the disclosure. Yes, this curious masker is no other than areverend abbé, a young canon of the cathedral of Mans! 'This is toomuch--it is scandalous--it is disgraceful. The church must be respected, the sacred order must not descend to such frivolities. ' The people, lately laughing, are now furious at the shameless abbé and not hisliveliest wit can save him; they threaten and cry shame on him, and interror of his life, he beats his way through the crowd, and takes to hisheels. The mob follows, hooting and savage. The little man is nimble;those well-shaped legs--_qui ont si bien dansé_--stand him in goodstead. Down the streets, and out of the town go hare and hounds. Thepursuers gain on him--a bridge, a stream filled with tall reeds, anddelightfully miry, are all the hope of refuge he sees before him. Heleaps gallantly from the bridge in among the oziers, and has the joy oflistening to the disappointed curses of the mob, when reaching thestream, their quarry is nowhere to be seen. The reeds conceal him, andthere he lingers till nightfall, when he can issue from hislurking-place, and escape from the town. 

Such was the mad freak which deprived the Abbé Scarron of the use of hislimbs for life. His health was already ruined when he indulged thiscaprice; the damp of the river brought on a violent attack, which closedwith palsy, and the gay young abbé had to pay dearly for the pleasure ofastonishing the citizens of Mans. The disguise was easily accountedfor--he had smeared himself with honey, ripped open a feather-bed, androlled himself in it. 

This little incident gives a good idea of what Scarron was in hisyounger days--ready at any time for any wild caprice. 

Paul Scarron was the son of a Conseiller du Parlement of good family, resident in Paris. He was born in 1610, and his early days would havebeen wretched enough, if his elastic spirits had allowed him to give wayto misery. His father was a good-natured, weak-minded man, who on thedeath of his first wife married a second, who, as one hen will peck atanother's chicks, would not, as a stepmother, leave the little Paul inpeace. She was continually putting her own children forward, andill-treating the late 'anointed' son. The father gave in too readily, and young Paul was glad enough to be set free from his unhappy home. There may be some excuse in this for the licentious living to which henow gave himself up. He was heir to a decent fortune, and of coursethought himself justified in spending it before-hand. Then, in spite ofhis quaint little figure, he had something attractive about him, for hismerry face was good-looking, if not positively handsome. If we add tothis, spirits as buoyant as an Irishman's--a mind that not only saw theridiculous wherever it existed, but could turn the most solemn and awfulthemes to laughter, a vast deal of good-nature, and not a littleassurance--we can understand that the young Scarron was a favourite withboth men and women, and among the reckless pleasure-seekers of the daysoon became one of the wildest. In short, he was a fast young Parisian, with as little care for morality or religion as any youth who saunterson the Boulevards of the French capital to this day. 

But his stepmother was not content with getting rid of young Paul, buthad her eye also on his fortune, and therefore easily persuaded herhusband that the service of the church was precisely the career forwhich the young reprobate was fitted. There was an uncle who was Bishopof Grenoble, and a canonry could easily be got for him. The fast youthwas compelled to give in to this arrangement, but declined to take fullorders; so that while drawing the revenue of his stall, he had nothingto do with the duties of his calling. Then, too, it was rather afashionable thing to be an abbé, especially a gay one. The positionplaced you on a level with people of all ranks. Half the court wascomposed of love-making ecclesiastics, and the _soutane_ was a kind ofdiploma for wit and wickedness. Viewed in this light, the church was asjovial a profession as the army, and the young Scarron went to the fullextent of the letter allowed to the black gown. It was only such stupidsuperstitious louts as those of Mans, who did not know anything of theways of Paris life, who could object to such little freaks as he lovedto indulge in. 

The merry little abbé was soon the delight of the Marais. This distinctand antiquated quarter of Paris was then the Mayfair 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 Cardinalsand young abbés; here were the salons of Madame de Martel, of theComtesse de la Suze, who changed her creed in order to avoid seeing herhusband in this world or the next, and the famous--or infamous--Ninon del'Enclos; and at these houses young Scarron met the courtlySaint-Evremond, the witty Sarrazin, and the learned but arrogantVoiture. Here he read his skits and parodies, here travestied Virgil, made epigrams on Richelieu, and poured out his indelicate but alwayslaughable witticisms. But his indulgences were not confined tointrigues; he also drank deep, and there was not a pleasure within hisreach which he ever thought of denying himself. He laughed at religion, thought morality a nuisance, and resolved to be merry at all costs. 

The little account was brought in at last. At the age of five-and-twentyhis constitution was broken up. Gout and rheumatism assailed himalternately or in leash. He began to feel the annoyance of theconstraint they occasioned; he regretted those legs which had figuredso well in a ronde or a minuet, and those hands which had played thelute to dames more fair than modest; and to add to this, the pain hesuffered was not slight. He sought relief in gay society, and wascheerful in spite of his sufferings. At length came the Shrove Tuesdayand the feathers; and the consequences were terrible. He was soon a preyto doctors, whom he believed in no more than in the church of which hewas so great a light. His legs were no longer his own, so he was obligedto borrow those of a chair. He was soon tucked down into a species ofdumb-waiter on castors, in which he could be rolled about in a party. Infront of this chair was fastened a desk, on which he wrote; for too wiseto be overcome by his agony, he drove it away by cultivating hisimagination, and in this way some of the most fantastic productions inFrench literature were composed by this quaint little abbé. 

Nor was sickness his only trial now. Old Scarron was a citizen, and had, what was then criminal, sundry ideas of the liberty of the nation. Hesaw with disgust the tyranny of Richelieu, and joined a party in theParliament to oppose the cardinal's measures. He even had the courage tospeak openly against one of the court edicts; and the pitiless cardinal, who never overlooked any offence, banished him to Touraine, andnaturally extended his animosity to the conseiller's son. This happenedat a moment at which the cripple believed himself to be on the road tofavour. He had already won that of Madame de Hautefort, on whom LouisXIII. Had set his affections, and this lady had promised to present himto Anne of Austria. The father's honest boldness put a stop to the son'sintended servility, and Scarron lamented his fate in a letter toPellisson:

 O mille écus, par malheur retranchés, Que vous pouviez m'épargner de péchés! Quand un valet me dit, tremblant et hâve, Nous n'avons plus de bûches dans la cave Que pour aller jusqu'à demain matin, Je peste alors sur mon chien de destin, Sur le grand froid, sur le bois de la grève, Qu'on vend si cher, et qui si-tôt s'achève. Je jure alors, et même je médis De l'action de mon père étourdi, Quand sans songer à ce qu'il allait faire Il m'ébaucha sous un astre contraire, Et m'acheva par un discours maudit Qu'il fit depuis sur un certain édit. 

The father died in exile: his second wife had spent the greater part ofthe son's fortune, and secured the rest for her own children. Scarronwas left with a mere pittance, and, to complete his troubles, wasinvolved in a lawsuit about the property. The cripple, with his usualimpudence, resolved to plead his own cause, and did it only too well; hemade the judges laugh so loud that they took the whole thing to be afarce on his part, and gave--most ungratefully--judgment against him. 

Glorious days were those for the penniless, halcyon days for the toadyand the sycophant. There was still much of the old oriental munificenceabout the court, and sovereigns like Mazarin and Louis XIV. Grantedpensions for a copy of flattering verses, or gave away places as thereward of a judicious speech. Sinecures were legion, yet to many aholder they were no sinecures at all, for they entailed constantservility and a complete abdication of all freedom of opinion. 

Scarron was nothing more than a merry buffoon. Many another man hasgained a name for his mirth, but most of them have been at leastindependent. Scarron seems to have cared for nothing that was honourableor dignified. He laughed at everything but money, and at that he smiled, though it is only fair to say that he was never avaricious, but onlycared for ease and a little luxury. 

When Richelieu died, and the gentler, but more subtle Mazarin mountedhis throne, Madame de Hautefort made another attempt to present her_protégé_ to the queen, and this time succeeded. Anne of Austria hadheard of the quaint little man who could laugh over a lawsuit in whichhis whole fortune was staked, and received him graciously. He begged forsome place to support him. What could he do? What was he fit for?'Nothing, your majesty, but the important office of The Queen's Patient;for that I am fully qualified. ' Anne smiled, and Scarron from that timestyled himself 'par la grace de Dieu, le malade de la Reine. ' But therewas no stipend attached to this novel office. Mazarin procured him apension of 500 crowns. He was then publishing his 'Typhon, or theGigantomachy, ' and dedicated it to the cardinal, with an adulatorysonnet. He forwarded the great man a splendidly bound copy, which wasaccepted with nothing more than thanks. In a rage the author suppressedthe sonnet and substituted a satire. This piece was bitterly cutting, and terribly true. It galled Mazarin to the heart, and he wasundignified enough to revenge himself by cancelling the poor littlepension of £60 per annum which had previously been granted to thewriter. Scarron having lost his pension, soon afterwards asked for anabbey, but was refused. 'Then give me, ' said he, 'a simple benefice, sosimple, indeed, that all its duties will be comprised in believing inGod. ' But Scarron had the satisfaction of gaining a great name among thecardinal's many enemies, and with none more so than De Retz, then_coadjuteur_[27] to the Archbishop of Paris, and already deeplyimplicated in the Fronde movement. To insure the favour of this risingman, Scarron determined to dedicate to him a work he was just about topublish, and on which he justly prided himself as by far his best. Thiswas the 'Roman Comique, ' the only one of his productions which is stillread. That it should be read, I can quite understand, on account notonly of the ease of its style, but of the ingenuity of its improbableplots, the truth of the characters, and the charming bits of satirewhich are found here and there, like gems amid a mass of mere fun. Thescene is laid at Mans, the town in which the author had himselfperpetrated his chief follies; and many of the characters were probablydrawn from life, while it is likely enough that some of the stories weretaken from facts which had there come to his knowledge. As in many ofthe romances of that age, a number of episodes are introduced into themain story, which consists of the adventures of a strolling company. These are mainly amatory, and all indelicate, while some are as coarseas anything in French literature. Scarron had little of the clear wit ofRabelais to atone for this; but he makes up for it, in a measure, by theutter absurdity of some of his incidents. Not the least curious part ofthe book is the Preface, in which he gives a description of himself, inorder to contradict, as he affirms, the extravagant reports circulatedabout him, to the effect that he was set upon a table, in a cage, orthat his hat was fastened to the ceiling by a pulley, that he might'pluck it up or let it down, to do compliment to a friend, who honouredhim with a visit. ' This description is a tolerable specimen of hisstyle, and we give it in the quaint language of an old translation, published in 1741:--

'I am past thirty, as thou may'st see by the back of my Chair. If I liveto be forty, I shall add the Lord knows how many Misfortunes to those Ihave already suffered for these eight or nine Years past. There was aTime when my Stature was not to be found fault with, tho' now 'tis ofthe smallest. My Sickness has taken me shorter by a Foot. My Head issomewhat too big, considering my Height; and my Face is full enough, inall Conscience, for one that carries such a Skeleton of a Body abouthim. I have Hair enough on my 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 are large; they are of a blue Colour, and one of them is sunkdeeper into my Head than the other, which was occasion'd by my leaningon that Side. My Nose is well enough mounted. My Teeth, which in theDays of Yore look'd like a Row of square Pearl, are now of an AshenColour; and in a few Years more, will have the Complexion of aSmall-coal Man's Saturday Shirt. I have lost one Tooth and a half on theleft Side, and two and a half precisely on the right; and I have twomore that stand somewhat out of their Ranks. My Legs and Thighs, in thefirst place, compose an obtuse Angle, then a right one, and lastly anacute. My Thighs and Body make another; and my Head, leaning perpetuallyover my Belly, I fancy makes me not very unlike the Letter Z. My Armsare shortened, as well as my Legs; and my Fingers as well as my Arms. Inshort, I am a living Epitome of human Misery. This, as near as I cangive it, is my Shape. Since I am got so far, I will e'en tell theesomething of my Humour. Under the Rose, be it spoken, Courteous Reader, I do this only to swell the Bulk of my Book, at the Request of theBookseller--the poor Dog, it seems, being afraid he should be a Loser bythis Impression, if he did not give Buyer enough for his Money. '

This allusion to the publisher reminds us that, on the suppression ofhis 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 was Madame Scarron herself who often carried them tothe bookseller's, when there was not a penny in the house. The publisherwas Quinet, and the merry wit, when asked whence he drew his income, used to reply with mock haughtiness, 'De mon Marquisat de Quinet. ' Hiscomedies, which have been described as mere burlesques--I confess I havenever read them, and hope to be absolved--were successful enough, and ifScarron had known how to keep what he made, he might sooner or laterhave been in easy circumstances. He knew neither that nor any other artof self-restraint, and, therefore, was in perpetual vicissitudes ofriches and penury. At one time he could afford to dedicate a piece tohis sister's greyhound, at another he was servile in his address to someprince or duke. 

In the latter spirit, he humbled himself before Mazarin, in spite of thepublication of his 'Mazarinade, ' and was, as he might have expected, repulsed. He then turned to Fouquet, the new Surintendant de Finances, who was liberal enough with the public money, which he so freelyembezzled, and extracted from him a pension of 1, 600 francs (about £64). In one way or another, he got back a part of the property his stepmotherhad alienated from him, and obtained a prebend in the diocese of Mans, which made up his income to something more respectable. 

He was now able to indulge to the utmost his love of society. In hisapartment, in the Rue St. Louis, he received all the leaders of theFronde, headed by De Retz, and bringing with them their pasquinades onMazarin, which the easy Italian read and laughed at and pretended toheed not at all. Politics, however, was not the staple of theconversation at Scarron's. He was visited as a curiosity, as a cleverbuffoon, and those who came to see, remained to laugh. He kept them allalive by his coarse, easy, impudent wit; in which there was morevulgarity and dirtiness than ill-nature. He had a fund of _bonhommie_, which set his visitors at their ease, for no one was afraid of beingbitten by the chained dog they came to pat. His salon became famous; andthe admission to it was a diploma of wit. He kept out all the dull, andignored all the simply great. Any man who could say a good thing, tell agood story, write a good lampoon, or mimic a fool, was a welcome guest. Wits mingled with pedants, courtiers with poets. Abbés and gay womenwere at home in the easy society of the cripple, and circulated freelyround his dumb-waiter. 

The ladies of the party were not the most respectable in Paris, yet somewho were models of virtue met there, without a shudder, many others whowere patterns of vice. Ninon de l'Enclos--then young--though age made noalteration in _her_--and already slaying her scores, and ruining herhundreds of admirers, there met Madame de Sévigné, the most respectable, as well as the most agreeable, woman of that age. Mademoiselle deScudéry, leaving, for the time, her twelve-volume romance, about Cyrusand Ibrahim, led on a troop of Molière's Précieuses Ridicules, and hererecited her verses, and talked pedantically to Pellisson, the ugliestman in Paris, of whom Boileau wrote:

 'L'or même à Pellisson donne un teint de beauté. '

Then there was Madame de la Sablière, who was as masculine as herhusband the marquis was effeminate; the Duchesse de Lesdiguières, whowas so anxious to be thought a wit that she employed the Chevalier deMéré to make her one; and the Comtesse de la Suze, a clever but foolishwoman. 

The men were poets, courtiers, and pedants. Ménage with his tiresomememory, Montreuil and Marigni the song-writers, the elegant De Grammont, Turenne, Coligni, the gallant Abbé Têtu, and many another celebrity, thronged the rooms where Scarron sat in his curious wheelbarrow. 

The conversation was decidedly light; often, indeed, obscene, in spiteof the presence of ladies; but always witty. The hostility of Scarron tothe reigning cardinal was a great recommendation, and when all elseflagged, or the cripple had an unusually sharp attack, he had but tostart with a line of his 'Mazarinade, ' and out came a fresh lampoon, anew caricature, or fresh rounds of wit fired off at the Italian, fromthe 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 RueSt. Louis, close to Scarron's, lived a certain Madame Neuillant, whovisited him as a neighbour, and one day excited his curiosity by theromantic history of a mother and daughter, who had long lived inMartinique, who had been ruined by the extravagance and follies of areprobate husband and father; and were now living in great poverty--thedaughter being supported by Madame de Neuillant herself. Thegood-natured cripple was touched by this story, and begged his neighbourto bring the unhappy ladies to one of his parties. The evening came; theabbé was, as usual, surrounded by a circle of lady wits, dressed in thelast fashions, flaunting their fans, and laughing merrily at hissallies. Madame de Neuillant was announced, and entered, followed by asimply-dressed lady, with the melancholy face of one broken-down bymisfortunes, and a pretty girl of fifteen. The contrast between thenew-comers and the fashionable _habituées_ around him at once struck theabbé. The girl was not only badly, but even shabbily dressed, and theshortness of her gown showed that she had grown out of it, and could notafford a new one. The _grandes dames_ turned upon her their eye-glasses, and whispered comments behind their fans. She was very pretty, theysaid, very interesting, elegant, lady-like, and so on; but, _parbleu!_how shamefully _mal mise!_ The new-comers were led up to the cripple'sdumb-waiter, and the _grandes dames_ drew back their ample petticoats asthey passed. The young girl was overcome with shame, their whispersreached her; she cast down her pretty eyes, and growing more and moreconfused, she could bear it no longer, and burst into tears. The abbéand his guests were touched by her shyness, and endeavoured to restoreher confidence. Scarron himself leant over, and whispered a few kindwords in her ear; then breaking out into some happy pleasantry, he gaveher time to recover her composure. Such was the first _début_ inParisian society of Françoise d'Aubigné, who was destined, as MadameScarron, to be afterwards one of its leaders, and, as Madame deMaintenon, to be its ruler. 

[Illustration: SCARRON AND THE WITS--FIRST APPEARANCE OF LA BELLEINDIENNE. ]

Some people are cursed with bad sons--some with erring daughters. Françoise d'Aubigné was long the victim of a wicked father. Constansd'Aubigné belonged to an old and honourable family, and was the son ofthat famous old Huguenot general, Théodore-Agrippa d'Aubigné, who foughtfor a long time under Henry of Navarre, and in his old age wrote thehistory of his times. To counterbalance this distinction, the sonConstans brought all the discredit he could on the family. After areckless life, in which he squandered his patrimony, he married a richwidow, and then, it is said, contrived to put her out of the way. He wasimprisoned as a murderer, but acquitted for want of evidence. The storygoes, that he was liberated by the daughter of the governor of the gaol, whom he had seduced in the prison, and whom he married when free. Hesought to retrieve his fortune in the island of Martinique, ill-treatedhis wife, and eventually ran away, and left her and her children totheir fate. They followed him to France, and found him againincarcerated. Madame d'Aubigné was foolishly fond of hergood-for-nothing spouse, and lived with him in his cell, where thelittle Françoise, 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 stanch oneshe proved for a time. But Madame d'Aubigné, who was a Romanist, wouldnot allow her to remain long under the Calvinist lady's protection, andsent her to be converted by her godmother, the Madame de Neuillant abovementioned. This woman, who was as merciless as a woman can be, literallybroke her into Romanism, treated her like a servant, made her groom thehorses, 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 speciousreasoning what had been begun by persecution, and young Françoise, atthe time she was introduced to Scarron, was a highly respectable memberof 'the only true church. '

Madame d'Aubigné was at this time supporting herself by needlework. Hersad story won the sympathy of Scarron's guests, who united to relieveher wants. _La belle Indienne_, as the cripple styled her, soon became afavourite at his parties, and lost her shyness by degrees. Ninon del'Enclos, who did not want heart, took her by the hand, and a friendshipthus commenced between that inveterate Laïs and the future wife of LouisXIV. Which lasted till death. 

The beauty of Françoise soon brought her many admirers, among whom waseven one of Ninon's slaves; but as marriage was not the object of theseattentions, and the young girl would not relinquish her virtue, sheremained for some time unmarried but respectable. Scarron wasparticularly fond of her, and well knew that, portionless as she was, the poor girl would have but little chance of making a match. Hiskindness touched her, his wit charmed her; she pitied his infirmities, and as his neighbour, frequently saw and tried to console him. On theother hand the cripple, though forty years old, and in a state of healthwhich it is impossible to describe, fell positively in love with theyoung girl, who alone of all the ladies who visited him combined witwith 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 offer to a beautiful young girl, would have seemed ridiculous, if notunpardonable. But let us take into account the difference in ideas ofmatrimony between ourselves and the French. We must remember thatmarriage has always been regarded among our neighbours as a contract formutual benefit, into which the consideration of money of necessityentered largely. It is true that some qualities are taken as equivalentsfor actual cash: thus, if a young man has a straight and well-cut nosehe may sell himself at a higher price than a young man there with thehideous pug; if a girl is beautiful, the marquis will be content withsome thousands of francs less for her dower than if her hair were red orher complexion irreclaimably brown. If Julie has a pretty foot, a_svelte_ waist, and can play the piano thunderingly, or sing in thecharmingest soprano, her ten thousand francs are quite as acceptable asthose of stout awkward, glum-faced Jeannette. The faultless boots andyellow kids of young Adolphe counterbalance the somewhat apocryphalvicomté of ill-kempt and ill-attired Henri. 

But then there must be _some_ fortune. A Frenchman is so much in thehabit of expecting it, that he thinks it almost a crime to fall in lovewhere there is none. Françoise, pretty, clever, agreeable as she was, was penniless, and even worse, she was the daughter of a man who hadbeen imprisoned on suspicion of murder, and a woman who had gained herlivelihood by needlework. All these considerations made the fancy of themerry abbé less ridiculous, and Françoise herself, being sufficientlyversed in the ways of the world to understand the disadvantage underwhich she laboured, was less amazed and disgusted than another girlmight have been, when, in due course, the cripple offered her himselfand his dumb-waiter. He had little more to give--his pension, a tinyincome from his prebend and his Marquisat de Quinet. 

The offer of the little man was not so amusing as other episodes of hislife. He went honestly to work; represented to her what a sad lot wouldhers be, if Madame de Neuillant died, and what were the temptations ofbeauty without a penny. His arguments were more to the point thandelicate, and he talked to the young girl as if she was a woman of theworld. Still, she accepted him, cripple as he was. 

Madame de Neuillant made no objection, for she was only too glad to berid of a beauty, who ate and drank, but did not marry. 

On the making of the contract, Scarron's fun revived. When asked by thenotary what was the young lady's fortune, he replied: 'Four louis, twolarge wicked eyes, one fine figure, one pair of good hands, and lots ofmind. ' 'And what do you give her?' asked the lawyer. --'Immortality, 'replied he, with the air of a bombastic poet 'The names of the wives ofkings die with them--that of Scarron's wife will live for ever!'

His marriage obliged him to give up his canonry, which he sold toMénage's man-servant, a little bit of simony which was not even noticedin those days. It is amusing to find a man who laughed at all religion, insisting that his wife should make a formal avowal of the Romishfaith. Of the character of this marriage we need say no more than thatScarron had at that time the use of no more than his eyes, tongue, andhands. Yet such was then, as now, the idea of matrimony in France, thatthe young lady's friends considered her fortunate. 

Scarron in love was a picture which amazed and amused the whole societyof Paris, but Scarron married was still more curious. The queen, whenshe heard of it, said that Françoise would be nothing but a useless bitof furniture in his house. She proved not only the most useful appendagehe could have, but the salvation alike of his soul and his reputation. The woman who charmed Louis XIV. By her good sense, had enough of it tosee Scarron's faults, and prided herself on reforming him as far as itwas possible. Her husband had hitherto been the great Nestor ofindelicacy, and when he was induced to give it up, the rest followed hisexample. Madame Scarron checked the licence of the abbé's conversation, and even worked a beneficial change in his mind. 

The joviality of their parties still continued. Scarron had always beenfamous for his _petits soupers_, the fashion of which he introduced, butas his poverty would not allow him to give them in proper style, hisfriends made a pic-nic of it, and each one either brought or sent hisown dish of ragout, or whatever it might be, and his own 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 evening a poorer supper than usual was served, the waiterwhispered in her ear, 'Tell them another story, Madame, if you please, for we have no joint to-night. ' Still both guests and host could wellafford to dispense with the coarseness of the cripple's talk, whichmight raise a laugh, but must sometimes have caused disgust, and theyoung wife of sixteen succeeded in making him purer both in hisconversation and his writings. 

The household she entered was indeed a villainous one. Scarron rathergloried in his early delinquencies, and, to add to this, his two sistershad characters far from estimable. One of them had been maid of honourto the Princesse de Conti, but had given up her appointment to becomethe mistress of the Duc de Trêmes. The laugher laughed even at hissister's dishonour, and allowed her to live in the same house on ahigher _étage_. When, on one occasion, some one called on him to solicitthe lady's interest with the duke, he coolly said, 'You are mistaken; itis not I who know the duke; go up to the next storey. ' The offspring ofthis connection he styled 'his nephews after the fashion of the Marais. 'Françoise did her best to reclaim this sister and to conceal her shame, but the laughing abbé made no secret of it. 

But the laugher was approaching his end. His attacks became more andmore violent: still he laughed at them. Once he was seized with aterrible choking hiccup, which threatened to suffocate him. The firstmoment he could speak he cried, 'If I get well, I'll write a satire onthe hiccup. ' The priests came about him, and his wife did what she couldto bring him to a sense of his future danger. He laughed at the priestsand at his wife's fears. She spoke of hell. 'If there is such a place, 'he answered, 'it won't be for me, for without you I must have had myhell in this life. ' The priests told him, by way of consolation, that'God had visited him more than any man. '--He does me too much honour, 'answered the mocker. 'You should give him thanks, ' urged theecclesiastic. 'I can't see for what, ' was the shameless answer. 

On his death-bed he parodied a will, leaving to Corneille 'two hundredpounds of patience; to Boileau (with whom he had a long feud), thegangrene; and to the Academy, the power to alter the French language asthey liked. ' His legacy in verse to his wife is grossly disgusting, andquite unfit for quotation. Yet he loved her well, avowed that his chiefgrief in dying was the necessity of leaving her, and begged her toremember him sometimes, and to lead a virtuous life. 

His last moments were as jovial as any. When he saw his friends weepingaround him he shook his head and cried, 'I shall never make you weep asmuch as I have made you laugh. ' A little later a softer thought of hopecame across him. 'No more sleeplessness, no more gout, ' he murmured;'the Queen's patient will be well at last' At length the laugher wassobered. In the presence of death, at the gates of a new world, hemuttered, half afraid, 'I never thought it was so easy to laugh atdeath, ' and so expired. This was in October, 1660, when the cripple hadreached the age of fifty. 

Thus died a laugher. It is unnecessary here to trace the story of hiswidow's strange rise to be the wife of a king. Scarron was no honour toher, and in later years she tried to forget his existence. Boileau fellinto disgrace for merely mentioning his name before the king. YetScarron was in many respects a better man than Louis; and, laugher as hewas, he had a good heart. There is a time for mirth and a time formourning, the Preacher tells us. Scarron never learned this truth, andhe laughed too much and too long. Yet let us not end the laugher's lifein sorrow:

 'It is well to be merry and wise, ' &c. 

Let us be merry as the poor cripple, who bore his sufferings so well, and let us be wise too. There is a lesson for gay and grave in the lifeof Scarron, the laugher. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 27: _Coadjuteur. _--A high office in the Church of Rome. ]

 FRANÇOIS DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULT AND THE DUC DE SAINT-SIMON. 

 Rank and Good Breeding. --The Hôtel de Rochefoucault. --Racine and his Plays. --La Rochefoucault's Wit and Sensibility. --Saint Simon's Youth. --Looking out for a Wife. --Saint-Simon's Court Life. --The History of Louise de la Vallière. --A mean Act of Louis Quatorze. --All has passed away. --Saint-Simon's Memoirs of His Own Time. 

The precursor of Saint-Simon, the model of Lord Chesterfield, thisornament of his age, belonged, as well as Saint-Simon, to that state ofsociety in France which was characterised--as Lord John Russell, in his'Memoirs of the Duchess of Orleans, ' tells us--by an idolatry of powerand station. 'God would not condemn a person of that rank, ' was theexclamation of a lady of the old _régime_, on hearing, that a notorioussinner, 'Pair de France, ' and one knows not what else, had gone to hisaccount impenitent and unabsolved; and though the sentiment may strikeus as profane, it was, doubtless, genuine. 

Rank, however was often adorned by accomplishments which, like anexemption from rules of conduct, it almost claimed as a privilege. Good-breeding was a science in France; natural to a peasant, even, itwas studied as an epitome of all the social virtues. '_N'étre pas poli_'was the sum total of all dispraise: a man could only recover from it bysplendid valour or rare gifts; a woman could not hope to rise out ofthat Slough of Despond to which good-breeding never came. We were behindall the arts of civilization in England, as François de Rochefoucault(we give the orthography of the present day) was in his cradle. Thisbrilliant personage, who combined the wit and the moralist, the courtierand the soldier, the man of literary tastes and the sentimentalist _parexcellence_, was born in 1613. In addition to his hereditary title ofduc, he had the empty honour, as Saint-Simon calls it, of being Princede Marsillac, a designation which was lost in that of _De laRochefoucault_--so famous even to the present day. As he presentedhimself at the court of the regency, over which Anne of Austrianominally presided, no youth there was more distinguished for hiselegance or for the fame of his exploits during the wars of the Frondethan this youthful scion of an illustrious house. Endowed by nature witha pleasing countenance, and, what was far more important in thatfastidious region, an air of dignity, he displayed wonderfulcontradictions in his character and bearing. He had, says Madame deMaintenon, '_beaucoup d'esprit, et peu de savoir_;' an expressivephrase. 'He was, ' she adds, 'pliant in nature, intriguing, andcautious;' nevertheless she never, she declares, possessed a more steadyfriend, nor one more confiding and better adapted to advise. Brave as hewas, he held personal valour, or affected to do so, in light estimation. His ambition was to rule others. Lively in conversation, thoughnaturally pensive, he assembled around him all that Paris or Versaillescould present of wit and intellect. 

The old Hôtel de Rochefoucault, in the Rue de Seine, in the Faubourg St. Germain, in Paris, still grandly recalls the assemblies in which Racine, Boileau, Madame de Sévigné, the La Fayettes, and the famous Duchesse deLongueville, used to assemble. The time honoured family of De laRochefoucault still preside there; though one of its fairest ornaments, the young, lovely, and pious Duchesse de la Rochefoucault of our time, died in 1852--one of the first known victims to diphtheria in France, inthat unchanged old locality. There, when the De Longuevilles, theMazarins, and those who had formed the famous council of state of Anneof Austria had disappeared, the poets and wits who gave to the age ofLouis XIV. Its true brilliancy, collected around the Duc de laRochefoucault. What a scene it must have been in those days, as Buffonsaid of the earth in spring '_tout four-mille de vie!_' Let us peoplethe salon of the Hôtel de Rochefoucault with visions of the past; seethe host there, in his chair, a martyr to the gout, which he bore withall the cheerfulness of a Frenchman, and picture to ourselves the greatmen who were handing him his cushion, or standing near his _fauteuil_. 

Racine's joyous face may be imagined as he comes in fresh from theCollege of Harcourt. Since he was born in 1639, he had not arrived athis zenith till La Rochefoucault was almost past his prime. For a man atthirty-six in France can no longer talk prospectively of the departureof youth; it is gone. A single man of thirty, even in Paris, is '_unvieux garçon_:' life begins too soon and ends too soon with thosepleasant sinners, the French. And Racine, when he was first routed outof Port Royal, where he was educated, and presented to the wholeFaubourg St. Germain, beheld his patron, La Rochefoucault, in theposition of a disappointed man. An early adventure of his youth hadhumbled, perhaps, the host of the Hôtel de Rochefoucault. At the battleof St. Antoine, where he had distinguished himself, 'a musket-ball hadnearly deprived him of sight. On this occasion he had quoted theselines, taken from the tragedy of '_Alcyonnée_. ' It must, however, bepremised that the famous Duchess de Longueville had urged him to engagein the wars of the Fronde. To her these lines were addressed:--

 'Pour mériter son coeur, pour plaire à ses beaux yeux, J'ai fait la guerre aux Rois, je l'aurais faite aux dieux. '

But now he had broken off his intimacy with the duchesse, and hetherefore parodied these lines:--

 'Pour ce coeur inconstant, qu'enfin je connais mieux, J'ai fait la guerre aux Rois, j'en ai perdue les yeux. '

Nevertheless, La Rochefoucault was still the gay, charming, witty hostand courtier. Racine composed, in 1660, his '_Nymphe de Seine_, ' inhonour of the marriage of Louis XIV. , and was then brought into noticeof those whose notice was no empty compliment, such as, in our day, illustrious dukes pay to more illustrious authors, by asking them to bejumbled in a crowd at a time when the rooks are beginning to caw. Wecatch, as they may, the shadow of a dissolving water-ice, or see theexit of an unattainable tray of negus. No; in the days of Racine, as inthose of Halifax and Swift in England, solid fruits grew out of fulsomepraise; and Colbert, then minister, settled a pension of six hundredlivres, as francs were called in those days (twenty-four pounds), on thepoet. And with this the former pupil of Port Royal was fain to becontent. Still he was so poor that he _almost_ went into the church, anuncle offering to resign him a priory of his order if he would become aregular. He was a candidate for orders, and wore a sacerdotal dress whenhe wrote the tragedy of 'Theagenes, ' and that of the 'Frères Ennemis, 'the subject of which was given him by Molière. 

He continued, in spite of a quarrel with the saints of Port Royal, toproduce noble dramas from time to time, but quitted theatrical pursuitsafter bringing out (in 1677) 'Phèdre, ' that _chef-d'oeuvre_ not onlyof its author, but, as a performance, of the unhappy but gifted Rachel. Corneille was old, and Paris looked to Racine to supply his place, yethe left the theatrical world for ever. Racine had been brought up withdeep religious convictions; they could not, however, preserve him from amad, unlawful attachment. He loved the actress Champmesle: butrepentance came. He resolved not only to write no more plays, but to dopenance for those already given to the world. He was on the eve ofbecoming, in his penitence, a Carthusian friar, when his religiousdirector advised marriage instead. He humbly did as he was told, andunited himself to the daughter of a treasurer for France, of Amiens, bywhom he had seven children. It was only at the request of Madame deMaintenon that he wrote 'Esther' for the convent of St. Cyr, where itwas first acted. 

His death was the result of his benevolent, sensitive nature. Havingdrawn up an excellent paper on the miseries of the people, he gave it toMadame de Maintenon to read it to the king. Louis, in a transport ofill-humour, said, 'What! does he suppose because he is a poet that heought to be minister of state?' Racine is said to have been so woundedby this speech that he was attacked by a fever and died. His deceasetook place in 1699, nineteen years after that of La Rochefoucault, whodied in 1680. 

Amongst the circle whom La Rochefoucault loved to assemble wereBoileau--Despréaux, and Madame de Sévigné--the one whose wit and theother whose grace completed the delights of that salon. A life soprosperous as La Rochefoucault's had but one cloud--the death of his sonwho was killed during the passage of the French troops over the Rhine. We attach to the character of this accomplished man the charms of wit;we may also add the higher attractions of sensibility. Notwithstandingthe worldly and selfish character which is breathed forth in his 'Maximsand Reflections, ' there lay at the bottom of his heart true piety. Struck by the death of a neighbour, this sentiment seems even on thepoint of being expressed; but, adds Madame de Sévigné, and her phrase isuntranslatable, '_il n'est pas effleuré_. '

All has passed away! the _Fronde_ has become a memory, not a realizedidea. Old people shake their heads, and talk of Richelieu; of hisgorgeous palace at Rueil, with its lake and its prison thereon, and itsmysterious dungeons, and its avenues of chestnuts, and its fine statues;and of its cardinal, smiling, whilst the worm that never dieth is eatinginto his very heart; a seared conscience, and playing the fine gentlemanto fine ladies in a rich stole, and with much garniture of costly lace:whilst beneath all is the hair shirt, that type of penitence andsanctity which he ever wore as a salvo against all that passion andambition that almost burst the beating heart beneath that hair shirt. Richelieu has gone to his fathers. Mazarin comes on the scene; the wily, grasping Italian. He too vanishes; and forth, radiant in youth, andstrong in power, comes Louis, and the reign of politeness and periwigsbegins. 

The Duc de Saint-Simon, perhaps the greatest portrait-painter of anytime, has familiarized us with the greatness, the littleness, thegraces, the defects of that royal actor on the stage of Europe, whom hisown age entitled Louis the Great. A wit, in his writings, of the firstorder--if we comprise under the head of wit the deepest discernment, themost penetrating satire--Saint-Simon was also a soldier, philosopher, areformer, a Trappist, and, eventually, a devotee. Like all young men whowished for court favour, he began by fighting: Louis cared little forcarpet knights. He entered, however, into a scene which he haschronicled with as much fidelity as our journalists do a police report, and sat quietly down to gather observations--not for his own fame, noteven for the amusement of his children or grandchildren--but for theedification of posterity yet a century afar off his own time. Thetreasures were buried until 1829. 

A word or two about Saint-Simon and his youth. At nineteen he wasdestined by his mother to be married. Now every one knows how marriagesare managed in France, not only in the time of Saint-Simon, but even tothe present day. A mother or an aunt, or a grandmother, or anexperienced friend, looks out; be it for son, be it for daughter, it isthe business of her life. She looks and she finds: family, suitable;fortune, convenient; person, _pas mal_; principles, Catholic, with a dueabhorrence of heretics, especially English ones. After a time, the ladyis to be looked at by the unhappy _prétendû_; a church, a mass, orvespers, being very often the opportunity agreed. The victim thinks shewill do. The proposal is discussed by the two mammas; relatives arecalled in; all goes well; the contract is signed; then, a measuredacquaintance is allowed: but no _tête-à-têtes;_ no idea of love. 'What!so indelicate a sentiment before marriage! Let me not hear of it, ' criesmamma, in a sanctimonious panic. 'Love! _Quelle bêtise!_' adds _monpére_. 

But Saint-Simon, it seems, had the folly to wish to make a marriage ofinclination. Rich, _pair de France_, his father--an old _roué_, who hadbeen page to Louis XIII. --dead, he felt extremely alone in the world. Hecast about to see whom he could select. The Duc de Beauvilliers hadeight daughters; a misfortune, it may be thought, in France or anywhereelse. Not at all: three of the young ladies were kept at home, to bemarried; the other five were at once disposed of, as they passed theunconscious age of infancy, in convents. Saint-Simon was, however, disappointed. He offered, indeed; first for the eldest, who was not thenfifteen years old; and finding that she had a vocation for a conventuallife, went on to the third, and was going through the whole family, whenhe was convinced that his suit was impossible. The eldest daughterhappened to be a disciple of Fénélon's, and was on the very eve of beingvowed to heaven. 

Saint-Simon went off to La Trappe, to console himself for hisdisappointment. There had been an old intimacy between Monsieur LaTrappe and the father of Saint-Simon; and this friendship had inducedhim to buy an estate close to the ancient abbey where La Trappe stillexisted. The friendship became hereditary; and Saint-Simon, though stilla youth, revered and loved the penitent recluse of _Ferté au Vidame_, ofwhich Lamartine has written so grand and so poetical a description. 

Let us hasten over his marriage with Mademoiselle de Lorges, who proveda good wife. It was this time a grandmother, the Maréchale de Lorges, who managed the treaty; and Saint-Simon became the happy husband of aninnocent blonde, with a majestic air, though only fifteen years of age. Let us hasten on, passing over his presents; his six hundred louis, given in a corbeille full of what he styles 'gallantries;' his mother'sdonation of jewellery; the midnight mass, by which he was linked to thechild who scarcely knew him; let us lay all that aside, and turn to hiscourt life. 

At this juncture Louis XIV. , who had hitherto dressed with greatsimplicity, indicated that he desired his court should appear in allpossible magnificence. Instantly the shops were emptied. Even gold andsilver appeared scarcely rich enough. Louis himself planned many of thedresses for any public occasion. Afterwards he repented of the extent towhich he had permitted magnificence to go, but it was then impossible tocheck the excess. 

Versailles, henceforth in all its grandeur, contains an apartment whichis called, from its situation, and the opportunities it presents oflooking down upon the actors of the scene around, _L'OEil de Boeuf_. The revelations of the OEil de Boeuf, during the reign of Louis XV. , form one of the most amazing pictures of wickedness, venality, powermisapplied, genius polluted, that was ever drawn. No one that reads thatinfamous book can wonder at the revolution of 1789. Let us conceiveSaint-Simon to have taken his stand here, in this region, pure in thetime of Louis XIV. , comparatively, and note we down his comments on menand women. 

He has journeyed up to court from La Trappe, which has fallen intoconfusion and quarrels, to which the most saintly precincts arepeculiarly liable. 

The history of Mademoiselle de la Vallière was not, as he tells us, ofhis time. He hears of her death, and so indeed does the king, withemotion. She expired in 1710, in the Rue St. Jacques, at the Carmeliteconvent, where, though she was in the heart of Paris, her seclusion fromthe world had long been complete. Amongst the nuns of the convent nonewas so humble, so penitent, so chastened as this once lovely Louise dela Vallière, now, during a weary term of thirty-five years, 'Marie de laMiséricorde. ' She had fled from the scene of her fall at one-and-thirtyyears of age. Twice had she taken refuge among the 'blameless vestals, 'whom she envied as the broken-spirited envy the passive. First, sheescaped from the torture of witnessing the king's passion for Madame deMontespan, by hiding herself among the Benedictine sisters at St. Cloud. Thence the king fetched her in person, threatening to order the cloisterto be burnt. Next, Lauzun, by the command of Louis, sought her, andbrought her _avec main forte_. The next time she fled no more; but tooka public farewell of all she had too fondly loved, and throwing herselfat the feet of the queen, humbly entreated her pardon. Never since thatvoluntary sepulture had she ceased, during those long and weary years, to lament--as the heart-stricken can alone lament--her sins. In deepcontrition she learned the death of her son by the king, and bent herhead meekly beneath the chastisement. 

Three years before her death the triumphant Athénée de Montespan hadbreathed her last at Bourbon. If Louis XIV. Had nothing else to repentof, the remorse of these two women ought to have wrung his heart. Athénée de Montespan was a youthful, innocent beauty, fresh from theseclusion of provincial life, when she attracted the blighting regardsof royalty. A _fête_ was to be given; she saw, she heard that she wasits object. She entreated her husband to take her back to his estate inGuyenne, and to leave her there till the king had forgotten her. Herhusband, in fatal confidence, trusted her resistance, and refused herpetition. It was a life-long sorrow; and he soon found his mistake. Helived and died passionately attached to his wife, but never saw herafter her fall. 

When she retired from court, to make room for the empire of the subtleDe Maintenon, it was her son, the Duc de Maine, who induced her, notfrom love, but from ambition, to withdraw. She preserved, even in herseclusion in the country, the style of a queen, which she had assumed. Even her natural children by the king were never allowed to sit in herpresence, on a _fauteuil_, but were only permitted to have small chairs. Every one went to pay her court, and she spoke to them as if doing theman honour; neither did she ever return a visit, even from the royalfamily. Her fatal beauty endured to the last: nothing could exceed hergrace, her tact, her good sense in conversation, her kindness to everyone. 

But it was long before her restless spirit could find real peace. Shethrew herself on the guidance of the Abbé de la Tour; for the dread ofdeath was ever upon her. He suggested a terrible test of her penitence. It was, that she should entreat her husband's pardon, and return to him. It was a fearful struggle with herself, for she was naturally haughtyand high spirited; but she consented. After long agonies of hesitation, she wrote to the injured man. Her letter was couched in the most humblelanguage; but it received no reply. The Marquis de Montespan, through athird person, intimated to her that he would neither receive her, norsee her, nor hear her name pronounced. At his death she wore widow'sweeds; but never assumed his arms, nor adopted his liveries. 

Henceforth, all she had was given to the poor. When Louis meanly cutdown her pension, she sent word that she was sorry for the poor, not forherself; they would be the losers. She then humbled herself to the verydust: wore the hardest cloth next her fair skin; had iron bracelets; andan iron girdle, which made wounds on her body. Moreover, she punishedthe most unruly members of her frame: she kept her tongue in bounds;she ceased to slander; she learned to bless. The fear of death stillhaunted her; she lay in bed with every curtain drawn, the room lightedup with wax candles; whilst she hired watchers to sit up all night, andinsisted that they should never cease talking or laughing, lest, whenshe woke, the fear of _death_ might come over her affrighted spirit. 

She died at last after a few hours' illness, having just time to orderall her household to be summoned, and before them to make a publicconfession of her sins. As she lay expiring, blessing God that she diedfar away from the children of her adulterous connection, the Comted'Antin, her only child by the Marquis de Montespan, arrived. Peace andtrust had then come at last to the agonized woman. She spoke to himabout her state of mind, and expired. 

To Madame de Maintenon the event would, it was thought, be a relief: yetshe wept bitterly on hearing of it. The king showed, on the contrary, the utmost indifference, on learning that one whom he had once loved somuch was gone for ever. 

All has passed away! The _OEil de Boeuf_ is now important only asbeing pointed out to strangers; Versailles is a show-place, not ahabitation. Saint-Simon, who lived until 1775, was truly said to haveturned his back on the new age, and to live in the memories of a formerworld of wit and fashion. He survived until the era of the'Encyclopédie' of Voltaire, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau. He lived, indeed, to hear that Montesquieu was no more. How the spirit of Louis XIV. Spokein his contemptuous remarks on Voltaire, whom he would only call Arouet;'The son of my father's and my own notary. '

At length, after attaining his eightieth year, the chronicler, who knewthe weaknesses, the vices, the peculiarities of mankind, even to ahair's breadth, expired; having long given up the court and occupiedhimself, whilst secluded in his country seat, solely with the revisingand amplification of his wonderful Memoirs. 

No works, it has been remarked, since those of Sir Walter Scott, haveexcited so much sensation as the Memoirs of his own time, by thesoldier, ambassador, and _Trappist_, Duc de Saint-Simon. 

 Transcriber's Notes. 

 1. The following typos were corrected: narative//narrative Rochoucault's//Rochefoucault's Ormonde's//Ormond's Gramont//Grammont Warmistre//Warmestre Frederic//Frederick 2. The various spellings of Shakespeare//Shakespere//Shakspeare and Dutchess//Duchess in the original text were retained. 3. The year Mary Fairfax and George Villiers, the 2nd Duke of Buckingham, were married is transposed from 1657 to 1675 in the original text. The day also appears to be in error (6th->15th).